Milk
OK, I guess I need to step up to the plate.
Here's something I wrote in my Fictional Writing class last quarter. Originally it was a two page free-write that had to begin with the sentence "A young man was sitting on the barstool, and had been there for so long that he was growing into it, his denim and keys melding into the vinyl seat." I expanded upon it later when I realized I had a 7-15 page short story due very very soon (like in a couple hours ). So it might seemed rushed a bit. I dunno, I think it turned out pretty good. Anyways, without further ado:
There was a bar lying hidden on the corner of West and Exchange, the front of its heavy wooden door facing the dirt parking lot. Through the darkened entrance sat a few wooden circular tables, a modest bar, and a mirror behind it.
A young man was sitting on the barstool, and had been there for so long that he was growing into it, his denim and keys melding into the vinyl seat. He sat straight and aloof against the crowd of chattering men and women, thoughtfully quiet and dreamy in his casual glances of the cavernous, faintly-lit room. In front of him sat a glass of milk, wholesome and white with a plain-looking straw placed in it.
Sam stood watching this young man, his curious, beady eyes peering at him from behind a barrier of alcohol and cigarette butts. He found it peculiar that the young man asked for such a drink, moreso on a Friday night when rounds of liquor were the norm. The bar, from the day Sam took ownership, was growing into an especially popular womb for belligerence, a flame especially popular amongst the fluttering multitude of college students from across town.
And yet, the young man insisted on it.
A shot of rum perhaps?
A polite shake of the head.
Maybe a glass of beer?
A “no thank you” smile.
You sure?
The young man slapped two dollars on the bar-top and requested a straw along with it.
Sam smirked suspiciously at the young man’s persistence, but happily obliged with an unusual clean glass of milk (with a straw) and his two dollars back.
“On the house,” he said.
The bar’s usual 8:00PM opening escalated into its familiar Friday-night banter. The small room filled quickly with a familiar height of liveliness, the continual sway of young faces leaving and entering, drinking and vomiting, spilling and laughing at themselves with each new order of rounds and martinis.
Sam grew busy from the increasing drunken bellows for liquor, and grumbled at the thought of his more unconventional duties; the policing of drunken fights, half-slurred shout matches, and a particularly belligerent man who took a liking to the bar’s peeling walls. More than once he threatened the particularly violent troublemakers with the police, and, if that failed, a hostile swing of his old wooden bat when he meant it.
It was a usual night of inconvenience for Sam, but good business, and hardly anything new. The evening was at a usual, familiar pace, save for the young man with his white glass of milk, whom Sam couldn’t help but check up on from time to time.
“Sure you don’t want something more?” was his periodic inquiry.
As always, the young man smiled his no thank yous and continued on with his dreamy, stoic appearance.
Sam took a fascination to this, and noticed, unfortunately, the undivided attention he was bringing to the young man. The young man’s passive presence clearly contrasted everything and everyone around him, provoking more than once a confrontation from one of the more belligerent customers.
“Hey man, what’s with th’ milk?”
A half-smirked shrug was all that a particularly large man could get out of him, even after vile threats of throwing him out the window and “beating his candy ass.” There was little fear to be shown in the young man’s eyes, however; his continuing lack of response both aggravated and intimidated the drunken, and evidently most violent, of people.
“He’s fucking with me Sam! He’s tryin’ to get a rise outta me! Look at that smug mug of his!”
“Leave him alone Earl, or ya get the boot.”
Most belligerence and recklessness stopped around its typical time; 1:30AM, one half-hour from closing time. Sam was left to cleaning duty, his usual rhythmic sweep of the broom cleaning the remains of broken beer bottles and glasses, grime, splotches of liquor, and the occasional unconscious individual left dreaming in a drunken fog. He straightened overturned tables, cleaned up empty cups and mugs, and counted every penny earned for the day.
2:00AM approached. Sam finished his sweep and clean of the bar and, after dragging the last of the usual drunks to the sidewalk, approached the young man.
“Time to go,” he said.
The young man looked up, as if woken from a dream, and responded with a slight “ah” to confirm that he understood. Getting up, he uprooted himself from the barstool, the denim of his jeans peeling off the vinyl of the seat. To Sam, it appeared like quite the struggle.
