The Bartender An older man sat on a lone barstool at The Hot Spot Lounge on Eighty-Fifth Street and Cottage Grove Avenue on the south side of Chicago on a cold evening. At a quarter after six, the place wasn't that crowded. And without the competition for drinks, the man was already working on his second rum and Coke.
Up above his head at opposite ends behind the bar were two small televsion sets. On the small set to the right side of him, the ESPN network was talking NBA basketball. The sports analysts were discussing who were getting the most votes for the All-Star game that year in Las Vegas. The TV hanging from the left side paraded the latest music video from Nelly. The young St. Louis native was rapping about buying expensive, designer "grillz" of thousand-dollar jewelry across his teeth, while the hot video vixens shook what their mommas gave them across the camera screens.
The man tilted his head back, his drink in his warm palm, staring like a horny vulture, imagining how he would have swooped down and gobbled up the enticing prey more than two decades ago. He was suspended in admiration while the hypnotic video played on. And when the video finally concluded its very obvious dick tease, the old man felt as if another young piece of him had faded away.
"Shit," he mumbled to himself. Damn, he wished he could be young and single again. Next month he was turning fifty; the big five-oh. And he had been married to the same woman for twenty-seven years.
He slammed the rest of his drink to the back of his throat; the drink never tasted that good to him anyway. He only utilized liquor to take his mind off of things for a few hours.
"Hey, ahÉ" He didn't know the girl's name; the new bartender. But she was the finest young thing inside the lounge. And while she had her back turned to him, filling a drink at the other end of the bar in her all-black uniform, the perfect curve of her ass made him think about the worst sins in the Bible. Why, on God's green earth, were those young girls all getting those wicked tattoos etched across their lower backs? They looked like damn stroke targets. How was an old and horny man supposed to act? How could he not think about mounting and humping that young, sexy-ass broad right there in back of the bar? He could even feel his soft tweed dress pants rising and tightening up under the table while he imagined it.
I can feel that tight, young pussy right now, all wet, hot and slippery, while I nail that wrinkle-free ass like Lady and the Tramp, he mulled. It was a good thing no one could read his thoughts in the room. If he continued to stare at the girl in his obvious horniness, he was afraid that someone -- or anyone -- could read his mind. He shook his head and looked away, but not before he watched the bartender bend over and grab another bottle from under the bar.
Oh, Lawd Jesus, help me! he told himself. I pray to God that somebody else helps me on this third drink instead of her. But he really didn't mean it. In fact, he couldn't wait to have that young bartender in his face again with them ripe titties of hers, pushing all up against the high bar table.
Before he knew it, she was back on her hustle. That's how they were when they were young, quick and vivacious.
"You want another one?" she asked him.
She slid back into view, appearing from nowhere, as if she had a pair of roller skates on. Her eye contact was dead on and intimate. Did she want his drink order, or did she want to order his drink?
"Yeah, ah, gimme another one."
He barely looked at her when he said it. He tried to be hasty about it and mean, too, simply to get the young girl out of his face. But it didn't work. She was still standing there, all smiling and shit.
"Rum and Coke?"
Her sweet young breath even smelled like peppermint, probably from a stick of gum.
Just pour the damn drink and get out of here, he wished he had the balls to tell her. Either that or show her his balls. But that would probably get him arrested, not to mention embarrassed, in front of the talkative folks who parlayed there.
"Who's your favorite baller?" the young bartender asked him while she mixed his third drink.
Why? I don't want to talk to you, he told himself. He had no idea what he might say if he spoke to her for too long. He might ask her what time she gets off, and if she had a ride home. And he might ask her if someone was waiting at home for her arrival. But those were perverted thoughts from an old man, weren't they? Or were they? Hell, Denzel Washington was fifty-something, and the young broads still considered him sexy.
The man gazed at the bartender's face with confident boldness. He locked in on her shiny brown eyes, her arched eyebrows, baby-smooth brown skin, Colgate white teeth, curly, jet-black baby hair, and he immediately felt like grabbing his pants to stop them from bursting wide open.
