Classic Old Fashioned

"What can I get ya?"

Stan, the bartender, in a white shirt and black vest, approaches Ryan, tossing a coaster onto the bar in front of him.

"Your Old Fashioned. Is it muddled?"

"No sir. We make ours the classic way."

"I'll take one of those to start."

Stan snatches a mixer and retreats to the other side of the bar. Pulling a bottle of bourbon off the glass shelf, he begins to mix the drink.

Ryan peers around the crowded hotel bar. Although the bar is packed, due in part to the trade show going on in the hotel conference rooms along with the college football game happening right down the street, Ryan attempts to put out an unfriendly air to dissuade the other patrons from occupying the two seats that are vacant on either side of him.

Stan returns with a ribbed rocks glass filled with brown liquid and topped with a twisting orange peel.

Ryan removes his credit card from his wallet laying on the bar and slides it over to Stan.

"Close it out?"

"Keep it open. This won't be the only one."

***

Ryan's head is buried in his drink that now consists mostly of a singular large ice cube and a quarter inch of watered-down bourbon. He's fiddling with the green plastic toothpick that held the orange garnish before he allowed it to drop to the bottom of the glass. His head lifts to get the attention of Stan to order another when he feels a familiar palm brush his back, and by the positioning on his lower spine, it's too familiar to be a stranger.

"Hello stranger. Didn't expect to see you this weekend."

The firm yet soothing voice floods his ears. He grimaces and his chest tightens up as he peeks over his shoulder to see the empty stool next to him retreat from the bar.

"Ignoring me?"

"Of course not, Mel. You just caught me fully concentrated on ordering another drink."

Ryan locks eyes with Stan, raises his empty glass, and holds up a single finger, indicating his need for a refill.

"What are you drinking?"

"Old fashioned."

"Surprising," she retorts sarcastically.

Stan returns with the second drink.

"Can I get you anything, madam?" he asks.

"Beefeater 24 martini. Two olives."

Ryan cringes at the order.

"Right away, madam."

He can't stand to see this sophisticated, elegant, ruthless version of Melanie. He still has memories of the awkward, clumsy version of her that could drink a full case of Hamm's on a Thursday night. The version of her that would insist on pulling an all-nighter to ensure she aced a final exam instead of settling for the A-minus.

Ryan begins to raise his drink to his lips when her hand falls onto his wrist.

"Patience. It's rude to drink before the toast."

Stan returns with her martini filled to the rim.

"What shall we drink to?" she asks.

"To a successful marriage."

Melanie laughs.

"Fair enough. In a lot of ways, it was successful. Just look at us now."

She gestures around the grand hotel bar with her free hand that sports an unsubtle diamond bracelet.

"Just maybe not on the love side," she adds.

Mel sips her martini. Ryan chugs two-thirds of his old fashioned and gestures to Stan, indicating him to get working on another.

Mel catches this from her periphery as she sips.

"Not a good day, my dear?"

"What can I say? The holidays have that effect on me."

"They always did, didn't they? You turn into the alcoholic offspring of Scrooge and the Grinch. What was your tradition on Christmas Eve? While everyone else would wake up to go last-minute shopping or spend time with family, you'd wake up to find the only dive bar left in the city that opened before 10 a.m."

"Lovely running into you, Mel. My greatest joy in life is that we've been able to remain amicable ever since the divorce. Speaking of divorce, where is that new hubby of yours this weekend?"

"He had a meeting in Washington this weekend. Something about convincing the state department to allow Israel to use America's combat AI program, or something." She says this with a flippant disregard for the weight that her words carry.

"Of course. Protecting American capitalism through our greatest export, war."

"Well, I'll need taller heels to maintain this conversation with you on your pedestal this evening. I needn't remind you that you've been very lucky thanks in part to that American capitalism you seem to despise so much recently."

"You needn't indeed."

He chugs the remainder of his cocktail, setting the glass down at the bar to perfectly align with Stan's arrival of his next.

Stan turns to Melanie, but before he can ask, she shoos him away as she takes the final sip of her drink.

