The Bad Gimlet

Brandon hadn’t seen Sara in 7 years. He Hadn’t been home to Nashville in 5. But they had been in touch, and when she found out he was going to be in the area for a press event, she demanded that he drop by.

“I want to see you, and there will be cool people. Maybe you’ll find a better job. Come on!”

She knew Brandon would want to see her. They were friends before she had gotten married and they remained friends after she had gotten married. He was friendly with her husband. They remained close, but rarely saw each other.

As for the job prospects, Brandon was an associate editor for “Wall of Sound,” an established, well-respected publication. It was a steady job, but the pay could be better, so he was always looking around. Sara’s husband, John, was an experienced keyboard player who still did session work and occasionally even gigged and toured, but more importantly he was an in-demand acoustic designer. If you wanted to create a home studio, he was one of a handful of guys you would call. If you wanted to improve the sound of a concert venue of any size, you wanted him on the team. He knew all of the players, and he could make you a player in the game, any part of the game, that was the music scene.

So, Brandon went. Sara and John’s home was on Nashville’s East Side, away from the tourists and lights of downtown, away from the money of Green Hills and the West Side, but still in Nashville proper. Brandon often though of the parallels between this city and New York. Both had thriving entertainment districts centered on streets called Broadway, both were cutthroat towns that could make you a global star or a bartender with a drug problem, and both had a Bohemian area that was slightly more affordable, more artsy, and a bit more crime-ridden than downtown. In New York that area was Greenwich Village. In Nashville it was the East Side.

Brandon Ubered from his hotel to their converted loft, which had the standard tasteful touches of exposed brick, large windows, white couches, and colorful overstuffed pillows. Knowing Sara was a vegan, he ate before he came, even though she said told him the party was catered and would have a full bar. Experience told him that the best he could hope for here would be sliced vegetables and hummus, maybe some falafel, and a tabouleh wrap. When he arrived, he saw he was right. As John and Sara gave him the quick tour, he glanced at the buffet table and saw that the food there was edible, maybe even good, but nothing that could sustain him for long or soak up any amount of booze, and for an event like this, booze would be key. He had already given up any interest in mingling or networking. He had worked all day, going to the press event, then working from his hotel. He wasn’t about to spend his evening working as well.

Another knock came at the door as John was showing Brandon his home recording and mixing studio, so Sara went to answer it while John talked about the technology of the room.

“I can mix anything here,” he said. And there space enough for at least 6 musicians. You like Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats? I had them in here doing tracks for their new album. I had the whole band in here jamming for over an hour and it was so quiet my neighbors didn’t even know. To them at best it sounded like we were running the dishwasher. It was fantastic. State of the art noise control.”

Brandon smiled, “That’s great. I remember they did that video that showed them in the studio. They going to do another one like that?”

“No, it’s been done. Come on, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Everything in Brandon told him to leave. That’s the way it always was. His conscience told him to go to events, and his mind told him it would be fine, but every time he’d have to talk himself into going. When he arrived, he would have to talk himself into knocking on the door. Then he would have to force himself to stay. It was that way with work events, with parties, with his parents. Completing the tour with John, he grabbed a plate of falafel and a few tabouleh wraps cut at tasteful angles, then took a seat on one of the armless white couches near a window looking out at another 100-year-old brick building that had been a warehouse until 5 or 10 years ago, maybe even less than that. Now it, too had large windows glowing with yellow light from converted lofts just like this one. The block was full of them.

John was a fan of all kinds of music and naturally had an excellent sound system, cleverly worked into the architecture and color scheme of the room so as to be nearly invisible. Looking around, Brandon spotted long, thin directional loudspeakers on every wall of the room, set in the exact shade of cream the room was painted, and providing an equal covering of sound for every spot in the entire room.

From them, much to Brandon’s relief, came the sound of Charlie Paker playing “Ornithology.” He didn’t expect to hear hip-hop or dance music thrumming through the door when he arrived outside, and if it had been it would have been nearly impossible to fight the urge to turn around and leave without knocking, or to stay even this long, but there was a chance he would hear some sort of modern country or pop, which still would be unpleasant. On the other hand, classic jazz made the scene bearable, maybe even interesting, though he still had no intention of mingling or networking. No, jazz this good meant he would grab a drink and stay, but not talk. A nice compromise.

Nashville is a beer or whisky town, as is much of the South. You absolutely could get craft cocktails at nicer bars, but at most bars and parties, that was unlikely. Brandon was fine with beer, though he was rather bored by it, and he never liked drinking Irish whiskey in a state known for bourbon. Cheap beer didn’t go with good jazz, so he went with his failsafe and asked the bartender for a vodka gimlet.

“Hold on, I don’t know how to make that,” the bartender said. He looked all of 24, had sandy brown hair, and had a soul patch of beard on his chin. He pulled his phone out of a pocket on his little black bartender vest.

