Week 14: “Three Legged Stool”
Welcome to Week 14 where our prompt is “Three Legged Stool.” As usual Alex Davey is first followed by Garrett Brown.
“Let me tell you something about that stool.” He looked up, bleary eyed from the gin and tonic. The bartender, an almost spherical man topped with thinning hair, was drying a glass before placing it below the bar. He said nothing to indicate he wanted the bartender to continue, but continue he did. “See, that stool is from the old place, before it burned down. Different cushion. And, if you notice, it has three legs instead of four.” Again, he stared into his drink instead of answering. “Folk that sit on that stool, they got a story to tell.”
There was a moment of silence. “We all have our own stories. I’m just passing through.”
The bartender continued to clean glasses. “Most folk do. Or say they are. Some of them end up sticking around. End up becoming part of the regular crowd.”
He raised his head. Most of the patron were like him. Washed-out looking men in crumpled suits. Apparently this place didn’t have a smoking ban, as cigarette smoke swam around the stagnant air. The only real movement were from the waitresses in bright pink too-short dresses picking up glasses and delivering drinks. The oldest waitress was easily half the age of the youngest man. Their passing earned slow leers from grey faces.
“I’ll try not to.” The bartender shrugged. Up on the stage a man in a blue suit played a piano. Whether it was the drinks or the lights, the player was hard to focus on. Did he even have a face? What was he singing? Was he singing at all? “It’s about a woman.”
The bartender chuckled. “It always is. Usually. Almost always. What was she like?”
He leaned back, trying to conjure her. “Apple in her eyes and flowers in her hair.” She was already fading from his memory, but he could clearly see her eyes and flowers in her braids. “A laugh like light on a summer evening.”
“Like a sack of hammers.”
“They always do.” The bartender switched cloths to wipe down the bar. “What happened?”
“She was with someone else.”
The bartender smirked knowingly. “That’s always the way.”
“He was a nice guy as well. A person you could get on with. Not like one of these terrible boyfriends in a rom-com. He was perfect for her.”
“And who are you to mess up perfect?”
“Exactly.” He looked down into his tumbler, a slice of lime and two half-melted ice cubes met his gaze. “How many of these have I had?”
“I don’t count. Not here to judge. Another?” The bartender waved as he reached for his wallet. “No, no, on the house this time. Maybe something with a little more kick.” From the back shelf, an embellished bottle of golden liquid. Scotch whisky. It tumbled from bottle to glass, mere millimeters but cutting his nose immediately. “You don’t look like a guy who takes it on the rocks.”
“You’d be right.” He took the most minute of sips. It burned down his throat, but sat just right when it hit the bottom. The smell overpowered the smell of cigarettes and the silken perfume as a waitress passed. “It wasn’t like I was in a good place at the time. Dead-end job, coffin-sized room in a damp house. Not exactly what a woman wants.”
“In my experience, and you might be surprised,” patting his prestigious belly, “women decide what they want. They know Prince Charming doesn’t exist.”
“Well, they broke up. And before you say that’s when I moved in, there was already somebody there. Kind of. It’s not…” He stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar. “It’s complicated.”
“You think you have a chance? But you’ve been friends with the lady for so long, you’re afraid of losing what you have. You got two choices to make in the darkness. You tell her, or you don’t.”
“I think knowing the answer is worse than maintaining the status quo. Saying nothing of if she doesn’t feel the same way, what if she does?”
“Of course. What if you get what you want? You look like a guy who isn’t too accustomed to that.”
The whisky sat finished, save for the impossible last drops. “What now?”
“I guess that would be up to you. There’s always room at a table here. As you said, you hoped you were just passing through. You wouldn’t be the first to stay.”
He took another look around at the gargoyles that lined his future. He got up from the three-legged stool and walked out the door into the cool evening.
“Look” he drunkenly slurred. “There is three legs to this stool, three avenues in this plan.” The man fumbled for a pencil on the bar, and grabbed a dirty napkin.
“Look” I slipped in, I don’t want to be a part of any pyramid scheme or anything.
“No, no” James laughed. “Believe me this isn’t a pyramid scheme or anything. It’s a foolproof plan, something that has a guaranteed profit for both of us.” He was scratching lines into the napkin with nonsensical numbers. “We just have to put in a little work and believe me, people will be lining up to dump money in our laps.
He slid the napkin across the table. I looked down at his chicken scratch and sighed.
“Step one involves robbing a blank James.”
“Shhhhh not so loud” James hushed. He leaned forward and whispered “Duh. That’s how we get the capital for step two.”
I pushed the napkin away from me. “James you know I can’t do this. I can’t afford to go back. My family can’t afford me being away for another 20 years.”
James chuckled and took a swig of his drink. “You only have to worry about that if you get caught.”
I frowned. “Given our past, I’d be more worried about you and that bottle getting us caught.”
Within an instant, James had soured at my remark. “I’m a professional. What happened that day was an accident.” He flashed a smile riddled with yellow teeth. “Besides, I know that you’ll have my back.” He pushed the napkin back onto my side of the table, forceful and sure.
I looked down and the three step plan stared back at me, like it was burning a hole in my face. After a moment, I raised my gaze.
“Fine,” I answered. “I know my answer.”
James smiled that greasy yellow grin. He was satisfied.
