April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions (3 page)

He must feel the same way because at the sight of me, Brown Eyes’ look glazes over. As though he is expecting me, as though I am a long lost friend, without a second thought he reaches for my hand. “I’m finishing up my beer.”

At the touch of his warm hands, the images of his face–from two separate occasions–coalesces and pieces together in my mind. The familiarity of Brown Eyes’ presence approaches me like a dark shadow. For the past week, I have been imagining and conjuring up scenarios of what it would be like to see him again. What would I say? How would I appear? Nevertheless, at the moment, to see him so drunk and dishevel, I am at a loss on how to respond. He does not seem like the same calm, controlled, and striking man anymore. In fact, Brown Eyes appears to be another lost soul at the bar. Still, he exudes untouchable confidence. The thought strikes me that this is a complex and dangerous man.

I slowly reach up to disentangle his grip from my wrist. Brown Eyes’ hands are soft and warm, but strong and unrelenting. My eyebrows come together in discomfort. “Sir. You’re very drunk. You can either empty out your beer or take it with you. We’re closing now.”
Damn, I am convincing myself. He will never know the effect he has on me.
My intuition nods her head proudly.

“I said I’m finishing up my beer.” Brown Eyes stares back at me with intensity. Unlike last week, with alcohol coursing through his system now, Brown Eyes’ tone is not reasonable. This time there’s a sharp edge of
warning. “You don’t have to be insensitive. I was here last week, don’t you remember me?”

Oh, that has double meaning.
My mouth forms into the perfect circle at his reminder. The generous hundred-dollar tip dances in the back of my head. “It’s not about insensitivity. It’s my job.” I feel the need to defend myself. “Of course I remember you . . . table twelve.”
I’ve been thinking about you all week. Why are you back here tonight, all drunk and a hot mess instead of cold and intimidating?

Brown Eyes narrows his eyes at me and his eyebrows come together in an inquisitive manner. He gives me the feeling that he does not relinquish control often, so now that he is all alcohol Brown Eyes is awkward with a quintessential charm. “Where’s that same awarding customer service personality?” he snaps.

What the heck? Is he going to be melodramatic about this?
It is my turn to narrow my eyes. “I’m just doing my job. You’re obviously very drunk. I have to ask you to finish your beer and leave.” He does not say it, but I get the feeling Brown Eyes think he owns me with that hundred-dollar tip. Suddenly I feel cheap, very flea market cheap. I prepare to add a smart remark, complete with all intents and purposes of returning his money to him, when Brown Eyes cuts me off.

“There’s more to life than just a job, pretty girl. There’s more to life than all of this.” Brown Eyes let out a chuckle that indicates he’s privy to the secret of life while I am not. Brown Eyes proceeds to bring the beer bottle to his lips again.
He thinks I’m pretty? Is that what you want to be stuck on? He’s basically calling you an idiot.
I strike down my conflicting thoughts as fast as I can. Daring myself to take the leap of faith, I peek at Brown Eyes again.

There’s a forlorn sadness to him that I cannot quite explain or understand. Maybe I am too young and inexperienced to understand the underlying meaning of Brown Eyes’ body language and his sarcastic nuances. But if there is one thing I can identify with, it is the sincerity in his voice. Suddenly, my courage slips away. I find myself speechless at his demeanor. How can someone be so tragic?

“You want to sit down and have a drink with me?” Sensing my hesitation, Brown Eyes offers me the bottle in his hand. “Are you off work?”

His lips curl into the most delicious smile and I feel the blood rushing from my control. One mood swings to the next.
Run May. He’s the devil! Or he could just be super drunk.

“No, thanks,” I answer as professionally as possible. “We’re closing
. You–”

Before I can finish my sentence, Brown Eyes holds up his hand and points an index finger at me. Slowly, deliberately, he stands up from the bar stool he has been sitting on. I stare up at his height of at least six-feet from my five-foot-four frame. He is wearing a crisp white shirt underneath a black blazer today. His signature dark slacks fold over a pair of black dress shoes. Brown Eyes looks as though he is an important businessman stressed from business underpinnings and the turmoil in his personal life.

Nevertheless, there is nothing professional about him now. Brown Eyes points an unsteady index finger at me. “You’re a rule follower, aren’t you? Any rules or regulations instructed by your Boss, or your co-workers, are absolute authority. You never question the rules, you never bend the rules, and you will never ever–” Brown Eyes leans into me with his half-empty beer bottle and lowers his voice to an alluring whisper, “do something you’re not supposed to.”

