Last Call Lounge Read Online Free

I first walked in, the kid in thrift store clothes. He was alone. His cell phone was in front of him and he kept picking it up like he was checking the time. He was thin and short and looked just like the rest of the hipsters except his hair was a black, spiky mullet that was either five years ahead of fashion or five years behind. An empty pint glass stood at the edge of his table.
    Mitchell approached, leaned a casual elbow on the bar in front of me. His eyes continued across the room as he spoke.
    “He’s been here all night,” Mitchell said. “Five hours and he hasn’t ordered anything since that first beer.”
    A couple girls walked past, whispered their goodnights. One had a beer in her purse, but Mitchell didn’t notice.
    “Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” 
    Mitchell pursed his mouth, nodded and tapped the bar with his middle finger, then loped down to wait on a last customer. At the cocktail table, Mullet-kid blew on his fingers, played with his hair. He leaned forward to look down the hall toward the bathroom, then back to eye the length of the bar.
    “You remember her?  The bartender with the hair?”  Tim creaked his head around toward me.
    “Yeah.”
    Time passed the way time passes in a bar.  The jukebox clunked a record into place.  Tracy laughed and told some customer to shut up.  I picked up my cigarettes and put them back down.
    The front door opened and a guy walked in, ID out. His name was Jeremy. He was in every week and I recognized him but I didn’t like him, so I carded him every time he walked past me. He was a small kid with a pinky face and a lot of blue button-down shirts. He was the kind of kid that would get really drunk really early, break something, and then tip extravagantly so you’d still be his friend. He kind of hopped on his toes as he waited for me to hand him his ID.
    “You’ll have to hurry,” I said. “We already called last call.” 
    “That’s cool,” Jeremy said. “I’m just meeting somebody.”  He stuck his license back in his wallet, brushed past me. He walked down the length of the bar and headed right into the bathroom. Mullet-kid stood, stretched, then followed Jeremy through the bathroom door. Mitchell stepped out from behind the bar, ready to follow them in, but I waved him back.
    “I got it,” I said.
    I stopped at the bench, right in front of Pancho, and pulled out my cigarettes. Anytime I thought there might be a fight, I lit a cigarette. I always did. Tracy turned on the house lights.
    “Two o’clock!” she yelled. “You got fifteen minutes to finish your drinks!” Mitchell was still standing at the gate to the bar. I took a deep drag off my cigarette, then yanked the bathroom door open.
    The men’s room was small and gray and always slightly wet. There was a toilet with no stall, a sink, and a urinal. One of the bulbs was burnt out and the light from the main room flooded in. Mullet-kid was in the process of handing Jeremy a baggie when he heard the door open. He spun, fast, and turned to stand in front of the urinal, his hands down in front of his crotch like he was pissing. Jeremy couldn’t think that fast. His only reaction was to turn and stare at me, his empty hand still out. I could feel my pulse in my neck again and I was gritting my teeth.
    “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I yelled.
    “Okay, okay,” Jeremy whined and ran past me, hands up by his shoulders, out the door. The door banged shut behind him and I turned back to Mullet-kid. He was still at the urinal. He flushed, pantomimed zipping up his fly, then ducked his head and tried to step around me, but I leaned between him and the door.
    “You didn’t wash your hands,” I said.
    He laughed a little nervous, “Oh,” turned back to the sink and ran his hands under the water. He pulled out a paper towel, dried his hands carefully, and tossed the towel into the trashcan. I took a drag off my cigarette and didn’t move from the door. He