Excerpt: Storm in the Harbor

Paul had finished work early one day, and not wanting Cindi to see him leave, he slipped out quietly when she was on her afternoon break, and walked down the street to the nearest bar. He needed a drink. Earlier that day, Paul had made a big mistake at work when he was unable to provide the information on the projected income on a property that Colin had asked for. Colin had not been pleased, and Paul really did not feel like trying to deal with it. A drink would be relaxing.

Paul walked to the nearest bar, which was one not many people from his office entered. They all seemed to prefer the more upscale bars nearer the harbor. The bar was dingy and old-fashioned, smelling of stale beer and fried food. He took a seat at the bar, trying to decide what to drink. This was hard, because Cindi did not like him to drink. Finally, after much consideration, he remembered the name of her favorite drink and this he ordered.

He sat at the bar for awhile, swirling the ice in his glass between long drinks of his Cosmo, the tiny umbrella in the glass swirling around the rim. The bar was almost empty; there was only an old man sitting a few seats away from him.

The bartender, a lanky young man with dreadlocks and a pierced upper lip, and who was about Paul's age, was cleaning the bar taps that sat on the bar in front of Paul. By the looks of it, it was an all-day job, there were so many taps. Paul finished his drink and ordered a second one.

“Done with work early today, man?” asked the bartender as he set down the drink in front of Paul.

“Yep,” said Paul.

“Where do you work?” asked the bartender, pushing back one of his locks that had slipped in front of his face.

“Next door,” said Paul.

“In the city offices? Have you worked there long?” asked the bartender.

“No,” answered Paul.

“How long?” asked the bartender, trying to draw a longer answer out of Paul.

“Two years,” said Paul.

“What do you do on your job and what do you like about it?” asked the bartender, smiling and feeling satisfied that this time he would be successful in forcing Paul to give a longer answer. He prided himself on being able to talk to customers and to bring conversation out of them. In fact, he found that if he could make customers talk, it could be a sort of catharsis for them. He was providing his customers with a little additional service. He was like a psychologist.

Paul sighed deeply, took a long drink from his glass and looked up at the bartender.

“It's okay, man,” said the bartender, realizing he may have gone too far in his questioning, the tone in his voice betraying his defensiveness. “You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I was just trying to talk, man.”

“Do you think of your mother as being sexually desirable?” Paul asked, looking at the bartender.

“That's weird, man,” said the bartender, moving away. The old man at the bar finished his drink quickly and got up and left.

“It's just as I expected,” thought Paul, “the whole world thinks it's weird, except Colin. Colin – that filthy bastard – thinks it's okay to move in on my mother.” Paul sat silently with his drink. After some time, he heard another customer come in, and he soon felt a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you doing, Paul?” It was Colin. It was the man he did not really want to see, especially when he was trying to relax, and more especially now that he knew the whole world would agree that Colin was a filthy rotten bastard.

“Good. Good,” he lied.

“Your shoulders feel tense, Paul,” said Colin. Paul tensed even more, and Colin patted his back and then took his hand away. “I'll have a glass of pinot noir,” he said, addressing the bartender.

“We just have house wine, man,” said the bartender.

Colin's face puckered as he thought of how he might feel if he took a drink of that wine. Like drinking vinegar, no doubt.

“It's good shit, man,” said the bartender, seeing the pinched look on Colin's face. Colin looked over to Paul's drink.

“I'll have one of those,” Colin said, nodding to Paul's drink. “In fact, bring us two.” And turning to Paul, he asked, “So, does Cindi know you're not at work?” That was the wrong question to ask.

“What are you saying?” said Paul, slamming his drink down on the bar so that the little umbrella fell out, and quickly rising from his seat, he faced Colin as if he might just knock him over.

“Nothing! I'm not saying anything!” Colin said. He hated confrontations that were not business related, and now he would have to think quickly to avoid any trouble. “Relax! I was just wondering if you were waiting for Cindi and if she was going to meet you here, that's all! Just wanted to talk to you about a couple of business things, that's all.” Paul sat back down in his chair, and Colin sighed in relief.

“I'm off work,” said Paul. “I'm not talking about anything business related.” The bartender set their drinks in front of them.

“Oh, okay. That's cool,” Colin said quickly. He realized he was walking on eggshells with his young protege. Colin took a drink from the glass in front of him. The fruity sweet taste made him choke. “That's disgusting!” he said, coughing and sputtering, spitting the mouthful on the floor. He set his glass down forcibly, sloshing the drink over the rim of the glass. “What in the hell is that?” he demanded.

“It's a Cosmo. You never hear of a Cosmo?” asked Paul.

“A Cosmo? That's a little girl's drink!” Colin spit again. The bartender was right there, on top of things.

“Hey, man, don't spit on the floor, okay?” said the bartender.

“Sorry, I just can't drink that crap,” said Colin, trying to be nice.

“It is what you ordered, isn't it?” asked the bartender. “It's okay, isn't it?”

“Okay? No, it's not okay!” he almost shouted. Then, calming down, he said, “Get me a beer, please.”

“What kind?” the bartender asked, waving his arm across the numerous taps in front of him, proudly. “We have 27 microbrews, 14 on tap and...”

“Just a Ranier, okay?” said Colin, trying to keep his annoyance to a minimum.

“Sorry, we only have microbrews,” said the bartender, “but we have 27 kinds...”

“Listen, I don't care how many you have! Just get me a beer, okay?”

“Okay, man! No problem!” said the bartender, as he tossed his locks to the side and went to retrieve Colin's order. Colin took a couple deep, forced breaths, like he had learned to do in his stress management class, and feeling himself calm, he turned to Paul and said, “Sorry.”

“It's okay with me. I don't care if you like to drink Cosmoses or not. I don't usually drink, okay? Cindi...I mean, I just don't like to. Not usually, so I thought I'd try something new.”

“It's okay,” said Colin. “I usually drink wine. Vera...I mean, your mother, and I have wine in the evenings.”

“I don't care!” Paul was again almost shouting. “I don't want to hear about what you and my mother do, okay?”

“That's cool.” Colin said. So that was it. That was what was bothering Paul. Colin had suspected it, but now he knew. “Listen, Paul, I love your mother.”

“I do, too,” said Paul, angrily, taking up the challenge.

“But I love her in a different way, Paul,” Colin said, trying to make his voice soft.

“I don't want to hear about it,” said Paul. “That's disgusting. You're my age.”

“She's not my mother, Paul. She's a woman, a beautiful woman, and I love her,” said Colin.

“I said I don't want to hear about it,” said Paul, but his voice was not as loud now.

“She just wanted someone to listen to her; someone to talk to her,” Colin said. “Your father didn't listen to her. We all need someone to listen to us.”

“That's disgusting. You want to know something? The whole world thinks you're weird,” said Paul, getting up from his stool. “I've got to go. Cindi will be waiting for me.”