My cheeks blush a zealous shade of red. Brown Eyes is crossing the line. I am not sure what kind of line, but there is a line somewhere. The stench of hard liquor raids my senses.

You don’t know me.
“No, I don’t . . . not always.” It is my feeble attempt to appear cool to this stranger.

“Prove it then.” Brown Eyes offers me his beer again.

Suddenly, we are in a standoff. A part of me wants to take the bottle from his hand and finish it off, just to prove I am not such a straight edge. The other part of me wants to turn the bottle on him and pour the rest of the content on his nice ensemble. Either way, I want to make a loud statement. The only problem is I don’t know if I want to make the good statement or the bad one. Along with the impossible decision, I feel a thrill pulsating through my veins. He is exciting and dangerous, surprising and a complete hot mess.

Eventually, I don’t have to make a decision.

“You’re just like someone I used to know.” Suddenly, Brown Eyes takes the bottle back when he realizes I do not call his bluff. His eyes, once bright and subjective from the alcohol, becomes dark and judgmental as he confesses, “She was stubborn and indecisive too.”

I am in a profound state of silent surprise as I watch Brown Eyes slip deeper in his drunken state. He tilts his head back and consumes the rest of his beer in two gulps. Then, without warning, Brown Eyes slams the bottle onto the counter top. Whether he knows his own strength or not, the bottle crushes underneath the pressure of his hand and immediately
glass shards disseminate all over the counter.

Drunk Superman power.
I flinch when the loud impact reverberates off the surface. A chill slowly, silently, creeps down the spine of my back.

“Hey, man. What are you doing?” From the opposite end of The Trax, the side door opens. Son and Tailor make their hasty entrance to the bar. Evidently, the loud ruckus is noticeable from the other end of the building. Both of my co-workers are wearing confused facial expressions, complete with shock and awe. When bottles break at the bar, it usually involves two people. No one has ever voluntarily broken a bottle at the bar on his own before.

“It’s time for you to go buddy.” Son reaches us first. He doesn’t wait for an explanation. A broken bottle is enough evidence for Son’s zero tolerance. Using his assistant manager authority, Son places both hands on Brown Eyes’ shoulders to usher him toward the door.

“I’m not your buddy. Don’t touch me!” Brown Eyes steps back in a defensive motion. “I’m talking to May.” He turns so quickly, so swiftly in a decisive martial arts manner that Son barely jumps out of the way before the left hook claims him.

The familiar chill wracks my body when I hear Brown Eyes mentioning my name. It is all happening too quickly for me to absorb.

“He’s drunk. Be careful.” Tailor approaches us from the other side of the bar. He gives Son and me a look that doubles as a precaution and warning. We have been through this process before with other drunks. The only difference this time is I happen to discover Brown Eyes alone.

“You know him?” Son asks in a tone that he is willing to relinquish all responsibility to me. He can hardly believe it.

I shake my head halfway, not sure if meeting Brown Eyes last week counts.

“Of course she knows me . . . she doesn’t remember . . . but I’m–” Brown Eyes succumbs to the mixture of beer and hard alcohol. He lets out an anguished hiss that accompanies a suppressed belch. “I-I loved her. I loved her so much. Right, Mi–”

“May! Watch out!” Son pushes me out of the way just in time. It happens too quickly for me to realize.

Brown Eyes stumbles forward and heaves. He grips the side of the counter and leans his entire body into it. Most of what comes up and out of his throat is a mixture of the beer, alcohol, and food he ingested previously. The entire vicinity reeks strongly of his stomach acid and the putrid vomit.

“Oh!” Tailor lets out a groan. With his fast reflex and experience as a
bartender, Tailor reaches under the bar counter and extracts the infamous blue bucket specifically reserved for such digestive projectiles. Tailor shoves the bucket towards Brown Eyes and says promptly, “Inside the bucket, man. Inside.”

“Poor guy.” Son shakes his head.

I take a step back and feel the wetness beneath my shoes. I don’t have to look to know that I am stepping into what Brown Eyes is not successfully aiming into the bucket.

“Oh gross,” I mumble. I pick up my right foot to see the smear trickling down to the very soles of my shoes. The smell is so strong I have to pinch my nose and breathe out of my mouth.

