Ubriacarsi.

The kid washing dishes gave a sort of sideways glance to Frank while continuing on his work, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Right,” he said, pushing a tray of dishes into the restaurant’s industrial washer. He closed the door to the machine and took another look at Frank; a good one this time and then nodded toward the other end of the dishwasher, indicating for Frank to move over to that area. “When this turns off,” he said, laying a finger on a red light light near the top of the machine, “pull the lever over there up and slide the grate out, unstack the dishes from it, and put it back under there,” he pointed to a rack where there were several other trays of the dishwasher. “Then you can take the dishes into the kitchen. Just ask the other cooks where they go. Most of their tickets should be out by now. They should have time to help you.”

“Other cooks?” asked Frank. He was not entirely sure that a dishwasher was considered a profession in culinary preparation.

“We don’t have a dishwasher right now,” the kid said, his voice rather amused for some reason, “so I had to come off the line to catch up on dishes.”

“Oh, alright.” The red light turned off and Frank slid the tray that held dishes out of the washer and started staking them, looking back over to the dishwasher. “My name’s Frank.”

“Ray,” said the dishwasher, not looking away from his work.

Frank just nodded. Saying something like ‘nice meeting you’ seemed too formal for someone like Ray. Instead, he just took a stack of plates to the chef line in the kitchen and asked the nearest cook (a kid wearing a white starter cap) where they went. He pointed to an area above the heat lamps that several plates of food sitting under it. Frank added the dishes to the ones that were already stacked, then went back to the dish area, waiting for the light to turn off again so he could repeat the process. He stood there for a few moments before a thought struck him and he turned to Ray again.

“Hey, Ray?” The dishwasher looked over, so Frank continued, “If you guys don’t have a dishwasher, why was I hired as a server? Did someone quit recently or something? I put ‘any’ for the position on my application.”

To Frank’s surprise, Ray just laughed, shaking his head so that the curls in his hair bounced comically on top of his head. “No. No one quit,” he said, going back to his work spraying inlaid food from the plates in front of him, “I think Mikey just wanted you out on the floor.”

Frank’s brow furrowed at this, but he opened the dishwasher when the light signaled to do so and started unloading another round, “Oh.” He quickly took the plates back to their rightful place and went back to the dish room, leaning against a wall. “He probably won’t want me there after tonight. I almost floored a tray of drinks that he was holding earlier. He looked pissed when he told me to come back here. I’ll be surprised if I even last it til tomorrow after that.”

“Nah, that’s just Mikey,” Ray explained, shrugging his shoulders. “He gets really serious about work. And uh, he’s not gonna fire you.” He chuckled, looking sideways at Frank for a few moments, “You just wait. He’ll be in here as soon as he’s out of tables to apologize. And for you…” he glanced at Frank again, a smirk that Frank rather detested on his lips, “he’ll probably have a shot.”

“What do you mean, ‘for me,’” Frank asked, color flushing into his cheeks.

“You’ll see what I mean, I’m sure. Now, that light’s off again…”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

Frank went through a few more loads of dishes and even some silverware, talking about this and that with Ray. More than an hour had passed before the dishes were close to being done. But when Frank took his last stack of plates back to the line, he noted that there were maybe two or three loads, tops to go. But before he could wait around for more than a few moments for the light on the dish washer to turn off, he felt a soft nudge on his shoulder.

“Hey,” A shot glass was pressed into his hand as secured his fingers around it, his eye caught Ray’s who gave him an ‘I told you so’ sort of look before going back to the dishes. And he turned and Frank’s eyes met Mikey’s “Sorry for getting short with you earlier, I was really stressed.” He raised his own glass for Frank’s to meet. “Forgive me?”

“It’s cool,” said Frank, clinking their glasses together before he downed his shot. He brought his hand across his lips to hide the grimace that the alcohol produced and cleared his throat, looking back up to Mikey who had finished his own shot much more gracefully. “You know I’m underage, right?”