The young man drank the last of the milk in one large, hurried gulp and handed his empty glass to Sam’s outstretched hands.
Turning to go, the young man walked indifferently to the door, the back of his shaggy black head facing Sam’s puzzled expression.
“Of all places, why go here to sit around and drink milk?”
The young man, as if he had already anticipated the question, turned around and smiled.
“I turned twenty-one today. I wanted to see what it was like to be an adult.”
Sam gave a short, confused laugh at the answer, but then couldn’t retort the young man’s observation. He could see the young man’s helpless stare of the drunkards lying awkwardly on the sidewalk. One of them started puking in the other’s hair.
The years did not seem to age the already wearied bar. The wooden circular tables were as usual, chipped and stained from reckless stumbling and broken bottles. The mirror behind the bar remained cracked in two from one particularly brutal scuttle, an event in which Sam was more than happy to bust a few skulls over. Surprisingly, the heavy wooden door remained hinged and intact, its old wooden mass carved and beaten but hardly broken.
Sam was always business as usual, the hustle and bustle of the young and reckless coming and going in a blur of time. To Sam, the faces were all the same, even among differing bodies.
Tiring routine was growing on the old man, and slowly he began to feel his age. Weekend after weekend of bar fights, drink contests, and police reports accelerated his years considerably, inside and out. His weariness showed noticeably on his wrinkled face, and the fade of his clothes, resonating already with the discolored, peeling walls of the bar.
Business was slowing. The local college across town shut down after state budget cuts, displacing most customers from ever coming back again. Local businesses inevitably were following suite.
Sam sat somber and tired on the barstool seat, a helping of scotch gripped tightly in his pudgy hands. The bar, contrary to a usual Friday-night, was empty.
The old wooden clock chimed 9:00PM above the door, signaling coincidentally the entrance of a customer.
Sam immediately bolted up, and, without managing even a glance, hurried behind the bar.
“What it’ll be?”
The shadowy individual in front of him removed his felt hat, smoothed his shaggy black hair, and sat comfortably on the barstool.
“Milk,” he said. “With vodka.”
Sam raised his shaggy eyebrows at the response, his face awe-stricken like it was so many years ago. The man, naturally, said nothing.
“Of…of course. Want that mixed?”
The man nodded in reply, and shifted himself more deeply into the vinyl of the barstool seat.
Sam immediately went to work, but evidently didn’t know what brand of vodka to use. The concoction itself was a strange request, and flat out disgusting to say the least. Money was money though, and Sam hated to disappoint his special customer.
As he rummaged below the bar for the right ingredients, Sam stole a glance at the man’s complexion. His face was much older and wrinkled than before, an almost superhuman waning that spoke years ahead of his current age. The blacks of his hairs showed greying, and, evidently, whiting in some places.
Sam finished mixing and handed, with reluctance, the dirty glass of white to the man. His grip was especially tight, and for a moment, the two held the glass hand-in-hand over the rusting bar-top.
Sam watched as the man’s head tipped back. His Adam’s apple danced as the putrid solution sloshed down his throat, the grimy shell of the glass emptying within a matter of seconds.
Done, the man slowly tipped his head forward and placed the glass neatly on the table, seemingly unfazed by the foul liquid consumed.
“Another?”
Sam complied solemnly, recreating the mixture under the bar, for two.
He placed the two grimy glasses of vodka-milk on top and proposed a toast.
“To the closing of the bar.”
The two picked up their glasses and tipped them back into oblivion, the slant of their faces unflustered.
Sam cleaned the bar like he always did, his rhythmic sweep of the room shuffling around what would have been broken beer bottles and glass, grime, and drunkards. He cleaned every cup and mug, straightening what would have been overturned tables, and counted what meager money he had left. Afterwards, he sat down next to the man.
The two didn’t say a word, but looked on at the cracked-in-two mirror behind the bar. Two faces, divided side-by-side by the crack, floated back at them, unrecognizable and, undistinguishable.
The two sat motionless in the dimly-lit bar, the denim of their jeans stuck irreversibly to the vinyl of the seat.
