The Wrong Place for a Drink

The Wrong Place for a Drink

"Are you sure this is a good place to stop for the night?" The wind snatches away my voice.

"Yeah I'm sure, c'mon, do you see anywhere else nearby?" Derry raises an eyebrow at me, and I puff a sigh that he can't hear. 

We pull our cycles off the highway and into the halfway filled parking lot. Tearing our helmets off, I try to avoid eye contact with my older brother as he leads the way into the bar, music pumping out of the sightly ajar door. 

Inside, regular bar sounds fill the air—pool cues ram billiard balls into their designated pockets, glasses slam against tabletops, men laugh heartily as women serving food and drinks give them a smile and a wink—as we make our way to the main bar.

Derry swings himself into a chair and I follow suit, resting my chin on my folded arms that are laying on the bar top. 

"Sit up straight Chet," Derry mutters, nudging my arms off of the counter with his elbow. 

I glare, but he ignores me, calling for the bartender, a large beefy man with tattoos that look minuscule on his large biceps. 

"How can I help you boys?" he thunders, whipping a notepad out from his apron pocket.

"I'll take a beer, maybe two," Derry says, then, after looking over at me, "And a couple baskets of fries. With ketchup,"

The beefy bartender nods, turning around and heading back to the kitchen without a word.

"So, you wanna tell me what on God's green earth possessed you to leave our hotel in the middle of the night without so much as a word to your older brother?"

I shrug, putting my elbows on the bar, which Derry promptly shoves off. "Look here, kid, I've about had it with your whole snotty silent routine," he points a finger dangerously close to my face.

I open my mouth to finally tell him what's on my mind, but the beefy bartender returns, sliding two baskets of fries and two root beers towards us, with a bottle of ketchup following a second later.

Derry frowns. "Hey, what's with the root beers?"

Beefy turns back around. "You said two beers didn't you?"

"Look here wise guy, I'm not in the mood for jokes tonight. Now I want two beers, actual beers,"

Beefy walks up to us. "Sorry man, but we don't serve alcohol here,"

Derry splutters. "What do you mean? You're a bar for Christ's sake!"

The bartender points to a sign above our heads. It reads 

"DRY BAR, SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE." 

Underneath that, in parenthesis, it says, 

"NOT REALLY SORRY, BECAUSE ANY IDIOT CAN READ A SIGN BEFORE HE TRIES TO ORDER A DRINK,"

When Derry doesn't say anything, his mouth hanging open, Beefy shrugs and walks away, whistling. 

I start drowning my fries in ketchup, shoving two handfuls in my mouth before Derry speaks again. 

"Of all places to stop after picking my brother up from a holding cell in a town four hours away from home. All I want is a good drink,"

I swirl my root beer under his nose, ducking as he throws a half-hearted punch. 

We both grin for a second, then seem to remember that we’re supposed to be mad at each other. We turn back to the bar, where I continue to eat and Derry continues to stare disgustedly at the root beer in front of him. 

The silence ensues for a few more minutes, where I polish off my fries and half of Derry’s, trying to work up the courage to tell him the truth.

Just as I’m thinking that I’ve got an idea in my head, Derry turns to me and every thought of lying to him fades away from me once I glance at his expression. 

“Please Chet, tell me why you ran away,” he asks, his face crestfallen, no longer from the sad loss of his beer. 

I sigh. “Jared called me from the hotel phone.” Immediately Derry sits up straighter in his seat. 

“Jared said that he needed to get out of town, that it was either tonight or never, since you always go to sleep early and his parents were out." Derry glares at that part. "And that he needed my help,”

“So?” Derry presses, his voice giving away his dislike for my best friend. 

“So he hitched and met me halfway, and…” Here I falter, but swallow and continue when Derry gives me a look. “And we went to the movies with Eileen and Henrietta,”

“So you snuck out to go to the movies with two girls you and Jared met two days ago. Also, what do you mean now or never, Jared just got home yesterday and those girls are just like every other girl within a thousand square miles of everywhere,” Derry drains half his root beer, rubbing his temples. “How exactly did you two knuckleheads get arrested?”

I bury my head to avoid his undoubtedly forthcoming glare. “We were trying to get into a certain kind of movie,” I look up, and Derry is giving me the glare I knew I was coming, so I bury my head back down. “So, Jared gave us some I.D.s he made, but they were kinda crappy so we got kicked out before the trailers even started.” 

Derry slaps the bar for another root beer. “Why did we have to come to the one place in the whole world that doesn’t serve alcohol on the one night I have to listen to my idiot brother tell a stupid story?” He asks no one in particular as he shoves a straw into the fresh root beer. “Well go on,” He says to me, waving his hand. “Also, none of this explains why you were in a holding cell at two a.m., so you better be getting to that part,”

“Trust me, I’m getting there.” I say, eating the last fry. “Because after we got kicked out of the movies, Jared thought it would be a good idea to try and steal some candy on the way out, and the kid running the counter called the cops. Obviously the girls hightailed it out of there before the cops could come take Jared, so it was just the two of us standing outside like idiots.”

“Because you are idiots,” Derry points out, ever the helpful older brother. 

“Well, Jared’s the idiot, because as soon as the cops showed up, they busted him for the fake I.D.s that they found when they patted us down. They were gonna let us off with a warning, but Jared was getting heated—probably because the cops were making fun of his crappy I.D.s—so he decided he was gonna fight one of them,”

An avalanche of root beer spittle splatters against my face. “That’s nasty!” I yell, using my jacket sleeve to sop up the droplets running down my face. 

