Toxic
One.
Six Feet Under.
It was an interesting name for a bar, but the owner had made it infamous in metropolitan D.C. Everyone knew it's name, and everyone knew its reputation. We were one of the best bars in Virginia, if not the south. Our service was impeccable, our bartenders good looking, and our drinks cold and strong. Getting into our space on any weekend was nearly impossible unless you came early, drank often, or had a damn good reason for us to let you in.
I had been working at Six Feet Under for the past three years. I had met the owner when I was still in college, and on my twenty-first birthday. It had been a treat from my friends to take me out to one of the hottest bars around. They rented out a VIP room and kept the drinks coming. I had never really been one for drinking, and even today I prefer to avoid it if I can. So I took as many shots as I knew I could handle, dumping the rest in a nearby plant, and pretending to be more drunk than I actually was. It was on my way to the bathroom that the owner stopped me. He could tell I was putting on an act, mostly because he saw girls faking drunk every single night, but he liked my look. I never though much of myself, but apparently, he did. Owen, was his name, and he offered me a job right on the spot. At the time, I was running out of money, still had a year to go in school, and could find no real reason to say no, so I didn't. The next day I was Six Feet Under's new employee.
But, like I said, that was three years ago. I'm well out of college now, and got a fairly decent job at an ad agency, but I couldn't leave the night life. Customers knew me by name. I was viewed as one of the most popular bartenders in Alexandria, VA. Not to mention, the tips I was making was enough to help me pay off my student loans, and I couldn't pass that up.
There was another reason I couldn't abandon Six Feet Under. Well, make that two reasons. The first was my inherit need to people watch. I had picked up this terrible habit in the library during exams. I would do my absolute hardest to focus on the papers in front of me, but my attention would always turn to my surroundings. People fascinated me. I loved watching them and trying to decipher how they ticked. Better yet, I wanted to know their life stories. Who they were, what they did, all of their dirty little secrets. Everyone had them, and if you paid close enough attention, sometimes you could pick up on them. In the bar, it was the same way. I learned how people ticked, and what went on in their heads. Get a few shots in a person and they will be more than willing to spill their life story to you without a second thought, and most the time not remember it afterwards. I had customers who would walk through the door, shout my name, and treat me as though they didn't tell me about their sexual affairs the night before. Every face had a story, including me, but I wasn't the one spilling my guts every time someone put a stiff drink in my hand.
The second reason for my bond to this place was one of our regular customers. He walked through those doors almost every weekend, when he was in town that is, always with a different girl spilling some heroic story. A last minute goal in a well fought battle between two rivals. An epic save that prevented a tragic loss. Yup. The stories were always different, but the reactions were always the same. The plastic blonde bimbos believed every word, obviously not watching the game and not knowing a damn thing about the sport of hockey. He ordered the same drinks for these girls, one strong enough to get them drunk, yet fruity enough that they wouldn't taste the alcohol. Once his victim was good and gone, they were up and he was taking her back to his car. The drinks he ordered had very little alcohol in them, so I knew letting him drive wouldn't result in a lawsuit., but the actions always sickened me. His name alone should get him girls, and the fact he had to liquor them up first just made me judge his character. That, and he was a Washington Capital after all.
Mike Green.
-x-
This weekend was no different than the rest. I knew good and well that the Capitals had a game a few hours before and any minute now Mike would waltz through the door with his next victim. I could only hope that she was smarter than the previous hundreds. That was a empty hope, however. I had known men like Mike throughout my entire life, and smart was not what he was looking for. He wanted easy, he wanted pretty, he wanted big fake plastic tits. The mere thought sickened me, and I felt myself cringe as someone called my name.
"Cooke. Superstar at twelve o'clock," another one of the bartenders chimed at me, nodding towards the door. My head shot up, looking as he walked in with the usual suspect. I felt my eyes roll as I looked back down at the spreadsheets I was filling out, not caring about his presence.
