Chapter One: Behind The Stick
Behind the Stick- A slang term for the act of getting behind the bar and doing the work of bartending.
"Lady at the end needs a cocktail."
Helga curled her lip at the lingering cigarette breath behind her. "So go make her one." she replied, trying to count out her cash register.
"Can't. She wants one o' them...froofy drinks."
'Great...' Helga thought, slamming the drawer shut and wiping her hands on the nearest rag. Cracking her knuckles as she entered the barback, Helga allowed her ears to adjust to the noise of the lounge, noting the unusual number of patrons for a Tuesday night. Identifying the person requesting a "froofy drink" wouldn't be difficult; the only person at the end of the bar was a woman, who seemed to have red hair and a pretty face. These observations were based purely on assumptions, as she was currently wearing a pair of large black sunglasses and a large hat. Inside the bar. At 9:00 p.m.
"What can I get you?" Helga asked as politely as she could muster, knowing she should be off work instead of taking a final long and more than likely complicated order.
The woman seemed startled by her voice, but recovered quickly. "Uh, yes. Can I...send a drink to someone in the bar?"
"Sure. What'll it be?" Helga asked, ignoring the notepad in the pocket of her apron. It was her last mix of the night, and even if it wasn't, she was a skilled enough bartender that even if this woman ordered the most complicated drink on their menu, she could remember it without writing it down. Depending on the patron, this was either a sign of her prowess, or very irritating.
"Whats the girliest drink on your menu?" the woman asked, lowering her voice.
Helga raised an eyebrow at the question and stared. "Who exactly are you sending this to?"
"Blond hair, black shirt, table near the door."
Helga discreetly peered over her head and found the aforementioned table. "He's..."
"My fiance', David."
"And the very tanned, brunette sitting next to him, and sliding her hand under the table is...an overly affectionate cousin?" Helga offered.
"My best friend. My maid of honor." she replied, through clenched teeth.
Helga nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, you don't want our girliest cocktail." She bent down behind the counter and began assembling cocktail ingredients on the bar top.
"I don't?"
"No, you don't. You want...this." she finished, revealing a clear mason jar filled with bright pink liquid and milky-pink spheres rolling around the bottom.
"What is that?" the woman asked.
"This is a little drink I've been working on." Helga began mixing the ingredients before her, until the beverage was finished in a clear martini glass, rimmed with rainbow sprinkles. "I call it the Blow Pop Bazooka Bubblegum Cocktail. Bubblegum infused vodka, lemon, lime, simple syrup, a little sugar and sprinkles." she said, watching as the woman's eyes light up at the bright pink creation before her. "Oh, I forgot the garnish." Plucking a lollipop from her pocket, Helga swiftly unwrapped it and dropped it in the drink, with a delicate 'clink' on the bottom of the glass.
"It's...perfect." the woman said, shedding her sunglasses. "I can't wait to watch you give it to him."
"I have a better idea." Helga said, smiling devilishly, or normally. "Hey, Ben?" she called tot eh other end of the bar. A man in all black looked up from his drink order and began making his way over.
"Who is that?" the woman asked, clearly her interest shifted from the drink before her to the man coming towards them. Helga was almost offended, but a tall drink of water like Ben could make even the most brilliant cocktail creations dull in comparison.
"That's Ben. Very sweet, very single Ben. Great friend, good kisser. Don't ask me how I know that. Christmas party, four years ago. Big mistake. Not for you, for me. Nice guy." Helga rambled. Plastering on a smile, she addressed Ben the moment he stood next to her. "Ben, this is my new friend..."
"Brenda." she answered, extending her hand.
"Brenda. And she would very much appreciate it if you could take this drink over to table and don't be afraid to turn on the charm."
Ben looked confused, not only at the drink (which was not currently on the bar's menu as it involved not one, but two trademarked items in its name), but why Helga needed him to deliver the drink. "Uh, I guess..." he began. "...though, I much prefer redheads to brunettes..."
Helga rolled her eyes. He was turning on the charm far earlier than necessary, but at least he still had some to work with. "Well, that's fine, because this drink is for the blond." She and Brenda both smiled knowingly until he understood. He put the drink on a black tray and walked over to the table. Helga couldn't make out everything Ben said, but overheard the words "here's your usual" and ask if the man would be back on Thursday, while depositing the drink on the table and placing his hand on this shoulder.
Brenda was having a difficult time fighting back laughter and Helga wanted nothing more than to give Ben a round of applause and shout 'Encore!' when the brunette pulled her coat from the seat next to her and stormed out.
Brenda turned back to the bar, removing her hat and pulling a perfectly manicured hand through her long red hair. "You're brilliant. I'm so glad you're my bartender."
