Full Of Grit Pt. 1
Bloody Mary's, Judas Cows, and the Usual Cattle
Got a new trinket, a new toy. A tiny wedding band made of cheap gold. I let it spin and dance on the scratched up bar.
“Oi! Jesus fucking Christ, Pinch, can ya not do that all the fucking time?”
Inside, I’m laughing my ass off. It’s a fun game to play. Works no matter how many times I pull it. Won’t let him know I’m having fun with him though.
“Didn’t do nothing.”
“Can ya just not materialize out of nowhere?” Bishop swings a towel over his shoulder, rinsing glasses, walking on his boards and serving a noisy couple of drunks on the other side of the bar before he gets back to me. Hands in motion, mouth in motion, wheeling, dealing, mixing, pouring, sorting. Dude doesn’t stay still for a second.
“Ya staying or just passing through? He asks. “I mean now, ‘ere. We are all just passing through eventually. Or we are passed through by time, unless of course ya are an eternalist.”
My finger taps the bar.
“Staying it is,” he says.
Clink, I got a glass in front of me. Short, stout, clear with a weighted bottom. Mine. He eyes the Schnapps bottle next. Three quarters full. He shrugs, puts it next to my glass, gets off his boards to rummage in the boxes under the bar and returns with a full bottle. It ends up in the free spot on the shelf. Turns to some other customers. Harmless yokels, threat level zero, cattle.
I play with my ring, let it dance. Observe. Pour a shot.
Bishop comes back to me. A Bloody Mary in hand. I take it. “Did ya see the mess in the lobby? It got fixed, but Arthur was pissed, I tell ya. The whole sanctum needed to be replaced. Glass, bars, and all. These people ‘ave no manners. I can’t believe they get to stay, get to make such a mess and don’t even ‘ave to pay for it. They can come in ‘ere and drink for free.”
I shrug. They work for the big boss. I leave ‘em be. Not my monkeys. If they stop being useful, that’s going to be a different story. And Arthur can go fuck himself.
The place fills up. I see some of our local beauties go to work. Watering the cattle before they take them to slaughter. Bishop makes sure they all get what they need.
He walks over to the other end, chatting, wheeling, dealing. Comes back, opens a huge jar of pickles, gets a saucer and serves me one. He knows I like them.
“‘ow are things with you Mr. Griffin?”
I like that too. Way better than Pinch. Arthur is Pinch. I’m the vulture, the belief you just shouldn’t have, the nothing that comes for you. Griffin. I wonder about his name, Bishop. Is it a name or just a job description? Did a chess loving bastard name him that way? Or a religious nut? Bishops in church, opportunistic hacks, just waiting for the guy on top to die to move up the ranks. Nah. Chess makes more sense, the way he keeps running. Might call him Camel, just to see if he gets it.
“Working,” I say.
He stops, wide eyed. “Nothing to do with the bar?” he asks. Relaxes at my slow shake of no.
He is off to the races again, mixing, pouring, sorting, running his mouth a mile a minute. Comes back to me and asks me if the unbearable lightness of being is only possible ingrained in the melancholy minds of people from cold places.
Do I look like I care? But I know how he’ll get if I don’t respond. He’ll spiral into arguments and hammer out pros and cons while serving thirty people. He knows I can hear him all the way back at the other end of the bar. I hear everything. So I grunt a yeah. There we go, asked, answered, done. He frowns.
I drink my Schnapps and eat my pickle. Get another one. Play with my trinkets. My mind is on a different trinket. Two gold coins, left on a piece of meat. Shiny golden coins. Big and heavy. I want ‘em. Mysterious coins of unknown origins. Pretty pieces for my collection. I can have them if I figure out who left them and why.
A guy hollers, “Make me a scotch, shorty.”
Bishop leans forward over the bar, all smiles, “Do us a favor and say that one more time.”
The guy feels my undivided attention, notices the hilt of Bishop’s blade in his breast pocket, knows he fucked up. Big time. Knows he came to the wrong place to play bigwig. He flees. Never a good idea to antagonize the personnel, especially not when you’re cattle. I saw his room key. Might pay him a visit later.
For now, I observe, drink, think, get a stupid ancient song stuck in my head for some reason, drink some more. ‘Goodbye, it’s time I sought a foreign clime’ Only cattle in the bar tonight. Not one of them interesting. ‘Where I may find’ Useless. The solution is elsewhere. ‘There are hearts more kind than I leave behind’ Has to be. Stupid fucking song! I get up, take my trinkets, leave someone’s wallet on the bar for Bishop. I got a cousin to bother.