Sean Everington
There’s Always Tomorrow
Two young men entered the Mexican restaurant and weaved around the crowded tables towards the bar in the back. A waiter came by with a tray over his shoulder warning muy caliente. The steak fajitas steamed and sizzled. The two young men let him pass then sat in the empty high-stools along the bar. Two bartenders were working: a blonde woman in a tank top, and a dark, muscular guy bulging out of his T-shirt. He was engrossed in a conversation with a group of mid-aged ladies at the far end. The blonde handed a man sitting alone a beer, then brought menus for the two young men.
“Just drinking,” said John Rider, the taller one.
She put the menus away, under the bar. “I.D’s?”
The young men took out their wallets and presented their driver licenses.
“What will it be?”
“Tecate,” said John’s friend, Eric.
“Lime?”
Eric nodded, yes.
The blonde looked at John. “Negro Modelo,” he said.
“Lime?”
“Why not.”
“And two tequilas,” Eric put in.
“What kind?”
“What do you have?”
The blonde turned and motioned her arm to present the four shelves of liquor mounted across the mirrored wall. “Jose, 1800, Avion, Patron,…”
“The cheapest,” said Eric. The bartender walked to the far end. “I’d do her.”
“Bit of a butterface, but nice body.”
John watched the blonde bartender pour the beers in tall, clear glasses and place a lime on the brim. Then she tapped the other bartender, and he pointed his muscular arm at a bottle on the bottom shelf as he ran a card through the register. The blonde grabbed the bottle, and John looked at himself in the mirror between a bottle of Bacardi and Havana. He felt he looked all right to go, but he did not want to go. There were gonna be a lot of old faces.
He could see the tables all full behind him in the mirror and servers bringing food and drinks, and on the other side of Eric, between Absolute and Stolichnaya, he saw a man with his date or wife. She was drinking wine, and he had a mixed drink of some kind. They were maybe in their fifties, and the man was sweating through his shirt. Between Maker’s and Jack, a couple of women, dolled up, chatted over their fruity drinks, and farther, looking down the bar where it rounded, three men just off work watched the Braves game on the flat screen mounted up in the corner by the top-end bottles. Eric was watching the game.
The blonde bartender brought over their drinks. “Salt?” she said and set a saucer of lime between the tequila shots.
“Not needed.”
The blonde went down the bar to the three off-workers.
“I’d do her, “John decided.
Eric and John took up their shots.
“Cheers.”
“To what?’
“Natalie Bruce, I guess.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Let’s drink,” said John. “Apparently life can be short.”
They clanked glasses, touched them to the bar, and threw down the Mexican liquor. It was cheap and harsh but good with the lime. John sucked his lime dry and ate the citrusy inside. He plumbed the rind and extra lime in his beer and drank the last of the tequila taste away. The Negro Modelo was dark and cool and made John feel complete. A busboy set chips and salsa next to Eric. He moved the basket of chips and salsa between them.
“Braves aren’t lookin’ too good, today,” said John, as he ate a chip and salsa.
The Braves were down seven to one in the bottom of the eighth against the Marlins.
“We suck without Bobby,” said Eric.
“Gonzales isn’t too bad. I like him. We did okay last year.”
“We blew it in the playoffs.”
“At least we got there,” said John, “All our other pro teams didn’t do shit.”
“Braves are shit, too. Look at this guy. He hasn’t hit shit this year.”
Dan Ugla was batting. It was a full count, and on cue he swung for the fences at a low and outside pitch. Strike Three.
“Shit,” said Eric.
The camera zoomed in on Ugla as he walked back to the dugout.
“He’s got some cannons on him, Jesus, but what an ugly mother fucker,” John said.
“Kinda looks like homeboy,” Eric drank his beer and pointed with his eyes at Muscles, who was pouring a line of shots for the mid-aged ladies.
“He does,” John laughed, “Maybe Ugla should be a bartender.”
“He’d fuck that up, too.”
“I hear he pounds it every weekend downtown with Freeman,” said John.
“Probably why he’s shit.”
“Freeman is the man, though.”
“Yeah, that’s why Ugla’s shit.” Eric drank his Tecate. “My boy Heyward can hit.”
They watched Heyward take his first pitch down the middle. John drank his beer. Heyward took the next pitch. It was close. The ump called a ball.
“Good eye,” said John. “Man, you know Heyward and Freeman are our age.”
“Bastards.”
“God, what a life.”
The next pitch came in down the middle, but high. Two and one.
“You guys good?” asked the blonde. Their beers were half-full.
