Authors: Michael Malflic
This was Vince’s idea of reality, The Devils Shit were what his dad called
Ju
Ju
Beans, a candy that he and his friends would get at the movie theaters when they were kids. He loved the story as a kid and remembers that he was always reprimanded by his with, “you can’t call them that anymore” And “don’t you bring that evil one’s name into my house”. A shot with a beer in it is simply a boiler maker, a favorite among the hard drinking blue collar workers in his Baltimore neighborhood as a kid. Just for the record a beer (typically a St.
Paulie
Girl) with the neck drank out of it and filled with Vodka is a Russian shotgun. See in his own twisted sense of reality, he hoped that his patron will so like his drink that later his friends will be regaled with the story of the drink and one day perhaps they would walk into a bar, looking around to make sure it was safe and then quietly try to order a The
Devil’s Shit to drink. That was the
joke,
it was the ultimate goal, until now there was no such drink as The Devil’s Shit.
“Hey this is great! What’s in it?”
“Beer, a shot glass and two ounces
of black
Vodka and a pinch of yeast.”
In what seemed to be an eternity to Steve he was caught up, so Vince poured himself a Coke handed a fist full of tips to the slightly embarrassed bartender and walked around the bar to sit back down. Glancing at the door he saw a woman walk in dressed in a gray skirt and white sweater, at first glance it appeared she has had a few too many already and thinking to himself perhaps it would be amusing to have a bit of fun with the little debutant, a some blatant flirting, maybe a touch of verbal jousting and then see if she is insulted by his typical manner. “Vince…You see her?”
“Yeah Stevie, I do…and those high fuck me dirty heels.”
“Just part of the look to go with the clothes and that long dark hair screams high fashion not down and dirty action.”
“Vincent
be
nice.” To which Steve’s ears were met with Vincent’s voice “Blow me, cum stain”
Vincent on the surface was a parody of himself, so cliché that he looked like he fell out of a bad gangster movie. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, a classic
roman
nose, and square jaw. Despite the fake pleasantness, and easy smile his physical presence is that of a man not to be messed with, his hands seemingly as large as cinder block, huge bulging forearms larger than most men’s calves, a thick bull like neck and an almost ape like back based on the powerful look that it exudes. Loud and lewd, without a doubt and while capable of great force and if need be violent, but he was in truth a very gentle soul. He was a swordsman by his own admission and loved to keep the company of women more than most men. With his rugged good looks and strong physical presence he could keep the company of the social elite and the beautiful people, but rather he preferred his company to be a little more real. If a man’s sexuality can be summed up by the type of porn they read then the classic beauties found in the pages of Hugh Heffner’s Playboy while alluring, were not his first choice. The articles and high art of Playboy didn’t really do it for him. Larry Flint with his less than perfect and slightly more trashy models spoke his language. Some people may like looking at an expensive
car they can never afford, but many more would rather push one that was moderately more attainable to it limits. He felt the same way about his lovers, why have a Ferrari in the garage that you can’t drive very often and kills you with maintenance? In truth the women he liked are less American muscle and more like Porsche’s, fast and exotic, rare but not so much so that you still could see one every day, also unlike a Ferrari who has a 25,000 maintenance bill every 15,000 miles a Porsche’s service requirements aren’t quite so demanding, which means if you trade them in often enough the maintenance wasn’t too bad. Translating back into the human form he’d take an above average looking sexually aware girl over a stunningly beautiful one with all the taboo’s and pretenses any day. His pleasure reading was trashy and tired graphic porn mixed in with the sports section and the weekend section of the Wall Street Journal. Vincent had made it financially so he can live his life his way and everyone else can just fuck off if they didn’t like it.
As our little debutant approached the bar, he hummed to himself the opening verse of Easy Meat by Frank Zappa. “See through blouse and a tiny little dress her manner indiscreet.”
She was drunk, and he was still drinking cola. But in the world today one never knows who they will meet if they wonder out of the house.
Nadrea
headed toward the bar for the open space between the end that Vincent was guarding and the revelers in the middle enjoying a Sunday out on the town. She walked with an elegance rarely found in inebriated patrons, she settled in the middle of the open space. Before Vincent could say a word, she flagged Steve and ordered a Chocolate-
tini
and “Whatever the guy on the end is drinking,” turning to the end of the bar.
“Are you going to say something or introduce yourself? Or are you just going sit there and look at me like a schmuck?”
“He’s drinking a Coke, Miss.”
“So put some fucking rum in it, I don’t feel like drinking alone.” Steve looked over at Vincent.
“Grey Goose Martini if the girl won’t drink alone”
Now, here was a woman who despite her level of intoxication knew she was eye candy when she walked across the room. Perhaps she was a little more self aware than her attire minus the heels seemed.
“So, what were you thinking?” she asked looking to Vincent.
“I was thinking I typically don’t drink with strangers, only close friends.”
Nadrea
wasn’t biting and it wasn’t the intention of her question to know what he was thinking now but as she walked across the room.
“No, what were you thinking as I walked to my chair.”
“Ok, fine you really want to know? I was trying to figure out if you’d be a decent lay or not, the shoes say yes, but the high end librarian look is sending mixed signals.”
