anyone.
Okay. Maybe it needs a little work.
âItâs not old enough to be old-school-adorable shitty and not new enough to be hipster-chic shitty,â says Pia.
âItâs not even ironically shitty,â says Angie. âItâs just ⦠itâs a piece of shitty shit.â
âThanks, ladies,â speaks up a deep voice, seemingly from nowhere, and we all shriek.
A guy appears from practically underneath the bar. Very tall. Messy dark hair. Stubble. Eyes that are too bloodshot to see what color they are.
Pia and Angie shriek again, enjoying their hysteria. I think theyâre a little tipsy from our makeover drinks.
âJesus,â the guy says, pronouncing it Jaysus. âIâll get you a drink if you promise to stop screaming. And stop swearing. Youâre like drunk sailors.â
âYes, sir,â says Angie obediently.
âWeâll have three vodka, lime, and sodas, please, young man,â says Pia. She must be a little drink to be flirting like that.
âThis is a whiskey bar.â His accent is Irish maybe, or Scottish, I can never tell the difference. âI can offer you a whiskey, more specifically an Irish whiskey, or a whiskey-based cocktail. Or beer. But beer is boring, donât you agree?â
âBeer is cheap, you mean,â says Pia, arching her eyebrow. The bartender winks at her.
âHere,â he says, grabbing some shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. âLetâs drink these and see what happens. On the house.â
Pia and Angie glance at each other and shrug. âSure thing.â
We all do the shot, including the scruffy bartender. He smiles wolfishly as we all make the predictable âoh, my God WHISKEY!â sounds.
âTell you what, sugarnuts, why donât you rustle up a whiskey cocktail surprise for us,â says Angie. âSomething refreshing thatâll take the edge off.â
âYou got it, princess. But the name is Joe Nolan. Not sugarnuts.â
âRight on.â Angie is looking at her phone now, ignoring poor Joe entirely. I guess when all guys give you special attention, you donât need to care.
âAre you from Ireland, Joe?â asks Pia politely.
âIreland by birth, Cork by the grace of God,â Joe deadpans, grabbing bottles and ice and glasses, moving with the fast efficiency of a professional. He slices, pours, and shakes with a sort of cool, detached precision, and we all find ourselves mesmerized, watching him.
âMy boyfriend is half Irish,â Pia says. âBut he didnât grow up there.â
âPoor bastard,â says Joe. âRipped from the motherland.â He glances at Angie to see if sheâs listening. Sheâs not. He slams down four icy-cold mason jars full of a pale yellow liquid. âCold Hard Toddies.â
âWhatâs in this?â says Pia, sniffing it.
âJameson Irish whiskey, apple cider, ice, lemon, and a slice of apple.â
âMason jar. Nice touch,â says Pia.
I see her make a note in her phone: Mason jars. Recyclable. Discount on next order when you bring it back. Pia is always working. I canât imagine loving a job that much.
We all take a swig of the Cold Hard Toddy. It tastes worryingly unalcoholic. The kind of drink that you devour with thirsty abandon and then realize you canât see straight. Or think straight. Or walk straight.
âMay I please have a glass of water?â I ask, but Iâm drowned out by Pia and Angie.
âThat is amazing!â
âWhatâs in it again?â
âWhiskey, cider, apple, lemon. Do you want me to write it down?â Joe fills up a glass with ice and water, handing it to me.
âThanks,â I say in surprise. I didnât think he heard me. Heâs barely taken his eyes off Pia and Angie, with the kind of lazy grin that you see only on New York City guys who have a lot of casual sex.
âIâm going to the
Learning to Kill: Stories