A bullet whizzed past the bartender’s string tie. He calmly reached out and took the gun from his assailant. “You’re cut off, Ma.”
Tag: bar
Fiction: PIN
Daren swiped his credit card through the reader and pushed 8-7-1-5.
The screen read, “Incorrect PIN. Please try again.”
He frowned. That had to be the right number, and he tried it again with the same result.
He had one chance left and tested 8-5-7-1. The bank’s computer canceled the transaction. He took a quick look over his shoulder; several others waited in line behind him.
“I’ll have to think about my number for a minute,” he told the girl behind the counter.
“Okay,” she said absently, and turned to the next customer.
Daren walked away from the counter and stood by the newspapers as he pondered the number puzzle. It was becoming too much trouble for a pack of cigarettes. He turned the numbers around in his head. No, the number had to be 8-7-1-5. He’d used that number hundreds of times. He could see himself doing it. Push 8-7-1-5 and…
Oh.
He took a deep breath, and his PIN came to him as he exhaled. He got back in line. The cashier still had the cigarettes sitting by the register. At his turn, he swiped his card and pushed 6-2-9-4, and the transaction went through.
Daren walked out and got in his car. He opened the cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply.
Six years and I’m still trying to dial her phone number.
It wasn’t Daren’s only automatic response; ten minutes later, he walked into the bar with no recollection of having driven there.
Fiction: Time in a Bottle
With a respectful nod to the late, great Jim Croce for the title
The door to the bar opened, spilling a little fresh air and a gringo inside.
A few of the locals looked up from their beers and their cards to study the gringo. He was young but not a boy. He was nicely dressed but not expensively. He was clean but he had been sweating in the southwestern heat. He was not one of them, but the pain in his eyes made him an honorary citizen of their little bar so they left him alone.
The gringo took a stool at the bar, leaving a few polite open spaces between himself and the other man sitting there.
“Una cerveza, por favor,” the gringo said. The bartender nodded his graying head and produced a lightly chilled bottle of beer. The gringo stared at it for a long time. At last he spoke quietly: “All the time I have left is in this bottle.” He picked up the beer and downed half of it.
Fiction: Open Mic Night
“And next up for Open Mic Night at Barney’s Cantina is … whoa! I have no idea how to pronounce this person’s name. Just give a big hand to whoever this is and maybe she’ll tell you.”
A light shower of applause greeted the young woman as she took the small stage in the bar and grill. A couple of men whistled at her and she looked in their direction and smiled.
She was about 5 foot 5 with long, wavy blonde hair and a perfect hourglass figure. The top three buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned and she seemed to enjoy leaning forward just a bit. Her skirt was short enough to attract equal attention.
“Good evening, Barney’s!” she called, and was rewarded with cheers and more whistles. “My name is Mwffu Tywnx, but you can call me Muffy if it’s easier. Not like we’re going to get to know each other real well anyway … as my people are going to conquer the Earth tomorrow and enslave every last one of you.”
Fiction: The Tavern
He was a good-looking man, and young; only the limp and the cane explained why he wasn’t in uniform.
He carefully maneuvered himself between a few tables and hitched himself up on a barstool. “Lager, bitte,” he told the barmaid.
She drew his beer and set it in front of him. “So where are you from, mein Herr, and what brings you to our little village?”