"I'm glad too. And you're right. I am pretty brilliant." Untying her apron and hanging it on the peg behind the bar, Helga pulled her blonde hair out of the ponytail. "See you around." she said, moving from behind the bar and pulling her phone out of her back pocket. The bar exited down a flight of stairs and directly onto a very busy Pratt Street. On the sidewalk by the door, Helga watched as a flustered David tried to reason with the perky brunette, making very little headway. Deciding to add a little icing to the cake, she maneuvered to walk between them, winking at the man and uttering a sultry 'See you Friday, David' as she departed. Before she was ten paces away, a shout of 'How many people do you meet at this bar?!' rang out down the street. Helga almost laughed out loud as she turned the corner and massaged her right arm. That night, she'd been called upon, as usual, to be the main purveyor of cocktails, having the most experience in making them, and, as such, developed a pair of very sore, though defined, biceps in the process. On any other night, her only desire would be to head home, order a pizza and bury herself in blankets for the remainder of the evening.
Her friends, however, had a different evening planned altogether.
"You expect me to believe that you just want me to 'tag along' on your date night next week? I was born at night, Phoebe, not last night; I know what you're doing." Helga said, tossing a red block in the toy chest across the spacious living room. "Can I at least get a name?"
"Whose name?" Phoebe asked, as she dried dishes. Sounds of splashing could be heard from down the hall.
"The name of the guy who volunteers with Gerald-o, or the cute guy who moved in downstairs with the adorable bulldog, or whoever will round out Tuesday's sham of a date night that you're planning."
Phoebe was silent for a long while, with her back to her friend. Helga knew her best friend was a terrible liar and was hoping that she'd crack soon. "Gerald did say something about having dinner with a friend of his."
"I knew it!" Helga exclaimed from across the room. The kitchen and living room sat in one area; an "open concept" format that Phoebe initially scoffed at, referring to it as "lazy home design", but after the birth of her son, she was more than appreciative of the ability to see and hear him from almost any room in the apartment. Not to mention the tall windows keep most of the dwelling feeling less confined and stuffy. "I really don't need to be set up..."
"I know, trust me. You're far better of single." Phoebe said, without turning around.
"Thanks, I think..."
"You know what I mean. You're far better off without-"
"It's fine. Really. So what's the scoop on this guy? Homicidal maniac? Serial misogynist? Does he chew with his mouth open?" Helga asked, walking over and swiping a cupcake off the tray of leftover dessert. Gerald always made too many cupcakes, but Helga would never complain about it.
"You have so little faith in our matchmaking skills..."
"Well, after Ivan and the endless steaks..."
"Ivan was...nice." Phoebe suggested, over the roar of laughter from down the hall. "There better be actual bathing going on in there!" she shouted back, only sounding the tiniest bit authoritarian.
"He sent back so many steaks, I had to use almost all my tips from that night just so the waiter wouldn't spit in our food. 'This ones too rare, that one was too well done, I asked for a New York Strip Steak, not an old tire.' I wanted to murder him."
Phoebe thought for a moment and returned her attention to the dishes. Helga knew she won, but recalling the incident left a funny taste in her mouth that she couldn't blame on Phoebe's amazing dinner. "He wasn't that bad. He did say he had a sensitive stomach, though." Phoebe replied, even though her tone denoted that he really was that bad.
"A sensitive stomach and an empty head."
"What ever happened with Michael?" Phoebe asked, concerned. She was aware her friend had a knack for going out of her way to intimidate people.
Helga licked her fingers of remaining icing and deposited her wrapper in the kitchen's tiny trash can. "Eh. He was okay. No spark, though." Michael was the nicest of the men Phoebe tried to set her up with. He and Phoebe were residents together at Johns Hopkins, but hadn't spoken much since college. A random reunion brought them back in touch, and when he mentioned recently ending a relationship, Phoebe was quick to plan the date.
"Spark? Since when do you care about a spark?"
"I don't know." Helga said, eyeing another cupcake. She'd suggested too many times that Gerald quit the tour business and just open up a bakery, but then she considered that he might start asking her to pay for his food, and thought better of the idea. "He's getting married, apparently."
"Married?! You guys went out last fall. Who is he marrying?"
"Somebody he met at work, I guess. It's Facebook official and everything." Helga said.
"What's her name? Maybe I remember her."
"Paul."
Phoebe was silent for a moment, thinking. "That explains the spark." Helga merely raised her eyebrow in reply before speaking.
"I know what you're trying to do. I just hate being surprised." Helga said, trying a calmer approach. The statement itself was only a half-truth, as she was very happily surprised when, on a week when her bank account nearly matched her age, Helga was invited over for dinner at her best friend's house, which almost always came with a plate or two of leftovers to take home.