She leans in close to Ryan now. Her hand finds his thigh at a very distant point from his knee. Into his ear, she whispers, "I have dinner with some clients, but if you're tired of feeling sorry for being rich, I'm in 408."

She slides a room key under his palm before kissing his cheek cordially and walking out into the lobby.

Ryan sees Stan make a move as if to say, "Lady, you haven't paid for your drink," but Ryan catches him and says, "Just add it to mine." And he buries his stare back into his glass. He studies the engraving stamped on top of the rock, tracing the embossed lettering with his eyes, along with each natural crater.

There is a part of him that craves to go back to room 408. Craves the nostalgia. Craves the release. Craves the escape.

And another part of himself hates himself for craving. The memory of their relationship is still too fresh. His anger. Her manipulation. His drinking (more than now, if you can believe it).

It's not a place he wants to revisit.

***

Before he can fall too deep into his own self-pity, he's met with another hand along his back. This one lacking in sensuality, instead more akin to physical abuse. Without removing his gaze from the ice, he knows who it is. His business partner, technically his boss, Derek.

"What are we drinking, numb nuts?"

Before he can answer, Derek is already leaning over the bar, aggressively vying for Stan's attention.

"Let me get two shots of tequila and two beers."

Stan keeps a professional demeanor, but Ryan senses a begrudging nature to his acknowledgment.

"I'm not taking a shot," Ryan protests.

"They're not for you. I gotta catch up."

"Catch up for what?"

A chill runs through every crevice of his veins, meeting simultaneously in his chest. A fear fills his head that he'll be forced to conclude his pity party for the likes of low-rate strip clubs, cheap cocaine, and racing to his 7 a.m. flight back to Boston just as the hangover kicks in. He feels a trace of vomit reach the base of his throat.

"Remember that chick from Telco? Jamie… or Jackie… whatever. The one with the big tits? She got a reservation at Hotaru for a client and he bailed. And yours truly is taking it."

Stan returns with two clear shot glasses filled with tequila and two pints of beer.

"This isn't the cheap shit, right?" he says, throwing the first shot back before Stan can answer.

"WHOOO!" He shivers as his body recoils from the poison. In the same motion, he picks up the second shot and slugs it back. He taps the bar and points a thumb to Ryan.

"Put it on his tab."

Stan looks over to Ryan for approval and he nods in a form of surrender.

"Let's go out for a cig. I wanna fill you in on the Nexus deal."

"I'm trying to quit."

"Stop being such a pussy."

Derek is already two steps further when he says this and doesn't bother to check if Ryan is following. He knows he's following. And despite the protest, Ryan knows he's going to follow. He catches Stan's eye before leaving the stool to say, "I'll be back." He leaves his wallet in front of the half-drunk Old Fashioned.

They step through the revolving doors out into the chilly December night of downtown Atlanta.

Derek pulls two Marlboro Reds from his jacket, lights his, then hands the spare cigarette and lighter to Ryan, who attempts a halfhearted resistance before lighting his own.

"So you know that dickhead, Tyler, over at Nexus? I got him locked in at four million units for two and a half."

"Two and a half? That's like 50% over market price. How is that even going to get approved?"

"Get this, his uncle's the head of Procurement over there. We write the order for 15% over market, the company gets their sale, we split the other 35%. All cash. I even got you in for 2%, you lucky dog. Oh shit, that's her."

Derek dumps the half-burnt cigarette to the pavement and stomps on it. A black Lincoln town car rounds the driveway in front of the hotel. The rear passenger side window retracts and a voluminous head of wavy blonde hair pops through.

"Let's go," she says in a breathless, seductive tone to Derek.

He winks, smacks Ryan on the chest with the back of his hand, and skips around the town car to the driver-side passenger door.

Ryan watches the car pull away into the Saturday night traffic. He takes one more long, slow drag of the cigarette, making sure to feel every bit of the smoke filter past his tongue, down his throat, and into his lungs. The chill of the winter air complements the warmth of the cigarette. He focuses on each sensation, if only to confirm that he can still feel something. He is numb, or maybe indifferent, towards his boss, their constant shady business dealings, and the corporate world in general. He's tried to escape that world as many times as he's tried to quit smoking. Too many to count.

