I’m behind a fluorescent-lit bar. Something’s burning.
There’s no music. All I hear are the guests. They speak in fast-forward.
They’re ordering espresso martinis and Ramos Gin Fizzes. Long Island Iced Teas. Someone in the back wants a Sex on the Beach, but I haven’t seen peach schnapps in years.
Have I?
The women are dressed like elegant whores, smeared lipstick and runny eyeliner, with grating, vocal-fried voices, exclaiming, “Oh my God!” endlessly to each other. One stops, turns to me mechanically, and says, “Cosmo, extra pink!” before returning to her endless loop of “Oh my God!” Her eyes are pure white. No irises.
No pupils.
The men are blind-rich, with thick, slicked-back black hair, waving $10,000 wads, wearing creaseless silk button-downs and dangling Rolexes. They’re snapping in my face, slamming the bartop, yelling, “Hey, bartender! I need some service over here! Hey! Hello? This is coming out of your tip, buddy.”
There must be a hundred people, glaring or babbling. More keep arriving, though they all have the same face. Same body. Same soulless stare. Their eyes morph into mouths and start eating the air.
Stealing my breath.
The men slam the bartop, demanding service. The women shriek, “Oh my God!” louder and louder.
They’re touching my tools, grabbing my shakers and screaming, “Make us a cocktail! C’mon, Connor! That’s all you’re good for. You’re the barman, the servant, and I need some fucking service!”
Now they’re hurling my tools—shakers, jiggers, barspoons, citrus peelers. My paring knife flies past my temple, piercing the lowboy I’m ducked against. I cover my face. My fruit bowl comes next as they rocket lemons, limes, and oranges at me, howling:
“We need some fucking service, Connor! You’re the barman, right? That’s your whole identity. You’re not a writer. Hah! You’ll stand behind this fucking bar every night for the rest of your life and act like it’s your passion. Even though it’s eating you alive. It’s ruining your relationship, Connor. She’s gonna leave you, Connor! And there’s no way out. No fucking way out. So get shaking. We need service!”
I’m covered in citrus. Bleeding. I stand, brush off my apron. Tears pool in my head, but I’m unable to cry. I pick up my tools one by one and reorganize them. In silence. More bodies pile in and stare.
Once I’ve restored my mise-en-place, I greet my first customer.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“Ten espresso martinis with reposado tequila. Casamigos. The finest. If they’re too sweet, we’ll send them back and you won’t get a tip. Get to work.” The lead gentleman smiles at his friends.
They’re impressed.
I line up ten chilled coupe glasses and five shakers.
The crowd grows. No more talking. The only noise is me, working.
I spill a drop.
“Wipe that up. Now,” the lead gentleman says.
I do.
I finish building the drinks and ice my shakers. A rogue cube lands on the bartop.
“Pick that up,” the lead gentleman says.
I pick it up.
“Apologize,” the lead gentleman says.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
I shake, strain, and garnish the espresso martinis.
“Cheers, gentlemen.”
The lead gentleman takes a sip. “This is too sweet. Make them all again.” The gentlemen dump their drinks onto the floor. Then they smash their glasses. “But first, clean this up. You wouldn’t want someone to get cut, would you?”
I clean the floor, sweeping the glass, mopping the espresso martinis, while they stare, point, loom, and laugh.
Suddenly, I’m choking. Heaving.
“I thought you were the best? I thought you could tend any bar. Where’d all that confidence go?” the lead gentleman says.
I reach out. Gasp. Vision pulsing black. I can’t speak. The crowd is aloof as I fall to my knees. They just want their drinks. They file out the narrow exit. One man remains, watching me suffocate.
I want to see his face. His eyes. But I’m squirming on the floor, rolling around in spent citrus.
He walks behind the bar. Kneels. Takes the notebook from my apron.
Whispers.
“Gotta get back to work, Connor.”
—
I jump out of bed drenched in sweat, startling Giselle.
“Are you okay?” she says, reaching out, halfway in her own dream.
“I… Yeah, everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
I hold her hand until we both fall back asleep.
That was f*ing unbelievable! At first, I couldn't believe they were treating you and getting away with it. Then I realized it was just a dream! 🫶
Love this. Pacing is great. I would’ve been fine with another false ending to the dreams. I know you’ve mentioned HSJr in some of your live sessions. This def has some of that Tappy Tibbons vibe to it, maybe some BEE too with the Paul Allens and Patrick Batemans taunting him. Can’t wait to read the book.