Submitted to Vocal Media, circa 2021
Glory, On High St., by Alex Johnson
Two bartenders floated between the bar and tables. The after-work crowd had just about cleared out, but the house was still buzzing with seekers of proper food and potent drinks. This was the place. Every patron was given priority and, without fail, a taste of something they had never known they’d wanted so bad.
“That sformato was incredible. I’ve never eaten anything like that before,” said a table of old friends having a night in the city.
“On a night like tonight, it’s just perfect. Let me clear these plates for you, ladies. What time does the show start?” The bartender held both the plates and the conversation without any noticeable effort.
“Doors open at seven, but we have reserved seating.”
“That’s probably not enough time for another round, so how about I bring us a few shots with the bill then?”
The bar was a gem in the middle of the city. Industrial lightbulbs accentuated warm colors of exposed brick and restored wood, while a turntable played records over state-of-the-art speakers.
“This amaro is phenomenal,” said a few bar flies.
“Yeah, how did you guys even get this? I’ve been looking for this one for years. It’s impossible to find.”
“Hey, quit being a nosy piece of shit,” the bartender said with a jovial wink, and there were roars of laughter. Before they could even ask, another round was placed in front of the friends, and they shuffled to make space. A soft scratch indicated that the record had come to an end, and both bartenders met behind the bar.
“How’s Table 14? It looks like they’re celebrating something”. He glided across the record collection, selecting a Talking Heads album, and replaced the records without smudging a single fingerprint on the vinyl. Around the house, ears lifted as they recognized the music.
“One of them put down a card for the whole group, so it’s gravy. What’s up with the crew at Table 60?” She lowered the house light’s dimmer switch and watched pupils grow into the mood.
“I’m about to drop their check. Want to go do some shots?” The bartenders poured a tray of whiskey and brought them to the table, cheersing “to good old grandad”.
And then James walked in through the front door.
“Ey, what’s up,” said one of the bartenders, quickly making her way back to the bar. It was James’ first time in the place, but she casually welcomed him like a regular. “You want to sit at the bar? A high top maybe?”
“Yeah, a high top would be good, I think.”
“Take any one you like.” She filled a glass of water and met James at the table.
“Just water for now, if that’s ok. I’m meeting someone.”
“No problem. Give me a nod if you need anything.”
With both bartenders now back behind the bar, they took note as James relaxed into the space; his head nodding to the familiar music, his mouth turning up as he saw the mural on the back wall, his eyebrows raising as he explored the menu.
“He’s awkward, but kinda cute,” said one of the bartenders while she burnt a sprig of rosemary for a cocktail.
“First date?” the other speculated while stacking clean glasses on a shelf.
“It’s got to be. Hey, can you help me make some mocktails for Table 23? They’re not boozin’, but are looking for something fancy.”
The bartenders pressed citrus, sliced ginger, and dashed syrups, pouring the non-alchoholic drinks into martini and coupe glasses just the same.
And then Amelia walked in through the front door.
Before anyone could greet her, Amelia surveyed the room and discerned that the guy at the high top must be her date, swiftly walking over to James. A bartender arrived just after the couple had introduced themselves.
“Hi, umm, a glass of merlot would be lovely. Wait- are you drinking?” Amelia looked at James.
“Yeah, uh, absolutely,” James stammered.
“Ok good, it’s been one of those days. A glass of merlot, please.” The bartender smiled and looked at James.
“Miller Light?” he probed.
“Bingo,” the bartender confirmed, and returned to the bar to begin pouring their drinks.
“Damn, she’s gorgeous,” the other bartender offered. “Good for him”. They both quietly analyzed the couple’s initial dynamic and energy. The record was coming to an end, and one of the bartenders used to the opportunity to set a new mood, selecting a Madonna album as the replacement.
“Ohmigod, I love this song!” Amelia exclaimed as the first round was delivered to their table. She inhaled a gulp of wine and James’ eyes widened.
“We were curious about the grilled octopus and the warm burrata salad,” Amelia continued, becoming more invested in the date.
The bartender delighted in the opportunity to explain the dishes. With meticulous detail, he described the smokiness of the andouille aioli, the freshness of the ramp pesto, the juxtaposed textures of the grilled octopus. His hands painted the dishes in front of the couple’s eyes, and their chests slowly began to rise and fall in unison as they watched and listened. The herbed toast drizzled with Tuscan olive oil, the cloud-like burrata open and gooey, the bold, peppery romesco. “But I mean, it’s cheese inside of cheese, so what else do you need to hear?” he quipped. The couple snapped back to the present moment, laughed, and quickly agreed to both plates, reaching for their drinks to wash down the saliva that had collected inside their mouths.
The bartenders were pleased to notice the couple falling into a groove, and tended to the rest of the house.
“The gang at the end of the bar want to buy us some shots- you in?”
“With those guys, why not!”
Cheersing ”to more nights like these“, the bartenders succeeded in making the group feel extraordinary.
