Smoke 'em Up : Bar Room Mirrors

I’m standing across from Stanley’s Diner--the one that serves English muffins--when a neon light goes off in my periphery. Those little brightly contoured filaments, they call my name with the debauchery that is promised inside. This one in particular should be innocuous. It just says ‘Open’. But the scene illuminated behind is what strikes my interest: shelves of liquor, and a string of taps across a bar.

I glance down at my watch. It’s eleven fifty-seven. The clock in the joint must be a few minutes fast. In three minutes I could be inside of Stanley’s, standing at the counter and placing Lisa’s order before breakfast stops being served. I check my phone. There are ten missed calls already, all from my wife. There’s only one voicemail, which I delete unchecked.

As if prescient, the phone starts buzzing in my hand. The screen says ‘Lisa’ in big, bold letters. I thumb the button that sends the call to my answering service. Instead of crossing the street to the diner, I head into the bar.

“What can I get you?”

The voice comes from a petite brunette, her back to me, facing the register as she does the opening count. Her hair is almost down to her ass, where the slick silver of a stainless-steel bottle opener sticks out suggestively from the pocket of too-tight jeans.

“Just a Bud,” I answer.

When she turns around, there’s a flicker in her eyes and she turns on a smile that seems to hint that she’s chasing more than just a good tip. “Oh hey! You want me to keep putting them on your tab?”

“My tab?”

“Yeah, you left your card here last night. I didn’t close you out yet. Figured I’d let it ride since you’re in here all the time.”

I’ve never been here before. Hell, I never would have walked in here if I wasn’t looking to commit marital suicide. Nonetheless, I take out my wallet and check for my credit card. Sure enough, it’s still there. Whatever. I’m not gonna turn down drinking on some other schmoe’s dime.

“Yeah, my tab,” I say with a little more confidence. “And let me get a single malt. On the rocks.”

She bounds over to the rows of bottles to make my drink. Her eyes cast quick glances at me in the reflection from the bar’s mirror. “Long night?” She asks.

“How’s that?”

“You’re usually so…..” She gestures about her figure, “fashionable.”

I look down at my just-south-of-casual ensemble. “Yeah, these passed the smell test.”

“Nice to know you’re human like the rest of us.”

My fingers pick at a bowl of salted peanuts. The air inside the place signifies that it’s one of the few places you can still smoke indoors. “What else would I be?” I pop one of the peanuts into my mouth.

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until just now. I take turns eating more peanuts and fidgeting with a straw from the holder in front of me. The phone in my pants begins to buzz, reminding me about breakfasts, broken rubbers, and impending arguments. I hold a small side button and the ringing stops for good.

The bartender swings around and places my drinks in front of me. “Well, you have a reputation for being a bit of a dog.” Her eyes narrow as she sidles up to the bar across from me. Her smile stays predatory.

I laugh around a mouthful of peanuts. “I promise I don’t bi-“

Before I can finish my sentence, my jaw drops open. I’m pretty sure I lose a couple of peanuts.

The man that just walked in, his mouth is agape as well. He pulls a pair of shades from his face, slowly, like a TV detective. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

It’s like looking into a mirror, if that mirror had more confidence and a better sense of style. He wears a charcoal linen blazer over an Armani tee, with beige chinos and a pair of dark navy suede boating shoes that look like they own the whole dock. Christ, his aviators probably cost more than my car. His hair is that perfectly tousled that guys must have after they’ve recently banged a supermodel.

I fucking hate him.

“Jase?” The waitress is just as flabbergasted as we are. She shoots a look over at me, does a double take back to Mister GQ.
He cracks a sly smile, and approaches me with a hand out. His stance is slightly leaned back, somehow both cautious and assured at the same time. I shake with my non-peanut hand.

“Jason Kimmel. People call me Jase. You,” He points a manicured finger at me, “call me Jase.”

“Fuck, I thought this guy was you, Jase,” the bartender butts in. “I was gonna put him on your tab.”

He dismisses her with a wave. “That’s fine, Tam. Maybe he is me from a harsher, shittier future. I look like I could use a drink.
Keep him on my tab. And bring me a Glengoolie, neat.” His shark eyes never leave me.

I finally regain enough sense to close my mouth. I wipe salt and slobber away with the back of my hand. The straw I’m still holding brushes my nose, and I quickly pocket it. All I can think of doing to recover is to push the small bowl of snacks out to him as an offering. “Peanut?”

Jase sneers at me, “I’m allergic. What are you trying to do, kill me?” He shouts back to the bartender, “I take it back, Tam. He’s not from the future. Maybe some alternate universe. Where I’m stronger than peanuts, but everything else about me sucks.” He’s still smiling playfully, but his tone belies obvious alpha moves.

“And you must be from the universe where you can’t buy class,” I shoot back, regaining my composure.

For a second, he looks like I’ve slapped him in the face, but that is followed by a deep belly laugh. “Goddamn, I’m still quick as shit though.” He nods at me, “You’re not as hopeless as you look. What’s your name? Where do you work? How much do you make? Who do you fuck?”

“Carl Bixly, none of your business, and an ex-prom queen, thank you very much.” Am I actually bragging about my harpy of a wife?

“Not bad, man. But Carl? Really? Nah, you’re Bix now.”

Before I can protest, the waitress is back with a round of scotch for us. “Hey Tam,” Jase says, “you mind opening up that back patio for us?” She grabs a rag and leads the way to a door in back of the bar. My doppelganger throws an arm around me.

“I’m gonna teach Bix here how to party.”