Triple sec (a short story)

[gnr61]

hi there! so i've been working on a very troublesome novel for a year or so now and rarely get around to writing the sort of thing that attracted me to literature in the first place (short fiction and poetry). but i decided to take a jab at a short story--the first complete one i've done in probably two years. it needs a good re-read/edit before shipping it off to any lit magazines, but it's gotten a pretty positive reception so far. hope you enjoy


Triple Sec

My father tried his best with me. Or I imagine he must have. It is hard to guess at the earnestness of anyone's labors, least of all those of a parent. And my father was enigmatic: a slowmoving tower of a man who passed through life in a shroud of vague disappointment and dolor and some other things I would be hard-pressed to identify now. He is dead now. Or I imagine he must be. It is officially unknown one way or the other.

I mention my father and his labors because however imperfect he might have been, it still seems important to resist attributing my current situation to his raising of me. My current situation is one of arid stasis: I am not in school and have not been for some time; I am employed in a manner other adults describe as “lacking in potential for gainful advancement”; I am talking optimistically with others like me.

I have a good face going for me: a kind and slightly sad one, I’m told, approachable and best framed by two or three days’ bristle. I have a good face for what I do, which is serving drinks to all manner of fascinating people and not getting yelled at too often.

Once I found myself talking optimistically with a young man whom I thought to be like myself, but was not. He had a potential in him like untapped nacre. Tommy, his name was.

In a few months Tommy would be grossly famous in certain discerning circles in a way that would frighten him profoundly. That's what they would say, anyway: that all that exposure had frightened him into reclusion. You have probably heard offhanded remarks about him now and then, about how brilliant he is and how sad that he became like that. It is always in those papers and magazines that talk about art and life. I remember him so clearly, though, because he was already so frightened before all that.

I noticed him coming into the bar by his shadow whisking across my vision while I probed around in the closets for Triple sec, and I turned to greet him as he reached his stool. No one knew who he was then. He was long and narrow, and he carried himself in that cocked-upwards sort of way that poplars have, with high shoulders and a curiously tilted, probing chin. He had the sort of smile that comes by reflex or courtesy or irony or something else facadical, masking a mind full of discontent. He ordered a "Surprise me" before I could even ask.

"This is great," Tommy said. "Anyone ever tell you this is great?"

"I've never made it before."

"No shit."

"Honest."

It was early in the afternoon and bits of sun crept in and out of the few windows. It must have been cloudy, the way the light was playing fickle. Diurnal patrons were scarce those days when it was not too hot. The only other two customers had just gone, and so I poured myself the same drink and camped one arm on the bar across from the young man. He seemed like he was in a talking mood. I said, "You're right. This is pretty good."

"No modesty on this one, sir. I've gotta insist you add it to your menu immediately. Really, you've struck gold. I can't remember the last cocktail I've had this good."

"Hm. Maybe I will, then." We drank quietly for a little while. It is churlish to ask the unaccompanied daytime-drinker what brings him to the bar at this hour, or even to speculate. So I asked his name and he told me. Tommy. Tommy was frightened but happy, jocular. I could see it in his eyes.

"What's yours?" Tommy said. "If it's conducive enough you might have something to call this drink already." I told him my name. He shook his head. "That... that won't do at all. Woulda saved some trouble, though. Hey, you know, this is nice. It's a good vibe. I never much liked the bars myself, too much hustle and bustle, but I think this is a good hour. A happy hour." His smile was broad and he had big teeth and it really was genuine right then. You start to notice these things.

"Happy hour's at four. Maybe you should stick around for that."

"No, no, this is plenty good just now. Barkeep and me. Not getting run over and yelled at and elbowed all over and so on, etcetera etcetera. What you call happy hour around here is no place for me."

"I can relate to that."

"You can? But getting run over and yelled at and elbowed all over is basically your job description, am I wrong?"

"Not in the least. You're not wrong, that is. Can't a man prefer the parts of his job that aren't in the description?"