That was a lie. I cared. Everyone knew that I cared. The days after a Mike Green visit would result in a very heated venting session between my roommate and I. She would tell me that it was no big deal, or that I was just seriously sexually frustrated by the man and go back to whatever lame thing she was doing. Caroline didn't get out much and though my life as a bartender was stupid. What did she know? She was just some sort of biochemist who hadn't had a taste of the real world in her twenty-four years of life. Too consumed by books and science articles to care in the slightest about the real world. Just as my mine began to curse my roommate in my head, someone knocked on the counter in front of me, causing my pen to streak across my spreadsheet.
"Fuck," I barked, picking up the paper and crumpling it in my hands. As I did so, my attacker spoke.
"Uh, Miss bartender, can I get a couple of drinks for me and my friend," his voice ran out. I could tell out of the corner of his eye that he was pointing in the direction of someone, but I really didn't care in the least.
"What can I get yo..." My words were cut off as I finally looked up. There he was. Normally, he had the waitress get his drinks, so why he chose tonight to walk to the bar, I didn't quite know. "you?" I finished my sentence, capping the pen in my hand and slamming it down on the bar.
"How about, a rum and coke for me, and a hurricane for my lady friend," Mike lulled. God. No wonder the female population of Alexandria couldn't resist him.
"Sure. Shall I have the waitress bring them to you?" I did my best to hide my disgust, but it had to be showing at least a little bit. Picking up the papers, I slipped them under the counter just to look up and find his eyes staring straight into mine. Charmer.
"Actually, I'll take them," He responded, rubbing his neck lightly. Mike looked around before glancing back to me. "You...don't like me do you? What's your name anyways?"
So blunt, yet so accurate. He could pick up on my hatred for him already, and that was probably a bad thing. I wasn't supposed to openly dislike our customers, but this was hard for me. I had to sit and watch him pull the same stunts night after night, and they always worked. It was sickening. Taking this glasses from under the bar, I began to mix his drinks silently, knowing I would have to answer him or he would never go away.
"My name is Cooke Farraday, and I'm a Penguins fan." I flashed him the best smile I could muster up, pushing the drinks into his hands before getting my paper work back out from under the counter.
"Well, Miss Cooke Farraday, we're just going to have to change that." and with that, he was gone.
"In your dreams..." I muttered, watching him walk away.
It was an interesting name for a bar, but the owner had made it infamous in metropolitan D.C. Everyone knew it's name, and everyone knew its reputation. We were one of the best bars in Virginia, if not the south. Our service was impeccable, our bartenders good looking, and our drinks cold and strong. Getting into our space on any weekend was nearly impossible unless you came early, drank often, or had a damn good reason for us to let you in.
I had been working at Six Feet Under for the past three years. I had met the owner when I was still in college, and on my twenty-first birthday. It had been a treat from my friends to take me out to one of the hottest bars around. They rented out a VIP room and kept the drinks coming. I had never really been one for drinking, and even today I prefer to avoid it if I can. So I took as many shots as I knew I could handle, dumping the rest in a nearby plant, and pretending to be more drunk than I actually was. It was on my way to the bathroom that the owner stopped me. He could tell I was putting on an act, mostly because he saw girls faking drunk every single night, but he liked my look. I never though much of myself, but apparently, he did. Owen, was his name, and he offered me a job right on the spot. At the time, I was running out of money, still had a year to go in school, and could find no real reason to say no, so I didn't. The next day I was Six Feet Under's new employee.
But, like I said, that was three years ago. I'm well out of college now, and got a fairly decent job at an ad agency, but I couldn't leave the night life. Customers knew me by name. I was viewed as one of the most popular bartenders in Alexandria, VA. Not to mention, the tips I was making was enough to help me pay off my student loans, and I couldn't pass that up.
There was another reason I couldn't abandon Six Feet Under. Well, make that two reasons. The first was my inherit need to people watch. I had picked up this terrible habit in the library during exams. I would do my absolute hardest to focus on the papers in front of me, but my attention would always turn to my surroundings. People fascinated me. I loved watching them and trying to decipher how they ticked. Better yet, I wanted to know their life stories. Who they were, what they did, all of their dirty little secrets. Everyone had them, and if you paid close enough attention, sometimes you could pick up on them. In the bar, it was the same way. I learned how people ticked, and what went on in their heads. Get a few shots in a person and they will be more than willing to spill their life story to you without a second thought, and most the time not remember it afterwards. I had customers who would walk through the door, shout my name, and treat me as though they didn't tell me about their sexual affairs the night before. Every face had a story, including me, but I wasn't the one spilling my guts every time someone put a stiff drink in my hand.
