Clarity Shot

“UGH.” I groan through my teeth and continue typing on my phone. My heels clack against the pavement from footsteps so heavy, my bangs start bouncing to the sound. 

“Running late--” delete. Okay, let’s try again: “Needed to grab pads--” delete. “Leah called--” delete.

I stop and exhale heavily. Two young women ahead of me are too busy giggling out all the alcohol they consumed tonight to notice me staring with tears in my eyes. 

If anything, I need a shot of whatever they had.

“Well, the show must go on,” I mutter, digging in my shoulder purse for some lipstick, chapstick, anything to mask the fact that I’ve been crying since my Uber picked me up from my house. All I have are some pads, a phone charger, mints, and crumpled lashes from the last time I cried them off in public. 

Ugh. 

I look back at the two brunettes ahead of me standing by the curb. Past them, a few other people meander along the faintly-lit sidewalks, seemingly with no destination. Aside from being alone, at least I fit in.

I pass the girls and walk more composedly, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t think to grab a cardigan on the way out. I just threw on a tight skirt and corset top in hopes of catching someone’s eye tonight.

Annnnd…here we are. Just what I’ve been looking for. 

A line of only three people leads up to a glowing purple bar. Well, purple from the inside. The outside walls are painted black. Ominous. Doesn’t even have a name. Wouldn’t be the first time; having only lived in this city for three months, I’ve learned the best bars are usually the ones without giant, flashy signs begging people to practically lick their insides out.

I pull my ID from my wallet as I approach the bouncer. God, what a hippie. Who tattoos the words ‘peace’ and ‘love’ on their face?

“Twenty bucks.” Hippie bouncer grins.

My jaw drops. “Twenty? For this piece of shit?” 

His brows fly up. “With that attitude…I’ll lower it to fifteen. Sounds like you need a drink more than anyone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I hand him my ID and a twenty.

“You need a drink. Maybe five.”

How rude! “Well you need laser tattoo removal.” I wave away the change he tries handing to me and swerve past him into the bar.

Fuck the bouncer. Fuck this bar. Fuck Malcolm. Fuck--

Woah. This place is actually lit. Like…actually.

Normally I wouldn’t like a bar having so much lighting, but this reminds me of a rave. Lots of laser lighting cutting across the room to the beat of the music, a glass floor with neon pinks, greens, and blues popping up like one of those dancing games at an arcade, and giant, Me-Sized lava lamps in every corner. People dance, talk, and sit on swings shaped like planets and stars. What-in-the-spirituality did I walk into?

My phone buzzes in my purse. A phone call…not a text. I bite my lip. God, I want to answer so bad. It’s him, I already know. 

No. Not now. 

Holding my breath and fixing my eyes on the crystal bar, I power walk through crowds of gyrating hippies and exhale once I reach the counter.

“Hi,” I say, already digging for my wallet again.

The bartender turns around while wiping a glass out with a towel. And…wow. He’s got good forearms. I’m embarrassed to admit that’s my weakness. Strong forearms look good in everything. Proof being his rolled up black sleeves exposing yet another cringey ‘peace,’ ‘love,’ and--gag--’hope’--tattoo.

What’s with these people?

“Hi,” I repeat. “I need three shots of tequila. Salt, lime, all the fun stuff. Keep the tab open.” I slide my card over to him.

He gazes down at it with his gorgeous--yet skeptical--eyes. “Are you by yourself?”

“Yeah…I mean, no.” I cross my arms on the counter. “Look, if I tell you these shots are just for me, do me a favor and just take one with me instead of refusing to serve them all to me because you’re afraid of getting fired for over-serving a customer.”

He raises a brow. “Three shots of tequila?”

“And maybe a chaser. A margarita, please.”

“Got it.” He nods, but leans against the back counter on his arms. Stares. Purses his lips.

Alright… “Did I…do something?”

“You do realize we don’t serve tequila, right?”

My heart stops. “You don’t serve tequila?”

He shakes his head.

“What bar doesn’t serve tequila?”

“This one.”

I look to my right. A couple happily takes their shots from the bartender. Clear shot glasses show clear liquid…Not exactly sure what I’m missing. 

I look back at him. “Vodka?”

“Nope.”

“What the fuck? What, you’re out?”

“No, we just don’t serve it.”

“Why? No clears here? How about Jack Daniel’s?” Gag. Whiskey is the worst liquor on the planet, but I need something.

“No whiskey. Sorry.”

“What! Then what do you serve?”

“Healing. Peace. Love.” He holds out his forearm. 

My phone buzzes in my purse again. I hug it tighter to my side. “You’re serious?”

Bartender dude crosses his arms. “You’ve really never heard of a Therapy Bar?”

Therapy Bar?

“You’re new around here, huh?” He spins around, grabs two shot glasses, and pours two clear shots from a lime green bottle. After squishing a lime on the rim, he spins and passes me a shot. 

I take it cautiously and hold it beneath my nose. Instead of burning my nostrils, it smells…fruity. “What is this?”

“It’s a shot of Truth. We have shots of Honesty, Peace, Love, and so on. No bitter liquor, no bitter feelings. We only want good vibes here.” He clinks his glass against mine and says ‘cheers’ before taking his shot.

I do the same, and surprisingly, it tastes like orange juice. Not bad. If it had champagne, too. “Okay…so what is this, really?”

