Five Calls in a Row

I really had no idea what I was doing here. Here, in this city, yes but not here. I don’t even remember pulling over to park my rental car. Somehow in an unaccounted for lapse in time, I ended up just standing on the sidewalk; looking straight up into the neon light of an unassuming bar’s sign.

Usually I would’ve looked online to see what the reviews for this place were before ever even considering stopping in. I would have changed my outfit according to the user review photos to make sure I would fit in. I would have looked over the menu options first to be prepared. I would have weighed it among the other local options. Instead, I looked like a lost kid out here on the street. I felt like I needed an adult’s assistance.

I reached out and pulled open the heavy wood door. They don’t make doors like this anymore. Well, my brother does. He makes custom, expensive, elaborate doors. He makes doors you could never find in one of the big box stores that are in all the new construction. This door was one of those kinds of special doors that showed its age when it creaked and groaned at the hinges.

I numbly shuffled in and picked the closest seat on a tattered barstool. My feet hung and kicked. I didn’t instinctively take out my phone to check in, or take any pictures to tag with explanatory captions. I just sat unusually straight with my hands on the bar. I don’t know why but I had this welling anxiety that I looked suspicious. I slumped over a little to lean on the bar to look more casual and debated internally whether to take my jacket off. I wasn’t used to this cold anymore so I decided to keep it on but unzipped it. Maybe it would show that I could, at any moment, relax and stay awhile.

A gruff looking man made eye contact with me from behind the bar. He was the absolute epitome of every cliché bartender I’d ever seen in movies. He was wearing a faded black t-shirt and stained jeans. I could see aged tattoos sticking out from his sleeves; indescribable writing and what looked like the bottom half of an eagle. He had a waist apron on, but it looked like it had already been a long night based on how used it was. He came over and stood with his arms crossed for a few seconds, leaning against the bar back before he initiated conversation.

“I’ve never seen you here before”.

“I don’t drink” I instantly replied. Why did I say it that way, like I was in trouble? “I never have actually. I never really wanted to until ... about two minutes ago”.

“Hmm. Well, you’re kind of in the wrong place for not drinking.” Luckily, his tone didn’t seem to inflict he was offended that I was basically trespassing in his establishment.

“Can you make me a White Russian, please?” I was surprised I still managed to be polite while blurting out my order.

He tipped his head to the side. Our dog does this when he doesn’t comprehend the command. “You have a specific drink request even though you don’t drink?”

“It is my mom’s favorite drink” I bashfully replied. I wished he would just stop looking at me now.

I closed my eyes and listened to how lively the atmosphere was in here. People were laughing, shooting pool, playfully riffing each other over really poor aim throwing darts. Music was playing from a jukebox somewhere in the back. I knew there was a strong likelihood 80′s bands were in record queue, specifically Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. Journey was palpable in air. Evitable. That will be problematic for this visit. Journey is my mom’s favorite band. I couldn’t handle Journey right now.

The bartender cracked one of his knuckles and I realized he was still standing there, just looking at me with a puzzled look on his face.

“I need to see some ID first before I can make you anything” he said, his tone very official. I’m sure he could tell based on how wrecked I must have looked from the last few days that I was obviously of age but I understood the formality.

I nodded and mechanically reached into my wallet. I handed over my ID and he flipped it back and forth.

“Arizona huh?” he asked, now realizing just how out of place I really was.

“I’m originally from here” I admitted.

“Not exactly the ideal vacation spot for January, wouldn’t you agree?”

I raised my big hazel eyes up to meet his and then lifted my head until it almost fell back in a nonverbal way to say I did very much agree and was not here for vacation purposes in the least.

Message received. He handed me my ID and walked over to the far side of the bar.

A man came up, noticing the break in conversation with the bartender, and put his very warm hand on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth even through my jacket and fleece. Maybe he was drinking to warm up from the cold outside. He reeked of smoke. He spoke clearer then I was expecting but he told me that they would be starting karaoke in five minutes and I should join them. I gave him a half smile and he stumbled away. I love karaoke normally and if I had come here intentionally, I would have willingly partook. Even as a sober person. This offering would definitely be something readers would be interested in if I was doing a review.