Brandon closed his eyes a moment and took a breath. Dallas, Nashville, Tampa, Orlando, Atlanta. More times than he could remember, the situation had been the same, which was the other reason he had ordered a gimlet. He gestured at the young man’s phone.

“Don’t bother to look it up, I’ve got you. Do you have a cocktail shaker?” He saw one on a shelf under the counter behind the bartender.

“No.”

Brandon smiled. He had been here, before, too.

“That’s fine. Get a glass – martini glass, rocks glass, either will do. Put ice in it.”

“Okay.”

“Put in 1 or 2 shots of vodka, 3 shots of lime juice, and a lime slice on the rim, then put in a little straw. That’s it, thanks!”

Brandon took his drink and went back to his seat by the window, stirring the drink and sipping it. It was strong but good, and strong was what was required. The vodka immediately made his head a bit numb, with the ice and lime pulling the room into focus. An odd, but expected balance.

Charlie Parker gave way to Lionel Hampton as Brandon finished his first plate of food and got a second, loading up on the more filling tabouleh wraps. There was some flavoring in there he couldn’t quite place. There was parsley and mint of course, and the bulgur, but something else. Not quite dill or cilantro. Oregano? Something.

He found another gimlet in his hand, brought to him by John, who stopped by with the standard host pleasantries. By instinct, Brandon offered him the standard guest responses and gracious and engaged facial expressions, eye contact, and controlled but casual hand gestures that indicated he was having a lovely time. As his head began to swim from the booze, Brandon smiled a bit wider and started to say something witty about jazz, since he had nothing to say about life and politics, and talking about the weather was so dangerously dull it could be perceived as rude.

“Nice to hear you’re playing jazz, John! Bird…Dizzy…heh, uh, very good!”

John smiled. “Yeah! Well, you know I like music!” He put a hand on Brandon’s shoulder and looked at him with concern.

“Did you Uber here?”

“Yep.”

“That’s good. Probably a good idea. Good to see you. I have to go mingle.”

Some time later, Sara appeared with two pieces of chocolate cake. She offered Brandon one, sat down next to him, and began to eat hers.

Brandon’s heart pounded hard enough to slow the room’s slow, bucking spin a bit as he felt Sara’s hip and thigh press against his on the couch. She was wearing a cute and fashionable gray sleeveless cocktail dress dotted with what might have been small peace doves. Her bare arm brushed against his as she held her plate and took bites of cake.

Brandon’s increased heartbeat brought him into focus enough to truly enjoy the cake. Rich chocolate buttercream frosting as thick as fudge covered a light cake seasoned with orange. He pointed at the cake with his fork.

“Orange. Is it the frosting or the cake?” A fleck of cake flew from his lips and landed on his hand as he spoke. Trying to look casual, he wiped it away with his dessert napkin.

“It’s in both,” Sara said. “There’s orange and clove flavored tea in the cake and Grand Marnier in the frosting. Do you like it?”

“Mm. Very good!”

Sara nodded and smiled slightly. “How you doing, Brando?”

There it was, her name for him. Hearing it made the room spin again, intensified by the subtle smell of her perfume. What was it called? Anais Anais? Maybe. He closed his eyes and lingered on the smell. He didn’t know what his response was to her. He just felt his lips moving, felt his larynx move, and felt vibration in his throat. He had no idea what sounds he made, or if they made any sense.

He stopped eating his cake and put his right hand down to rest on his knee as he talked to her. As he spoke, she put her left hand down on top of his right. Words kept coming out of his mouth, he still didn’t know what they were. His attention was focused on her hand on top of his. It was slender and creamy pale, with trim, unpolished nails.

Through the haze, he heard her say, “I’m so high right now.”

He no longer heard the jazz, though maybe he felt it, along with the drone of party chatter around them, mixed with the white lights and the warmth of the room. Everything seemed warm, white, and soft, from the light, to the couch, to Sara’s hand on his, to even her voice. Time felt slippery, and he was happy to let it slip away as he bobbed in the moment.

Sara’s hand moved away and Brandon heard the clink of her fork as she resumed eating her cake. A few seconds later, John walked past them, flanked by two male guests. The three walked toward the back bedroom. Along their way, John looked back, smiled at Brandon, and winked.

Something about that made Brandon’s stomach drop. He may have seen Sara touching his hand. Or maybe he was being friendly. Maybe he was winking at Sara, except she was looking down at her plate. It was so hard to think.

Like Sara, he went back to eating his cake. Their hands were holding plates and forks, but she was now leaning against him from shoulder to hip. Brandon started to sweat where she was touching him.

He put his hand back on his knee and she put hers on her knee, the sides of their hands touching from finger tip to wrist. The room spun again and he closed his eyes.

Some time later, Brandon opened his eyes a was aware of less noise in the room. It was still bright, and Sara’s face was near his. Was she kneeling over him, or had they turned toward each other? He didn’t know. He just felt the tip of her nose touching his, and felt her breath heat the edge of his lower lip. She tilted her head.

