Three (2 page)

Still, for some reason that Geoffrey could
never understand, the Judge loved the man. The two talked in
whispers at the dinner table, leaving Geoffrey completely out of
the conversation. They shared inside jokes and stories and yucked
it up like they were old college drinking buddies. And, when it was
hunting season, it was Ben who the Judge invited first.

Geoffrey’s hatred for Ben could all be
boiled down to one point – everything else was just window
dressing. Ben’s constant needling, his baseless arrogance, and the
fact he had pulled easily the sexiest woman Geoffrey had ever laid
eyes on weren’t the reasons for his detestation of the man. Those
points were mere branches on the tree, and didn’t get at the root.
The truth was the Judge treated Ben as if he were his own son, and
regarded his own flesh-and-blood like a bad rash; something you
tolerated and tried to keep covered to minimize the embarrassment.
And what a painful truth it was.

The old man finally returned with the
drinks. He winked at Charlotte as he passed forward her vodka tonic
and smiled pleasantly at Ben as he delivered his scotch. But
Geoffrey noticed that when the old man placed his drink in front of
him, the smile had disappeared and was replaced with a look of
consternation. He wiped his hands on his towel and just as he
turned away from the group, Geoffrey started in.

“Hey oldtimer,” said Geoffrey. “This drink
is shit. Make me another one.” Geoffrey needed an outlet for his
pent up resentment, and the old man was an easy target.

“How…how do you know?” mumbled the old man.
He looked down as he spoke, not meeting Geoffrey’s eyes.

“How I do I know what?”

“You didn’t taste it, sir. H-how…how do you
know?”

“Are you calling your customer a liar?” said
Geoffrey through his teeth. “You get your old, minimum wage makin’
ass in gear and make me another.”

“Jesus, Three. Quit being an ass,” said Ben.
“Leave the guy alone.”

“Shut up Ben,” said Geoffrey. “This drink is
for shit and I want another one!”

The old man stood still, looking down at the
floor. He exhaled deeply and, with a trembling voice said, “I won’t
make you another.”

Ben laughed and pounded his
fist down on the counter. “Good for you! Don’t put up with that
shit!” Ben said as he kissed his new fiancée on the cheek. She
glanced at Geoffrey and laughed mockingly.
They’re all mocking me – even the fucking old man behind the
bar
, he thought. Rage consumed
him.

“Let me ask you something,” said Geoffrey.
“How much money do you make here? Ten bucks an hour?”

“I – I s’pose it depends on how well we get
tipped,” said the old man.

“Which means if all your customers were like
Three here, you’d be in the soup lines!” laughed Ben.

“Screw all of you,” said Geoffrey, his
forehead furled and his face reddening. “This suit costs more than
all you motherfuckers make in a month combined! What kind of car do
you drive, old man?”

“I – I don’t see how that…” he started.

“I drive a goddamn Jaguar! And I paid cash
for it!” Geoffrey leaned over the counter, the blood vessels in his
neck bulging. “You know what that means? It means, you ain’t shit
next to me. So get your broke ass busy and make me another
drink!”

Ben’s face was in his palm, half
embarrassed, half amused by Geoffrey’s rant. “Calm down, Three!
What are you getting all worked up about? You don’t want me to call
the Judge, do you?” said Ben, a smile filling his face. A hushed
silence came over the bar as other patrons had taken notice of
Geoffrey’s raised voice.

“I make about four-hundred dollars a month
working here, after taxes,” said the old man, his soft voice
cutting through the silence. “In two hours I go to my second job
where I work an all night shift. I have a wife at home with
dementia, and a grandson who needs a kidney. I do this for them – I
do it because they need me and I need them as much as the air I
breathe. But you probably don’t understand that, do you? Every day
I swallow my pride and listen to young, rich pricks like you put me
down. I guess it makes you feel like a bigger man or something.
Your self-worth is so low that you feel the need to trample on
another man’s worth just to lift you up.”