"Well said, sir. One more, huh? And for yourself, too. Grazie. This is great. Really great." His eyes narrowed as I handed him another. "It just occurred to me you never checked my age."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty one."

"You look older."

"Thanks. I think. It's a mixed bag, isn't it? Older we look the sooner we start looking like our old men. Older we are the further we can get from becoming them. I'd put you at twenty nine at a glance, but you're in an aging profession and this is sort of a college town. Plus the scruff might be misleading. So my money's on twenty four and taking a semester or three off." He stared up at me with unblinking interest, nose angled down into his glass.

"You're close."

"Plus or minus? Minus I get the next round free. Plus, and I tell you what would make this drink of yours a preposterous achievement. And in return, I get the next round free."

"You're a very cunning bargainer. No free drink if it's plus, but I'll listen to your suggestion anyhow."

"You're showing your hand."

I leaned back against the stool I keep hidden behind the bar, beginning to feel the churning liquors do their work on my empty stomach. "Got me there, mate. Twenty five. And last I counted, four semesters off."

"When was the last time you counted?"

I poured the next round. "It's been awhile." I had a couple of hours to sober up before the evening rush, and I was already finding Tommy's company riveting. In the short time he was there I sensed that we were facsimiles of one another. "Round's free," I told him, "if you tell me what it is you'd add."

"Honestly, I'm not sure yet," he admitted. He sipped graciously. "Don't worry. It'll come to me. I'm on two, myself."

"Two?"

"Semesters. It's not a bad life, though. Once you acclimate to squeezing as many free drinks out of folks as you can."

I gave him some eyebrow. "Big of you to admit."

"Oh, don't tell me that didn't factor into your job choice. I'm guessing you practically run the place, no one thinks twice if you shake down the cabinets now and then."

"What do you do if you're not in school?"

"I'm..." His eyes were suddenly darty, his probing chin tilted down. "I'm working on something. A project, I guess you'd call it."

"Well doesn't that sound shady."

"Oh, no! Not in the least. But a fella can't help but get a little insecure when he's short-stacked and betting it all on black."

"And what's the payout for black?"

"I haven't asked."

"I'd be a little insecure, too, in your scenario. So what's the project?"

Before he could answer, four cleanshaven undergrads in flannels came in and claimed a booth by the door. I watched them laughing among themselves with a low finger held up to Tommy. "Sorry. Gotta scope out ages and I don't think they're going to come to me." I went out in front of the counter, a little tipsy. Tommy touched my arm as I passed.

He said, "Do you want to read some?" and that dartiness in his eyes was gone. His gaze was fixed and wide, but quivering slightly. "I've never let anyone read some. Not even my brother or anybody."

I stopped walking, intrigued. The undergrads could come up to the bar if they wanted. "So, it's a book, then? A screenplay?"

"I don't know. Lyrics, maybe. I've been working on it for four years and I still haven't got an idea in hell what it is, you know?--what it needs, even, to be anything at all."

"I'd be honored."

The undergrads looked impatient. They twitched around in my peripherals and asked if you could smoke in here. "IDs?" I called to them. And all four shook their cleanshaven heads and raised their soft, bookish hands and left the bar with them raised. I looked at Tommy and nodded. "I'd be damned honored to read some."

He pulled out some papers and I read it all. It took almost an hour and I had stopped drinking. More customers were trickling in and I served them unattentively, and Tommy just sat fiddling in his stool, watching me read. He kept drinking. Twilight was setting lazily in.

"This is great," I said. "Really great. I don't know what in the hell I just read, but I know it's great. I'm jealous. Thought you were just another aimless scrapper like me."

Tommy lit up and exhaled deeply, as though he had been bating his breath the whole time. "Great Christ I'm glad. I'm so happy you like it." He drunkenly tossed his long arms in the air, and he had that arboreal look to him again.

"What will you do with it?" I said.

"Well, it's not finished."

"It looks finished to me."

"But there's always something, you know? If I do something with it, it's like it's over. Like it's settled down with a wife and a... a kids, and a house--and what if it hates its wife and kids and house, huh? What can I do then? Niente."