“You remember me? Don’t you?” Brown Eyes gasps. He latches onto my right arm with intense strength.

“No!” I turn my head away from him. I wasn’t imagining things; he realizes it too. We have met before. I attempt to disentangle myself from him, but Brown Eyes doesn’t budge.
How can someone so drunk still be so strong?

“What have we come to?” Son whispers. His eyes narrow and there isn’t a trace of empathy in his voice. It is as though he realizes something beyond simple admission. “We used to be a cool, upscale place.”

“What do you mean?” Tailor refutes immediately. “Since when does The Trax cater to any upscale clients? We’re in the part of town where social rejects and dejects roam.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Son retorts quickly. “Even though we get the latter half of the social pyramid, since when do we cater to gangsters?”

I stop fighting Brown Eyes’ grip on me. He is on the verge of throwing up his brains at the rate his body is attempting to get rid of the alcohol. Brown Eyes is slipping into a deep subconscious state that most hard drinkers reach.

“Gangsters?” The word burns at the tip of my lips.

“Gangsters,” Son restates. He narrows his eyes at Brown Eyes’ outfit. “Look at the necklace he has on his neck. It’s a diamond-encrusted Cross. He’s a Crist member.”

CHAPTER TWO

I
have always been taught to help other my whole life, but allowing a super attractive male to throw up on me is not how the good Samaritan act often plays out in my mind. If there is a lesson to learn from this incident, it is the fact that the heroine does not choose the situation but it is the situation that makes the heroine.
It is your fate working at a bar. You’re lucky it’s only vomit.
My intuition is always looking for a fight with my better judgment.

Brown Eyes continues to heave into Tailor’s reliable alcohol bucket with one hand on my wrist. Son and Tailor do little to help me; they figure it is better for Brown Eyes to hold onto me as a crutch than to throw up on the bar’s floor. So I take one for the team, as the saying goes. During the last couple of seconds, I realize Brown Eyes is not just a pretty face; he has the distinctive presence and personality to match, including the indomitable strength. He is also a very sad soul who fills the heavy void with tangible pain and hard alcohol.

After Brown Eyes finishes with a throaty cough, Son and Tailor take him outside of The Trax. I try to convince them otherwise, but my co-workers refuse to hear my opinion.

“He’s too dangerous!” Son hisses.

I feel guilt raiding my body and consciousness when I watch them. I know that Brown Eyes is alone, and in his drunken state, I am not sure he can get home safe. I grab a spray bottle filled to the brink with bleach solution. I don’t know what else to do but to keep my hands busy. I am still in the midst of wiping down the bar when Son and Tailor return with identical sunken expressions. They appear shaken up, as though they had dealt with something dangerous and unworldly.

“What did you do with him?” I ask them.
Why do you care so much?
My intuition rolls her eyes.

“We took him outside,” Tailor replies quickly and disappears behind the bar.

“You left him in the cold?” I ask Son; he is spraying the counter with bleach solution now. Son is cleaning what I just cleaned.

“It doesn’t matter May. We had to get him out of here fast. He’s affiliated with Crist. I don’t want to make any phone calls that I’ll regret later.” Son’s voice is stressed and non-negotiable.

“I think you’re overreacting. Just because he’s a gangster doesn’t mean we just throw him out like that. He’s alone and unconscious. What if he gets killed?” An unsettling feeling permeates my body. I am cold and shaky for some reason.

Son stops cleaning the counter and shakes his head at me. “You don’t know anything about people like him, do you May? He is a member of a social section that we’re better off leaving out in the cold than in here with us. We don’t want any of his associates or affiliates coming in here, blaming us for purposely getting him drunk or trying to take advantage of him. Even worse, we don’t want any of his enemies to come in here and take advantage of him while he’s drunk. He’s a gangster May. They rob, cheat, steal, and kill. If we feel sorry for him, then who is going to feel sorry for us?”

Enough of a reason for you to leave this alone?
My intuition throws a dark notion. Son is right. I don’t know anything about someone like Brown Eyes. All I know about gangsters is from Lina’s preconceived stories and notions, along with cinematic depictions of guys in baggy pants and bandanas as they tote guns. I have never come across gangsters like Brown Eyes who seem to be selected by their ridiculously good looks, impeccable personalities, and overwhelming strength. More specifically, hierarchical
money-driven
gangsters. There is nothing cheap about Brown Eyes from head-to-toe.