He laughs before returning to cleaning. “It’s Truth. All our shots here help people to the deepest, most crucial need. If you’re struggling to find peace with something, you can order shots of Peace. Like liquor, it only lasts a little while before wearing off. People don’t usually overdo it here since they also don’t exactly like the feelings that surface, but if they take too many shots, they don’t act obnoxiously like with alcohol. They usually just leave.”

I look around the bar at the people behind me. Music thuds loudly and people of all ages, all backgrounds, dance with each other and sing the lyrics loudly. A couple takes selfies in the corner by a neon pink lava lamp, and an older crowd (maybe in their forties) talk loudly about their pets, trips, personal goals.

What did I walk into?

My phone buzzes some more. Fuck. Why can’t he just leave it?

Sighing loudly, I set my red purse on the counter and dig around for my phone. The bartender goes back to work, serving two girls who walk up beside me. The night carries on around me with people laughing, talking, smiling, dancing, selfie-ing, and instead, I’m staring at the green-eyed devil on my screen with my thumb hovering over the ‘answer’ button.

“Hello?” I say. 

“Hey…where are you? We have dinner reservations in 30 minutes.” Keys jingle in the background.

Why does he have to be so calm now? It’s that warm and reassuring phone voice that brings me to my knees every damn time. “I’m…stuck in traffic.”

The bartender makes eye contact with me in the midst of handing a bright yellow cocktail to another person on my left. Two other bartenders work around the counter, all too focused on perfecting their drinks with limes, lemons, cherries, whatever pretty fruits add more peace, love, and whatever bullshit. 

“Leila?” Malcolm says cautiously. “Is this about the nail you found?”

The bartender sets another two shots in front of me before ducking into the walk-in fridge behind him.

I take them both instantly. 

“Malcolm, listen.” I sigh. “We’ll talk about it later, alright? I just need…a minute.”

Another bartender, this time, a blond female, approaches me. “Need anything?” she asks.

“Are you at the bar?” Malcolm asks.

“No,” I say, quickly shouting “Yes!” when she starts walking away, assuming I was talking to her. I hang up on Malcolm.

“Whaddaya need, Love?” She leans forward on her elbows, eyes bright even though they’re the color of pennies. 

“Another shot of…I don’t know…clarity, you got anything for that?” I shouldn’t sound so sarcastic, but I came here to forget about Malcolm. That’s why I needed Tequila more than anything.

But…something does feel different. My muscles are way more relaxed than before. I’m not as paranoid. I feel…peaceful. I tap my phone for the time: 7:23pm.

Next time I look at the counter, a red shot sits in front of me, and I glance up just as the blond bartender winks. “Clarity shot,” she says, and walks to another end of the bar.

Next thing you know, I’m three more shots deep and finally…I understand.

Peace. Love. Clarity. Self-Realization. The words are plastered all over the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. I look around again. Now, I see everyone has at least a ‘peace’ or ‘love’ tattoo on some part of their body, but they’re washable. I hear conversations more clearly, and people are spreading compliments left and right. How did this even happen? What doctor’s approved this? 

And…for the first time all night, I see everything else in my head clearly, too:

I folded the clothes and placed them on the bed, and a silver acrylic nail caught my eye on the wooden floors. I picked it up; it wasn’t mine. I didn’t keep mine that long. But I was a nail tech, so it had to have somehow clung to my clothes from work.

Another time, Malcolm left for work earlier than normal. Said the construction by his job made his morning commutes longer. He didn’t call me till noon. I dropped off lunch to him two days later…there was no sign of construction.

I came home later than normal one day because a client wanted more designs than usual. When I pulled into the driveway, another red Mitsubushi pulled away. But we lived in an apartment, so that wasn’t unusual…until I realized Malcolm was also washing the sheets from spilling his beer…the beer that also had lipstick on the rim.

“He fucking cheated on me,” I say in a low voice. How long have I been blind for? Six months? I saw the first sign a year ago, before I decided to move across the US to live with him after we met in college. I just thought I forgot what kind of lashes I was wearing when I found one next to the trash can.

“Hey, thanks for the shots, they really helped,” I shout across the counter to the bartenders. The male from earlier looks up while pouring some liquor and nods, a content smile on his face. The lady waves, and I tip them 50%. 

This bar actually worked. I can only imagine how the night would’ve gone had I just gotten drunk off Tequila. Would I have cried on a stranger’s shoulder? Would I be puking on the bathroom floor while some random girl held my hair back?

I’m still thinking about it as my heart sinks, but finally rests in reassurance. I know what I need to do. With my purse secured on my shoulder again and my phone in my hands, I search for Malcolm’s name.

'Hey,' I type, 'I won't be making it to dinner. But feel free to take one of your other dates. I'll be moving back home.' And...send.

"Well," I say, stopping next to the bouncer from earlier. I tuck my phone into my bra and put my hands on my hips. Nobody else stands in line, though giggly, young twenty-something's laugh while climbing into Ubers and Lyfts. "It's been a good night. You were right: I needed those shots."

He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, well. It's all part of the act."

I look over at him. "Act?"

"Yeah. Therapy bar. Ever heard of such ridiculous thing?"

I raise a brow. What?

"The shots are fruit juice with tea extracts for calming effects. None of it is real; it's just a placebo. Who wants to deal with drunk people at a bar? Especially when they're going through some shit?"

"A placebo!?"

"Yeah. But it works, right?"

Right.

Ha. "No fucking way. Where's the nearest real bar?" I asked. "I need a drink."