Bartender (3 page)

9.

Saim Dajani wakes up late. He thinks,
This ain’t so bad
. Like he’s got a handle on the hangover. But he forgets that once you hit the age of thirty, hangovers wait till you least expect it. Then they fuck you from behind without the courtesy of a reach-around.

He walks into his living room. Stumbles a little. Blinks against the afternoon sunlight. Makes his way over to the fridge. He grabs the handle.

The little exertion it takes to open the door is enough to trigger it: the hangover. Rotten, creeping headache. Feels like it’s pinching his spine at the base of his neck. Some kinda alien presence just squeezing and squeezing.

He grabs a can of Red Bull. Closes his eyes. Throws its contents down his throat.

Acid rumbles in his stomach. He coughs. Shakes his head. Pushes it down.

He looks at all the empty bottles scattered around his kitchen counter. Says, “That was stupid.” He’s got the day off, but he slept half of it away.

He looks up at a big movie poster of
TOMBSTONE
—his favorite cowboy flick. Movie’s got so many goddamn good lines—and shrugs.

Now he’s gotta spend some time nursing a headache.

He opens the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Shakes a bottle of Advil hoping he’s got some. It rattles. He smirks and opens it. Two left.

Saim says, “My lucky fuckin day.” He chases the pills with Red Bull.

He sits on the couch and crosses his legs. “Indian style.” Only saying “Indian Style” ain’t politically correct anymore, like when he was a kid, so he’s just sitting on his damn legs with a lit cigarette between his lips.

He flips through the local TV channels till he hits NY1.

They’re talking about his gunfight yesterday with that fuckin gangsta idiot, Marquis Roberts. The dipshit’s mugshot flashes up on the screen.

Then comes Joe Leonard’s dumb smiling face.

Then comes his own dumb smiling face.

Then Saim’s grinning like an idiot, smoking a cigarette.

He throws on jeans. Boots. Sweatshirt.

Heads out the door to the nearest bodega.

He wants to see what the papers are saying.

***

The bodega owner down the block never particularly gave a damn about Saim till today—when he notices that the cop’s face is on the front page of both
The Post
and
The Daily News
.

No. Not just “the cop.” Now Saim Dajani’s a HERO COP, according to both tabloids.

Like fuckin magic, Saim’s beer and smokes and Gatorade and Red Bull are free.

Saim says something like: No, thanks. That’s okay. I’m not supposed to accept gifts cuz of x, y, z.

And then this Korean guy behind the counter just keeps telling him to take it.

So he does.

Fuck it.

Saim looks at the papers.

Thinks:
Let’s see you run away from me now, dad.

***

Back in his apartment, Saim puts on something he can listen to and not really think about. ZZ Top. Good beat. Low, in the background. Lyrics just dumb enough to go along with.

He pours himself a small glass of Evan Williams bourbon whiskey. He got a taste for it. Had to. Mostly cuz his partner Joe Leonard, who’s
actually
from Kentucky, kept harassing him about how Jack Daniel’s was bullshit and blah blah history of American whiskeys and whatever.

Still... Decent shit. Cheap, too.

He looks at himself on covers of the
Post
and the
News
.

Tells himself he’s gotta frame these.

He sees Joe’s photo there next to his and realizes he hasn’t called him yet. Been too excited. Well, hungover and
then
excited.

Saim checks his phone. Buncha missed calls. Two voicemails. He ignores the folks who didn’t bother to leave a message.

First voicemail: “Mister Dajani, this is Clemente with the
New York Post
. My number here is 212-555-8500. We’d like, ah... We’d like your account of the shooting yesterday. So, please, give me a call back.”

Second voicemail: “Dude. It’s Joe. You see the fuckin
Daily News
? Holy shit. And can you imagine the
Post
putting your dumb ass on page one? Having to love you cuz you’re a hero cop even through you’re a demon Muslim Communist Nazi Arab? Fuckin awesome. Call me back. We gotta get a drink. I’ll come to Queens. Shit! You beautiful raghead you.”

Saim smiles. Says, “Fuckin honky.”

***

They wander into Tropix cuz it’s close and the barbeque wings are better than all right. Up Queens Boulevard. Between 63rd Ave and 63rd Drive. They wanna stay near Dajani’s place since they’ve got work tomorrow. And they’re in too much of a good mood to pretend they won’t get kinda drunk.

Joe Leonard says, “I always wonder, y’know. We go out to get a drink. And we’re two young dudes. We look all right. Do folks think we’re a gay couple?”