“Yeah,” Mikey took the glass out of Frank’s hand and beckoned for him to follow, which he did, feeling slightly guilty as Ray was left with the remainder of the dishes, “but so am I, so I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Frank just chuckled a little and watched as Mikey, back on the floor, placed the two shot glasses in a rotary dish washer that was built into the bar. He explained was only for glasses as he unloaded several clean cups that impeded the flow of the rotary when they hit the small gate that worked as an on/off switch for the dish washer as pressure from the ‘clean’ side would make the whole system stop until the pressure was released.

Once this dish washer was empty, Mikey straightened up and walked the length of the bar, Frank in tow. Frank waited on the floor side as Mikey slipped behind the bar, and watched as the boy bent down, facing the barstools and opened a cooler. He put two of whatever it contained and stood, then led Frank to the back station and slid up on the counter, patting the spot next to him. Frank complied, and as he was sliding back to lean against the wall, Mikey pulled two Redbulls from his apron and handed one to Frank, cracking his own open and taking a sip. Frank did the same and the two sat in silence for a few moments, and then Mikey pulled out his phone.

“Well,” he said, checking the screen for the time, then pocketing the device, “dinner’s over. Cocktail-ing doesn’t start ‘til nine. You can go home if you want, or you can stay and learn both in one night. Whichever you like. And uh, if you do decide to stay,” Mikey smiled a bit, taking another sip of his energy drink, “I promise you can run into me all you want and I won’t get angry.”

“Yeah, sure,” teased Frank sipping on his drink as well, “you say that now, but let’s just wait until you get busy.”

“Said I was sorry ‘bout that,” Mikey pressed, rolling his eyes and downing the last of his drink, “you don’t have to sta-”

“I want to though,” Frank said, smiling up to Mikey.

Mikey smiled back and slid off of the counter. It was only then that Frank realized how close they had actually been sitting. “Well, let’s get a cigarette before that starts then. I’m so stressed from dinner still.”

Frank followed Mikey through the kitchen, out through the staff entrance. They both settled on the picnic table where Frank had smoked his first cigarette outside of the restaurant. Mikey pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his apron and Frank moved his hand to his pocket, his fingers searching for a pack of Marlboro Reds that were not there.

“Did you need to bum one?” asked Mikey, a lit cigarette already between his fingers, his brows raised in his signature look of concern.

“Yeah,” Frank mumbled, accepting a cigarette from Mikey, “left mine in my car…”

“Sure they’re not too girly for you?” Mikey chuckled.

“Whatever,” Frank scoffed, but he smiled as he playfully elbowed the boy next to him.

________________

Frank decided, by the end of the night, that he much preferred cocktail serving to dinner serving. It, surprisingly, was much less demanding. Generally, the tables that he followed Mikey to just wanted a beer or mixed drink every half hour or so and maybe a round of shots every now and then. It wasn’t too bad, really. There was actually quite a lot of downtime which translated to a lot of cigarettes and a lot of conversation shared between Frank and Mikey.

After Mikey had explained the ground rules of cocktail-ing (such as always get cash up front for the drinks or a credit card to start a tap with and how to start a cash or credit tab on the computer), they talked about unimportant things: the hilariously horrible dancer who was in the middle of someone else’s section, bothering the rest of the patrons to no end as he practically flailed to some pop song that the DJ was playing; the price of a Jager Bomb; the horrid smell of a Jager Bomb; the horrible smell of tequila; what was in a Johnny Vegas. Then two glasses clinked together and they talked about how good a Johnny Vegas was, despite the fact that it contained tequila. Then they talked about Firecrackers, Oatmeal Cookies, and Redheaded Sluts, and Mind Erasers, each time leaving two dirty shot glasses on the back station. Then they talked about Alabama Slamas and Rattlesnakes, each time, causing Frank to stumble and wonder how Mikey could actually keep track of tables after all of those drinks.

But before Frank knew it, the night was over and nobody had to worry about the tables anymore. He simply watched as Mikey doled out cleaning jobs to the floor staff (two other girls who Frank had not caught the names of) and Frank watched the bartenders (a girl with long, curly, brown hair had joined Celia, the blonde bartender) do their part of the cleaning. Mikey then showed a hazy Frank what to do in regards to cleaning their particular section. He was rather surprised as he was the one to watch Mikey spot sweep rogue straws from mixed drinks and french fries that had ground themselves into the carpet. He even watched as Mikey vacuumed the floor, but furrowed his brow, slightly confused as Mikey got onto his hands and knees, pulling out the hose of the vacuum and practically crawling under each table, meticulously detailed with his cleaning.

