Drew's Bar

I turn twenty-one on 12/21/21, which is supposed to be my golden birthday.

Twenty-one on the twenty-first, in the twenty-first year of the century. There should be balloons involved, maybe a ridiculous sash declaring me FINALLY 21, a crowded bar with friends buying me shots I absolutely do not need, and at least one picture posted online that I regret the following morning.

Instead, I spend most of my golden birthday sitting cross-legged on the floor of my shitty apartment, with a seven-day eviction notice taped to my front door.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

At twenty-one, I am officially a college dropout, unemployed, behind on rent, and so broke that the collection of coins scattered across my kitchen counter has become a legitimate financial asset.

I spend most of the day wallowing in self-pity because sometimes you have to respect tradition, and if there is ever an appropriate occasion to feel sorry for yourself, I figure your golden birthday ending with the possibility of homelessness qualifies.

By nightfall, however, even I am tired of listening to myself bitch.

So I dig through the laundry piled on the chair, find the least offensive pair of jeans I own, and decide that if my life is going to collapse around me, I might as well legally drink while it happens.

My neighborhood watering hole is Drew’s Bar, although calling it a watering hole might be generous because the place looks like it hasn’t seen clean water since the Reagan administration.

It is run by a quiet guy named Drew who looks like a missing sock.

I don’t know how else to explain him.

There is nothing particularly wrong with Drew, but every time I look at the man, I get the overwhelming feeling that somewhere nearby there is another Drew desperately searching for him so they can finally make a matching pair.

He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t smile much, and mostly minds his own business, which is probably why I like him.

Unfortunately, I never actually make it inside the bar that night.

I am crossing the parking lot when the door suddenly flies open and two men come running out.

At first, my brain doesn’t process what I am seeing because I am too busy wondering why grown men are sprinting through the parking lot at damn near midnight. Then I see the gun in one man’s hand and the wad of cash clutched in the other’s.

“Oh, fuck.”

I immediately duck behind the dumpster.

Apparently, my survival instincts are not completely defective.

My heart slams against my ribs as I crouch there, trying to make myself smaller while the men race toward a waiting car. I don’t dare lift my head, but I peek through the narrow space between the dumpster and the brick wall because apparently my curiosity is stronger than the survival instincts I just congratulated myself for having.

One of the men yanks open the passenger door and climbs inside.

His pants ride up.

There is a tattoo wrapping around his lower leg, dark ink against pale skin, and for whatever stupid reason, that is what my brain decides to remember.

Not his face.

Not the car.

Not even the fucking gun.

The tattoo.

The tires squeal as the car tears out of the parking lot, and I stay crouched behind the dumpster for several minutes afterward because I have seen enough crime shows to know that witnesses are generally considered inconvenient.

Eventually, I just go home.

Five days later, I walk into Drew’s.

The place smells like stale beer, fried food, and whatever cleaning product Drew uses to unsuccessfully disguise both. He is behind the bar wiping down the counter when I climb onto my usual stool.

“Hey, Drew.”

He gives me his usual chin lift.

I look around before leaning forward and whisper too loudly.

“I heard about the robbery. I’m sorry, man.”

A voice comes from the far end of the bar.

“How do you know about that?”

I turn slowly.

There is a man sitting several stools away from me, dressed entirely too well for Drew’s.

Expensive watch, expensive clothes, expensive everything, with the kind of posture that tells me he has never once checked his bank account before ordering dinner.

I stare at him, then I look at Drew.

“Who the fuck was talking to him?”

Drew’s eyes widen.

“Freda is just kidding,” he says quickly, giving me a very pointed look that clearly means shut the fuck up.

I look between them; the stranger doesn’t smile.

“How do you know about the robbery?” he asks again.

“Why do you care?”

“Freda,” Drew warns.

“What? He’s asking me questions and I don’t even know him.”

The man’s face doesn’t change, but something about the way he watches me makes the little hairs on my arms rise.

Drew puts down the glass he is holding.

“Tell him, please, Freda.”

I look at Drew for a moment because that please sounds different from his normal please.

Fine.

“I was here.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow.

“During the robbery?”

“Outside. I was coming in when they ran out, so I hid behind the dumpster because I have no desire to get shot in the face.”

“Did you see them?”

“Not really.”

His eyes become narrower.

“But I saw a tattoo.”

That gets his attention.

“Where?”

“On one guy’s leg. His pants came up when he was getting into the car.”

“What did it look like?”

I describe what I remember, including the shape, placement, and the little piece that curves around the side of his calf.

The stranger doesn’t interrupt once.

When I’m finished, he stares at me for another few seconds before standing.

That’s it, noo thank you.

No explanation. Nothing. He simply leaves.

I look at Drew.

“Your friend is fucking weird.”

Drew goes back to wiping the counter.

“He’s not my friend.”

That probably should have concerned me more than it does.

Three days later, I am sitting on the curb with everything I own.

Turns out seven-day eviction notices are not decorative.

My clothes are stuffed into garbage bags, two cardboard boxes hold whatever else I managed to collect during my brief attempt at adulthood, and the ugliest sofa ever created sits behind me because I refuse to abandon it after carrying that bastard up three flights of stairs when I moved in.

I am staring across the street, contemplating the series of terrible decisions that brought me here, when a black car pulls up beside the curb.

Not just a nice car, the nicest car I've ever seen in my entire short existence.