"All I know…" Phoebe began, under her breath. "Is that Gerald said he wants to have dinner with a 'friend' of his."
Helga dramatically fell backwards on the ivory couch, wondering briefly how Gerald and Phoebe managed to have a pristine ivory couch and a three-year old.
"You guys know I'm happy, right?"
"Of course I do. What are you talking about, Helga?" Phoebe asked.
"I'm talking about some people being happy with kids, and a husband and a beautiful apartment. And some people are like me. Give me a beer, pointe shoes that don't wear out after two weeks, and the password to your Netflix account, and I'm a happy girl." Helga said, sitting up, sloppily. Her ponytail was now sideways and crooked, but Phoebe and Gerald's apartment was one of the very few places where these trivial matters were of no worry to her. She couldn't imagine being this comfortable with anyone else.
"Trust me, Helga. I know you're happy. Just…indulge us old, married people this one last time. No more after that, I promise." She pleaded. Helga merely huffed and flopped back down on the couch.
"I'm gonna need extra potatoes in my leftovers, and you have a deal."
As Helga approached the restaurant, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She was expecting Phoebe to have seen her from the street and directing her to come in, as opposed to running like a madman down the street, like she wanted. Pulling her phone out of the pocket of her leather jacket, she read the message:
'Putting Levi to bed. Be there in 15 minutes. The reservation is under my name.'
Entering the establishment, Helga considered cashing Phoebe's reservation, but took a seat at the far-less-crowded bar instead. Shaking off her jacket, she eyed the beer menu from over the head of the bartender.
"What'll it be?' he asked, obstructing Helga's view of the list of draft beers.
"I'll just have a Natty Boh, on tap."
"And I'll have what the lady is having."
Helga's eyes widened (instead of rolling repeatedly, as would be her normal response), as she swiveled opposite of the voice next to her. Working in bar taught her many things, most of all that people -some people- will stop at literally nothing to strike up a conversation with another person at the bar. She and her coworkers often took bets at how many drinks someone would buy another person at the bar before being outright rejected.
Helga nodded in thanks when her drink was brought to her, but also heard the telltale slide of a full glass on oak bartop, and knew that whoever this guy was, he wouldn't be deterred by his out-and-out rejection by way of swiveling barstool.
"To your health." she heard him say from behind her, even though she'd already begun drinking. The short sputter from behind almost made her laugh out loud.
"Never had a Natty Boh?" she asked, mentally kicking herself for giving in, even in this small way.
"Can't say I have." he replied, coughing.
"It's only the unofficial beer of Baltimore. You must be new here." Helga said, taking a long gulp from her own glass.
"You could say that."
Helga rolled her eyes, knowing she'd regret her move, but not being able to resist the urge to thoroughly educate what she assumed to be a pretentious yuppie on Baltimore, beer, and bar etiquette. Switching her beer to her left hand and rest it on the bar, she turned her body to the right, and immediately wished she'd made a run for it as soon as she saw the building.
The taste of her beer was bitter in the back of her mouth. The sweat from her glass was too warm. The background noise of the bar had an odd, ringing sound to it, like a high pitched whistle.
Every movement reminded her of too many moments that she refused to revisit over the past year. Suddenly, Helga could not shake the familiar feeling of a heavy wooden door against her back, wet hair clinging to the curve of her neck and a warm hand cupping her chin-
"I have to go." She said, jumping out of her chair before realizing the words were out of her own mouth and awkwardly trying to put her hand through the sleeve of her coat, and fish out payment for her drink. "Keep the change." she said, secretly hoping, even in her current state of distress, that she didn't pay for a $4.50 drink with a twenty dollar bill. Weaving through patrons of the restaurant to get to the door, Helga heard the familiar voice behind her, and before she could ask herself why she didn't recognize it before, she watched Gerald and Phoebe advancing through the door.
"Surprise!" Gerald said, hugging Phoebe's shoulder. Phoebe grinned as wide as her tiny face would allow. Helga was thoroughly confused as she looked between the smiling couple.
"What's going on?" She asked, a hai harsher than a whisper, even though the sinking feeling in her stomach answered for her.
"We got the gang back together! Isn't this great?!" Phoebe said, abandoning Gerald's embrace to approach Helga.
'Yeah...great.'
A/N: That was not even a twist. I'm nearing M. Night Shamalyan territory with my untwistful twists. Sorry.
I've been informed that long Author's Notes regarding long absences are generally despised, so I will spare you. Lets just chalk it up to life in general, new obsessions (blame BBC), and...more life. I'm not abandoning this one though. Because if you're reading this, that means that I figured out how to get through the second chapter, and the story is so clear after that. The first two chapters are miserable. Stick around.
Love,
PointyObjects
