01-27-2011, 06:55 PM
His glass was already beginning to sweat. The bar was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and that caused the condensation to form. His beverage had been served in a highball glass, a four-sided, straight piece with a thick bottom. The bartender had not been very careful, and had spilled some of the whiskey on the wood. As she wiped up her little mess, Alexander took a moment to examine her cleavage. Her breasts were fantastic.
“Can I help you?” she remarked. She had noticed his quite-obvious glancing. Her tone wasn’t rude, however. There was a lingering sense of flirtatiousness in her words.
“Actually, you can. Can I get another one of these?” Trafford lifted his half-full glass and swirled the liquid within. Three cubes of ice were dancing suspended in thick, smooth amber fluid.
“You aren’t finished with that one yet,” she responded. Her voice was cute, and this time it came with a smile.
He glanced at her and met her eyes, and then shifted his gaze to his glass. He lifted his glass towards her as if to cheer her imaginary beverage, and then brought the cool nectar to his lips and let it pour down his throat. He said, “I always like to be prepared.”
She shook her head and giggled. Slowly this time, she refilled his glass with Jack Daniels whiskey.
“Excuse me; can we get some service over here?” a man shouted rudely from the other end of the bar. The young lady blushed and took off to serve the gaggle of drunkards across from him. Trafford moved to inspect them, and was surprised to notice that they were men in uniform. Usually they would be the ones picking up young bartenders, and maybe his success was what triggered their brash behavior.
Whatever, he thought; he would just tip her extra. There was no way these piped-up soldiers were going to lay down a healthy gratuity. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and removed the pack of Marlboro Reds.
“You can’t smoke in here.” It wasn’t the bartender who informed him of West City’s recent public smoking ordinance, but the same disgruntled customer who had spoken rudely to the young woman behind the bar. She had poured their drinks and had begun wiping down the wooden counter top between Alexander and the other group of afternoon drinkers. She paused long enough to look at the well-dressed man and roll her eyes sarcastically; this was followed by another smile.
“Really?” Trafford replied, and then tucked a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and ignited it with his mind. “Cheers,” he continued as he lifted his glass towards them, removed the cigarette from his mouth and took a long sip from the highball glassware. After he finished and removed and glass’s edge from his lips, he sighed and released a plume of bluish grey smoke into the bar’s sticky, hot air. The soldier groaned and was visibly upset. Alex chuckled; the guy needed a serious lesson in lightening up.
“How did you do that?” The well-dressed customer turned his head back towards the crew of soldiers sitting at the far end of the bar, expecting the comment to have come from one of them. They were silent, however, and instead had their eyes on a third party, one that had gone unnoticed hitherto. Trafford followed their wandering eyes, and his own gaze quickly found a resting point on another soldier; this was one was an officer, from what he could tell by his uniform decorations, and was sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the bar.
“Excuse me?” Alex replied. He rotated on the top of his stool in order to sort of half-face the man as he spoke. The cigarette was brought in for another long, refreshing inhalation. This was followed by the whiskey, and then a quick glance towards the bartender.
“You lit your cigarette without a lighter. How did you do that?” the man continued. He was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, his face half-covered in shadows. In front of him was a pad of legal paper, a pen, today’s paper, and a large mug of frothy beer. The manner in which the other soldiers, the jerk-offs at the far side of the bar’s countertop, observed this man led Alex to believe that he was their commanding officer.
Trafford reached into his suit pocket, the same one that housed his pack of cigarettes, and withdrew his silver lighter. It was one of those types where you flipped back the base lid to reveal the actual lighter, and then pulled back on the flint wheel in order to produce a flame. On the side of the lighter, on the bottom case, there were some etchings that his mother had seen fit to customize the device with. It was, after all, an old gift from his parents. “I have a lighter right here,” he said, and then returned to his glass of whiskey.
“I see that, but you didn’t use it,” the officer continued with stubborn determination.
Alex’s focus remained on his glass of whiskey. He had turned his back to the man and did not turn back around to face him. Instead, he chuckled and shook his head. “Whatever you say man, whatever you say.”
He brought the cigarette back to his mouth and dragged on it until he could feel the burnt, strange taste of the filter. Grabbing a few napkins, he crushed the remainder of the cigarette inside and dropped the crumbled mess of fabric onto the countertop. In his other hand, the cool, sweating glass of amber fluid was rocked back and forth in his grip, causing the whiskey to sweep and crash over the shrinking ice cubes.
