The Man Who Spat on Everyone

1

The place was new to him. The smell of liquor and deodorant in the air was a unique blend wherever you went. Quite unlike hospitals that smelt of disinfectants everywhere, anywhere. The lighting was dim and the chatter civilized.

This was going to be his next hit.

Mr. Fizzler had driven 50 miles, crossed a state border, taken Friday off and abstained for 2 weeks just to get to where he was now at.
He had researched this place. Crowley’s Bar – near the river. Decent town, decent place, decent people. It was run by its owner. Compared to city life and it’s assholes by the bulk, this town was filled with how do you do’s. It was a fresh mark, he thought. To new beginnings…

The barman - the owner - stood opposite to where he was seated. He was near done shaking his martini. Shaken not stirred. As if that made a difference. It had to be the aesthetic value.

His martini was done and coming towards him. Time to make it shine, baby.

The barkeep, a man in his 40’s, smiled as he put down a napkin and the drink above it. Mr. Fizzler smiled back. Arms folded on the table; he took the straw into his mouth. After taking a single sip he stopped and made a face.

Slowly he spoke, “Isn’t mixed well”.

The barkeep turned to him. His eyes were genuine and his smile real. “I’m sorry buddy”, he asked calmly.

“It isn’t mixed well”, he said again. There was disdain on his face, plain to see. His eyes searched the barkeeps awaiting an answer.

“I’ll mix it for you again”, the barkeep replied with some mild confusion. He took the drink back to the other side, put it in the mixer and went shaking once more.

Fizzler watched him at his work. Would it be one time, two times, five times? How many? But he would get there, no worries. He had the entire night to play this out and the next two days would be rest and more rest.

The barkeep came back with his drink. A forced smile was on his lips but still polite nonetheless. He put in on the table and turned half way, waiting.

Fizzler hadn’t moved an inch. He bowed his head forward again and used his tongue to bring the straw to his lips. His mouth sucked the air in. Another sip. Then he let go.

He looked up to meet the barkeeps eyes. The barkeep was looking sideways but twisted when he felt his gaze on him from the corner of his eye.
“Isn’t mixed well”.

“What do you mean, buddy? If I mix it anymore, it’ll lose flavor.”

“Isn’t mixed well”, he shrugged.

Perhaps the barkeep took pity on him. Perhaps he thought him a man beaten by fate too much to even be further berated in a place like this. The reason didn’t matter. He took the drink back to the other side twice over now. It seemed like he was used to entertaining what he thought to be some sad abuse of power. Good for business though, thought Mr. Fizzler.

Two weeks was a long time to have had waited for this. He had been keeping his hydration proper since the day before yesterday. Fluids and more with some spicy chicken to keep the acid up. He had spicy fries too for the late lunch today. Didn’t want to fill himself up too much.
The barkeep, he watched, at his work. More of the shaking. More of the pouring. And there, done…

He came back towards him, a humble smile, and put the drink on the table. “Shouldn’t you use another napkin…”, Mr. Fizzler’s voice trailed off.
“Should I what?”

He met the barkeeps eyes and shaking his head, smiled. I am done for now. That smile said. The barkeep’s smile widened. I get it.
Another customer called for his attention. The barkeep made for his right. The man had chosen the middle bench for himself.

2

Fizzler didn’t touch his drink for a while. His head on his folded arms, he spent some time watching it. The colours were nice and there was just something about the way the straw hung limp from the glass.

Time passed and soon midnight had hit; the old clock told him so. For a town like this that meant 3’o clock. The chatter was dying down and the silent losers were coming in. Few as they were they kept mostly to themselves.

The barkeep had been eyeing him from time to time. He would look at him going here and there but pretend otherwise. Now he was pouring a drink for one customer; now getting a glass of beer full for another.

He came back eventually though. Stared to dry out the glasses in front of him. He was looking at his work but he was watching Mr. Fizzler. Intently at that. Almost as if the world was running out of time.