“He always does that,” said a voice. Frank turned to see Mikey’s brother behind him, arms crossed, an amused look on his face, “He’s kind of ridiculous when it comes to cleaning.” Frank chuckled and they both watched for a few moments before Gerard pushed on his arm, nodding toward the bar. “Come sit down with the rest of the staff. I’ll get you a ‘welcome to Ubri’ drink.”

“Ubri?” Frank laughed, wobbling slightly as he followed Gerard through the kitchen this time, then back out to the bar so that they didn’t interrupt Mikey’s cleaning, “What’s that, a pet name for the bar?”

“I guess it is, but please, Ubriacarsi is just way too long to say all the time. Whoa-” Frank felt Gerard’s hand on his waist as the man stopped him from falling to the ground. He found that it was not only difficult to walk straight, but also to avoid his feet which seemed quite intent on stepping on each other as much as possible. “Looks like Mikey already took care of a welcome drink or two though, huh?”

“He called it ‘getting familiar with the product,’” Frank replied, blushing up at Gerard.

“That little skank.”

Frank looked sharply up to Gerard, his brows high on his forehead, “Skank?”

“Oh shit,” Gerard laughed and looked to the bar that they were headed to, then seemed to think the better of it and pulled Frank back into the kitchen. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked as soon as the door was closed.

“Know what? I thought you were getting me a dr-”

“Mikey’s, like, two musicals and a purple scarf away from flaming gay,” Gerard interrupted, and as he did not note a change on Frank’s expression, he pressed on, “and… you either know or you’re too drunk to care.”

“He does smell good,” Frank noted, stupidly.

Gerard just laughed, clapping a hand to his back, “Well said, Frankie boy, well said. Let’s get you another drink, eh?”

A few minutes later, Frank found himself sitting next to Gerard at the bar, sipping a Captain and Coke as the older Way brother chatted animatedly to the bartender with brown hair. The other staff had all greeted him as he sat, but Frank was sure by the giggles that followed his slurred out ‘hey’ that they all deemed him too liquored up for actual conversation. So he sat quietly and eyed the empty barstool next to him. In a few more minutes though, it was filled and the same fingers that Frank remembered from being navigated through the computer screen were on his spine again causing his inebriated body to shiver involuntarily.

“Nice to see you, too,” chuckled Mikey, he held a hand out for the glass in Frank’s hand, “what’re you drinking?” Frank watched as Mikey’s lips fitted around the rim of the glass, then let his eyes move up to Mikey’s hair, vacuously smiling at the juncture between the longish strands of his hair met the collar of his polo. But the boy’s voice made his eyes snap back to Mikey’s face. “Damn, are you sure you need this? You, uh, seem kinda buzzed.”

“‘Sa welcome to Ubri drink, Gerard said.”

Mikey laughed again, handing the drink back to Frank, “Fair enough.”

“Hey G,” he called. He removed his hand from Frank’s back and stood from his stool, going behind the bar, “what kind of shot are you feeling? And I will not make anything with Jager.”

“Not everyone here’s sucha pansy, bro,” Gerard chortled, rolling his eyes.

“Well, if you wanna go there, not everyone here’s getting a shot,” retorted Mikey.

“Oh, fuck you,” Gerard rolled his eyes, but paused momentarily, then shrugged, “better make ‘em Kamikazes.” Mikey nodded in agreement and pulled out six shot glasses. “Ay, there’s seven of us.”

“Yeah,” Mikey nodded, pulling out a bottle of vodka and counting the pours before he spoke again, “but Frank’s going to need a ride tonight.” He put down the vodka and picked up the triple sec, then sour mix and then scooped ice into the mixing glass and poured a greenish yellow shot into six of the shot glasses. He handed one to each of the people seated at the bar and then filled up a coke for himself. He sat next to Frank, who downed his shot after some toast that he didn’t quite catch from Gerard, then slumped on his bar stool a bit. He felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes looked up to a blurry image of Mikey. “You doing okay?”