The bartender came back with a stocky glass, full of what looked like chocolate milk made by one my kids; the syrup-to-milk ratio was extremely unbalanced, highly in favor of the chocolate syrup. There was a little black stir straw sticking out. I crinkled my nose apprehensively and twirled the straw around a few times and blended it all together.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said, still staring into the dark milky mixture.

“Shoot.”

“What does this taste like?”

“You ordered something you've never tasted?" I assumed this was rhetorical."Well, to me, it’s always tasted like a melted chocolate milkshake.”

“So, it’s the kind of drink you drink when you don’t want people to think all you do is drink? Like, with wine or beer, the cans and bottles can really pile up, and that’s a dead giveaway you have a drinking problem, but this? This is a little more classy and discreet? Like, it’s fun and casual, not a big deal?” I could hear myself rambling and saying “like” way more than I should have been. I would have been penalized so heavily by Toastmasters right now.

“I guess you could say that”, he started to squint one eye and raise the other eyebrow.

The hot burn started of held back tears in my eyes. My jaw clenched. My thumb spun my wedding ring around, which my husband hates that I do when I’m nervous because he thinks it’ll fall and get lost. It’s an unconscious fidget. I usually twirl my hair but I was holding onto the glass so tightly.

“Do you think, um, someone could ever love this particular drink more than anything else in the world? Is this drink better than love?”

He leaned onto his elbows and scratched his scruffy face. He inhaled deeply and then in a breathy exhale said, “I honestly don’t think so”.

Without taking my eyes off his, I drank the entire drink and slammed the glass back down. I drank it so fast that I could feel a little milk mustache was left over. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

The tears broke the levee and were streaming now. “You were right. It does taste like melted milkshake.”

I have no precedent for how good this drink was, but he seemed like a five star bartender. Really knew his stuff, master of his craft. Gave accurate expectations. Wasn’t too judgemental.

“Want another?” I’m sure he knew the answer before he asked but it was second nature, force of habit.

I reached for my wallet again to pull out cash and the bartender tapped the bar with his knuckle to catch my attention again. He took a long pause …“I’ve never had, or made, or know of this drink, or any other drink, that was better than love. Never even anything that came close.”

“I wish you had been my mom’s bartender then. You could have told her that.”

He winced, like when you get a nasty papercut. Something so small that just sends that piercing shock wave through your whole body. I tucked my hair behind my ear and turned to leave.

I put a ten dollar bill on the bar. I didn’t even know how much drinks at a bar cost but I assumed ten was enough. I hope I wasn’t insulting him if that didn’t include a tip. He was deserving of one. Maybe once I was out of this literal and figurative fog I could give him the review he deserved.

“Thank you for your assistance.” I gave a small silent wave past my shoulder, zipped up my jacket, and walked back through the impressive wood door. I wish I was in the mood to take a picture of this door; it had character.

As predicted, as soon as the door closed behind me, I could hear karaoke kicking off with those first tone deaf notes being belted out into the microphone of none other than Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. If I had come here under any other circumstances, I think I maybe would have given this place a solid “likely to return” or “local charmer” and used hashtags like ”#staylocal#shopsmall”. I hate that forced fakeness about the work I do but that's the work.

Instead, I walked back outside, stood under the neon light of the sign and felt lost on the street all over again. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I had no desire to answer it. Not now.

Title: Five Calls in a Row (excerpt)

Genre: Non fiction, narrative

Age range: 16+

Author Name: Nicole J. Dunn

Project: Novel

Hook: What warrants a real emergency when eveything is treated like one?

Synopsis: Nickey is stuck in the perpetual middle between the family she grew up with and the one is trying to raise. Her mother is a constant source of contention, comfort, crisis, and confusion. Nickey is the same age now her mother was when everything changed. Will Nickey come to understand who her mother is and why she is the why she is? Through a series of events, all is revealed but will anything be resolved?

Target Audience: Adults

Bio: Nicole J. Dunn “Nickey” lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband and three kids. She works full time, and in what nonexistant free time she has, she is busy taking kids to sporting events, school functions, and traveling to see family. Writing has always been her passion and continues to provide a creative outlet outside her very regulated full time job.

Using transparency and humor to shed light on issues she faces on an everyday basis help make her writing relatable.

Education/Experience: B.S. - Sociology, Northern Arizona University.

Hometown/Age: 36, Marysville, WA