Here's something I wrote in my Fictional Writing class last quarter. Originally it was a two page free-write that had to begin with the sentence "A young man was sitting on the barstool, and had been there for so long that he was growing into it, his denim and keys melding into the vinyl seat." I expanded upon it later when I realized I had a 7-15 page short story due very very soon (like in a couple hours ). So it might seemed rushed a bit. I dunno, I think it turned out pretty good. Anyways, without further ado:
There was a bar lying hidden on the corner of West and Exchange, the front of its heavy wooden door facing the dirt parking lot. Through the darkened entrance sat a few wooden circular tables, a modest bar, and a mirror behind it.
A young man was sitting on the barstool, and had been there for so long that he was growing into it, his denim and keys melding into the vinyl seat. He sat straight and aloof against the crowd of chattering men and women, thoughtfully quiet and dreamy in his casual glances of the cavernous, faintly-lit room. In front of him sat a glass of milk, wholesome and white with a plain-looking straw placed in it.
Sam stood watching this young man, his curious, beady eyes peering at him from behind a barrier of alcohol and cigarette butts. He found it peculiar that the young man asked for such a drink, moreso on a Friday night when rounds of liquor were the norm. The bar, from the day Sam took ownership, was growing into an especially popular womb for belligerence, a flame especially popular amongst the fluttering multitude of college students from across town.
And yet, the young man insisted on it.
A shot of rum perhaps?
A polite shake of the head.
Maybe a glass of beer?
A “no thank you” smile.
You sure?
The young man slapped two dollars on the bar-top and requested a straw along with it.
Sam smirked suspiciously at the young man’s persistence, but happily obliged with an unusual clean glass of milk (with a straw) and his two dollars back.
“On the house,” he said.
The bar’s usual 8:00PM opening escalated into its familiar Friday-night banter. The small room filled quickly with a familiar height of liveliness, the continual sway of young faces leaving and entering, drinking and vomiting, spilling and laughing at themselves with each new order of rounds and martinis.
Sam grew busy from the increasing drunken bellows for liquor, and grumbled at the thought of his more unconventional duties; the policing of drunken fights, half-slurred shout matches, and a particularly belligerent man who took a liking to the bar’s peeling walls. More than once he threatened the particularly violent troublemakers with the police, and, if that failed, a hostile swing of his old wooden bat when he meant it.
It was a usual night of inconvenience for Sam, but good business, and hardly anything new. The evening was at a usual, familiar pace, save for the young man with his white glass of milk, whom Sam couldn’t help but check up on from time to time.
“Sure you don’t want something more?” was his periodic inquiry.
As always, the young man smiled his no thank yous and continued on with his dreamy, stoic appearance.
Sam took a fascination to this, and noticed, unfortunately, the undivided attention he was bringing to the young man. The young man’s passive presence clearly contrasted everything and everyone around him, provoking more than once a confrontation from one of the more belligerent customers.
“Hey man, what’s with th’ milk?”
A half-smirked shrug was all that a particularly large man could get out of him, even after vile threats of throwing him out the window and “beating his candy ass.” There was little fear to be shown in the young man’s eyes, however; his continuing lack of response both aggravated and intimidated the drunken, and evidently most violent, of people.
“He’s fucking with me Sam! He’s tryin’ to get a rise outta me! Look at that smug mug of his!”
“Leave him alone Earl, or ya get the boot.”
Most belligerence and recklessness stopped around its typical time; 1:30AM, one half-hour from closing time. Sam was left to cleaning duty, his usual rhythmic sweep of the broom cleaning the remains of broken beer bottles and glasses, grime, splotches of liquor, and the occasional unconscious individual left dreaming in a drunken fog. He straightened overturned tables, cleaned up empty cups and mugs, and counted every penny earned for the day.
2:00AM approached. Sam finished his sweep and clean of the bar and, after dragging the last of the usual drunks to the sidewalk, approached the young man.
“Time to go,” he said.
The young man looked up, as if woken from a dream, and responded with a slight “ah” to confirm that he understood. Getting up, he uprooted himself from the barstool, the denim of his jeans peeling off the vinyl of the seat. To Sam, it appeared like quite the struggle.