Saim says, “Well, it’s two gay
hero cops
now.”

“Counterpoint.”

Saim arches his eyebrows. “You’re not really worried about that are you?”

Joe shrugs. “Nah. Well. I dunno. Tough enough finding a woman without fuckers thinkin we’re fuckin each other.” He sips his Coors. “I mean, no offense. I don’t give a shit what you do. Honest truth.”

Saim looks into his beer. “For a guy like you,
no offense
, maybe it’s easy to find
a
woman. But I’m guessing you’re talking about a ‘good one.’”

“Yeah.”

“Well why are you looking for a ‘good woman’ in a bar? Isn’t this stereotypically the
last
place some Country Joe like you supposed to be looking for a wife?”

“The fuck else am I supposed to meet one?”

“Go somewhere other than a bar?”

“Oh ho ho, you’re feeling clever.”

Saim takes a drink. “If I’d stayed Muslim and pretended I was straight, my folks would’ve forced me to settle down. Just play happy pretend time. All the time. And where my family comes from, women are brought up to be slaves. Obey the man. All that.”

“So? Lotta hot Middle Eastern chicks running around this city. Brown sugar. Hell, my cock ain’t racist. Nothin wrong with some tan titties.”

Saim glares. “You fuckin kidding me? These are women who are raised to be slaves to men. That’s fuckin disgusting.”

“Jesus dude, I was kidding.” Joe throws his hands up. “Just some dumb bullshit. Y’know, bar talk? Relax. I was raised strict Baptist. You know me. We been partners over a year. I know I ain’t gonna find the love of my life twirling around a bar stool. Wouldn’t want to.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, man. We’re both kinda dumb on beer.”

“And we’re both HERO COPS.”

“We are fuckin HERO COPS.”

They clink glasses.

Both been drinking for free after showing the bartender their photos in the tabloids. Just for fun. But the Tropix bartender musta figured: What the hell. Can’t charge HERO COPS for their beers.

Saim says, “You could go gay. There’s always that.”

Joe says, “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

***

They get back to Saim’s apartment and stand around in the kitchen. Shoot the shit. Slur a bit. Some George Thorogood plays on Saim’s little speakers while they drink and mutter.

Joe raises his glass. “At least you got Evan Williams.”

Saim lights a cigarette. “Yup.”

“You were sayin, in the bar —” Joe burps “— that if you were still Muslim and pretended you didn’t like dudes or whatever you’d be settled down.”

Saim squints. “Yeahhh...”

“Well, why aren’t you Muslim anymore?”

Saim starts: “That’s—” He thinks about his old man kicking the shit out of him and his mom when he was a kid. It being
totally okay
as far as cultural norms go in hardline Muslim communities. And his mom just taking it, like a “good woman.” The thought still makes him sick. “It’s a long story, man. But I wanted freedom.”

“Sucked in Afghanistan, huh?”

“It was
the
suck.”

“So the family moves here and then what?”

“Then everything’s different cuz, hey, Merica. We got here when I was seven, eight-ish. And my dad was still a dick, but I don’t think he felt like he could get away with what he could in Afghanistan.”

“Y’all started getting
integrated
and whatnot.”

“Yeah. I got older and I realized the idea of a god who was gonna spank me for x,y,z and thinking men are more attractive than women is bullshit. So I bailed. Second I turned eighteen my ass was
out
the
door
. I could finally be who I wanted.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Joe and Saim clink glasses. Toss some whiskey down their throats.

Saim says, “What about you?”

Joe says, “Mine’s boring. Nothin bad happened to me. My parents are good folks. I’m a Kentucky boy so it wasn’t weird or nothin that I wanted to get into law enforcement. Just didn’t wanna to do it
there
. So I moved and here I am. Killing bad guys in the Big Apple.”

“Hey man, nothin wrong with that.”

They toast again. Drink.

Joe says, “What made you wanna be a cop?”

Saim considers it. Says, “A lot of it was cuz of how bad our dad treated us. I figured I could help kids. Help families. Put the bad guys away. Or at least scare the shit out of em. And I didn’t like this fuckin idea that gay dudes couldn’t be... dudes.”

“Sure. Honorable.”

“Second reason is gonna sound dumb as hell though.” Saim points to his big poster of the film TOMBSTONE.

Joe chuckles. “Kurt Russell made you wanna be a cop.”

“Man, I saw that movie years ago and it just got into my head. All that awesome righteous
anger
from the good guys. Russell and Val Kilmer. All those crazy one-liners. ‘You called down the thunder, well now you got it!’ Just awesome.”

