Journal: Entry for Bryce

After three months of being out of work, I finally got a job. The only qualification? Death. No wonder I was having such a hard time before!

Things hadn’t been going very well in the land of Jared. The economy was in a recession. Jobs were few and far between, and I was a twenty-something college dropout with a lousy attitude and an even worse resume. When you’re narrowly beat out for a job cleaning toilets by some kid with braces that drools when he talks, that attitude just comes naturally.

I walked the streets of the downtown, looking for a likely target to get an application, maybe even an interview. The night was cool, but still pleasant. The wind blew against my jacket, an old beat up thing from the army surplus. I’d thought it looked cool in high school. I wasn’t in high school anymore, and it definitely wasn’t cool, but I couldn’t pay the rent, much less afford new clothes. The streets seemed a little quiet for a Friday night, but I just assumed everyone was already in the bars, getting hammered and looking to make a connection with a random stranger or two.

Thinking about bars got me thinking about bartending. I’d never considered it as a career, but the depression that sets in shortly after dropping out of school meant I knew a thing or two about how to mix a drink. I liked working nights, didn’t mind sleeping during the day, and didn’t have any friends that would bother me while I was doing my best daytime vampire impersonation. The more I mulled it over, the more everything pointed toward intoxicator extraordinaire as the perfect job for me, at least until I got back on my feet and found a university that was willing to accept my lame excuses and piss-poor GPA. Busy congratulating myself on a fine round of career counseling, I didn’t notice the little pub on the corner until I walked into the sign hanging just about eye level. I cursed, then picked myself up off the sidewalk. The sign simply said “Last Call.” Catchy name? Kinda. Somewhere I’d want to work? Maybe. Hoping no one inside had seen me get dumped on my ass by a wooden sign, I stepped quickly through the door.

To say that Last Call was a little slow for a weekend could easily have won me a trophy for understatement of the decade. There wasn’t a single person in the bar. Giving the place the once over, it looked like even the bar tender was MIA. The place looked very much like a traditional pub. Some things looked like they were either new or renovated, but it was clear that the place had been around for a while. An island bar sat in the middle of the establishment, with tables for two or four clustered around it. A door just past the tables no doubt lead to a separate room. Walking in and opening the door, I realized that this was a what the Brits called a snug, where in the old days women, priests or policemen could come in and grab a quick pint without being looked down upon. The whole place smelled like a giant plate of steak and potatoes, and my mouth started watering at the idea of a nice flat iron steak with some fries. Even if I didn’t get a job here, I was probably going to pull out my credit card and give the joint a go.

I walked back into the main area of the pub, and had to pick up my jaw. The place was packed. People were shouting jovially, pounding back the booze just as fast as the man in the center of the island bar could get it to them. I shook my head, wondering just how hard I’d smacked into that sign before. These people couldn’t have all shown up while I was inspecting the snug, could they? Either way, I was clearly going to have company for the night, which was better than nothing. As I walked toward the island bar, a spot miraculously opened up. I sat down, and waited for the bartender to get around to me.
The bartender was tall, dark and ugly. Ugly had long black hair pulled back in a pony tail, a pointy goatee, and wrap around black sunglasses. Just below the sunglasses was a nasty sneer for everyone in the room. The man was clearly flustered, face red, patches of sweat coming through his black button up shirt. Amazingly (and pathetically) enough, he also had black pants and shoes. The whole getup just screamed, “ I love talking about eastern mysticism, smoking weed, and adding to my gun/knife collection.” Yeah, I’m a little judgmental, but at least I don’t dress like a reject from the Matrix trilogy. As I marveled at the fashion sense that God grants us, the situation began to deteriorate. The bartender was clearly having a hard time running the place by himself. The crowd sitting at the tables around the bar was clamoring for service, and every shout made him twitch nervously.

Suddenly, a shadow rose up behind me in the form of a giant of a man, who slapped his hand down on the bar.

“Look, barkeep, we’ve been here for almost twenty minutes, and all we’ve had to drink from you are dirty looks. Do I have to come back there and pour the stuff myself?” The words came low and loud, like a diesel engine turning over. The bartender, sweating and muttering to himself, had clearly had enough. He threw up his hands, gave the man the finger and shouted, “I’m through with this crap!” Looking up at the ceiling, as if talking to a higher power, he said, “Do you here me Eireen? I’m done. Good luck with this crowd...arrogant bastards.” He reached under the bar, pulling out a leather trenchcoat (there is no spoon, douche bag) and stormed out of the bar.

Now, with the owner nowhere to be seen, I got a terrible idea. A brilliant, terrible idea. Moving around the island, I shouted, “Hey!” The crowd quieted down for a second, trying to figure out why I was suddenly in charge.

“We seem to be missing a bartender, folks.” A few people chuckled at the obvious statement. “Now, if it’s all right with you, I don’t mind pouring a few drinks as long as everyone here agrees that they’ll pay the right price. No screwing over the new guy, eh?”
The crowd didn‘t really know what to say. Finally, the diesel-voiced giant stood up, pounded his hand on the bar, and shouted, “Fine by me!” Everyone else seemed to follow his lead, and I took my place in the island, an unpaid alcohol intern.

The night progressed smoothly enough. There were drinks that I’d never heard of, but someone in the room always seemed to know how to mix them or where the different liquors were kept. Clearly, the place was full of regulars. I wondered aloud about the food the pub served, and an old man at a table close to the bar assured me that no one ever cooks on Friday nights at the Last Call. It was refreshing to work for a place that set their own rules, and didn’t give a crap what people thought about them.