The kind of car where you know immediately that whoever owns it has never prayed at a gas pump while waiting for their debit card to approve.

The back door opens and Mystery Man from Drew’s steps out.

I stare at him; he stares at me.

Then he looks at the garbage bags, the boxes, the sofa, and finally back at me.

“Why are you on the curb with your shit?”

I blink at him.

“Fucking rich dude asking dumb shit from his fancy car while wearing a watch that costs more than my entire existence.”

He continues staring.

I wave toward my belongings.

“Fuck, asshat, I’m homeless. Without shelter. No permanent residence. Nowhere to go. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

His eyes move over everything again before settling on me.

“What happened?”

“I can’t pay my rent, and nobody wants to hire a college dropout with a bit of a rap sheet.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“Rap sheet?”

“Are you dumb, deaf, or slow? I don’t know which one we’re working with here.”

His jaw tightens and he frowns.

I probably shouldn’t antagonize the man who somehow found me sitting outside my former apartment, but good judgment has never exactly been the cornerstone of my personality.

“I’ll give you a job,” he says. “Consider it payment for the tip you gave me about the robbery.”

“You know who did it?”

“Let’s just say your tip was helpful.”

Something in his inflection tells me that asking exactly how helpful would be a terrible idea.

“Good. Drew is a nice guy.”

He says nothing, so I continue.

“And he would hire me, but apparently he has to ask his boss, and he says they hire all their own people. Plus, as I already told you, I kinda got caught last month stealing toothpaste.”

His face finally changes.

“Toothpaste?”

“Well, I can’t have my breath stinking, can I?”

He just looks at me.

“In my defense, it was whitening.”

Nothing.

“Tough crowd.”

His eyes close briefly.

“Anyway,” I say, pushing myself straighter against the sofa, “you said you have a job, and before you offer me something less than savory, just know I don’t fuck strangers, and I definitely don’t fuck strangers for money.”

“You are exhausting.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to stop.”

He drags both hands slowly down his face and then he pulls out his phone and makes a call.

I don’t hear much of the conversation because he walks several feet away and speaks quietly, but about ten minutes later another man arrives carrying an umbrella.

Not for himself, for Mystery Man.

I watch in fascination as the newcomer, who is built approximately as wide as the state of Ohio, positions himself beside Mystery Man and holds the umbrella over his head.

I look up, it isn’t raining.

What the fuck kind of people have I gotten involved with?

For the next twenty minutes, the three of us remain outside. I sit on my sofa while Mystery Man stands beside the curb beneath an umbrella being held by Human Ohio, and every few minutes I look at him before staring back at the road.

He doesn’t explain anything and I don’t ask.

Mostly because I am curious how far this insanity will go.

Twenty minutes later, a truck pulls up. Several men climb out and immediately start loading my belongings into it.

I watch the first garbage bag disappear. Then the second.

Then one of my boxes.

“Okay, enough.”

Nobody answers me, they take the lamp.

“That’s mine.”

Mystery Man looks at me.

“I know.”

Another man grabs the other end of my sofa; I remain seated.

Mystery Man looks at me again.

I look back at him.

Honestly, what am I going to do?

I’m maybe one hundred and twenty pounds on a good day, and I haven’t had a decent meal in almost a week, so I know I’ve lost weight. Every man standing around me looks capable of bench-pressing my sofa with me still sitting on it.

I fold my arms.

“This feels a lot like theft.”

“Get up,” Mystery Man says, motioning toward the sofa.

I narrow my eyes at him before reluctantly standing; then two men immediately carry the sofa toward the truck.

I watch it go.

“That was my favorite sofa.”

“It looks diseased.”

“Don’t disrespect my belongings.”

“Get in the car.”

I turn toward him.

“Nah, dude. Not doing that. You’re going to have to do more than that to kidnap me.”

Once again, both hands slide down his face. I’m beginning to think I cause him physical pain.

He glances toward two of the men standing nearby, and they start moving toward me.

I immediately point at them.

“Don’t do that. I will make you regret it for the rest of your lives because you’re gonna have to choke me. I’m not getting into some rapist’s car.”

Mystery Man’s head snaps toward me.

“Rapist? Who the fuck is raping you?”

I shrug.

“If the cap fits?”

“What fucking cap?”

“The rapist cap.”

“There is no fucking rapist cap.”

“You’re trying to force a homeless woman into an expensive black car while your giant friends load all her worldly possessions into an unmarked truck. I’m just saying, from where I’m standing, the optics aren’t great.”

His nostrils flare.

“Freda.”

My eyes narrow.

“How the fuck do you know my name?”

He stares at me.

“And what the hell is yours?” I demand. “Because you know an awful lot about me for somebody whose name I don’t even know.”

“Freda, get in the car so I can get on with my day. I’ve already wasted two hours here with you.”

“First, you steal everything I own, then order me to get kidnapped and potentially raped, and I still don’t know your damn name.”

He mutters something to the sky; I think he's talking to his god or the universe or somebody.

For a second, I genuinely think he might leave me on the curb simply to preserve his sanity.

Finally, he answers.

“Zelimkhan.”

I blink.

“What?”

“Zelimkhan. Everyone calls me Zel.”

I stare at him for several seconds before a laugh escapes me.

“Fuck. Because Zelimkhan is crazy work."

A low, irritated sound rumbles from his chest.

I shrug my shoulders, walk past him, and climb into the car.

What can I say?

At least now I know my kidnapper’s name.