Answers at the Bottom of a Glass

‘Rough day?’ I say to the man hunched over his drink on the opposite side of the bar.

He lifts his bloodhound eyes. ‘Rough life,’ he says, deadpan, before downing his amber potion.

Jeez, this guy’s lower than a miner’s lunchbox. ‘Same again?’

He nods and slides his glass towards me. 

Picking a second glass from below the bar, I scoop both into the ice bucket, turn, and fill them from the gantry – a measure of whisky and amaretto in each. As I stir his drink, I consider him through the mirror running the full length of the bar. 

He looks to be in his forties with thinning, greying hair and thick glasses. His round, unshaven face is mapped with broken veins, and his double chin prominent due to his slouched demeanour. His cheap charcoal-suit looks like it’s trying to flee from him, and his tie hangs loose, five inches from where it should sit. Not the type who’d have the ladies beating a path to his door. Perhaps that’s what’s getting him down. Whatever the case, he seems like a man who’s been kicked square in the balls by life. The kind of man who works a dead-end job he tells everyone he loves – because it pays well, with a decent pension – but inside, he’s slowly suffocating. He’s the type I’d so often come across in here. The type, I’m on this earth to deal with. 

I sit his glass next to him, keeping hold of it by the rim. He makes to take it and glances up when I don’t release it. His face is stony but a fire burns in his dark eyes. 

‘On the house,’ I say. ‘If, I can join you.’ 

‘Are you allowed to drink on the job?’

Ahh, a stickler for the rules. No wonder he looks so downtrodden. ‘Well first of all, it’s my place, so I can do what I want. Second, it’s near closing time. Doubt I’ll get any more business tonight.’

He nods. 

I release my grip, pull my stool over, and sit. ‘So—’

‘Is this the bit where you ask me what’s up, I rabbit on telling you about how depressing my life is, you periodically nod and say things like “ahh” and “I see” while trying to look interested until I’m unburdened and you feel like a good samaritan for listening?’ 

Wow. That was intense. Wasn’t expecting that from him. 

His eyes – still locked on mine – seem to bore right through me.

‘Or,’ I say, ‘we can just sit in silence. Up to you, pal.’ 

I sip my drink and he lowers his gaze back to his own. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes before he relents. They always do.

‘It’s my job,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s suffocating the life from me.’

I knew it.

‘Hang-ing on in qui-et des-pe-ra-tion is the Eng-lish way,’ I sing.

His eyes meet mine and for the first time a flicker of emotion curls his lips. ‘Pink Floyd?’

I nod. ‘It’s a common thing, pal, from my experience anyway. You’d be surprised at the amount of people trapped working jobs they hate…so they can buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, to impress people they don’t like.’

‘Now you’re quoting Fight Club,’ he says as his face breaks into a smile. Actually, it’s more of a smirk. Like the delirious soldier who’s seen too many things. ‘A real fountain of pop-culture knowledge, you are.’

I smile. ‘Am I right, though?’

He sighs and nods in agreement as his shoulders slump. ‘More than you know.’

I smile inside when he takes a large drink. That-a-boy, numb that pain. 

‘You see,’ he continues, ‘my job’s a thankless one. One I never even wanted in the first place. But no one else was willing to do the dirty work, so I stepped up, as without me, the venture would fail quicker than a sand-factory in the desert.’

‘So, it’s a start-up?’

He considers this for a moment. ‘It was…a long, long, time ago. Yet here I am, still in the role I was promised would only be temporary until someone more suitable came along.’ He shakes his head. ‘The boss sure pulled a fast one on me.’

‘That’s rough, man,’ I say, as sympathetic as I can muster. ‘What is it you do?’

‘I’m the Devil.’ 

I near choke with laughter.

He doesn’t find it so amusing. ‘Have you any idea how soul-destroying it is every time someone laughs at your job?’

‘I’d have thought soul-destroying would be right up your street,’ I say between laughs.

His face remains expressionless. 

‘I’ve got to say, pal,’ I say, drying my eyes. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard that one.’