Little did he know Mr. Fizzler had been staring right at him. Looking at his eyes. Waiting for him to look back; to make last contact.
He finally did. A little jerk up, almost down again but then he stood fixed. The barkeep couldn’t take his eyes away. Something held them there.
Fizzler took the drink into his mouth once more. He elongated his mouth and heaved his chest. One long swoop and he had downed almost the entire drink. An audible gulp and release followed. Though the eyes stayed where they were.

Neither the barkeep took them away nor Fizzler. The former had stopped wiping. Cloth in glass he stood transfixed.
Fizzler motioned him forward with his head. A simple nod he gave and the barkeep couldn’t resist. He mayhaps didn’t even think at all. His face grew weary with every step forward. His eyes looked heavy.

One, two, three, four; he reached the man behind the table. Hands unmoved and face without much emotion, he breathed through a needle prick in his mouth.

Mr. Fizzler took his crossed arms and put them to the side. Casually he spoke once more, “Wasn’t mixed well”.

“What do you mean buddy? It can’t get better than that”, A little laugh followed. The magic was giving way to disbelief.
“But it wasn’t mixed well”

“Buddy, there is nothing left to mix now is there?”. Still calm and friendly-neighbour like he continued, “maybe there is something else that I can get for you?”

“Did you shake it side to side?”

“I know how to shake a drink. I didn’t open up shop yesterday.”

“How many martinis have you mixed before?”

“Buddy, I think it’s time you paid up and went your way. You don’t seem to be from around town. Must be a long drive. Are you staying here somewhere?”

“Can I see your martini shaker?”

“The fuck is your problem buddy”. It sounded like those words came out almost regretfully. As if it cost the barkeep a month’s rent for each one.
There it was. Mr. Fizzler slowly lifted himself up.

There it is. The man hath mocketh him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. All he wanted, all he asked for was a well shaken martini. Yet life is full of people who don’t understand. People like that lady from the coffee shop on 312 lane who touched his cup on the top and people like that old guard who asked him for the receipt of his shopping. And people like this man who wouldn’t shake his martini. All hypocrites and deceivers.

There was a time before when things ran into him but now, he was the one running into them. Turning the tables. How many times was he supposed to stand for it? Plus, it was easier this way. Giving a punch is easier than taking one, isn’t it, especially if it is already coming your way.
The barkeep watched him rise. No one else paid attention to them. Everyone drowning themselves in their drinks and their devices.

The scene seemed to be moving nowhere. The barkeep -in his peripheral vision - could make out strange movement at the man’s neck.

Mr. Fizzler sucked at his throat. The inside of his mouth felt that it was filling up nice and good. Some leaked from the sides of his lips. His jaw was trembling but his body was steady. Like a dragon about to spew flame he loaded his face back and then forward he roared…

“Ack Thuu!”

His art was near as perfect as it could be. Round and round went those fluids. Like ropes of yin and yang they circled each other, building momentum. And then, splash…

The barkeeps face was filled with utter terror – among other things. What had just happened? Why was the man not apologizing? Did he do this on purpose? Why was he so still? Should he say something?

Unprecedented events begged unprecedented questions.

The contorted face showed disgust, paralyzed by overwhelming thoughts. His hands were shaking. His eyes were searching but not too far. They kept moving from one to the other eye of the man he was looking at.

A shadow of a smile showed on Mr. Fizzler’s lips. A flex to one side. Nothing more. He reached into his jacket and picked out some cash. No wallet. No counting. He just threw in on the table never breaking contact.

Nonchalantly he slipped towards the back. He turned around when he was half way out the door. It wasn’t far from where he was sitting. Just a dozen steps or so behind it. The last look he saw on the barkeep’s face was of mercy and defeat; a feeling he will not forget so soon.

Outside the chill air bit into him. He put his hands in his pockets and walked towards his car. Tomorrow was Saturday and there would be a nice meal and rest in it for him. There was a show called “Band of Brothers” that was on his list. And maybe ice cream. He had sudden craving for that. When it melted, it tasted like flavoured and sweetened saliva that was going the wrong way up. For today however, his work was done.

Mr. Fizzler drove back home on the interstate I-95 while the moon at his back followed.