Frank started to nod, then closed his eyes, leaning his head onto the bar, “I’m fucked up,” he admitted, groaning as he thought of driving back home. “Shit. ‘M guessing that was you offering to drive me…”

“Yeah, of course. I’d never give you that many shots then expect you to fend for yourself,” Mikey chuckled. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

Frank giggled slightly, looking up to Mikey with a grin playing across his lips, “Gerard says you’re a skank.” Mikey stayed silent, his brows in danger of becoming lost in his fringe. This caused Frank’s smile to deter slightly and his eyes to blink several times before saying: “I don’t think you are, though.” Mikey avoided speaking further by taking a sip of his coke, so Frank continued, “I even told him. I said you smell really good.”

And then Frank smiled again, because he watched as Mikey laughed at this, shaking his head. “Right, I think you’re done for the night. Come on.”

Frank obliged and stood, gripping the barstool in front of him for support as Mikey said goodbyes to everyone. Frank, himself, got a few more giggles and some ‘nice meeting yous’ before he was being steered out of the building by Mikey’s hand on his shoulder. He let Mikey guide him into the passenger seat of the black SUV that he remembered from their first encounter, then closed his eyes against the sticky summer air as Mikey buckled his seat belt in, then closed the door behind him and walked around to the driver’s side of the car.

“Fuck,” said Frank, turning his head to the side so that it would be easier to make eye contact with Mikey, once he slid in, “you shouldn’ta given me all those shots. My mom’s going to freak if she wakes up and I’m stumbling up the stairs…”

“I didn’t think about that,” Mikey confessed, turning the keys in the car’s ignition, “I’m sorry. You can always crash on my couch if you like. Just tell your mom you made some friends at work or something.”

“You sure?” Frank asked. He closed his eyes again as Mikey backed his car out and proceeded to the edge of the parking lot.

“Course I’m sure. I’m the one who got you so drunk. It’d be shit for me to get you in trouble for it.”

The rhythmic clicking of a turn signal filled the car before Frank opened his eyes again. “Gerard said yer two musicals and a purple scarf away from flaming,” Frank giggled, leaning closer to Mikey his touch and smell in his mind, a drunken smile on his lips. “Is that why you want me to stay over?”

“Let’s get things straight,” Mikey laughed, shaking his head, “I don’t wear purple scarves. Ever. And I don’t watch musicals. If anyone, that’s Gerard.”

“So you’re not flaming?”

“Not flaming,” chuckled Mikey, “but I guess I’ve been with a guy or two.”

“But is that why you wanted me to stay over?” insisted Frank, sitting up straight in the passenger seat.

“You’re drunk,” Mikey said, shaking his head, “I’m not that kinda guy.”

“Is that why you got me drunk?”

“You know, you talk a lot when you’ve had a few…”

“Oh,” Frank wasn’t sure if he would be smiling so much if he were sober, but that didn’t matter, because he was a long feat away from that, “so that’s the reason.”

Mikey stayed silent for a few moments, his eyes focused on the road in front of him. It was as his turn signal was blinking toward the driveway of a rather average two story house that he finally spoke, “I guess I’m kind of a dick.” He put the car in park, then looked over to Frank briefly before unbuckling his seat belt and exiting the car. Frank did the same, but his footing was off as he attempted step down.

“Whoa, you alright?”

Luckily, Mikey was there to catch him before he could fall. Those fingers traced his spine again, and Frank shivered for a second time, his hands having landed on Mikey’s chest. He smiled sheepishly up to the taller boy, something that he, again, was sure he wouldn’t have been his reaction if he hadn’t been so liquored up. “Your hand feels so good there,” he whispered, noticing how close Mikey’s lips were to his. “And you smell really, really good.”

And then he did something that he was absolutely certain he would not have done if he were sober: he moved a hand up to Mikey’s cheek and placed the other behind the boy’s neck, pressing his lips to the set that were hovering so close to his anyway.