Derry ignores me. “That idiot thought he could fight a cop?” He yells back. 

“Well, you’re the one who said he was an idiot, so what’d you expect?” I say, realizing that I had risen out of my seat. 

“Just calm yourself down and finish the story,” Derry mutters, pushing be back onto the barstool by pushing his hand down on my shoulder. 

“Well,” I say once I was back in my seat, “Jared just started laying into this guy, who was probables about your age, and I decide to try and break them up. But the other cop, who was calling for backup on his radio thought I was trying to get in on the fighting and slammed me up against the wall. Almost knocked me out,”

Derry’s eyes flash. “Guy sounds like an idiot. If you had told me back at the station who it was I could’ve beat his hide. Picking on a kid like that, and as a cop too.” Derry shakes his head, like a stupid cop is what’s really the problem with my story. 

“Can I continue?” I ask over Derry’s muttering and cursing, and he nods, taking large sips of his root beer.

“Ok, well, obviously Jared’s fighting got us arrested, so the backup that cop was calling for put us in a holding cell and called Jared’s parents and you, you picked me and my motorcycle up, and now we’re here,” I throw my hands up, as if Derry wasn’t already aware of where we were. 

“So?” I ask, tilting my head towards him. 

“So what?” He replies, waving the bartender over. 

“So are you mad at me still?”

Derry looks at the check the bartender passes him and pays in cash, turning to me while he waits for change. “Well, most of my anger is now turned to the fact that you’re friends with the dumbest person I’ve ever met,”

“So?” I ask again.

He sighs, sliding the empty root beer glass away from him. “So no, I’m not mad. But,” he points his finger at me again, which meant I was in for a scolding. “If you ever think that sneaking out is a good idea again, I’ll tear your hide up so bad that you won’t be able to sit on your motorcycle long enough to ride away,”

I take the warning easily, since Derry only followed through with a threat when he gave a silent threat, as the beefy bartender returned for the last time to give Derry the change and have him sign the receipt. As Derry hands the check back, the bartender looks over it curiously, then at Derry, then back at the check, as if he was trying to remember something. 

Suddenly, a grin spreads across his face, which was slightly unsettling on a man that large. “Well I’ll be. Derrick Holden. Never thought you’d ever come back to this town,” he slaps Derry on the shoulder like they’re old friends. 

“Do I know you?” Derry asks quizzically, his eyes scanning the bartender up and down. 

“You probably don’t remember me, but I sure remember you.”

Derry doesn’t respond, still looking confused. 

“Come on man, about eight years ago, you would’ve been about nineteen,”

“Oh,” Derry says sheepishly. “That,”

“What?” I ask eagerly, hanging onto the edge of the bar. 

“Well,” beefy bartender says, still smiling. “About eight years ago, your brother here, I’m assuming you two are brothers, and some of his friends came storming in here and convinced me that they were twenty-one. Back then we served alcohol, and they drank us out of almost everything we had. Once they had their fill, they started trashing the place, and we had to call the police, because they were either gonna kill themselves or somebody else,”

I grin, trying to imagine my hard-headed older brother drunk off his gourd. 

The bartender continues. “We had to call the police, and your father ended up here as well, and he came right over and got up in my face, yelling that I was stupid for giving a bunch of teenaged kids more alcohol than most grown men could handle. When I told him I thought they were twenty-one, I thought he was gonna kill me. He had murder in his eyes,” he stares off into space for a moment, and Derry and I share a look, both of us seeming to silently decide that we shouldn’t tell this guy our dad died a couple years ago. 

“Well, this has been a fun story but I really think we should go,” Derry says suddenly, as the bartender opens his mouth to speak again. 

“Oh no you don’t,” the bartender says merrily, slamming Derry back into his seat with little to no effort. “Your brother here is trying to make me leave out the best part.”

“There’s a better part?” I ask, a little to happily based on Derry’s sour look. 

“Oh you bet. You see here, your brother got his hide beat off him right here in the bar because he apparently snuck out, and everyone he was with was either so drunk or so angry that they were causing a ruckus, so we had to throw everybody out. And ever since that night, the owner turned this place into a dry bar, so nobody can cause that much alcohol-induced trouble again,”

I snort, slapping a hand over my mouth when I see Derry clinch his fist.

“I recognized his signature, he and your old man had to sign something for the owner about all the damage they’d caused,” the bartender laughs, clapping Derry on the back. Well, I better get back to it, but it was nice seeing you again Derrick.”

“Yeah,” Derry whispers under his breath, shoving his wallet back into his jeans pocket. “Nice seeing you too,” He looks up at me as the bartender finally walks away. “Now don’t you say a word, you hear me?”

I wait until we’re out of the bar before I try my luck. “So, what was that you were saying to me earlier about sneaking out?” I ask innocently, putting my helmet on and straddling my motorcycle. 

Derry turns to look at me. “I thought I said not to say another word,”

I shrug, “Well, I said multiple,”

Derry’s eyebrows raise, and I start my bike, ready to hightail it back to the motel. He laughs, shaking his head as he also starts his bike. “You know something Chet?” He yells at me over the bike motors.

“What?” I ask back loudly. 

“I knew we never should’ve stayed at a bar that doesn’t serve alcohol.”

I laugh as we move to the highway. “I don’t know, it seemed like a pretty good place to me,”

The silence behind me causes me to look back, and the look on my older brother’s face is exactly what I thought it would be, which is why I speed back to the motel as fast I can, praying I don’t get a speeding ticket, or worse. And if you’re wondering what’s worse, you’ve obviously never had an older brother that can make good on a threat he gives you without even having to say a word.