“So in the interest
of being
direct which one is it?”
she
was stunned, a man who in the second sentence was open enough to say what he really thought, no matter how impolite. This one was interesting she thought to herself.
“Dinner with Daddy.”
“Dinner with daddy, yeah that makes me feel better. What the hell is dinner with daddy suppose to mean?”
Ahh
, he was as playful as she was, not backing down but letting her walk into her own path of answers.
“It means my father is in town and I couldn’t dress like a slut.”
“Oh, so daddy doesn’t like sluts?” he said finding this both unimaginable and ironic. He first of all couldn’t believe that there was a man alive who wouldn’t like sluts.
Slutiness
varied by degrees, there are people, men and women who were sluts in the traditional sense of the word, but then again there were people who were slutty in the confines of their own relationships, then there was the rest of the world
, prudes
. No one wanted a prude…did they? Did she in an indirect way refer to herself as being a slut?
“Is it that Daddy doesn’t like sluts or is it he that he doesn’t like the idea of his little princess being one?”
“Nice, are you always like this?”
she
asked.
“Yeah, pretty much, it works for me. I can pretend to be a decent respectful person if you like.”
“So, to answer you first question I am a lot of fun… for question two, I don’t know what daddy likes or not but me as a sex kitten is probably low on his list of likes.”
As the drinks arrive, “Oh so the daddy thing wasn’t bullshit?” Vincent said sipping his drink.
“No the daddy thing wasn’t bullshit.” She answered pausing to take a big gulp of her
Choclate-tini
.
“He’s in from New
York,
I had to do the dinner thing.”
This was the point where
Nadrea
began to wonder why she was telling a total stranger about her father. What could he be thinking? A foul mouthed slightly drunk woman walked into a bar alone on a Sunday night, engaged in a deranged conversation and then moved back to the consumption of more vodka. For Vince life was never that complicated, in his mind she was attractive, had a bad relationship with her father or a great one since they must have been out getting smashed together. No one with any modicum of control would get completely blitzed in front of their parent and then walk into a bar alone. Sense was not always something associated with
Nadrera
, but it is far too early to know that. Caution, carefully picking the situations she put herself into,
survival and street smarts yes, but sense and control were not part of her world.
“Vincent.”
She looks up from her glass almost mystified.
“My name is Vincent. And you are… See this is where you insert a name, whether it’s really yours or not is totally up to you.”
“
Ahh
, the name exchange.
Vincent, are you the type of guy who has girls give them a fake name often?” But without pausing for an answer “Mine happens to be
Nadrea
, or is it?”
He loved her sarcasm, her name could have been Satan and it would have been fine with him, she was so damn entertaining.
“Works for me as long as you remember to answer to it.”
Taking another big gulp and holding the glass up so even Steve couldn’t miss it she waved two fingers at him, a sign that she thought was the international symbol for two more, but Steve while a nice guy was a subpar bartender and waved back smiling. Using what he thought to be the peace sign, not an order for two more drinks.
Vincent catches the exchange, “Stevie.”
“Yeah Vince, now what” Steve called back.
“The lady wasn’t trying to make friends, she was ordering two more drinks, but I’m sure she’s glad you like her and waved back. But get her two more fucking drinks,” Steve was brilliant but he had no common sense, in fact it was actually amazing that he hadn’t yet been killed by a passing vehicle while crossing the street on any given day. He had a great analytical mind and that was his problem.
Steve took up the night job not for the money, but for the social interaction. He was trying to find a life, some friends and if he was ultimately lucky, someone to fall in love with. Bartenders however rarely meet interesting people who were displaying their analytical brilliance, their intellectual prowess or their obscure knowledge of statistical probabilities. Instead he gets the beautiful people, the movers and shakers letting loose or doing deals to whom a bartender is just the help and not a peer.
The two drinks show up, a chocolate for her and his vodka.
Nadrea
just rolled her eyes. “Steve when you get a chance
make
her another one so she won’t have to wait if we get busy.” Steve
just then realized the lady wanted two more and Vince hadn’t really needed another. So he scrambled off to make the drink.
“Nice guy, really brilliant but he doesn’t get it.” He stated in general, not to anyone in particular but she was listening.
“So you used your real name, I’m impressed.”
“Nah, I tell everyone the same thing, my real name is different,
so
in a way my life is a lie, all of it.”
Stunned she just sat back waiting for him to continue, he paused, smiled and continued “My real name is
Vinchenso
”
“What kind of name is that?” she asked thinking she already knows the answer.
“It’s Italian, for Vincent. So there you caught me. I lied to you about my name.” Smiling like a cat who just ate the lady of the house’s canary. “What about you Nod?
Real name?”
No one but her father called her Nod, he even said it with the long O sound that daddy’s used for as long as she could remember. “Life’s too short to remember fake names.” There’s a bustle at the door, but she was lost in her own world and Vince’s dark eyes. “OK Vin, since you’ve already taken to shorting my name, do you meet many girls in bars?”
“Sure, I meet them every chance I get, Bars, restrooms, hotel rooms and the women’s prisons if they’d let me in. I’m fairly shallow and not that bright.”
“Perfect” she said laughing.
“ I’m
perfectly shallow and extremely brilliant.”