“Good, thanks.”
The next pitch was low and close to the shins. The lefty leapt back. Three and one, no one on.
“I’m feeling a homer on this one,” said John. “I’ll buy us a shot if he does.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“We’re still gonna drink, I don’t want to go to this thing sober.”
“Who’s going?’
“Everyone.”
“Dave?”
“Text him.”
Eric took his phone out.
“Look,” said John.
The pitcher shook off a call from the catcher, then got the one he wanted and stood up straight, glove and ball cupped against his chest. The restaurant was loud like at a ball game, but the voices weren’t directed at the game. John and Eric wanted a homer. It was better to drink off a bet than drink for the sake of drinking, though it was still drinking, and drinking is drinking, but drinking for something is better than drinking for nothing.
It wasn’t a good pitch, but Heyward had already made up his mind. He caught the ball on the underside and popped out in left field: out three and the inning was over. The man drinking alone in the middle of the bar grunted, slugged back his beer, and walked away.
“Damn,” said Eric, “He can hit ‘em still.”
“We’ll still drink.”
John and Eric clanked beer glasses and just about finished them off.
“Think Kimbrell will close?” asked John.
“Not with this score,” Eric took a chip and dripped salsa on the bar.
“That guy’s our age, too,” said John.
“Bastard.”
“Could you imagine what we’d do with that kind of money?”
“All the bitches they get,” said Eric and ate another chip.
“It’s too easy for them.”
“Bastards.”
“Talented bastards.”
“Lucky bastards.”
“Rich bastards,” said John, “and speaking of pitchers. You want to get a pitcher?”
“Maybe,” said Eric. He was reading a text off his phone.
“What’d Dave say?”
“He’s chillin’, drinking, and burnin’ at home. Do you want to go to Natalie’s thing?”
“Kind of, not really.”
“How’d she die, again?”
“Car crash,” said John. He drank the last of his Negro Modelo.
“That sucks…Wagner’s closing,” said Eric. They showed the Braves’ closer warming up.
John waved the bartender over.
“Another round?”
“You want to do a pitcher?” John asked Eric.
“We got some good Margaritas,” the blonde encouraged.
“Whiskey ginger for me,” said Eric.
“Same for me then, and two more tequila shots, please.”
“Okay,” the blonde said, then checked on the older couple and moved down the bar to other customers.
John and Eric watched Wagner strike the first guy out in five.
“Will I know anyone there?” Eric finished off his Tecate.
“Probably, there was a bunch of people on the Facebook invite.” John dragged his finger through the ring of water left by his beer. “Funny, last time I was over at Natalie’s, we were taking prom pictures.”
Wagner had the second batter ground out on the first pitch.
“You know, when I found out Natalie died. I didn’t care. I mean I didn’t know her that well. I knew her, but it didn’t affect me at all. Kind of sad, huh?” John said.
“I guess. Wagner is pitchin’ well tonight.”
“It doesn’t matter now. She’s dead, and everyone dies.”
“True. Looks like the Marlins want to get it over with.”
John peered down the bar, and the blonde was spraying the ginger ale in the glasses of whiskey from a hose.
Stanton hit Wagner’s third pitch out to Heyward for the last out. The game went to a commercial break. Eric checked his phone.
“Dave says we can come chill.”
“Let’s see how we feel after these drinks,” said John, “I’m not going if I’m not drunk.” He looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t drunk.
“Here we go,” the blonde said and sat the tequila and the whiskey gingers down.
“Thanks…What’s your name?” Eric said.
“Carly.”
“Thanks Carly.”
“Y’all good?”
“Yep,” John said. “Thanks.”
Carly carried a margarita for one of the ladies down the bar.
“I’d do Carly for sure,” said Eric.
“Let’s drink,” said John. They held up their tequila shots.
“What’s this to?”
“To living and dying.”
“And Carly.”
They shot the tequila back and sucked the lime, then chased it with the whiskey ginger.
“Strong,” said John.
“It’s good.”
The game had come back on. Simmons had hit his first pitch over third and was on first. Upton was up.
“I don’t think we can come back,” said John.
“No chance.”
The hostess led the three off-workers from the bar to their table. John saw where she took them in the mirror, and he saw himself. He drank his whiskey ginger.
“Think those guys are happy?” asked John.
“Who?”
“Them.” John pointed in the mirror between Jose and Patron. Eric looked round at the off-workers.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I doubt it,” John said. “Nobody does what makes them happy, except these guys.” John pointed at the T.V. “We just go to school and get a degree and work that degree off.”