“Who even has time to think up that stuff when you’re shooting people?”

“Doesn’t matter, man. It’s just the chill it gives you.”

Joe shrugs. “So when we go to sleep, you wanna be the big spoon or the little spoon?”

“Keep your ass on the couch.”

10.

Kieron says, “C’mon, bud. We gotta get ready to go.”

It’s always like this. Aaron doesn’t wanna leave. He wants to keep working on his project. Whatever project that might be. Usually LEGOs. Sometimes video games. But what the kid’s doing takes priority in his little mind.

Aaron says, “I don’t
want
to.”

Kieron says, “Well you
got
to.”

So Kieron finds himself trying to fit Aaron’s shirt on. One arm at a time. While the kid fidgets and keeps trying to build whatever it is he’s building. The whole time Kieron’s thinking:
Christ, I need to get this shit done. I don’t have the time right now.

Frustrated but Kieron can’t show it. If he does, he’ll fuck up his already-awkward relationship with his son.

He just needs to be cool. Think about the old lady’s jewels.

Shit’ll get easier with some extra cash.

***

Kieron and Aaron walk down the street, hand in hand. Kieron stops to get a cup of not-entirely-awful coffee from the cart vendor on his block. Same guy he’s seen almost daily for years. But Kieron can’t remember his name. They grunt the typical bullshit and nod at each other till their time together is over.

It only takes Aaron a block and a half to get annoyed and distracted. Then he’s straining against his dad’s hands. Staring up at the sky. Cramming a finger in his nose.

Kieron picks the boy up and sets him on his shoulders. Aaron wraps his hands around his father’s forehead for balance. Locks his fingers together right over the bartender’s eyebrows.

Kieron says, “How is it up there, bud?”

“It’s tall. I’m tall.”

Kieron laughs. “Well, you will be.” He gets close to a branch. Ducks Aaron underneath it. Bounces the kid back up.

Aaron giggles and Kieron smiles.

He likes the sound. Feels like he doesn’t get to hear it enough. Thinks:
You’ll get to hear the boy laugh a lot more if you could take him on vacation. Maybe. Old bird’s jewels could make that happen.

Then:
You really gonna rob an elderly woman?

He feels the Yankees baseball cap and rubber surgical gloves in his leather jacket pocket. Mutters to himself under his son’s giggles: “Debt does fucked up shit to people.”

***

The shrink’s office is clean. White. Bright. Clinical.

There’s a leather couch. The requisite magazines on the table. Vase of fake flowers. Little box of tissues. Diplomas on the wall that say blah blah Sharon M. Stein, PhD. Water cooler. Muted TV showing NY1.

Kieron and Aaron sit. Wait.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

Kieron’s about to get up and hit her buzzer again when this Sharon bitch ushers out a girl in her mid-teens. Blonde. Nice dress on. She’s sniffling. Eyes puffy.

The shrink pats this girl, telling her they made a lot of progress and everything’s gonna be fine.

Kieron squeezes Aaron’s hand.

Sharon smiles at the girl.

The girls says thank you. Smiles back. Heads out the door.

Sharon says, “Hello, Mr. Palmer. And hello, Aaron. How are you today?”

Aaron says, “Good. Dad put me on his shoulders. I was like—” Aaron jumps up off the couch. Stands on his tiptoes. “Super tall.”

“That’s wonderful.” She takes Aaron’s hand. Nods once to Kieron. She has a look on her face. He knows the one. She’s saying: I know you were a shithead junkie and you disgust me and you’re lucky your kid isn’t more messed up and you live above a
bar,
you filth.

But, y’know, without
saying
it. So that makes it okay.

Kieron cocks an eyebrow at her. “He didn’t wanna come. We’re working on a LEGO project together. If he’s got LEGOs, and he’s happier with them, why’re we here again?”

Aaron’s ears perk up at “LEGOs” and he starts to turn back.

Sharon stops him. Turns her head to Kieron. “Well, Mr. Palmer, according to the
court,
I need to see him until I’m sure the environment he’s in is satisfactory. I have to make sure he isn’t in
danger
and that he’s developing correctly, Mr. Palmer.”

“The day he hits five? I get to talk to the court myself.”

She nods. Forces a big fake smile. “That day is not today, Mr. Palmer.”

She shuts the door.

For the next hour Aaron’ll be in there. With the damn shrink.

He smells like sabotage.

So you really gonna rob an elderly woman?

He looks around the office for a security camera. Doesn’t see one.

Yep.