Where does your father do his barnacles? Part 13

Our bar-back was a showman. He pulled the lever to drafts like a roughneck shuts off a valve and he cut and chopped the foam so that the percussive ring of good, hard wood cut through the air to remind everyone that right there, in the room where we all recreated, things were being made, work was being done, their good time was a byproduct of labor, flexed muscle and short, precise movements. The bar-backs brought individual faces and a personal touch to the patron’s experience, but operated their own arms and legs to the higher centralized order of the full staff organism.

“Four pints please.” Ordered Soroush.

“Four doubles. Green Spot. Neat.” I ordered and Soroush shook his head with a smile. The bar-back seemingly juggled eight glasses onto the bar while a barmaid with a strong jaw crossed his path. She reached through the swirl of glass plucked five used glasses from the counter with a single clinque. She flipped the glasses under the bar where she disappeared herself as our dranks were laid before us.

We drank our fill while the band was at its loudest. We could only speak loud enough to cheers or sing along. Soroush splashed a few grams of phenibut in shots of tequila when Steve wasn’t looking. The salt and lime hid the bitter taste of the Russian depressant and we all laughed at Steve for being unknowingly drugged for the third time on three days.

On his way back from taking a piss in the alley Burger must have bummed a cigarette from one of three young Australian blondes. They were laughing like birds in a dumpster as they all came back inside and Burger waved Steve over to the bar.

Soroush looked up from his phone in time to throw out a salute to Steve. “Later, Moneybags!”

“Hey the man always pays me back. The exchange rate between charm and pussy in a market like this turns makes buying a few drinks a pretty damn good deal.”

Soroush couldn’t deny the truth of what he’d just heard. “You white devils deserve each other.” He said going back to flipping through faces on a phone. “I said you’re the devil!” He kicked my shin just after I’d caught eyes with a woman with golden-olive skin. “Damn it, Rooshbag!”

“Fuck you, devil!”

“I was trying to lock eyes you drunk Indian.”

“Oh, my bad, who?” He looked around and I snapped my fingers to get him back. “Don’t look around. With any luck I’ll get her over here the next time she looks.”

“Luck is bullshit. You need to increase your odds. You need a shotgun method.” He wiggled his phone at me like he was trying to tempt a cat into pouncing it.

“Isn’t cowshit sacred to you? She’s looked over twice, I’d say my odds are good.”

“Go talk to her.”

“In a minute. How’s your FaceFuck app?”

“Too many prostitutes, but one of my prospects recommended another app that looks more promising. Three ongoing prospects at the moment.”

“Indians?” Sourosh figured out a long time ago that he easily passed as looking Indian and his impressive education that he outlined in his profile made him an ideal match for any young Indian girls who wanted to party with westerners without feeling guilty explaining to their parents any pictures they took with white people.

“You know it, dayvil-bruddeh.” He cheersed my glass and we both finished our pints as Steve set two full glasses down before us.