After people got a few rounds in them, some decided to call it a night, and the tips rolled in. I moved as fast as I could, drawing beers for everyone, and loving every minute of it. My smile was infectious, and the disease quickly spread around the pub. Even Diesel gave me a lopsided grin, although it might have just been gas. Before I knew it, 3 AM had arrived. I pointed out that it was definitely time for last call, but the crowd told me this particular pub operated on a different set of rules entirely, and that last call didn’t come for another two hours. The cash in my pocket told me in no uncertain terms that the customer is always right, and the party continued.

At a quarter to five, the crowd made their last orders, and at five they all shambled out into the night. Diesel gave me a pat on the back that almost sent me to the floor, and said, “Ya did all right, kid. Name’s Jake, by the way.” I thanked him, though I was privately growing fond of knowing someone named Diesel. I looked around the bar, trying to find the keys to the place. I didn’t really work here, but I didn’t want it to get robbed because I’d been too lazy to lock it up.

“Looking for these?” a voice behind me asked quietly. I turned, and was greeted with a vision of loveliness. All smooth lines and curves, the red head standing in front of me was slender and graceful, almost too good to be true. Dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, she still could have placed in any beauty contest in the country. Almost too good to be true was quickly downgraded to yep when she slapped me.

“And just who the hell do you think you are, coming into MY pub and handing out drinks to MY guests?” she shouted, moving toward me again as she raised her arm. I started to back away, suddenly wishing that I’d never even thought about pouring a drink in the Last Call. Finally, I ran out of room, my back hitting the wall. She quickly closed the distance, while I sputtered, “Now look, ma’am. I’m sorry, but the other bartender just walked out and they wanted drinks and I told them not to cheat the pub and the money’s in the til right over there and I’m really really sor--”

She poked a finger in my chest, blue eyes glaring. “I don’t care what your story is. You pull a stunt like that again, and it’s out on your ass. Around here you do things the way I tell you to do 'em, and you do them fast.” That seemed to be about all the angry she could muster. Her shoulders slumped and she looked up at me, defeated. “Look, I owe you an apology. The name’s Eireen. I own the place, and you did me a favor tonight. I know that you made plenty in tips, but the Call would have lost hundreds tonight without someone to look after her. I owe you a favor, which is a big part of why I’m so pissed. I don’t like favors.”

My fear subsided, and breathing became something I just naturally did again. I reached out, hoping that touching her shoulder wasn’t something that would get me a kick in the groin. “Look, I can understand. Strange dude in your place serving booze all willy-nilly. I don’t even know why I did it. I mean, the place was empty when I showed up at midnight. At least, that’s how I remember it. Things are a little hazy. It’s been a long night, and I smacked my head pretty hard on the sign outside. Didn’t see it coming.”

She looked up at me slowly, eyes widening. “This is your first time coming to the Last Call, isn’t it?” I nodded in the affirmative. “You’ve probably never even seen the building before, have ya?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but I didn’t want another slap, so I stayed quiet.

“I’ve got a job here for you, if you want it.” My eyes opened wide, and I grinned. “I take it that’s a yes?” Eireen asked.

“Absolutely. When can I start?” I said.

“Well, first we’ve got to fill out your contract,” she replied. I decided she must mean my W-4 and all that other garbage that comes with being employed. Eireen moved over to the bar, and reached down in one of the drawers. She came up with an honest to goodness scroll. Bible style. I gaped, but I didn’t really care what she wanted me to sign. I had my first job in three months, and I couldn’t have cared less if I was being paid under the table, over the table, or whatever else her little contract entailed. She moved back over to me, pen in hand, and handed me the scroll. I unrolled it, and started reading. It looked pretty basic to me. Blah blah blah binding contract, blah blah blah terms of employment, blah blah blah, tied to this place, blah blah blah sign here. I put my signature at the bottom with happy sweeping strokes and handed it back to her, grinning like and idiot. Finally, a job! I felt more alive than I had in years.

Suddenly, the room turned very, very cold. I shivered, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I turned around, to where a man filled the doorway of the pub. He looked at Eireen, who immediately screamed and ran, closing the door of the snug behind her. I heard a lock click home, and my brain finally caught up to the action, telling me this gentleman was probably not such a nice man, and perhaps I should fear for my safety. Nice work, stupid brain. The man moved toward me, looking at me for the first time. His eyes and teeth were a lovely shade of jaundice, and the smile that he was giving me only made his weathered face look more malignant. I know there’s not really a one image fits all for them, but he looked to me like a serial killer. Looking back, I really wished he were something as simple.

I can’t really explain what happened next. The best way to put it into words is to say that the room wobbled, got fuzzy, and then I left. I didn’t disappear or teleport or any of that science fiction stuff, I was simply outside my body, watching the creepy man walk toward me. His skin rippled, turning a deeper shade of red as veins stretched and burst. He continued to stretch out, growing taller, skin turning dark black, eyes growing larger and even more yellow. Horns sprouted from his skin, and he screamed at the pain of it. Looking back It’s fairly obvious that I was in shock, because the only thing that registered as strange was the fact that he never stopped smiling. He smiled while he reached for me. His grin was intact as he casually plunged his clawed hand into my chest, and that awful smile stayed put as he ripped my soul right out of my body.