“Brandon.”

She kissed him. They had never kissed before, but he had always wanted to. They kissed again. Were they alone? He thought so. He didn’t care. He felt her hand on him. He didn’t even know where his hands were. His body seemed to end at his shoulders, then start again at his groin, disappearing at his knees. Yes, she was straddling him. Why did he have to be too drunk to feel more? If they weren’t drunk, would he be doing this at all? And how did he get so drunk on three double gimlets? He prayed he wouldn’t wake up.

He woke up on the floor, leaning against the side of the couch. His head was still swimming. The floor looked different. The floor in the living room was faux wood laminate, but now he was sitting on carpet, with a sectional rug on top of that. It was John’s recording and mixing studio.

Sara was on the floor a short distance away, leaning against the wall. Her head sagged; her eyes were closed. A man of about 30 stood next to her. He had short, dark hair, and wore a maroon and black tie-dyed concert t-shirt, jeans, and a studded belt. He had tattoos on both arms that seemed to go from the elbows up. Brandon hadn’t noticed him at the party earlier. He saw Brandon looking at him.

“Ah! You’re awake! Good! We’re going to…”

The rest of what he said was lost to Brandon’s drunken delirium. He hadn’t been this drunk in years. So drunk on so little. Something wasn’t right. He felt he should panic, should think about what was going on, or pay closer attention, but everything seemed so far away. The whole world seemed far away and of no real significance. He was merely an objective observer, casually taking note and generally unconcerned.

After a few moments, Brandon realized he couldn’t move his left arm. It was something about his wrist. Something on his wrist was keeping his arm on the couch. A shackle or cord.

He felt someone grab his right wrist, and he looked up to see a young woman of about 27, with long dark hair, a black fitted t-shirt with some sort of band logo on it, and jeans. She had long, pointed maroon nails and two full sleeves of tattoos, including a few on her hands. Brandon couldn’t make out what any of them were.

“Hi!” she said, smiling. One hand held his wrist. The other held a number of thin, pointed wedges of wood about 2 inches long, an inch wide, and about an eight of an inch thick. Brandon thought they looked like bits of rosewood he had seen inlaid into instruments or table tops.

“Be happy, my friend,” the man said. Brandon lolled his head to look at him. “What we have planned for her is much worse than what we have planned for you.” He also held a number of the pointed rosewood slats, maybe 7 of them. He pulled Sara’s unconscious head back and pushed one of the slats into the orbit around her right eye. At the same time, the woman pushed one into the back of Brandon’s hand, just above the wrist. Brandon didn’t know if he heard himself screaming, or Sara, or if it was both of them.

Despite the pain, Brandon lost consciousness again, only gaining lucidity when the woman was pressing a fresh stake into his hand. Soon he had 5 of them there, in a circular pattern, pushed in for what felt like an inch, hell a foot, but what was probably really far less than that.

He looked at Sara. Her eyes remained closed. Wooden stakes circled her eye like staves of a barrel.

The woman let Brandon’s hand go, and he put it in his lap. Realizing he could probably pull the stakes out with his left hand, he stated to move his right arm over to his left, where his tethered left hand could grab it. It was then he realized his left wrist was zip tied to something anchored inside the couch.

“Ah ah ah!” the woman said. He looked at her. She was smiling, brandishing a hunting knife. The tip was fitted with a tiny hook Brandon recognized from his father’s knife as a skinning tool. “Don’t make me kill you. Just let me do what we have to do, and we’ll finish and leave you alone.”

He put his arm back down, tried to think of what was happening, and passed out instead. He awoke to pain once more, as stakes were being pushed into the tops of his feet. He hadn’t realized his feet were bare. Where were his shoes?

“That was a good scream!” the man said. To him or Sara, Brandon didn’t know. His hands and feet were in agony. His head felt like it weighed 50 pounds, and he was sweating. He looked at the man, who held up another stake – longer, with black edges, about 4 inches long and a half inch wide. Something that could maybe be used to kill a vampire cat.

“What we have here is The Goat. I’m going to pause here while my friend and I talk about where we’re going to put it, or if we stop here. Excuse me.”

Brandon watched them walk a short distance away. He couldn’t hear what they said. He looked at Sara. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed. A bloody towel rested on one shoulder. Apparently, it had been used to wipe blood from her face. Blood continued to stream down her cheeks. Stakes surrounded both eye sockets.

The man appeared in Brando’s field of vision again. He held up one of the stakes between his thumb and forefinger.

“My colleague and I have decided where we’re going to place The Goat!” He held up another. “And the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth.”

It was then that Brandon realized he was no longer wearing pants. His thighs and genitals rested on a sheet of plastic he heard crinkling beneath him. In fear and despair, he tilted his head back and screamed.