Page 27 of Nights Without Night
The routine of having Isadoro back lulls me. I start to relax. To think,maybe this is all there is to it.
The bar is filled to capacity. It’s Saturday night and the sound of the crowd is loud, the music even louder. I’ve never liked working the bar. It’s hectic, you get a tip every blue moon if you’re lucky, and drunk people are the worst.
A prime example of the latter is the guy hanging around at the edge of the bar. He’s been trying to get my attention ever since he got there, even though I already served him his drink and the push for the bar is four-man deep.
“Hey, blondie!” he shouts again as I serve someone near him. I don’t even glance at him. You don’t have to look any sort of way to get hollered at if you work behind the bar, and we’ve all developed a thick skin. Patrons protesting about expensive drinks and ending happy hours, complaining about the ratio of alcohol, trying to short us in the dark—we’ve seen it all.
“Hey! Hey! Blondie!” The guy is still shouting five minutes later. I sigh as I see he’s starting to disturb the people around him. I walk towards him and lean in just enough to be able to communicate.
“Yes?” I ask coldly. The guy’s eyes are glassy and bright. I know it’s just the alcohol and the lights, but it lends him a feverish, maniacal look that does nothing to ease my discomfort.
“What’s your name?” he slurs. I fight hard not to roll my eyes.
“You got it in one. It’s Blondie,” I drawl. He blinks for a moment before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. I take a deep breath to try and regain some patience.
“It’s busy, so I can’t talk. You want a drink?”
“You gonna buy it for me?” he says, leaning further in.
“Me, bartender. You, patron. You buy the drinks here, buddy,” I say testily.
“You’re quite the little bitch, eh?” he says, mouth turning as he finally cottons on to my rejection.
“I think it’s time for you to leave. And by ‘I think’ I mean I’m going to call those big guys by the doors if you don’t,” I say. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
“Listen here,” the guy says, grabbing at my shirt and pulling me forward. I have him off me in a second, thumb pressing on the weak spot at the wrist and then taking a step back.
I look toward the bouncers, but a commotion catches my eye. It’s Isadoro, forcefully parting the crowds as he shoves toward me. For a second, I’m relieved, but then I catch sight of his expression. The snarl on his lips and steel in his eyes. It isn’t an ‘I’m a bouncer on my way to handle a situation’ look. It’s an ‘open the door of this moving car because someone cut you off’ look.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I say. Luckily, we’re at the edge of the bar and I unlatch the exit, shoving Fever Eyes out of the way just in time to get between him and the bull stampeding for him.
“Isadoro!” I shout, grabbing at his shirt. He isn’t even looking at me, eyes focused on the guy behind me. “Hey! Hey, hey—one! Remember, I say one-”
Isadoro grabs me firmly by the arms and just picks me up and puts me out of the way. I try to cling to his shirt because this is going to get bad. I can see it on his face.
Fever Eyes has no idea what’s going on. His ego and confidence are on an alcohol high, and not even the guy who just barrelled towards him is shutting him up.
“Hey!” I shout at Fever Eyes, trying to change tactic, but it’s too late. Isadoro picks the guy up clean off his feet and then slams him hard against the wall once, twice, three times. Fever Eyes’ head flops forwards and backwards unnervingly. On the third hit, his head smacks against the wall so hard it’s audible even over the music and the crowd. My heart stops.
“Isa!” I shout, fear real and tangible. “Let him go! Fuck!” I say, trying to get between them, but a few seconds later the other bouncer, Alfie, is there, pulling Isadoro back. The moment Alfie’s hand is on him, Isadoro takes a swing. Alfie steps back just in time, but we’re all dumbfounded.
“Enough!” I shout, grabbing the wrist that just swung with both my hands. “Look at me. Isadoro. Look at me.”
For a moment, he’s not there. In his eyes, it’s like he’s gone. Then, slowly, he wakes up. He eyes flit around. He’s red, panting, a hand still gripping the shirt of Fever Eyes, who is clutching at his head. I think I see blood.
“Let go of him. Let go of him,” I plead. He does.
The rest of the night is a blur.
Alfie escorts us out. The cold hits my bare arms at once and I stand there shivering until someone brings me a coat.
I can’t think. I can’t function.
Fever Eyes is bleeding from the head. It’s a lot of blood, and even knowing head wounds are prolific bleeders doesn’t stop the nauseating worry inside me.
The paramedics arrive. The police. At the sight of the flashing lights, my whole body goes numb.
Fever Eyes is going to be fine, they tell me, but they have some questions for me. I tell them the truth, maybe a little embellished on Fever Eyes’ harassment. In these situations, I’m never sure if a few insults and a grab is going to be enough. And then,
