Chapter 9: The Guy in the Suit

-set after "Cleaning House"-

Bartending is a lot like being a chemist. Although these days I think Breaking Bad has made people think that the only thing chemists know how to make is meth. But it's like chemistry. No, strike that: it IS chemistry. Just a different branch of it. Some parts of your job is making new formulas to try on subjects, and the rest of it is making formulas that every other bartender already knows. I've worked for a long time trying to develop a new drink, but have failed miserably. Last guy who tried my attempt at a "molniya" left the bar, and I was fired on the spot. That's what led me to Maclaren's. Juno always told me to keep trying, but I can't seem to be able to get the right amount of mixtures into the drink I'm trying. But I know I'll get it one day.

One night at the bar I was pouring a shot of vodka back and forth between two shot glasses aimlessly, when one of Ted's friends who I remembered from around here appeared. It was the blonde guy who was wearing the tacky green suit on St. Patrick's Day.

"Hey, kid. I could use a gin and tonic."

I started shooting up the drink into a glass with the beverage gun. "You know there's definitely not that much age difference between us, old man." I replied.

The man's face flushed. "Fair enough. Why don't we start with names? You got one, kid?" He got up real close to my face like two guys threatening each other in the movies.

"Yeah. I told it to you like a couple weeks ago" I growled. "It's Oliver."

"Well then, Oliver." He backed away. "How do you enjoy working here?"

"Uh, what?" I was caught off guard. I didn't expect that kind of question.

"How do you enjoy working at Maclaren's?" He said, again.

I handed him his drink. "It's great. I just started here, and I'm already getting a reputation around here. I see a future working here for a while."

"Well then, I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Barney Stinson."

"Yeah, yeah. Ted's told me. Think you're so awesome because you wear suits. Listen, bro. Not every girl in New York'll sleep with you because you have a suit."

"Correction. They'll sleep with me because I have a whole closet of them." Barney smirked.

"No, man. I mean, there's more to it than that. I see guys try to pick girls up all the time, and they get them home without wearing suits."

"Barely possible, young Skywalker." He waved me off.

"First off, I'm flattered you compared me to Luke Skywalker. And second, just watch."

I then looked over the pub, seeing a group of girls sitting in a booth in the corner.

"Watch and learn, bitch." I said to Barney. He rolled his eyes, sitting down on one of the stools by the bar to watch me while I made my way to the booth.

The girls in the booth looked up at me as I approached the booth.

"Ladies, I will give you a free round of drinks if you can simply do me one favor." I explained.

"And that is?" Said a petite blonde, looking a bit interested.

"The guy at the bar in the suit?" I gestured back to him, and they looked over at him. "I'm trying to prove a point to him. If you'll just make it look like I got one of you to give me your number, the drinks are yours."

A redhead shook her head in disgust. "You're nuts."

The blonde looked back at her. "I don't know. He's hot. And he's a bartender." She grabbed a napkin and scribbled her number on it.

I grabbed it, and replied."Drinks are all yours, ladies.", as I headed back to the bar.

Barney had been watching, and he was impressed. "I was clearly wrong. You are no learner. Now you are the master."

I ripped up the napkin. "Eh. I got what I wanted. Now I can say that some girls think bartenders are hot."

"Well played there, Oliver."

"Call me Ollie. Everyone does." I vaulted back over the bar table, back to my spot.

"Can I ask you something, Ollie?" Said Barney.

"Barney, I'm a bartender. Answering questions and listening to customers rant is my job description. Yeah, you can ask me a question."

Barney laughed. "True story." Then he went back to serious. "Do you know who your dad is?"

I laughed. That subject was always something that had a history with me. "Yeah, I do. He and I haven't really seen eye to eye on my career choice. He saw me doing successful things on Wall Street, and I wanted to own a bar. He hated that, but we still talk."

Barney sighed. "Well at least you know who he is."

I set down my rag. "You don't know who your dad is? That's rough."

"No. My mom raised me herself, and just the other day, she gave me the opportunity to contact him. I can't do it."

"Why not?"

"My mom raised me and my half-brother James amazingly on her own. I can sort of see why. I don't want to contact him."

"Barney, I want you to listen to me. I may be a stranger right now, but people say I give good advice: I understand you don't want to meet him, but maybe it might be a good idea to wait a while at least. Contact him when you're ready."

Barney waved me off. "Like you understand it." He set down his now empty glass, and walked out.

Barney turned out to be a lot nicer than I had expected. We had a common preference for drinks. I happened to enjoy a Glen Mckenna scotch as much as him, and he gave me his approval for that. He told me of the craziest plays he's pulled on women around New York, one in particular I know could work under the right circumstances. He called it the "He's Not Coming", which I think can speak for itself. All you would do is say that to any random girl, and wait for the waterworks.

A few nights later, he came into the bar.

"Hello, Barney." I said.

"Hey. Listen, I got a play I need to run, you interested?"

I looked over in interest. "Who's under your sights?" I asked.

Barney grinned. "Yes! I was hoping for your help. I'm feeling the Blondie in the corner booth." He pointed over at a blonde on the far side.

"Nah, man." I replied. "I'd go for vodka drinking brunette." I pointed at a brunette over at one of the tables.

Barney looked back at me, clearly impressed. "You have good taste, Ollie. How shall we play this?"

He produced a leather bound book from his jacket. Written across it, in gold letters was "The Playbook".

He opened it to show several plays. He and I looked down at it. It felt that if a camera was pointed at our faces from the book, we'd look like CSI coroners examining a body.

"How shall this be done? The 'SNASA'? The 'Lorenzo Von Matterhorn?'"

Half of what he was saying made no sense, sounding like complete gibberish. But then one play caught my eye.

"What about this one?" I asked, pointing at it. "The 'Don't Drink That'?"

Barney laughed. "Hah! That's one for rookies, my friend. It's too easy."

"But now you have a bartender to help you with this. You could make it look like I'm the one who slipped it in the drink."

Barney was about to say something, but then paused. "That actually doesn't sound like a bad idea. Let's do it."

I poured a glass of vodka, and went over to the brunette, saying it was on the house. After going back to the bar, Barney stepped up, saying whatever dialogue was part of the play. It must have worked, because she was soon giving me dirty looks. Barney led her out of the bar, slipping me a piece of paper on the way out. I picked it up and read it. It was a phone number, which I assumed was Barney's. He texted me later, giving me thanks for my help, and a link to his blog. Needless to say, after that night, we became much closer friends.