The sound of stool legs sliding against the old, creaky wooden floor came from his left. He glanced over and looked into the face of the military officer, who had evidently crossed the bar in order to sit beside him.
“Join the militia, we could use a man with your talents,” the man spoke, this time his voice was more gentle and inviting. He was turned slightly in his stool so that his face and torso faced Alex. His left hand was on the bar’s countertop, and his right was in his lap.
“Not interested,” Trafford replied. His words were short and to the point, and they cut through the hopefulness in the officer’s own tone.
“Just hear me out, there’s a lot we could offer you.”
“I said not interested.” The well-dressed young adult cut him off, and took a long swig from his highball glass. The whiskey burned a little on the way down, just the way he liked it. It warmed his insides.
“I know who you are,” the officer continued. This sentence caught Alexander’s attention more so than his previous approach. He dropped his eyes and glanced at the man through their corners.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I do; you’re Old Trafford’s kid, you –.”
“Listen, I said I’m not interested,” Alex interjected, this time raising his voice. He remained static, however, with his head dropped and his eyes boring holes into the glassware. He heard scuffling at the far end of the bar. He saw in the corner of his eyes the officer lift his right hand and motion for his subordinates to stop whatever it was that they meant to do.
“Alright, there’s no point pushing the issue then.” The officer lifted himself from his stool, collected his legal pad and then pen, leaving the newspaper and a half-full mug of now-warmed beer, and then withdrew something from the inside of his uniform, presumably form an inner pocket. He dropped a small business card on the countertop beside Alex, sliding it over towards him. “If you change your mind, give me a call. My number’s on the card.”
“I’ll change my mind when whoever it is that we are at war with comes charging through that door,” Trafford replied starkly.
“Well then, that might be sooner than you think. Have a good day,” he replied, and then dropped a nice tip on the bar for the working lady. Trafford furrowed his brow and lifted the glass to his mouth, finishing the whiskey that remained.
“Another, please,” Trafford requested from the bartender as the entranceway into the bar slammed shut behind the exiting soldiers, the group of lackeys in the corner following their commanding officer. He ran his long and bony fingers across his jaw line and sighed.
“Can I help you?” she remarked. She had noticed his quite-obvious glancing. Her tone wasn’t rude, however. There was a lingering sense of flirtatiousness in her words.
“Actually, you can. Can I get another one of these?” Trafford lifted his half-full glass and swirled the liquid within. Three cubes of ice were dancing suspended in thick, smooth amber fluid.
“You aren’t finished with that one yet,” she responded. Her voice was cute, and this time it came with a smile.
He glanced at her and met her eyes, and then shifted his gaze to his glass. He lifted his glass towards her as if to cheer her imaginary beverage, and then brought the cool nectar to his lips and let it pour down his throat. He said, “I always like to be prepared.”
She shook her head and giggled. Slowly this time, she refilled his glass with Jack Daniels whiskey.
“Excuse me; can we get some service over here?” a man shouted rudely from the other end of the bar. The young lady blushed and took off to serve the gaggle of drunkards across from him. Trafford moved to inspect them, and was surprised to notice that they were men in uniform. Usually they would be the ones picking up young bartenders, and maybe his success was what triggered their brash behavior.
Whatever, he thought; he would just tip her extra. There was no way these piped-up soldiers were going to lay down a healthy gratuity. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and removed the pack of Marlboro Reds.
“You can’t smoke in here.” It wasn’t the bartender who informed him of West City’s recent public smoking ordinance, but the same disgruntled customer who had spoken rudely to the young woman behind the bar. She had poured their drinks and had begun wiping down the wooden counter top between Alexander and the other group of afternoon drinkers. She paused long enough to look at the well-dressed man and roll her eyes sarcastically; this was followed by another smile.
“Really?” Trafford replied, and then tucked a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and ignited it with his mind. “Cheers,” he continued as he lifted his glass towards them, removed the cigarette from his mouth and took a long sip from the highball glassware. After he finished and removed and glass’s edge from his lips, he sighed and released a plume of bluish grey smoke into the bar’s sticky, hot air. The soldier groaned and was visibly upset. Alex chuckled; the guy needed a serious lesson in lightening up.