"I like, ah...Tim Duncan and the San Antonio Spurs," he answered her. "That's old school balling, you know. Most of these young cats don't know how to play like that. Everything is a dunk or a three-pointer."
She smiled. "I hear that from older men all the time."
That comment threw the man for a loop.
She hears that from older men all the time, he repeated to himself.
"Well, how old are you?" he couldn't help but ask her.
"Twenty-five."
And how many older guys do you know?
He didn't ask her that one. But just when he was about ready to feel comfortable in a conversation with the girl...
"Hold on, I'll be right back."
...she was off to fill another drink order at the other side of the bar, where she showed off that perfect ass and tattoo on her lower back.
Yeah, leave that damn girl alone, old man, he tried to warn himself.
But it was too late; he began to tell himself that he wasn't that old. Under the bar where he sat, he had living proof that he could still run with the younger dogs in the alley.
She ain't that damn young. And she act like she like me, he told himself. I hear that from older men all the time, he repeated again. I bet she do.
All of a sudden, he was anxious for the bartender to make her way back over to him to talk. He watched her do her magic, with her youthful energy, her rapid-fire moves, and her flexible young body.
Them damn young girls are a sin, just looking at them, he convinced himself. He began to imagine how flexible she could be, spread eagle across a nice warm hotel bed, smiling and grinning at him like an angel.
And I would be the devil, ready to burn off her pretty wings with my trident, he mused while he waited. Aw, hell, let somebody else fill their damn drinks. You ain't the only one in here, he found himself thinking impatiently. She was making his long, hard day at work worth the effort, without her even knowing it. Her zest and youth gave a weary old man something to come home and look forward to again.
"Hey, how you doin' tonight? You need anything?"
It was the head bartender sneaking up from his left. She was damn near as old as he was; you couldn't tell her hips from her gut, her gut from her titties, or her ass from her back. She was one big blob, reminding him of someone he knew too well back at home.
"Naw, I don't need nothing," he told her gruffly. He wasn't willing to let her destroy his fantasy. And he grew even more anxious for the newcomer to make it back over to him. It was getting late; a thicker work crowd was starting to pour in.
"Shit!" he grumbled out loud. He could already see where things were headed. The younger guys were flooding into the door, like hungry vultures. But maybe...just maybe...this girl didn't like younger guys that much. Maybe she liked old school men. So, he threw down his third glass of rum and Coke to get another refill from her when he saw her heading back in his direction.
She smiled and grabbed his glass.
"Be easy now," she told him. "You still have to drive home tonight, don't you?"
He grinned his ass off. "I'll be all right. I've been driving a long time, and who said I was even going home?"
She caught his drift. "Oh, now see, that's just bad."
"Bad meaning good, right?"
The head bartender read into his game and gave him the evil eye, but he ignored her ass and kept going.
"So ah, what team do you like?" he asked the young bartender, while she poured his fourth glass of rum and Coke.
"I like New York and Detroit. I'm an East Coast girl."
The old man broke out laughing. He told her, "Now I can see Detroit. They're playing old-school ball right now, too. But New York? Them boys ain't won nothing in years."
Nevertheless, he imagined her wearing a wet New York Knicks jersey with nothing on under it but her natural curves.
Down low, he could feel his pants growing tighter and vibrating from his stool. The young girl had him that excited. That's what they were capable of, driving an old man half crazy.
The next thing he knew -- right in the middle of his scandalous fun -- an unexpected friend walked up on him and dropped the bomb.
"Hey, what's going on, Harold? I figured I'd find you hanging out in here tonight. How are the wife and kids doing? Your youngest boy should be about ready for college now, right?"
Got' dammit! This motherfucking asshole! Shit! Big-mouthed motherfucker!
His boy downstairs went from strong and long to limp and wimp in a matter of seconds.
"They all right," he mumbled to his friend dejectedly. He didn't even want to look at the girl anymore. What was the point in looking at candy he couldn't have? His dreams were deferred yet again.
"So what'chu been up to, man?" his friend asked him. They were both nearing fifty.
Harold stood up. "I'll tell you when I come back. I gotta use the restroom."
"Big, stupid, big mouth," he mumbled as he moved along.
In the background, he overheard a group of younger guys who were ...