“Any more doubts about my decision?” Son lifts up an eyebrow. He is all assistant manager on me now.

“No,” I mumble and return to wiping the bar.

“Good,” Son replies shortly. He glances at me again, takes pity, and adds, “I’m doing this for the security of our jobs, May. I’m not being an ass for no reason. Stay far away from gangsters like him. It’s not a warning. It’s a life lesson.”

I frown at Son’s wise advice. I try not to laugh, but the corners of my mouth simply lift into a smile. Son ends up letting out a chuckle too. We have been working together for six months now, so Son knows that I take his comments with a grain of salt. We have been able to build one of those working relationships where he lectures and I laugh. Today is no different, although the undertone is completely different from the usual.

It takes us another ten minutes to wipe down the bar and sanitize the entire area. Son is in charge of closing the entire venue down, so he dismisses me to go home first. When it comes down to it, Son often takes on the brunt of the work. He prefers it that way.

I head for the bathroom to clean myself up. I am looking forward to some peace and quiet, but that is not happening when Joolie comes stalking into the bathroom. She is fresh off the gossip train and wants to talk.

“I cannot believe Super-Gorgeous-Sexy is a Crist member! I knew there was more to him than just a handsome face!”

I lean over the white porcelain sink to splash a pool of cool water over my face. The water trickles down the sides of my arms and eventually end at my elbows. I gather the courage to lift my head up and look in the bathroom mirror. The glaring fluorescent lighting highlights the tired lines and dark spots on my face. I look beyond dead tired and feel it to the hilt.

Joolie is still in the background going on about the unbelievably beautiful gangster. Joolie’s pining over the fact that she missed all the action.

Joolie is a co-worker completely immersed in her job. Joolie is the first one to formulate opinions and churn out rapid suggestions about everything and anything that happens in and around The Trax. Joolie grew up very poor with only a single father and five siblings. Her mother died when she was young, so Joolie has been self-sufficient for most of her life. Joolie holds down two jobs with only a high school diploma. Despite her credentials, Joolie is actually very intelligent and calculating. Her grand goal in life is to own venues like The Trax. Essentially, Joolie’s motivation for knowledge derives from sound reasons. It’s Joolie’s way of going about it that makes it difficult to empathize with.

“Are you listening, May?” Joolie often questions my attention span to her
ramblings. Tonight is no different. She is standing a sink away from me, tying her hair into a large mound at the top of her head. She repeats again with, “God, he’s so beautiful . . . he’s like a tragic, beautiful soul.”

“Yes,” I agree absentmindedly to her comment.

“I wonder why he picked The Trax of all spots.” Joolie has a faraway look on her face. “He looks like he could go to the classier places like the Prosper Room or Ekco. Maybe he likes our cheap drinks. He can’t be here for the girls. God no. You and I are probably the most attractive girls here. Oh! Maybe he came back here for one of us! I did notice him sitting in the reserved section earlier.”

Joolie has such an elaborate imagination. Dreams can feed off her for life.
“Umm hmm,” I mumble again. I grab some towels from the dispenser to run under the sink. When they are wet enough, I lift my right leg and wipe my shoes clean of Brown Eyes’ vomit.

“But I can’t believe he’s a Crist member.” Joolie stops fixing her hair
and lowers her voice. A look of secrecy and fixation crosses her face. Joolie leans against the sink and watches me clean my shoes. “A Crist member. Have you heard of them?”

“No,” I answer shortly. I continue running my hands up and down the soles of my shoes. “What does it matter, anyway?”
Son and Joolie have the same look in their eyes when they talk about Crist members.

“Hah!” Joolie lets out a scoff as though she can’t believe my ignorance. “A Crist member visited The Trax, May. Even if you don’t know, you should at least understand that we are going to be getting a little more popular. Think of it as a celebrity going to eat at an unknown restaurant. Pretty soon, everyone will want to eat at that restaurant too!”

I stop wiping my shoes to look at Joolie. I am not oblivious to the world around me, but brushing up with a gang member sounds like bad news. Joolie sees it from a publicity perspective while I regard it as a bad omen. “Son kicked him out. It’s a bad omen to have him here.”

