Socialism

***Foul language throughout***

Tiff left the bar and walked with Angie to their vehicles.

"You okay to drive?"

"I'm fine," Tiff said.

"Okay, take care, babe," Angie swiveled on her boots and strode back to her own pickup.

Tiff clicked her key fob and hopped up into her SUV. At only ten-thirty, it was awfully early to end the night. Angie was such a party pooper, always had to be up before dawn the next day. Tiff put the truck into gear and spun gravel in a half-circle before heading down the road to the Dutchie's, another local bar she went to often.

The parking lot at Dutchie's was about half full, so Angie walked into the front door and easily found a stool at the bar.

"Hey Tiff," the bartender said without smiling. Everybody Hurts by REM was playing.

"Monica," Tiff monotoned back.

"Bud Light?"

"Yes ma'am."

Monica gave Tiff a brief glare. "Comin' up."

Tiff had made this a habit—coming to Dutchie's after finishing drinks with Angie. She had had a few tussles with some of the other girls over the years, which was why Monica was not too keen on seeing Tiff hanging around.

“Dutchie’s trying out a new thing. Take this,” Monica shoved a plastic gadget in front of Tiff.

“Naw thanks. I’m just here to get plastered,” Tiff muttered.

“It’s a trivia game. You’d probably be good at it.”

“Why? Because I’m a worthless stripper?” Tiff frowned, still stuck what her boss had said earlier that day.

"What? No, because you’re good at trivia, bitch. College girl, right?” Monica spat her words.

“No, I’m not… but whatever, I'll try it. I like these things, usually," Tiff's words trailed off as she examined the tablet. Three big screens around the bar showed the top scores in history, which was a very short list since they had just started using the system this morning. Still, the score at the top said 560, which Tiff thought sounded like a lot.

Tiff entered her initials: TJK. It looked like there were currently three other players: WAE, FUC and TTT. She couldn't see around the corner of the room so couldn't judge the competition by their looks.

The first topic was Dogs. First question: What is the smallest recognized breed of dog?

The choices were:

A. Toy Poodle

B. Miniature Pinscher

C. Chihuahua

D. Dachshund

Tiff quickly chose (C) Chihuahua. The other players split among the wrong answers.

Within a few minutes and a handful of other dog-related questions later, Tiff had opened up a point canyon between her score and the other players. I guess that couple of months volunteering at the dog shelter did pay off, Tiff thought with a smile.

Topic change! The screen announced that the next topic would be: Europe.

Huh? Tiff was lifted out of her alcoholic fog for a minute. That’s weird, she thought. Kaylee was lost or hurt in Bulgaria and Angie wanted Tiff to go there with her. And now it shows up here in this trivia contest.

First question: What is the capital of Slovenia?

Out of the four choices, Tiff chose Ljubliana.

Correct.

Second question: The United Kingdom is made up of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and what other country?

Wales.

Correct.

Third question: Dracula’s fictional birthplace, Transylvania, is the actual name of a region in what country?

Romania.

Correct.

Fourth question: This Baltic city is considered The Metropolis of Art Nouveau.

Riga.

Correct.

Fifth question: Bulgaria has tourist beaches on which large sea?

Black Sea.

Correct.

Now there were Bulgarian questions? What was going on? Was Angie somehow programming this shit behind the scenes?

The section on Europe was twenty questions and not a single other player had more than five right answers. It seemed like Mount Miffsberg was not a bastion of knowledge of the European continent, Tiff thought. She had enjoyed learning about Europe for many years, back into her childhood. Tiff's mother had a passion for Europe, even though she had never visited, but she had gifted that passion down to her daughter.

After an hour, the screen let Tiffany know that the trivia contest was finished. Monica promptly came to where Tiff was sitting and dropped a hundred dollar bill onto the bar.

"What the fuck is this about?" Tiff was confused.

"You won, bitch. You won the trivia," Monica said over her shoulder as she walked away.

"Prize money? For fuck's sake," Tiff murmured, grinning. This would definitely help with rent. Was this an occupation that Tiff should take up? Winning trivia prize money in dive bars?

Tiff decided to take the money and run. She paid her tab with her credit card and sidled out the back door to the parking lot. Halfway to her SUV a group of the men from the bar called out to her. Uh-oh, Tiff thought. She quickened her pace, but the parking lot was a combination of dirt, mud and puddles, never great for Tiff's red suede heels.

"Baby, come back. We want to talk to you," a skinny kid called to Tiff.

Tiff had parked a bit too far from the door of the bar to make the quick exit she was hoping for. Realizing her error, she turned to face the three kids.

"What do you need, boys?" Tiff smiled brightly.

"We just need to see your pretty face, lil darlin'." The skinny kid had a nasally voice that was very irritating. He was wearing a Cleveland Cavaliers basketball jersey with a denim jacket over it and jeans and sneakers caked with dirt.

"Well here it is," Tiff smiled her widest smile, letting none of her fear show to these dingbats.

"Whoa, nice smile, baby," a younger kid's eye popped wide. These boys didn't even seem old enough to be drinking. Were they even twenty-one? They must have been because Monica was a stickler for nabbing underage drinkers since her husband was a cop.

"How about you come back into Dutchie's, baby?" the first skinny kid beckoned. "You could buy us some beers with all that money you got."

