Brompton Cocktail

Bernie drew out a clean washcloth from the lower cabinet and began wiping down the countertop. As his eyes darted around the bar, he noted that the last raucous group of patrons had sipped up the last of their drinks and were exiting their booth. As soon as they stepped out of the door, Bernie moved for the stereo system and tweaked the volume to the off position.

After he had finished collecting and disposing of the remaining half-drunk beer bottles, Bernie took notice of one final patron still sipping away at his drink at the far end of the counter. The man was donned in a grey sweatshirt complete with a nexus of beer stains, dirt stains, and other various designs of questionable origin. Bernie threw the last of his bottles into the recycle bin and stepped up to the man on the other side of the counter.

“Hey bud. The name’s Matt, right?” Bernie asked the man. “Think I’ve seen ya here a few nights.”

The man took his final sip of beer, briefly wiping away at his mustache with his sleeve. He didn’t look up at Bernie when the question was asked of him but rather kept his hazel eyes squarely in front of him. Bernie continued to hover over like a vulture, finally gauging a response from him after a few seconds.

“That’s right, Matthew Sanborn; and no, I’m not here a few nights, but almost every night,” Matthew rasped, his passive demeanor unchanging.

Bernie nodded, looking back down at his watch. “Look, I hate to cut you off but it’s getting kinda late and I was hoping to close up soon.”

Matthew’s flat expression was unchanging and his eyes remained fixed on the front door. Only after several moments of Bernie tapping on the countertop impatiently did he finally reply again. “I’d just like one last shot to end the night,” he croaked, drawing out his wallet. “Then I’ll be outa your hair.”

Bernie sighed and pulled out a shot glass from beneath the counter with one hand and accepted Matthew’s credit card with the other. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Just a shot of Jack,” said Matthew.

Bernie poured his glass and handed it to him rather abruptly, anxious to close up. Matthew stared down at his drink for a moment and his dull, unmoving eyes briefly grew alight with emotion.

He raised the glass up, preparing to drink it and began to speak.

“This drink is to you, Daddy. This drink is to you slashing me with your razor when I lost my job,” before shooting the glass.

Bernie leaned over the counter and watched as Matthew slipped his credit card into his pocket and retreated from the bar.

The next day in the bar flew by rather quickly, the usual manner of customers coming and going just like any other day. As midnight rolled by and most customers began to exit, Bernie noted that, there at the end of the counter, was Matthew again.

He approached him from the other side of the counter, gaining not a verbal acknowledgment or even a nod in return.

“Matthew Sanborn, what’ll it be tonight, another Coors?” Bernie asked.

Matthew shook his head and pulled out his credit card again. “I’ll have a shot of Jack,” he rasped.

Bernie drew up another shot glass and charged Matthew’s credit card before pouring his usual whiskey. Matthew pursed his lips and raised the glass up before him, his eyes narrowing in on the cold beverage.

“This drink is to you daddy. This drink is to you breaking my nose when I failed out of middle school,” he said before shooting the glass of ‘Jack’.

Matthew retreated from the bar and Bernie closed up after his departure.

The next day flew by even quicker than the previous and midnight quickly came upon Bernie and his customers. The last group left and Bernie turned the volume knob down, noticing that there, at the end of the counter, was Matthew.

This time, he immediately drew out the shot glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels, smirking slightly down at Matthew.

“Matt, a shot of Jack before you go?” Bernie asked.

Matthew nodded slowly, already retracting his credit card from his pocket.

“Yes, yes, just a shot of Jack.”

He drew up the glass the Bernie had already poured. Raising the glass up before him he said this time: “And this drink is to you, Daddy. This drink is to you using me as a punching bag when Mom left you.”

The next day flew by and very few customers gave Bernie business. He knew however, that Matthew would certainly be there for his shot of Jack later that night.

When that hour came upon him, Bernie had already had the bottle of Jack and its shot glass prepared.

“Matthew, a pleasure to have you, how ya been?” Bernie asked.

Matthew was not his normal self this night. His usually stock, blank face was quivering spastically and his body shook as if he were afflicted with a chill. Instead of staring straight ahead, his eyes fixing on the front door as they normally did, his eyes were now quickly darting from place to place across the bar.

“I v- v- visited my Daddy today,” he choked, his voice shaky.

Bernie looked on, surprised, but slowly inched the bottle of Jack closer to Matthew.

“You look like you could relax a little tonight, Matt. How about the usual, a cool, crisp shot o’ Jack?”

Matthew’s shaky face stared down at the bottle and then back up at Bernie, shaking his head.

“N- No thanks, Bernie,” he replied. He drew up his hands from behind the other side of the counter. They were covered in blood.