“What the hell does Son know?” Joolie snaps adamantly. “You can’t keep a Crist member from going anywhere he wants! No. Super-Gorgeous-Sexy has his reasons for coming here twice in two weeks. He’s planning something.”

Hmm. Is Joolie onto something?
“I think he just came back tonight to have a drink. He seemed upset over something. He probably got drunk to forget what he really needs to deal with,” I reply with what I believe is an insightful comment.

“Uh huh.” Joolie nods her head for a moment, but then changes her mind as she shakes her head in the opposite direction. “Nah. He has an ulterior motive for coming here. Probably wants protection money from the club.”

“Well, whatever he is here for has nothing to do with you or me.” I throw the dirty towels in the trash can and wash my hands again.

Joolie’s cell phone lights up in her bag at the same moment, playing an upbeat electronic dance music anthem. Joolie gives me a playful push as she heads out the bathroom with her cell phone in hand. “You might think I’m crazy, but there’s a reason why he was here last week and again tonight. Good night May. Sweet Dreams. Don’t let the gangster bite!”

Before she exits, Joolie marks her right hand across her upper body to create the symbol of a Cross.

Did she really just do that?
“Good night Joolie.” I feel incredulous from her exit display. Joolie knows how to rile things up.

I do my best to ban my thoughts about the night and Brown Eyes. I spend another five minutes in the bathroom cleaning myself up. When I finally decide there is nothing more I can do, I head straight to the employee’s room. I change into my regular clothes. I end up wrapping my work uniform in a plastic bag. Ever the light traveler, I tie the plastic bag around the strap of my worn-out tote bag. 

Most of my co-workers are already gone when I head out of the front door. There is only one way in and one way out for Trax employees and customers. It is some sort of policy implemented for this kind of establishment. Son told me once that it is easier for police to keep track of people coming in and out with only one front door. Again, this is just one of the stringent staples that comes with working at a place like The Trax.

“Good night May!”

“Get home safe!”

“Good night!” I wave to a couple of co-workers who are still lingering around.

The cool summer air greets me as soon as I exit The Trax. The Trax is at basement level; grand steps lead up to street level. These steps are usually not a problem, but after tonight, my legs threaten to give in with every step I take.

I take in a deep breath and inhale sweet, fresh air once I reach street level. I pull the strap of my tote bag higher on my shoulders and begin my trek towards the nearest bus stop. I am off-work mode, daydreaming about my warm bed and maybe a glass of milk before sleep. Coffee is a long, lost dream at this point.

I am barely three feet away from The Trax when I stop in my tracks.

“Suni . . . ,” a soft, distinctive voice calls out to me.

Although I have no recollection or familiarity with the name, I follow the voice emanating from the darkness. A distill sense of silence clouds my judgment for a second. Streetlights are rare around this area of The Trax; the dim lighting from the street rarely marks its presence here. People do not usually linger around these shadows. Whether they are tourists or locals, people typically disappear quickly into the accompanying shops or bars when they enter this part of town. I am the only one who is lingering for a stranger.

“Hello?” I muster enough courage to call out.
Don’t get yourself killed
, my conscience taunts.

“Suni . . . ,” the voice calls again.

Almost instantly, from the rise and fall of his voice and the repetition, I know it is Brown Eyes. My mind immediately calculates the time frame. He was kicked out of The Trax forty-five minutes ago.
He’s still here? I was right. He has no one to take him home.

Strings tug at my heart. Against my better judgment and Son’s warning, I follow the sound of Brown Eyes’ voice with caution. The dark shadows looming over the side of the large building are the perfect hiding spots for Brown Eyes. His silhouette attaches to the gloom created by the orange moon and black sky. Brown Eyes sticks out like a sore thumb against the background of the area. He does not belong here. Broken sorrow looks like this.

“Suni . . . ,” he calls wistfully.

“Hey, are you okay?” I inch closer.

“Suni . . . ,” he whispers the same hauntingly sad name.

I realize the closer I move to him, the more I am reducing my chances of walking away. As a matter of fact, I am involved the moment I decide not to go home and find out what is wrong with him. But I cannot leave him. My conscience doesn’t let me. She’s got a tissue box out already.

Brown Eyes looks pitiful as he sprawls against the side of the building with the residue of vomit drying on the front of his shirt. He is someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend, someone’s lover, someone’s everything. And yet, at his saddest moment, Brown Eyes is alone and miserable.