I blame Sandra. All of this is her fault. Ever since I asked her godforsaken name, nothing is right anymore. My bar gets more and more disorganized and I don’t know if I can keep up with it. I can’t afford these repairs, this isn’t a super high paying job. Do people even pay me? I can’t remember them ever paying me. I remember pouring drink after drink but the more I try to recall any kind of transaction, my head hurts. It always hurts now.
My memories are starting to not be trusted. I try to recall things I know to be true about Bruce, though thinking about him gives me indigestion if I am perfectly honest. Bruce has brown eyes. No, green. No, they’re brown for sure. When he stared me down, asking me where I go, they were dark and empty. Black, with nothing beneath them.
I think about Barbara, her light brown hair always pulled back from her face. I quiz myself on small things, like does she wear earrings? A ring? She must, because she always complains about her husband. The husband with the cirrhosis. No, that’s not right. It’s not his liver. It’s his head. His memory is failing him. Huh, what a silly thing to forget whilst I am here doing the exact same thing.
Patrick has a kid named Brad. Brad likes sports. That’s all there is to know. I know Patrick smiles and that the smile once brought me comfort on days where I felt like I was missing something. I wonder if Brad smiles the same.
Mostly I think of Sandra. I blame her. I curse her in my head and wonder how I got here. I was a good bartender. I AM a good bartender. Look at all the things I remember. I remember all the small details and that’s what really sets me apart, you know.
I think of her smile when I asked her name and I feel an ache like I have seen it before. It feels nostalgic and safe. I know I am safe when she is here. I don’t like that I know that. Of all the things I have to quiz myself on, small tidbits about the people who matter most to me, I wish I didn’t know how much security I felt when she smiled.
*****
Things are bad and I no longer want to be here. This was my home and now I know it is wrong. It is broken. I am broken.
Sandra came in today and it was the best and worst day of my life.
She swept in with her normal urgency. She greeted me and stood beside the barstool normally occupied by Bruce. I try not to look at the handprints that mar the surface.
“You know, “ she laughs with feigned casualty, “I never got your name. How silly of me.”
I scoff because how ironic, she expected me to know hers and here she is, unaware of mine. People treat service industry workers in this country abysmally. If I had my way, I would dictate that everyone has to work in the service industry at least once, including Sandra. To be fair, she did work at an ice cream shop in high school so I believe that counts.
WHY DO I KNOW THIS I DON’T WANT TO KNOW THIS
Sandra looks at me expectantly, waiting for my answer. I could keep her hanging, awaiting my answer. Give her a taste of the exasperation that I felt all those days she kept harassing me but I don’t. I don’t want to see her frown. She has such a pretty smile.
“It’s…um. I don’t…”
WHY DON’T I KNOW THIS. I NEED TO KNOW THIS.
Sandra’s face contorts and she looks hopeful and afraid. I do not want her to be afraid.
My head hurts, it hurts so badly, I fear it’ll split in half. I drop to the ground, clutching at my head as if I am trying to keep it together any way I can. Sandra is suddenly beside me, when did she walk around the bar? She’s clutching my hands and squeezing them. The chain I have taken to pretending not to notice while always keeping it in my pocket glints from the floor where it dropped during my fall. Sandra picks it up, turns it over and hands it to me. To Sandy, Love Alice reads the small script on the chain, barely noticeable in its daintiness. It’s lovely.
“Your name…is Alice.” Sandra gently says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me closer. I love her perfume. It is the easiest gift to get her year after year. I always offer to buy something else but she turns that down. She likes my predictability, she says. I wonder if this is still predictable. I hope not.
Why do I know this? Because I am Alice Jones. Sandra is my wife. I am not a bartender. I am afraid.
I look about the room and it’s dingy. It has been used for awhile, I can tell. Drawings of people marked Bruce, Barbara and Patrick line the walls, done in crayon as if by a child. Bruce’s eyes are furiously scribbled over and Patrick’s mouth is slashed in red. Did I do this? What is this?
I glance back to Sandra, her face is the best thing I have ever seen.
“Where am I? Can I leave? I don’t want to be here.”
Sandra shakes her head sadly, “You need to get better. I miss you so much, Alice but this is a good sign. I come every day at 9am and each day you have gotten better. I need you at home with me, so badly. “
I mutely shake my head. I do not know. I am not a good bartender. I was never a bartender. I must have said the last part out loud and Sandra’s eyes filled with tears.
“No, darling, you are not. Though we differ on you never being a bartender. Your mother did like to drink a bit too much and you are the best person I know at mixing them.”
I did have a mother. I do not like her. Sandra does not like her either. I know this because I am Alice and I know who I am. I have a name. I exist.
I ask Sandra when I can come home and she begins to fill me in on how long I have been here, why I am here. She couldn’t get through to me before this. Everyday I declined knowing her and preferred the imagined barflies’ company. My heart breaks for what I have done to her and I hope that I never manage to do this again.
Visiting time is over. Sandra embraces me and promises me that I will be home soon. I know I will.
I lay my head down when she leaves, wracking my brain for any clue as to how I got here. I can’t remember anything past the fuzziness and nothing is clear. I begin to get a migraine and clench my eyes shut, willing it to leave.
I must doze off because when I awake, a man I have never seen before is standing before me. I begin to scream and he shakes his head before adopting a strained smile.
“Now, Alice, is that any way to greet your favorite customer?”
He advances closer, holding out a bottle.
“I know you’re thirsty, it’s so warm in here. You don’t wanna get dehydrated, do you? Might miss work.”
There’s a mocking tone that raises the hair on my arms and I feel the familiar tingling of fear in my spine as he begins to straighten his back, pushing the bottle closer.
“Drink it, Alice.”
His tone leaves little room for argument.
I drink it.
*****
So I have this problem. Every day this crazy lady bursts in my bar, demanding I tell her who I am. She’s so aggressive and mean, I am debating resorting to physical force. I may not be the biggest person but I know how to defend myself. Being a bartender isn’t easy. It takes work and I am the best there is.
I am a great bartender.