Fuck. That music is like chalk scraping over a blackboard.
Thankfully, the guy announces he’s taking a short break, and somebody pops a coin in the jukebox. An eighties tune comes on, the hard rock suiting my mood much better.
Being in the habit of sussing out every room I enter for threats, I’m aware of the people around me. The fat-bellied biker at the end of the bar carries a knife under his vest, and the bearded loner digging into a hotdog has a gun in his waistband. The barman will no doubt have a weapon under the counter. I’m unarmed, but these assholes don’t have business with me. They let me get on with my drinking.
A couple of pimple-faced youngsters do an obvious deal next to the serving window that gives a glimpse inside the kitchen. A chef with a dirty apron is flipping burger patties. I take in the old posters on the walls of concerts that happened fifteen years ago and the chipped paint on the doors. The floor is sticky with spilled booze.
How the fuck did I end up in here?
I know the answer.
I came here because I remember the place. It’s around the corner from where I used to live. The bar is a stone’s throw away from the street that runs along the train tracks. Go figure. I’m not sentimental, but even I can muster a tiny amount of nostalgia. The memories aren’t pleasant. I don’t revisit them often. Yet I can’t help but wonder if I’ll fuck it all up just because I’m my father’s son.
By the time my bladder tells me I’ll need to empty it before I polish off the bottle, only a quarter of the liquor is left. I push to my feet, stumbling a step to the side before I find my balance.
My tongue slurs as I ask the barman, “Where’s the bathroom?”
Slapping beefy palms on the counter, he shakes his head. “Ain’t no good idea going to the can alone in your state. Some men in here may grab themselves the opportunity to gain a few bucks.” He nods at my three-million-rand watch. “You don’t have to be dressed up all fancy to stink of money.”
My laugh is wry. “They can try.” Fuck, I hope someone will. I need the fight.
“Gimme your phone,” he says, holding out a hand. “Lemme call someone to come and get you.”
Despite the need to punch someone’s face, he’s right. Even in my slaughtered state, I realize I didn’t choose the best area to get hammered in, and I’m not alone any longer. I have Violet to consider. A wife. Fuck.
“Uber,” I say, my speech hardly intelligible.
The world turns around me when I take my phone from my pocket. I brace myself with one hand on the counter and unlock the phone with my thumbprint.
“Ain’t no Uber coming out here.” The barman shakes his hand in my face. “Gimme. Who can I call for you?”
I shove the phone at him, too weary to argue. I’m beaten in ways I didn’t think was possible, and it didn’t even include weapons. All it took was a woman. A beautiful, perfect, deceitful woman.
“Yeah,” the guy says. “A woman will do that to you.”
“Fuck.” Did I say that out loud?
“What’s your name?”
I lean my elbows on the counter and drop my head on my arms. “Leon. Leon Hart.”
“This Hart dude is your family?”
I chuckle. “Don’t know of that many Harts in my caller list.”
“Fuck, bro,” the man says. “I ain’t no foolin with this guy. If he’s family, I’m making damn sure no one lays a hand on you.”
The surroundings turn bleak after that. I tune out, making the unforgivable error of not being in control. It’s an error that can cost a man’s life. The knowledge is as integral to my being as instinct is to an animal, but for once, I welcome the oblivion.
“He’s here,” the barman says. “I held onto his phone.”
I only register the words because someone is shaking me from the peaceful state of nothingness, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
“Thank you,” a familiar voice says. “This should settle the bill. Keep the tip for your trouble.”
The barman whistles. “That’s a lot of dough there, Mr. Hart. It ain’t necessary though.”
My younger brother’s tone is dry. “I insist.”
“Yes, Mr. Hart. Thank you.”