“It looks like that high top might need some more love,” one of the bartenders observed.
“And a little bit of this,” said the other, selecting a Prince album to drop onto the turntable.
Pouring a splash from three different taps into three glasses, one of the bartenders walked over to the high top with the glasses on a tray.
“If I may be a bit of a beer ambassador…”
“Yes, please!” Amelia and James looked upon the tasting tray before them.
“There’s a few rare beers on tap that I think would fit your tastes.” The couple looked at each other with devious smiles. “For the merlot drinker, try this Flemish ale. It’s deep and complex, slightly sour, and elegant.” The bartender placed the first glass in front of Amelia. “Also, check out this raspberry ale on nitro. The nitrogen bubbles have this super smooth feel, and it’s just fucking delicious.” Amelia took the glass straight from his hands, mesmerized by its swirling magenta. “For the light beer drinker, here’s an oak-aged pilsner. It’s crisp, but because it’s been aged in barrels, it has a depth to it that’s really interesting. I love it.” James took the glass and immediately drank the sample.
“Yes. That. Give me one of those,” he stated.
“Hey! I wanted to taste it too, ya jerk,” Amelia laughed.
“You can have first sips from the one that’s coming,” James replied, and he held her gaze, feeling unusually cool and confident.
Behind the bar, the bartenders watched as the couple leaned closer to each other, giggling and excited to hear what each other thought of the samples.
“Hey, check out Table 62,” one of them said, gesturing to the furthest table in the back corner of the room.
“I hate when couples sit side by side like that,” the bartender griped.
“Maybe she’s giving him a hand job.”
“She is not!”
“Yep, he’s definitely getting a handy back there.”
___
“Hey! Fast-forward through this! Why do we keep following the bartenders? This is supposed to be about my life, not theirs.”
“This Viewing Gateway only follows our intermediaries. It is used for surveillance, not as a tool for dead humans to replay scenes from their life.”
“Wait- so you’re telling me that those two bartenders… were frickin’ angels?”
“Not quite. These two “bartenders”, as they are presented, are facilitators of The Grand Design. Think of them as ushers guiding people onto a recommended path.”
“Ushers for a recommended path?! These drunk assholes with their stupid tattoos and their stupid lazy fashion, thinking that they’re better than everyone… You’re telling me that they altered the course of my life?”
“They simply presented a route that you may not have seen otherwise. You always had free will, and could’ve chosen to go your own way at any time.”
“Why are we even looking at this?”
“You wanted to understand why your life worked out the way it did. It was this night where you took your first step onto The Grand Design.”
Amelia looked down at her first date with James, her husband, playing out like a rerun of a forgotten episode. The only thing she had remembered of the date was good food, and enough of a buzz to initiate a kiss at the end of the night.
“You know, I always felt like my life was something… expected of me. Even when I met James and fell in love, it always felt like that was what I was supposed to do. And now you’re telling me that I was right! That I was fit into some mold.”
“A Grand Design, yes.”
“But…”
“Why are you upset? You lived a wonderful life. You happily married this man and had a beautiful family. Is this not, as you say, ‘the grass being greener on the other side’?”
But the words were like distant echoes as Amelia watched her younger self be carried away with the decadence of the bar and the bartender’s subtle persuasions. She felt betrayed. Naïve. Alone. The taste of the food and drinks had gone sour in her memory. Rusted. Moldy. Even the love she felt for her husband of sixty years now felt foreign. “What if our date hadn’t worked out so perfectly?” she wondered. “What would my life have been? Maybe I would’ve actually sewn a wedding dress, made love on a boat, volunteered in India…”. She glared down at the two bartenders and watched the rest of the scene with despair, hoping she had remembered it incorrectly, hoping her date would spill his drink on her, confess to a strange fetish, admit he was a Republican- anything! Anything that would ruin the night and allow her to see what life could have been.
___
“We’re going to share the elderflower ice cream sandwich,” she watched herself say while locked in James’ eyes.
“Yes! How about ‘The Nightcap’ cocktail to pair with it. It’s like drinking silk.”
The couple looked at each other, gauging. This was the final test to see if the other was fully on board with the date.
“Let’s do it.”
A late-night crowd had started to filter in, and the bartenders picked up their pace without anyone noticing.
“That first date is sharing a desert and a Nightcap? Ooo- they’re gonna fuck tonight!”
“No- they’re sweet.”
They watched as the couple savored their final course, proud that the date had gone so well. Neither James or Amelia seemed to notice when Black Sabbath burst from the speakers as the bartenders began to pivot for the changing demographic. They paid their bill and the bartenders watched them walk out, hoping to witness a first kiss or a shared ride home. But the couple stood outside chatting long enough for the bartenders to turn back to their work.
“Well, shots?” They poured a line of whiskey for themselves and anyone within earshot.
“Cheers. You’re doing God’s work,” one of them toasted to the other. And when they next remembered to look out the window, the couple had gone, illuminated somewhere under the light of the city.