"If you keep not finishing it, it'll always be growing."

"Spot on!"

"Sounds like black's odds just got a whole lot lousier."

"Well, it wasn't a perfect metaphor to begin with." He appeared sad at the prospect. Whether it was his imperfect metaphor or the lousy odds that troubled him, I do not know. "Maybe one day it'll settle. Maybe. That'd be nice, maybe, huh? And what about another drink? Yeah. Celebrate my creativity's first satisfied victim."

"Your tab's at thirty-five dollars already, my friend. I think you might have had enough."

"There's never enough." He flattened two crumpled twenty-dollar bills out on the counter and sat up straight, looking manic. "Not in the whole ****ing world there's never enough. Not for you and me. Fellas like us, there's not enough in the whole ****ing world. Damned if we don't take all we can carry, though! Eat it up like... like goddamn jellybeans. No. Peanuts. That's it. Peanuts." He snatched a handful from the dish in front of him and held them up to show me. Wild, ambitious eyes. The drunk who in his drunkenness gets belligerent with positive thinking grows ambitious fast. But ambitions tend to fade when those churning liquors do. I saw myself in that earnest mania of his. But unlike myself, Tommy had earned it.

I made him one more drink, and I watered it down a little. Tommy didn't seem to notice or care. But even today I feel miserable for it. The seats around him were filling up with the late happy-hour crowd.

Tommy finished his last drink and glanced around himself uncomfortably. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, sir," he said. "But this spot's getting a little hairy for my tastes."

"I don't blame you. But hey. If you're ever back in the area--"

"I'll be coming in for a few more of those, thank you." He got up and began lurching his way through the crowd and to the door, making full use of his conspicuous height. Remembering something, I called to him:

"Say! You never told me what you'd do to make that drink better. You got a freebie out of it, remember?"

Tommy stopped for a thoughtful moment and then turned to me with a lightbulb grin and a snap of his fingers. "Triple sec. Could use Triple sec, maybe."

"Yeah." I let my shoulders drop. "I figured as much."

[moches]

At times, this is really compelling, particularly near the end with the characters unraveling. I feel like your approach could use a bit more ambiguity, especially with phrases like the ones I've outlined below:

I poured the next round. "It's been awhile." I had a couple of hours to sober up before the evening rush, and I was already finding Tommy's company riveting. In the short time he was there I sensed that we were facsimiles of one another. "Round's free," I told him, "if you tell me what it is you'd add."

This line is definitely relevant, but perhaps the parallels drawn between the narrator and Tommy would be more effective if he were less sure of them. He might feel a connection to Tommy that he can't quite pin down or feel a bit of negative emotions towards him (small suggestion: maybe the narrator feels envy towards Tommy? something about Tommy that reflects on him should be observed. it feels a tad one-sided as is.)

Your greatest strength is your observations, though: I love the introduction about fathers, the quotes put around "lacking in potential for gainful advancement"...this feels very true to life because you make your narrator feel like a breathed-in person.

Last suggestion: at times the narrator feels a bit too formal. He's a bartender who's fallen behind a bit in life, so at times the dialogue felt awkward to me. I think you might want to loosen up the tone a little.

This is a good start, and I think with a little bit of revision it could really hit home.

[Wayward Vagabond]

i like triple sec

[gnr61]

thanks a ton for the read/input moches, your advice is really astute and helpful. agreed on all fronts--particularly working in a healthy dose of ambiguity; the themes and characterization are definitely a little too unsubtly spelled out. the formality/informality inconsistency (esp in the prose itself imo, not just the dialogue) is in part because this was almost a completely different story before this version and i didn't do a very good job of consolidating the tone.

will update later with an edit and really look forward to future input from you, sir

[moches]

my pleasure, Poopit...I enjoy writing, too, so it's always enjoyable to look at new stuff. I'll look forward to what you have up your sleeve

I'll upload some of my own stuff (mostly editorials for our school paper lol) later!