‘Just because I’m the Devil doesn’t mean I’m lying.’ There’s a cold, matter-of-factness behind his words that would freeze…well, his home. 

I think the professionals would class him as a grade A nutter. Better play along. ‘Sorry pal, I see where you’re coming from. You do get a bad rap.’

He seems to relax as he sips his drink. ‘Yeah, that’s the point. Everyone thinks I’m the bad one, but if they could see what I’ve got Jimmy Saville doing right now, they’d think differently. But oh-no, the gaffer wants me to play the bogeyman role. In fact, he actively promotes it. Says it keeps the sheep in check. So, I’m forever cursed to be the proverbial wolf at the door…the serpent in the garden…the barbarian at the wall.’

Now, I’m no mind reader or expert on body language, but I’d say this guy truly believes he’s the Devil. Not long now and I won’t have to listen to his ramblings. Soon, he’ll be face-planted on the bar.

‘Anyway,’ he says, before finishing his drink. ‘You’re a busy man. I don’t want to waste any more of your time listening to my…ramblings. Besides, you and I will have plenty of time to chat. All eternity, to be precise.’

I snigger. This guy’s cuckoo. I’ll enjoy this one.

‘I really appreciate you taking the time to listen to a cuckoo like me,’ he says. ‘I’ll have a word with the big man, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough to get you off the hook.’

Cuckoo? I force a smile. ‘I’m going to hell, am I?’

His eyes narrow in on me. ‘You really need to ask that, Eddie?’

How the fuck does he know my name?

‘Because I’m the Devil. I know everything about you, Eddie. Your name, age, where you live.’ A sleekit smile crosses his face. ‘I even know all the seedy ways you get your kicks.’

His whole demeanour changes as a light-headedness sweeps over me. He seems taller, confident, and an overwhelming sense of power radiates from him. The room sways, causing me to feel unsteady. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

What in the actual fuck is happening?

‘Oh, I think you know very well what’s happening, Eddie. The same thing that’s happened to many-a-man unfortunate enough to drown their sorrows in here. First, it’s a friendly chat with a sympathetic barman. Then it’s a free drink. Followed by drowsiness. Before finally, black. Next thing they know, they’ve woken in a ditch with no recollection of getting there and it’s at least a week before they can sit down properly. But how long does it take for what you do to them when you’ve drugged them to sit okay in their minds?’

The room spins and sweat floods my brow. I close my eyes and rub them with trembling hands. When I open them, I’m alone with only a slight puff of smoke before me and a whiff of sulphur in the air.

This is surreal.

I glance at the two glasses on the bar, trying to figure out what’s happening but my panicked mind won’t string a rational thought together.

But I…but I…

‘But I don’t understand?’ comes the echoing voice of the vanished man. I turn as my breathing becomes laboured but still can’t see him. ‘But I spiked his drink? Those are the wrong butts I’d be thinking about. If I were you, I’d be worrying about protecting my own. God knows who could walk through that door when you’re passed out.’

The room spins faster as my heart beats quicker. All the while, his malicious taunts echo around the bar – echo, around my head.

‘Tick, tock, the door needs locked. Tick, tock, or you’ll take a fat cock…’

Chest tight with fear, I scramble over the bar sending the glasses smashing to the ground. I land and my legs buckle at the knees. I manage to crawl halfway to the door before my arms collapse under my weight. With the last energy I can muster, I roll onto my back. I struggle to lift my head but it’s like fighting against the centrifugal force of the waltzers fairground ride at full spin. I give up and let my head thump onto the floor as the door bangs open. Through narrowing vision, a group of hairy-arsed bikers tower over me. My eyelids become too heavy to keep open but my ears still work fine.

‘Any of you boys order a passed-out barman?’ one of them says. 

The others laugh. 

‘Well, I guess it’s true what they say,’ he continues. ‘The lord does work in mysterious ways.’

A sickening symphony of twisted laughter, high-fives, belts being undone, zips opening, and my own heart pounding against my eardrums, lulls me into darkness.