Story: Golden Nectar

by Pappy October 30th, 2007, Posted in: Writing


Originally documented 3/3/2006
This is an incomplete draft

He looked from the bar out over the sparsely populated room, taking a long pull from his beer as he did. It tasted like golden nectar, he thought, and he savored another drought.

“It’s not as if I’m a drunk or anything,” his mind wandered. “What do I drink, maybe three or four a week?”

It was the quality of the hefeweizen he reveled in. Sure, he had no complaints about the light buzz he felt when he drank, but the taste was the thing. The same beer poured from a bottle couldn’t do equal justice to what he’d come to expect, either. Nope, it had to be draft, served with a quarter slice of fresh lemon, a nice frothy head, and that opaque, milky look that bottled stout couldn’t quite capture.

He turned slighly to the sound of the little brass bell dancing above the front door. Millicent Baylor was steering her two red-headed rugrats into the dining room and towards a booth. He thought he saw her glance in his direction, but if she had there was no outward sign of recognition.

“Wow, even after all these years she still looks hot.” He blinked, drained the last of his glass and motioned to the waitress for another.

For one brief, shining moment during high school she’d been his. A few weeks of fooling around after football games and it was over before it had ever really started, but it was still one of the high points of his memory.

He grinned sheepishly at the waitress as a fresh hefe materialized to replace his empty. He even delighted in the little sense of guilt he felt for enjoying the brew so much, and sometimes he thought Maggy could read it on his face when she delivered his guilty little sin.

“You sure you don’t at least want a sandwich or something to go with that, Arty?” She intoned, her smoky voice every bit as sexy as the cleavage springing from her low-cut blouse. Maggy understood the science of gratuities, as her tip jar could testify.

“Thank you, dear,” he replied, “but this is just perfect.”

“Well you know where to find me if you change you mind, sweetheart.” Maggy turned towards the kitchen and the half-empty catsup bottles awaiting their nightly refill.

After admiring her delicious rear slip out of view Arty returned his attention to earlier thoughts. Millicent sat in the booth with her back to him, her long red curls hanging over the back of the seat. The boys jostled in the seat opposite her, sword fighting with rolled up menus. They both had their mother’s trademark green eyes and freckles. They looked to be between six and nine years old.

“Was I really gone for that long?” he wondered. It didn’t matter; they’d never been serious, and he had no vested interest in her personal life. He just found it a bit boggling that she’d obviously gotten married, or at least shacked up with someone long enough to produce a few kids and find her place in the domestic routine.

“Domestic syndication,” he laughed softly into his glass. Arty was no different than anyone else, and jealousy tended to lead to mockery. A decade and a half had passed since leaving this hometown hamlet, and yet he’d never come close to finding his proverbial soulmate out in the world. Not that he thought Millicent was it, but why should she find hers and he find nothing?

He absentmindedly took the lemon from his brew and chewed at the pulp. Half way through his second pilsener and the tell tale signs of numbness caused his lips and tongue to tingle slightly. The brew was following it’s routine pattern; a light buzz, lips starting to numb, eyes slightly drooping. He’d be making his first trip to the head any minute now. How weird was that, Arty thought? Finding a sense of comfort in the familiar onset of alcoholic awareness certainly could not be a good symptom if one were engaged in a wider diagnosis of his psyche, but measuring the stages was indeed another guilty pleasure he enjoyed about his diner visits.