Drinking Irish

This Urban Fantasy very short story was written in 2010, as a part of an effort by a web/TV show called Bar Karma to solicit story/show ideas

The bar door swings open, admitting a tall dark haired woman, dressed for the boardroom in a gray pinstriped suit, oxford and necktie done up to a private school best, leather messenger bag held in one hand with the shoulder strap dangling. Her long legs scissor across the floor, the audible tock of her heels marking cadence as she briskly moves to a stool and mounts it, crossing her legs as a dancer might.

The Bar Keep’s mouth curls hesitantly as he watches her, his hand continuing to wipe at the bar-top with a rag. The woman does not look at him, but has her bag open on her lap and peers into its depths. She plunges a hand in, removes a tablet computer and places it on the bar-top. She touches the power switch on the tablet, and the screen dutifully lights up.

“Ah, welcome,” begins the Bar Keep, eyebrows lifting , hands absently folding the cleaning rag. “What’ll you have today…?”

He is ignored.

The woman gropes again into her satchel, and comes up with a thick irregular chunk of sod – a thatch of green grass atop a wide layer of soil, with white curled roots hanging from the bottom. She places it on the bar-top next to the tablet, moves her hands to the side and brushes them together over the bar, dropping crumbs of dirt.

“Ah, hey. This is a clean place we’re running here…” the Bar Keep makes a vague gesture with the rag in one hand. “I, I mean we, we really can’t have… ” He is getting no response. “Hello? Madam?”

The woman’s attention is on the tablet. She uses an index finger to navigate to and open a folder of digital images. She begins to flick horizontally through the images, a slide-show of male and female faces. She stops at a male face and pauses. She frowns, and then angles a quick, strong exhalation upwards, pushing hair out of her eyes. Twisting slightly in her seat, she uses the fingers of both hands to rip up pieces of grass from the sod. She wriggles the fingers over the top of the tablet, and shreds of green tumble down, making an irregular coat on the glowing surface of the screen.

The Bar Keep is fixated on the expanding landscaping work being performed. His eyes shift left and right, to surreptitiously identify if other patrons have picked up on this arboreal activity, or if they have, in fact, themselves brought sections of loam to keep occupied as they imbibe.

“Whiskey.” The woman looks up, briefly, her voice crisp. “Irish, please. In a shot glass.”

“But…what are you…”

The woman looks up again, this time holding his eyes. She raises an eyebrow and slightly cocks her head.

“Irish whiskey. Coming right up.” The Bar Keep brings a glass up from behind the bar and blows into it. The woman winces. He places the glass down, selects an appropriate bottle from the myriad behind him, and pours.

The woman reaches out to seize the glass and takes a sip; she places it back on the bar top. Her long, painted fingers push the glass back towards the Bar Keep. “Surely, there’s some Irish on that wall better than this… stuff.”

One corner of the Bar Keep’s mouth turns down, and his left eye twitches. He picks up the shot glass and empties it down his own throat, meeting the woman’s gaze the entire time. “Surely,” he grates out. He bends his knees, going to a cabinet under the bar. He knocks once, knocks twice. The sound of a lock disengaging comes clearly. He slides the cabinet door open and says, slowly, “Irish. Top shelf.” After a moment, a grey three-fingered alien hand extends out of the cabinet, holding a dusty bottle. “Thank you,” the Bar Keep enunciates, taking the bottle and watching the arm draw back. He slowly closes the cabinet door and the lock re-engages.

“Where were we?” the Bar Keep says as he rises, hand working at the seal on the bottle. He puts down another shot glass, finally gets the bottle open, and pours a shot.

Without comment, the woman gracefully raises the glass and sips. She nods, “That’s it.”

She carefully pours the whiskey onto the tablet computer. The tablet begins to smoke. The screen undulates beneath its covering of green. The grass shreds begin to blow about, rising on a spiral of wind and expanding into a zephyrous curtain of flying grass that encompasses the woman and blocks her from view. The whipping greenery slows, eventually, and then the effect ceases, and grass drifts down to litter the floor surrounding the stool.

There is a man in a gray suit seated on the stool, the same man from the digital image on the tablet computer. He scowls, reaches down and removes three-inch heels from his man-feet. He raises his head and looks up.

The Bar Keep is staring at him, random flecks of grass stuck to his face, in his hair, and on his bare forearms and hands.

There is a pause.

The suited man opens his mouth to speak. The Bar Keep arrests this effort with a raised hand.

“Welcome. Welcome to our little watering hole.” The Bar Keep smiles slightly. “Are you drinking Irish, also…?”