The second reason for my bond to this place was one of our regular customers. He walked through those doors almost every weekend, when he was in town that is, always with a different girl spilling some heroic story. A last minute goal in a well fought battle between two rivals. An epic save that prevented a tragic loss. Yup. The stories were always different, but the reactions were always the same. The plastic blonde bimbos believed every word, obviously not watching the game and not knowing a damn thing about the sport of hockey. He ordered the same drinks for these girls, one strong enough to get them drunk, yet fruity enough that they wouldn't taste the alcohol. Once his victim was good and gone, they were up and he was taking her back to his car. The drinks he ordered had very little alcohol in them, so I knew letting him drive wouldn't result in a lawsuit., but the actions always sickened me. His name alone should get him girls, and the fact he had to liquor them up first just made me judge his character. That, and he was a Washington Capital after all.
Mike Green.
-x-
This weekend was no different than the rest. I knew good and well that the Capitals had a game a few hours before and any minute now Mike would waltz through the door with his next victim. I could only hope that she was smarter than the previous hundreds. That was a empty hope, however. I had known men like Mike throughout my entire life, and smart was not what he was looking for. He wanted easy, he wanted pretty, he wanted big fake plastic tits. The mere thought sickened me, and I felt myself cringe as someone called my name.
"Cooke. Superstar at twelve o'clock," another one of the bartenders chimed at me, nodding towards the door. My head shot up, looking as he walked in with the usual suspect. I felt my eyes roll as I looked back down at the spreadsheets I was filling out, not caring about his presence.
That was a lie. I cared. Everyone knew that I cared. The days after a Mike Green visit would result in a very heated venting session between my roommate and I. She would tell me that it was no big deal, or that I was just seriously sexually frustrated by the man and go back to whatever lame thing she was doing. Caroline didn't get out much and though my life as a bartender was stupid. What did she know? She was just some sort of biochemist who hadn't had a taste of the real world in her twenty-four years of life. Too consumed by books and science articles to care in the slightest about the real world. Just as my mine began to curse my roommate in my head, someone knocked on the counter in front of me, causing my pen to streak across my spreadsheet.
"Fuck," I barked, picking up the paper and crumpling it in my hands. As I did so, my attacker spoke.
"Uh, Miss bartender, can I get a couple of drinks for me and my friend," his voice ran out. I could tell out of the corner of his eye that he was pointing in the direction of someone, but I really didn't care in the least.
"What can I get yo..." My words were cut off as I finally looked up. There he was. Normally, he had the waitress get his drinks, so why he chose tonight to walk to the bar, I didn't quite know. "you?" I finished my sentence, capping the pen in my hand and slamming it down on the bar.
"How about, a rum and coke for me, and a hurricane for my lady friend," Mike lulled. God. No wonder the female population of Alexandria couldn't resist him.
"Sure. Shall I have the waitress bring them to you?" I did my best to hide my disgust, but it had to be showing at least a little bit. Picking up the papers, I slipped them under the counter just to look up and find his eyes staring straight into mine. Charmer.
"Actually, I'll take them," He responded, rubbing his neck lightly. Mike looked around before glancing back to me. "You...don't like me do you? What's your name anyways?"
So blunt, yet so accurate. He could pick up on my hatred for him already, and that was probably a bad thing. I wasn't supposed to openly dislike our customers, but this was hard for me. I had to sit and watch him pull the same stunts night after night, and they always worked. It was sickening. Taking this glasses from under the bar, I began to mix his drinks silently, knowing I would have to answer him or he would never go away.
"My name is Cooke Farraday, and I'm a Penguins fan." I flashed him the best smile I could muster up, pushing the drinks into his hands before getting my paper work back out from under the counter.
"Well, Miss Cooke Farraday, we're just going to have to change that." and with that, he was gone.
"In your dreams..." I muttered, watching him walk away.