The Sleepless Nights Of Skinny Love

“I’ll take a rum and coke,” my customer, this guy named Mikey, orders.
Mikey is here a lot. This is why I know his name. He doesn’t know I know his name, but I do. Even I can’t remember how I learnt it; I’m assuming I picked it up somewhere. Mikey comes about two or three times a week, and he always drinks himself to the point I have to stop him and call him a cab. And every single time, he smiles at me, and seems so grateful, even with puke dried to his shirt and eyes droopy and glazed.
I worry about Mikey a lot. He always comes here with a frown on his face, and that frown doesn’t vacate until a variety of mixed drinks pulls it out of him. I wish I could ask him what’s wrong, tell him everything’s alright.
But I’m just his bartender, and nothing more to him. Even if social standards shifted and allowed me to give him any advice or condolences, I doubt he’d want them.
“Okay.” I write the drink down on the pad before going to make it, calling over my shoulder to Mikey, “I’ll be right back.”
I hear the door ding itself open, and my reflex is to immediately turn to see who’d entered. I must say, I am tempted, but I manage not to and focus on making the drink. I hand it to Mikey, and am taken aback by the breathtaking stranger sitting next to the regular customer.
The first thing I notice about the newcomer is that he’s wearing makeup. This strikes me as odd; although I’ve heard of it, I’ve never really seen a guy with eyeliner. The makeup is a dark charcoal, and contrasts to the point it almost clashes with his dark hazel eyes. I’ve always considered myself an individual, which is hard to come by in the state of California, but I would never have the audacity… no, bravery, to parade around in Loreal Paris Back In Black eyeliner. His skin is pale to the point that I wonder if he’s from around here. After all, it’s incredibly hot here. Surely he can’t be from here. Fair skinned people are not indigenous to California.
He’s wearing a Smiths concert t shirt, and the sleeves are cut off, revealing toned arms. With this he wears skin tight jeans, even though it’s easily 75 degrees outside. He runs a hand through his mangled raven locks all swept to the side. He looks exhausted, like the kind of tired that makes it so he could fall asleep at any given second. His eyelids flutter with the effort to stay open. His eyes dart around the bar, catching me and holding for a second before he grins, and then he looks back to Mikey, who has been speaking to the stranger the entire time.
The man answers Mikey briefly, and even in the short sentence, I can hear the lilt in his voice that I can only assume to be permanent. It has a boyish tone to it, as if he’s actually a freshman or eighth grader. I suppose it’s like mine in this way; not quite deep enough or smooth enough to be considered a man’s voice.
The man turns to me, and asks, still smiling, “Can I have a kamikaze shot?”
“No problem,” I answer, heading off to make it. I’m about to go when Mikey nudges me with some money.
I accept it, and can’t help but sound surprised as I ask, “That’s all you’re having?”
Mikey goes a bit pink, and I realize what I had implied. I feel bad, but get over it when he replies with, “Yeah. I’m trying not to drink so much. So, you won’t be seeing me in here so often anymore.”
“Good for you,” I tell honestly, and I go to ring up Mikey. I hide the sadness aching in my bones, because I’ve always liked him, and he probably won’t be coming around anymore. I’ve always had a hard time with goodbyes, and an even harder time without them. I really should have a moment with Mikey, but I know I won’t, mainly because I’d feel like an oversentimental fool.
I hand Mikey his change, and then make the stranger’s kamikaze. When I return with it, he rubs his hands together eagerly. He downs it as soon as I set it down, licks his lips, and then turns to Mikey, questioning, “So are you leaving soon?”
“I’m leaving now,” Mikey responds, sliding into his jacket. He puts two dollars on the bar, telling,
“Thank you, Frank.”
My brows furrow as I ask, “You know my name?”
“After all you’ve done for me, how could I not?” Mikey reasons.
Mikey takes off, leaving the stranger and I alone. The stranger sits there rapping his knuckles against the wooden bar top loudly and swiveling in his barstool. I gaze out at the other customers, making sure they don’t need drinks or food or anything. The stranger begins,
“So, your name is Frank?”
“Yeah. What about it?” I reply.
“Frank… like from Donnie Darko?” the stranger smirks.
I sigh, fawning sarcastically, “Omg I’ve never heard that before. You’re so original.”
The grin stays on the stranger’s face, which is strange, seeing as I just insulted him. “Frank’s kind of a shitty name, don’t you think?”
“How would that be a shitty name?” I ask genuinely. I’ve always liked the name Frank. I never considered naming any of my future kids Frank, but I would love it if someone else named theirs this.
He shrugs, taking one of the peanuts out of the small bowlful and popping the entire thing into his mouth, stringy shell and all. “It’s another name for a hot dog.”
I can’t repressmy smile, and return, “Okay, Mr. Know It All. Just what is your name?”
“Gerard,” the stranger shares.
“What if I were to say your name’s shittier than mine?” I challenge.
“Interesting scenario, Mr. Bartender,” Gerard compliments. “But I doubt you would say that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“My name is the word ‘spear’ combined with the word ‘brave’,” Gerard answers, as if this is commonly in the first grade curriculum. He leans in, adding, “In other words, it’s kinda one of the raddest names there ever was.”
I don’t have a comeback, even though I want to get the conversation going. I’ve always liked confrontations like these, not because I’m aggressive, but because I love to debate. I busy myself with the tap, fiddling with the handle.
“I think I’ll eat here,” Gerard decides. He looks around the behind the bar area, and then asks me, “Can I have a menu?”
I grab one to my left and hand it to him, and in under a second he claims,
“Fries sound really fucking good right now. I want some fries.”
“Sounds good,” I mutter, adding it onto his ticket.
Gerard glances up at me, and when he finds me looking right back, his eyes quickly flash back to his menu. “When are you off?” He thumbs the rim of his empty shot glass with what appears to be nerves.
“Like 1:00 a.m. Why?”
“I dunno. Do you… if I came back here at like 12:30, do you want to hang out with me after?” Gerard offers. “You know,you’re friends with my brother apparently, s-so I should get to know you.”
“Sure,” I agree, and I’m not sure why. No man has ever arranged a hangout session in this way, especially one I have just met. This man, I hardly know him. He’s Mikey’s brother, so some would argue that this is enough to base whether Gerard is a good guy or not. However, who’s to say that Mikey even likes him?
There’s no guarantee that going with Gerard will be enjoyable, worth the effort, or even safe. Yet, when Gerard returns at 12:50, I close up and then head out with him into the cool summer evening.

Notes

Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, rate, and subscribe! I'll try to update soon.

My Tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com