“What else is there to do?”
“I don’t know,” John said and drank his whiskey ginger. “Not that.”
Upton popped out. Johnson stepped up and hit a single. Runners on first and second.
“Braves might get one back,” said Eric. He held up his drink. “Carly looks happy.” She was laughing at something Muscles had said while she shook up a cocktail.
“I doubt anyone is truly happy doing what they do here.”
Carly took the drink to the man next to Eric. He waved her over.
“Hey Carly, can I ask you something?”
“Y’all good?”
“We’re good. This is random, but, are you happy?”
“Don’t get that one much, but yeah, I’m happy. Why?”
“My friend here’s a writer and says nobody is truly happy.”
“You write?” said Carly, as she propped herself up against the bar and extended her arms.
“Here and there.” John didn’t like being pawned off, or having a theory fail. “But are you truly happy? I don’t want to be mean but…You are happy working as a bartender? This is what you want to do with your life?”
“Wow, harsh…Umm, no, this isn’t what I want to do. I don’t know what I want to do, but that’s okay. I’m young, and I’ll figure it out.”
“What would make you the happiest?” asked John.
“I don’t know, financial security.”
“I mean what do you like most?”
“Fashion.”
“Why don’t you do something with fashion?”
“I would, and I’m trying—but I have to make money.”
“You should do fashion,” said John. He shook the ice around in his empty glass. Eric was watching the game and Carly.
“If I could I would,” she said. “Are you happy?”
“No,” said John.
“And you?”
“Not really,” said Eric.
“That’s too bad,” said Carly, “You’re too young to be unhappy.” A man and woman sat at the end of the bar where the three off-workers had been. “Y’all need another shot?”
“Sure,” said John, “And then the check. Separate.”
Carly went over to the man and woman. They were a handsome couple.
“I like her,” said Eric, staring at her backside.
“I know,” said John. He crunched down on an ice cube. “Hey, the Braves got one back.”
The bases were loaded, and the Marlins had switched out their closer. Freeman was up to bat.
“We can tie it up,” said Eric.
The pitch came in for an inside strike. Freeman reshuffled his feet. The next pitch was high inside, and the T.V showed it at 95. Strike two. Freeman called time and re-strapped his ankle guard. The camera showed a group of fans tomahawking.
“They want it.”
“Come on Grand Slam,” said John, “Grand Slam, and I’ll buy us one more shot.”
“Deal.”
They watched the T.V. and were the only ones watching now. Freeman hit into a double play. Game over.
“Damn. We suck,” said Eric.
“Sure do.” John crunched another ice cube.
Carly dropped off two shots and two checks. “This one’s from me,” she said. “Don’t worry, you guys are young and will figure it out. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, you too.”
“Fashion,” said John.
“That’s my plan.” Carly walked off with their empty glasses.
John and Eric took up their shot and lime.
“To Carly,” said Eric.
“To Carly and figuring shit out.”
They knocked glasses and threw down the tequila. John sucked his lime and chewed on the rind, then dropped it in his shot glass. He looked at himself again. The mirror seemed further and him smaller and the Bacardi and Havana bottles larger beside his head. He saw the restaurant crowded and heard, like from the inside of a shell, the conversations outside of himself, and inside he felt clear and sure he would figure it out. There was plenty of time to write and be a writer. Hell, he might be a great writer. The liquor took any doubt away, and John did not care. He did not care to go to Natalie’s celebration of life. She was dead, and hopefully he would not die before he figured it out—though he thought he had just figured it all out. Yes, John was certain he had.
“Come on let’s get out of here,” he said
“We still goin’?”
“Tell Dave we’re on our way and to have one packed and ready.”
“So no Natalie’s?” said Eric.
“Dave’s.”
They paid for their drinks, and left a nice tip for Carly.
Outside it was hot and muggy from the afternoon showers. The night air felt heavy as they walked across the parking lot to the car.
“Dave says it’s ready to go,” Eric said, as he checked his phone and opened the door.
“Nice,” said John.
“Wish Freeman had hit that Grand Slam.”
“Me, too. Good thing there’s another game tomorrow.”
He turned on the car.
Driving with the windows down, the wind took away what John thought he had figured out, and now he wasn’t sure if he ever would figure it out or if going to burn at Dave’s was the right thing. For all John knew, he could crash and die like Natalie, but he knew that wasn’t true and everything was good and there was time, plenty of time, and tomorrow he could write or the day after or the day after that. Plenty of time.
“Let’s pick up some beer real quick.”