The young man drank the last of the milk in one large, hurried gulp and handed his empty glass to Sam’s outstretched hands.
Turning to go, the young man walked indifferently to the door, the back of his shaggy black head facing Sam’s puzzled expression.
“Of all places, why go here to sit around and drink milk?”
The young man, as if he had already anticipated the question, turned around and smiled.
“I turned twenty-one today. I wanted to see what it was like to be an adult.”
Sam gave a short, confused laugh at the answer, but then couldn’t retort the young man’s observation. He could see the young man’s helpless stare of the drunkards lying awkwardly on the sidewalk. One of them started puking in the other’s hair.
The years did not seem to age the already wearied bar. The wooden circular tables were as usual, chipped and stained from reckless stumbling and broken bottles. The mirror behind the bar remained cracked in two from one particularly brutal scuttle, an event in which Sam was more than happy to bust a few skulls over. Surprisingly, the heavy wooden door remained hinged and intact, its old wooden mass carved and beaten but hardly broken.
Sam was always business as usual, the hustle and bustle of the young and reckless coming and going in a blur of time. To Sam, the faces were all the same, even among differing bodies.
Tiring routine was growing on the old man, and slowly he began to feel his age. Weekend after weekend of bar fights, drink contests, and police reports accelerated his years considerably, inside and out. His weariness showed noticeably on his wrinkled face, and the fade of his clothes, resonating already with the discolored, peeling walls of the bar.
Business was slowing. The local college across town shut down after state budget cuts, displacing most customers from ever coming back again. Local businesses inevitably were following suite.
Sam sat somber and tired on the barstool seat, a helping of scotch gripped tightly in his pudgy hands. The bar, contrary to a usual Friday-night, was empty.
The old wooden clock chimed 9:00PM above the door, signaling coincidentally the entrance of a customer.
Sam immediately bolted up, and, without managing even a glance, hurried behind the bar.
“What it’ll be?”
The shadowy individual in front of him removed his felt hat, smoothed his shaggy black hair, and sat comfortably on the barstool.
“Milk,” he said. “With vodka.”
Sam raised his shaggy eyebrows at the response, his face awe-stricken like it was so many years ago. The man, naturally, said nothing.
“Of…of course. Want that mixed?”
The man nodded in reply, and shifted himself more deeply into the vinyl of the barstool seat.
Sam immediately went to work, but evidently didn’t know what brand of vodka to use. The concoction itself was a strange request, and flat out disgusting to say the least. Money was money though, and Sam hated to disappoint his special customer.
As he rummaged below the bar for the right ingredients, Sam stole a glance at the man’s complexion. His face was much older and wrinkled than before, an almost superhuman waning that spoke years ahead of his current age. The blacks of his hairs showed greying, and, evidently, whiting in some places.
Sam finished mixing and handed, with reluctance, the dirty glass of white to the man. His grip was especially tight, and for a moment, the two held the glass hand-in-hand over the rusting bar-top.
Sam watched as the man’s head tipped back. His Adam’s apple danced as the putrid solution sloshed down his throat, the grimy shell of the glass emptying within a matter of seconds.
Done, the man slowly tipped his head forward and placed the glass neatly on the table, seemingly unfazed by the foul liquid consumed.
“Another?”
Sam complied solemnly, recreating the mixture under the bar, for two.
He placed the two grimy glasses of vodka-milk on top and proposed a toast.
“To the closing of the bar.”
The two picked up their glasses and tipped them back into oblivion, the slant of their faces unflustered.
Sam cleaned the bar like he always did, his rhythmic sweep of the room shuffling around what would have been broken beer bottles and glass, grime, and drunkards. He cleaned every cup and mug, straightening what would have been overturned tables, and counted what meager money he had left. Afterwards, he sat down next to the man.
The two didn’t say a word, but looked on at the cracked-in-two mirror behind the bar. Two faces, divided side-by-side by the crack, floated back at them, unrecognizable and, undistinguishable.
The two sat motionless in the dimly-lit bar, the denim of their jeans stuck irreversibly to the vinyl of the seat.
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