"Well first thing's first," the bartender looked at Mikey expectantly, rubbing his fingers and thumb together, which, to the boy might have well have been Latin. Not that he would admit it, though. Mikey was a trouper. He was going to see his way through a week in Jack Withers' life no matter what.
"Whatthingsfurst?" he slurred, sounding strange coming from such a young voice. As much as he hated to admit it, the two shots he'd had earlier at Jack's place had really thrown him for a loop. If hadn't been told that Jack visited the local pub, Johnny Bingo's, every night, he would have gone straight to bed to sleep it off. But instead, the trooper he was, he found himself sitting on a barstool, staring at a bartender who seemed to be experiencing itchy fingers.
"Money, Jack. Last time I gave you any credit you wandered off and I didn't collect for three months. You know the policy: cash up front."
The formerly itchy hand opened, and waited expectantly. Mikey fished out Jack's (his, he corrected himself) wallet, took out a ten, and slapped it on the bar. Soon a glass of whiskey on the rocks was before him. As he grabbed it and swung around on the barstool, he could hear the ice hitting the edges of the glass making an oddly soothing sound.
He smiled and took a sip of the drink, hoping it wouldn't cause him to cough as badly as it had earlier. While the fit that followed wasn't as dramatic (he was able to keep his mouth closed), it did have it's own drama (whiskey coming out of his nose).
Three ladies in their late twenties walked by him heading for an empty booth. They all were beautiful, tall, and dressed in just the way Jack described women that he liked: lots of legs, lots of tits. Mikey waited for them to get comfortable, then hopped down from the barstool and made his way to talk to them. He didn't have much experience picking up women, only once before had he played the game where a boy had to talk to a girl like this, so he started sweating already. He had guessed that Mr. Withers wasn't much of a ladies man, but that wouldn't stop him from giving it a go.
Arriving at the booth, he plopped down on an empty chair, spilling a bit of his whiskey in the meantime, and delivered his opening line.
"Hey ladies, can I buy anyone a drink?"
As if it had been practiced before, all three ladies rolled their eyes at the same time. "Jack," the middle one sighed, "How many times do we have to tell ya. We're not interested."
Mikey could feel himself blushing from the quick rejection, but realized that Jack wouldn't be so affected. He got up, grabbed his drink, and shot back at them over his shoulder as he headed back to his stool, "Yeah, well, thought I'd give you babes one more shot at paradise."
As he climbed back up the stool (literally) he could hear the girls laughing behind him. He felt a sense of shame and hopelessness wash over him that he had never experienced before. Was Jack, the angry bus driver, plagued by this type of rejection all the time? Mikey held the glass of whiskey with it's soothing ice sound in his hand and took another long, sad, drink.
While this was happening...