“Sure,” he continued, “you’ve got some big
important job somewhere that pays you a lot of money, and you drive
an expensive sports car and live in a big fancy house. You know
what I say to that? Good for you, that’s what I say. But in my book
I’m richer than you’ll ever be. I’ve got a wife at home who loves
me. And two beautiful sons too. And we laugh together, cry
together, and love together because that’s what life is all about,
son.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the bar.
All eyes were on Geoffrey, awaiting his next move. All those eyes
felt like lasers – silent lasers that were burning his brain. He
clenched his jaw.

“Pour me another drink,” he said.

The old man shook his head. “You can call me
Methuselah or whatever you want. You can make fun of my age or the
pace at which I move all night long. But I ain’t pouring you
another drink until you down this one.”

“Pour me another drink!” He slammed his fist
down on the counter. The old man crossed his arms and stood
steadfast.

“Where’s the manager?” shouted Geoffrey.

Ben grabbed him by the arm. “Shut the hell
up, you’re making an ass out of yourself,” he whispered.

Geoffrey pulled away from his grip, rose
from his seat and searched amongst the blur of faces for someone
who looked “managerial”. He found him across the bar - a
middle-aged, heavy-set balding man with trepidation written all
over his face, and who was making a beeline in his direction.

“Is there a problem here?” the manager said
quietly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes darted in
every direction, concerned about the spectacle the commotion was
making in his establishment.

“Yeah, your barkeep won’t make me another
goddamned drink!” shouted Geoffrey.

“Sir, please keep your voice down.”

“Do you know who I am?
You’re telling
me
to lower my voice?”

“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Winters. And
if your father wasn’t a personal friend of our owner, I would have
you thrown out. Out of courtesy to the Judge, I provide you with
this warning. I must insist you lower your voice or I will have you
removed.”

Geoffrey huffed and
regarded the man. He was bald and rotund and wore a ridiculous
looking mustache. He was a shift manager at a bar – and
he
was going to have
Geoffrey L. Winters III removed? The idea of this walrus-looking
buffoon who probably didn’t make fifty thousand a year talking down
to him was infuriating. Geoffrey started to unleash a pointed
retort but thought the better of it when he took notice of the two
beefy security guards who had lumbered up behind him.

“This drink is for shit,” said Geoffrey,
nodding to the counter. “And your geezer of a bartender won’t make
me a new one.”

“Is this true, Floyd?” said the manager.

“It – it is true,” said the old man quietly.
“But he - he never even tried this one.”

“Just make him another one,” said the
manager. “And everybody will be happy. Right Mr. Winters?”

“That’s right,” said
Geoffrey through his shit-eating grin. “Just make me another
one,
Floyd
, and
we’ll all be happy.”

The old man looked sick. He uncrossed his
arms and shifted nervously on his feet. “I won’t do it. I need this
job, Mr. Anderson, but I will not make him another drink.”

The manager sighed heavily. “Floyd, if you
don’t make him another drink, I’m going to have to fire you.”

“Then so be it.”

The old man laid the towel softly down on
the counter and paced slowly out from behind the bar. He crept past
the manager, who shook his head disappointedly. The old man made no
eye contact with anyone; he merely ambled slowly forward, looking
downtrodden at the floor in front of him. Geoffrey snickered as the
old man dejectedly walked past. He reached into the coat pocket of
his expensive blue suit and pulled out his wallet.

“Floyd,” smiled Geoffrey, “don’t forget your
tip.” He wadded up a $10 bill and threw it, hitting the old man in
the back. It ricocheted and landed on the floor behind him. The old
man stopped, turned, and bent down to pick it up. He looked
gloomily at the manager, and then at Geoffrey. Unfurling the money,
he glanced at the bill for a moment, put it in his pocket, and
walked out the door.

“Poor bastard,” said Geoffrey, “his pride
wasn’t even worth ten bucks.”

A few people in the crowd who had watched
the spectacle muttered their disapproval, and one woman was so
enraged she volunteered to fight Geoffrey right there in the bar.
The manager was furious; the tiny hairs on his mustache twitched
and his face was tomato red.

“I don’t care whose son you are,” said the
manager. “I don’t want to see your face in the Barcode again. Leave
now!”

Ben stamped a hundred dollar bill on the
counter and grabbed Geoffrey by the collar. He shoved Geoffrey
across the floor and out the door, followed closely behind by
Charlotte.