“How did you do that?” The well-dressed customer turned his head back towards the crew of soldiers sitting at the far end of the bar, expecting the comment to have come from one of them. They were silent, however, and instead had their eyes on a third party, one that had gone unnoticed hitherto. Trafford followed their wandering eyes, and his own gaze quickly found a resting point on another soldier; this was one was an officer, from what he could tell by his uniform decorations, and was sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the bar.
“Excuse me?” Alex replied. He rotated on the top of his stool in order to sort of half-face the man as he spoke. The cigarette was brought in for another long, refreshing inhalation. This was followed by the whiskey, and then a quick glance towards the bartender.
“You lit your cigarette without a lighter. How did you do that?” the man continued. He was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, his face half-covered in shadows. In front of him was a pad of legal paper, a pen, today’s paper, and a large mug of frothy beer. The manner in which the other soldiers, the jerk-offs at the far side of the bar’s countertop, observed this man led Alex to believe that he was their commanding officer.
Trafford reached into his suit pocket, the same one that housed his pack of cigarettes, and withdrew his silver lighter. It was one of those types where you flipped back the base lid to reveal the actual lighter, and then pulled back on the flint wheel in order to produce a flame. On the side of the lighter, on the bottom case, there were some etchings that his mother had seen fit to customize the device with. It was, after all, an old gift from his parents. “I have a lighter right here,” he said, and then returned to his glass of whiskey.
“I see that, but you didn’t use it,” the officer continued with stubborn determination.
Alex’s focus remained on his glass of whiskey. He had turned his back to the man and did not turn back around to face him. Instead, he chuckled and shook his head. “Whatever you say man, whatever you say.”
He brought the cigarette back to his mouth and dragged on it until he could feel the burnt, strange taste of the filter. Grabbing a few napkins, he crushed the remainder of the cigarette inside and dropped the crumbled mess of fabric onto the countertop. In his other hand, the cool, sweating glass of amber fluid was rocked back and forth in his grip, causing the whiskey to sweep and crash over the shrinking ice cubes.
The sound of stool legs sliding against the old, creaky wooden floor came from his left. He glanced over and looked into the face of the military officer, who had evidently crossed the bar in order to sit beside him.
“Join the militia, we could use a man with your talents,” the man spoke, this time his voice was more gentle and inviting. He was turned slightly in his stool so that his face and torso faced Alex. His left hand was on the bar’s countertop, and his right was in his lap.
“Not interested,” Trafford replied. His words were short and to the point, and they cut through the hopefulness in the officer’s own tone.
“Just hear me out, there’s a lot we could offer you.”
“I said not interested.” The well-dressed young adult cut him off, and took a long swig from his highball glass. The whiskey burned a little on the way down, just the way he liked it. It warmed his insides.
“I know who you are,” the officer continued. This sentence caught Alexander’s attention more so than his previous approach. He dropped his eyes and glanced at the man through their corners.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I do; you’re Old Trafford’s kid, you –.”
“Listen, I said I’m not interested,” Alex interjected, this time raising his voice. He remained static, however, with his head dropped and his eyes boring holes into the glassware. He heard scuffling at the far end of the bar. He saw in the corner of his eyes the officer lift his right hand and motion for his subordinates to stop whatever it was that they meant to do.
“Alright, there’s no point pushing the issue then.” The officer lifted himself from his stool, collected his legal pad and then pen, leaving the newspaper and a half-full mug of now-warmed beer, and then withdrew something from the inside of his uniform, presumably form an inner pocket. He dropped a small business card on the countertop beside Alex, sliding it over towards him. “If you change your mind, give me a call. My number’s on the card.”
“I’ll change my mind when whoever it is that we are at war with comes charging through that door,” Trafford replied starkly.
“Well then, that might be sooner than you think. Have a good day,” he replied, and then dropped a nice tip on the bar for the working lady. Trafford furrowed his brow and lifted the glass to his mouth, finishing the whiskey that remained.
“Another, please,” Trafford requested from the bartender as the entranceway into the bar slammed shut behind the exiting soldiers, the group of lackeys in the corner following their commanding officer. He ran his long and bony fingers across his jaw line and sighed.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)
