“What can I get for you?”
Our eyes meet and I take his moment of hesitation to study him. Soaked dark hair, soaked clothes, five o’clock shadow, dark irises. He’s wearing an obviously expensive watch on his left wrist that clashes with the rumpled navy tee-shirt and his—very—old-looking black leather jacket.
“Bourbon. Neat, please.”
With a polite nod, I grab a bottle and pour him a drink. He takes his leather jacket off and drapes it over the back of the barstool. I steal a few more glances at him while he’s looking away.
Tight face, tensed shoulders, creased brows, clenched jaw. I check the clock above the door; 2:41p.m. He must have missed the 2:30p.m ferry for Seattle and has to wait for the 4:10p.m one. I haven’t seen him around in the five months Jack and I’ve been here, so I assume he’s not from here. Maybereturning to Seattle from some kind of meeting. With his casual clothes, I’d rule out anything work related. Family drama? Escaping after a steamy night with a stranger? Camping trip that went wrong after realizing he didn’t pack a tent nor wear appropriate clothing?
Now seated, he crosses his hands on the bar countertop in front of him and lifts his face back towards me. I avert my eyes quickly and focus back on his drink, pouring generously.
The man’s obviously having a bad day.
“That’ll be $5.50 please,” I place the glass in front of him.
“Pricey for a bottom shelf bourbon in a shithole,” he mumbles, taking the bills out of his wallet.
I shrug. “The manager makes a lot of his profits on people like you.”
His left eyebrow lifts with confusion and he scoffs. “People likeme?”
“Didn’t you miss the 2:30 ferry?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
The muscle in his jaw ticks, his confusion turning into a frown. His grip on the glass tightens before it relaxes. Details that could go unnoticed to inattentive eyes, but not mine. That’s what I do best. I study people, their tells, every slight movement is showing me emotions, every emotion is telling me a story. The difficulty is knowing what’s true from the fiction taking place in my storytelling brain.
“I did.”
“We’re the closest from the docks,” I tilt my chin towards the window, “and, as usual, it’s pouring outside. Since the next ferry to Seattle is in an hour and a half, you came here to have a drink while you wait. Like everyone does.”
He looks around, scanning the bar, the mostly empty tables and booths. There are currently four customers—including him—scattered inside. Two of them are regulars. They stop here every day before going back home.
“Everyone, yeah. Big crowd.”
I roll my eyes. I guess “late guy” should be nicknamed “Grumpy guy”.
“It is, actually.”
“What is?”
“A big crowd. For a shithole.” I glance at him sideways with a smirk.
He doesn’t take the bait, his face set in a mask of annoyance.
Grumpy.
I walk away to the end of the bar, a little farther from him. If he wantsto sulk alone in the corner, who am I to interrupt?
I sit and prop my feet on the table, crossing them, placing my sketchbook on my thighs and turning a new page, my pencil in my hand.
I study Grumpy Guy from afar, with a more practical eye, and start sketching him. Sharp jawline, strong nose. Probably broken once or twice. Was he a bad boy when he was younger? He looks to be in his mid-thirties now. Maybe his Grumpy attitude got him into trouble a few times. His eyes are a dark brown, nearly black, a little almond shaped, naturally tanned skin, disheveled straight dark hair. Obvious Latino heritage. Ruggedly handsome. He’s got a signet ring on his right pinkie finger. Family heirloom? He keeps glancing at it, like he’s not used to wearing it. Large hands and strong veiny forearms. His navy tee-shirt is hugging his biceps and his chest. He looks built but doesn’t look like he puts too much effort into it.
After an hour, I glance at my sketch. What do I see? A man. Lonely. Drinking. Grumpy. I see pain. Some kind of heartbreak. Loss. The glass is placed in front of him, half full—maybe half empty—his ringed pinkie hand around it. His bottomless eyes lost in the empty space in front of him. His full lips closed in a tight line. I glance back at him and smirk as I name the sketch on the bottom left of the page “Grumpy Late Guy, in a shithole on a rainy Wednesday” and sign my name on the bottom right.
I stand up and turn on the copy machine. I print two copies and turn it off. With a grin, I walk to him, one of the sketches in my hands and place it in front of him. It takes him a couple of seconds before it registers, and his tight face relaxes.
“Wow. I look like shit,” he simply says.
“Is that a criticism of your overall appearance or my sketch?”