Oh shit. Shit shit shit. They must have seen Monica give her the hundred dollars. Now they wanted it. They weren’t just after smiles, Tiff thought.

"But I won that money, fair and square. Were you playing trivia?" Tiff questioned.

"We, uh, we were busy," the skinny kid said.

"You should prolly just give us the money," the younger kid welped. He had a desperate look in his eyes. He was very likely tweaking, Tiff thought.

"Why should I? Why do you deserve it instead of me?"

"We never said we deserved it. We just want it and we'll toss you around like a ragdoll until we get it." The boys were starting to surround her. There were only three of them and they were young, skinny and, boy were they stupid, even by Mount Miffsberg standards.

"So you want something you don't deserve? That's socialism, isn't it?" Tiff wagged a finger in the young boy's face, setting him back a step.

"Socialism?" the boys were mystified. The word caused them all to take a quick step back.

"Yeah, from each according to their ability, to each according to their need. That's what you're saying, right? Karl Marx and shit? It was my skill that earned this money, but you want it redistributed to you because of your need to, what, drink more beer? Correct? If I don't give you this, you'll beat me up and take it unlawfully. Like a goddamn communist."

"Communist?" the boys repeated.

“Re-dis-trib-yoo-tid,” another mumbled.

"Aren't you Berry, Maureen's son?" Tiff pointed at the youngest kid.

The kid’s eyes popped out of his head and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "How do you..."

"I don't know Maureen that well, but I'm pretty sure she isn't inclined towards socialism. Is that right, Berry?"

"Socialism," Berry repeated, as if the record player in his head had started to skip. These kids were obviously hypnotized by these big words, making their aggression drain out into the surrounding puddles. They had probably heard words like "socialism" and “communism” from their mothers or fathers and only in a negative way. The kids didn't know what it was, but they knew it was probably really bad.

"We ain’t socialism," the skinny kid said. "We don't do that. We just want your money, lady."

"Well, if I give you this money, and you didn't win it, that's fucking socialism. Are you a socialist?" She pointed a finger in Berry's face.

All the kids took another step back. Nobody in Mount Miffsberg wanted to be a socialist, whatever the fuck that was.

And another step back. They started murmuring to themselves and then started walking back to the neon light of the bar. Tiff turned back to her SUV and clicked the door locks, smiling to herself.

As she hit the remote, she heard rustling in the trees near her truck. Another bunch of dickheads? She listened carefully. More rustling, even less graceful. Did someone just fall in the woods?

Tiff inched closer. She heard a woman’s voice mumbling something about watermelon.

Watermelon?

“I like watermelon, but don’t most people like watermelon? I mean, thaz what I heard…”

The woman droned on as if she was talking to someone.

“Are you okay?” Tiff called out in the darkness. If it wasn’t one thing in this parking lot, it was another.

“Hey-ya,” the voice responded. “Just on the road to freedom over here,” and then collapsed into laughter.

A drunk. This woman must have left Dutchie’s and started walking around in the bush.

“Are you okay in there?” Tiff peered into the bushes.

“Tiff Knight, is that you?” a dirty female face poked out from between two tree trunks.

“Who’s asking?” Tiff had her guard up.

“Rosieeee,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Rosie? Rosie Schlapp?”

“Tiff! My favorite of all the favorites,” Rosie slurred.

Hardly, thought Tiff. They barely knew each other in high school and Tiff clearly remember a lot of fat jokes coming from Rosie directed at Tiff and a few other girls. Rosie was the mean girl. Not pretty, just mean. Now, here she was. The town drunk by reputation, and even worse close-up, thought Tiff.

“You should really get out of the bushes, babe,” Tiff held out her hand.

In an attempt to grab Tiffany’s hand, Rosie fell again. Tiff’s shoes were already a lost cause from the muddy walk through the parking lot, so no longer caring about keeping them clean, she walked gingerly into the underbrush, searching for Rosie’s hand to lift her up.

“You gotta be more careful, Rosie,” Tiff awkwardly started to lift Rosie’s bulk.

“Whaddyo know?”

Tiff hoisted Rosie's arm up on one of her shoulders and started to guide her towards the parking lot. Rosie’s feet alternated between dragging and walking.

Two taxis had parked near the doorway to Dutchie’s by that point, eager to get the late-night crowd, so Tiff asked the first driver to take Rosie home. “Can’t. I already have someone I’m waiting on.” Tiff huffed and went to the second driver, who, luckily, said he was available, so Tiff tumbled Rosie in the back seat.

“What’s the name of the road you live on, Rosie?” Tiff held Rosie’s face up.

“Roaaad? No… I need one more at Dutchie’s.” she said, trying to clumsily make her way back out of the taxi.

“You don’t need that. Road name, hun.”

“Up by the lake.”

“What fucking lake?”

“Deadfork…”

Tiff turned to the driver. “She’s on Deadfork Reservoir. There’s an old shack on the north side. You know it?”

The driver nodded and Tiff closed the door. Then the car stopped again after only ten feet. Tiff walked up to the driver’s window.

“She says she has no money. You paying?” the driver glared at Tiff.

Tiff handed over the hundred dollar bill. “Pay the fare with this, give yourself a ten dollar tip and then give her the change once you get her home.”

Tiff grimaced. That could have been a helpful hundred, for sure.

***

This short story is an excerpt from my upcoming book "The Bulgarian Bartender."