“Who do you think you are?” shouted Geoffrey
as he was being yanked out the door. “I’ll have your job you fat
bastard!”

Outside, Ben slammed Geoffrey against the
brick wall. “What the hell is wrong with you? If I didn’t work for
your father and my job wasn’t to babysit your ass, I’d kick the
shit out of you right here.”

“Well do it then,” said Geoffrey. “Go on and
do it. See what happens when my father finds out.”

Ben glared intensely into his eyes, and for
a brief moment Geoffrey thought he was actually going to do it. But
he grinned his All-American toothy grin and let loose of Geoffrey’s
collar. He yanked down at Geoffrey’s shirt and jacket to straighten
them and patted his chest.

“Listen, your father wants you to be with
me,” said Ben. “I think he hopes that maybe you’ll grow up - that
maybe some maturity will rub off on you. However, Charlotte and I
are trying to celebrate our engagement tonight, and I think she’s
been more than courteous and understanding with me that we have to
share our joy with you.”

Ben jammed his finger into
Geoffrey’s chest and his eyes narrowed. “We’re going across the
street to the club for a couple of dances. You’re coming with us
and you can either choose to be cool or be a dickhead. If you’re a
dickhead, I
will
beat your ass - the job and your father be damned. Got
it?”

He gave Geoffrey a look that meant business.
Geoffrey smirked and nodded half-heartedly.

***

T
hree hours, six scotches and two Irish Car Bombs later,
Geoffrey L. Winters III was on the dance floor of the night club in
his three thousand dollar designer suit. Hundreds of heads bounced
in unison, a sea of zombie-like figures bobbing; their minds numbed
by chemicals and the trance of the music’s rhythmic booming
bass.
Boom – Boom – Boom.
Faceless bodies crashed against him and sent him
spinning. He was knocked off balance and hurtled into a man’s back,
who turned and pushed him, sending him floundering into a group of
dancing girls.
Boom – Boom – Boom.
Ben and Charlotte stood arm-in-arm above the dance
floor looking down at him and cackling like school children as
Geoffrey stumbled into one person after another.

A large man wearing sunglasses, despite the
darkness of the club, shoved Geoffrey away from the group of girls
and sent him spilling face first onto the dance floor. Geoffrey
crawled towards the steps, his expensive suit soaked in beer,
sweat, and who knows what else. Ben finally decided that Geoffrey
had had enough and met him at the bottom step. He picked him up
under one arm and lifted him to his feet. The two made their way to
the top, where Charlotte had pulled out a chair at their table.

“You’re a helluva dancer, Three!” said
Charlotte mockingly. “You got moves like Jagger.”

“Shut up,” Geoffrey mumbled. The world was
spinning and he couldn’t stop it. He tried to focus on her face but
couldn’t. All he wanted as that moment was to lie down.

“I’m going home,” he mumbled.

He fumbled through his pockets; first his
pants and then his jacket.

“Looking for these?” smiled Ben, jingling a
set of car keys from his fingers. “I grabbed them from you a long
time ago, Three. You’re gonna have to take a cab home.”

“Kish my ash,” said Geoffrey. He wobbled up
from his seat and pointed at Ben as if he was going to say
something important, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he
swayed off balance before catching himself. For a moment Ben
thought he was going to pass out, but he righted himself and
staggered towards the door.

“I better follow him out - make sure he gets
a cab. Be right back Sweetie,” said Ben.

Ben made his way through the crowd and, with
considerable effort, shouldered past a group of girls in a
bachelorette party who were eagerly trying to pull him in. He
politely wrenched himself away and made his way to the front exit
of the club. There were people everywhere, the mild spring night
bringing out partiers of all sorts to the bar district. Ben
searched the crowd – Geoffrey was nowhere to found. He glanced
towards the row of taxis that had pulled up, waiting to take
drunken passengers home for the evening. A flash of Geoffrey’s blue
suit entering one of the cabs caught his eye. Ben jogged forward as
the cab pulled away, just in time to confirm it was indeed Geoffrey
sitting inside. Satisfied that his babysitting duties were
concluded for the evening, Ben returned inside the club where he
could finally be alone with his new fiancée.