He drops the butt into the ashtray that was next to them the entire time and wanders back through the revolving doors.

***

Back at the bar, a kid, twenty-something, in a crimson red football jersey has taken over the vacant space next to his stool. Stan is serving him a bucket of beer bottles, and as he sits back down, Ryan says, "You want these? My friend left early."

"Woah! Yeah. Thanks, man."

"You got it."

The word "friend" twitches him a bit. Derek is not his friend. He's his cancerous tumor that all the chemotherapy in the world won't get rid of.

"One more, sir?" Stan asks.

"Please. Thank you, Stan."

He tries to make it sound as earnest as he can. But chugging half a glass of whiskey so that the ice nearly cracks your nose seems to add a level of disingenuousness to the sentiment.

Stan returns with drink number four and quickly turns his attention to Ryan's right.

"Red wine, please. Whatever you have open, nothing fancy."

The woman's voice is soft, with a faintly British touch, that surprises Ryan.

"You won't find a lot of people in this hotel asking for 'nothing fancy.'"

"Oh, well that makes sense. I feel a tad out of place in this hotel."

Ryan turns now to look at this woman. She has straight black hair, heavy-rimmed glasses, and a black sweater. No jewelry. Little makeup, if any. She is correct. She appears very out of place surrounded by the gaudiness of the hotel and its upper-class clientele.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but may I ask what brings you here? I mean, you just don't look like you'd be in town for the trade show. Or coming back from the football game."

She smiles softly.

"No offense taken. You are correct. I'm neither a salesperson nor an American football aficionado. My office is next door. I'm just wasting a minute before I leave for the airport."

"Ah, so not a local either?"

"No. No. I'm working on a case here in Atlanta but heading back home to Boston for the holidays."

Stan returns with her glass of red wine. The woman removes a $20 from her purse and begins to hand it to him. He waves her off, as if reading Ryan's mind.

"You can put it on my tab."

"Of course," Stan replies.

"That's very kind of you. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Of all the drinks I've paid for tonight, yours is the least of my concerns."

Ryan hesitates.

"I mean to say I'm happy to buy you a drink. Not that it's cheap or anything or—"

The woman taps his wrist and laughs subtly.

"It's okay. I know what you meant."

"So, a case? You work for the FBI?"

Another gentle laugh.

"Not that type of case. I'm a civil liberties attorney. I'm doing a pro bono case for ICE victims."

"No shit? Now I know you don't belong in this hotel."

He hesitates again.

"I mean that in a noble way. Everyone here has either been shitfaced since 8 in the morning or is scamming the world in the name of the stockholder."

She laughs again. More overtly this time.

"I know what you meant."

There's a pause and the two sip their drinks.

"So, Boston, eh? I'm also headed back there. Only I'm dumb and missed the chance to get out of here tonight. Leaving in the morning."

"Too bad. I could have used a rich salesman to buy me more drinks."

"Here's my credit card. You take it. Charge whatever you want."

They laugh and take another sip. The woman pulls up her sleeve to check the simple leather-banded watch around her wrist.

"Shoot. I need to start getting to the airport."

"If I'm not too forward, could I see you again back in Boston?"

"Well…" the woman hesitates. "I'm going to be working a lot over the holidays so I don't know—"

"I get it."

"But…" she removes a business card from her purse, flips it over, and scribbles an address on the blank backside. "I'm volunteering at a shelter Christmas Eve. Serve food. Spend time with the folks. Watch football without drinking all day. If you'd like to come."

She slides the card over to him. He flips it over to learn her name.

"Well, Mackenzie. Mack?" She nods. "I'll be there."

"I'll see you Christmas Eve…"

"Ryan."

"Ryan. Goodbye then."

"Safe flight."

He watches as she crosses the threshold into what would technically be the lobby. She looks back before pushing the revolving doors into rotation again and disappears from his sight.

"Anything else, sir?" Stan appears as Ryan continues to stare at the spinning doors, wishing that maybe she was coming around for another turn. He gives up and turns back to Stan.

"No, I'll close my tab, Stan. Going to look into changing my flight."