Matthew S Batham
Artwork by Chris Cartwright

Harris hated trendy bars, particularly expensive trendy bars. He’d pleaded with Annette to meet him somewhere else but she’d insisted on this particular venue. He’d also begged her not to be late, leaving him on his own feeling utterly conspicuous and spending a fortune on gin and tonics to hide his nerves.

 Annette was late, and sitting at the ridiculously small table for two, surrounded by obviously wealthy twenty- and thirty-somethings, Harris did feel utterly conspicuous. One thing he didn’t feel was drunk. Despite having tried every technique he knew to attract the waitress’s attention, he was still dry. He was toying with a cocktail stirrer left by the table’s previous occupant and eyeing the waitress, who was chatting happily to a glamorous young couple a nearby table. Harris wondered if the couple were famous. He didn’t watch enough TV or go to see enough popular films to know, but they looked like they belonged in Hollywood.

 The woman was blond, hair shoulder length and cut with absolute precision. The man was as dark as she was fair, his jaw-line like that of a comic book hero.

 The waitress giggled and flicked her fringe self-consciously. Harris began to feel irritated. Maybe he just wasn’t beautiful enough to get served.

 He coughed loudly, fist pressed to his lips, and waited for the waitress to notice him. She continued to chat to the beautiful couple.

 He recalled a story a friend had told him about her time in New York. The friend, Jennifer, had been sitting in a less salubrious bar than this, trying to get the attention of a member of staff. A group of lads on the next table called across; “Hey gorgeous, you want a drink?”

 Jennifer had answered in the affirmative. One of the lads had picked up an empty cigarette packet and thrown it at the waitress’s head. “The lady here would like a drink!” the lad had called when the waitress turned. “Be right there!” she’d answered.

 Harris didn’t think the same approach would work here.

 He glanced at his watch. Annette was twenty minutes late. She was always late. He coughed again and, miracle of miracles, the waitress glanced in his direction, before continuing her conversation with the couple.

 “Whenever you’re ready,” Harris called.

 He’d gone through the ‘I’m too ugly for this bar’ phase now and was squarely in the ‘I’m sick of waiting to get served’ phase. Soon he would be in the ‘I really need a drink’ phase and that’s when things could get nasty.

 The waitress moved on to another table and began taking orders from two stunning females. Harris snapped the cocktail stirrer and stood. He was entering phase three earlier than expected.

 He pushed his way between tables and beautiful people and tapped the waitress on the shoulder. She looked round, seemingly stunned at someone making physical contact.

 “When you’ve finished auditioning for Hollywood directors and mixing with models, perhaps you could come and serve the ugly guy in the corner. I’ve been waiting half an hour,” he said.

 The waitress didn’t smile. “I’ll be over as soon as I can,” she said, turning back to the models.

 “Young people have no appreciation of irony,” thought Harris, who was 35 going on seventy. Sardonic wit was a dying skill. Who would be the great raconteurs of the future? Robbie Williams? Kylie Minogue? Madonna? They were about the only three figures of pop culture he knew. He didn’t care much for popular culture.

 He sidled back to his table. He didn’t even have the cocktail stick to fiddle with now. He glanced towards the entrance, hoping to see Annette tottering through in a pair of dangerously high heels and a little black dress. No sign, and now the waitress was wandering off towards the bar.

 He sent dagger stares into her back and continued to stare almost as aggressively when she turned and headed back to the models’ table, handing them their drinks with a big, white grin.

 He waved and signalled her over. Harris couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he saw her consider ignoring him and than decide she’d made him suffer enough.

 “Hi,” she said, standing by his table, face sour.

 “Hi,” replied Harris with sardonic sweetness - not that she’d understand he was being sardonic, of course.

“Gin and tonic please,” he added, “better make it a treble, in case I have to wait as long for my second drink.” He smiled, thinking, ‘Why not? She’s here, she’s taken the order, I’ll be getting my drink soon. Why bear grudges?’

“Treble G & T,” said the waitress. “That’ll be twenty-three pounds.” It wasn’t a request, it was a warning.

“I was joking,” said Harris. “A single will be fine.”

 “So that’s a single G&T,” said the waitress, face still not cracking.

 “Please. And could you make sure I get a cocktail stirrer with that. Gives me something to fiddle with between drinks.”

 “Sure,” said the waitress, walking away.

 “No sense of irony,” muttered Harris. “Not the faintest recognition of sarcasm.”

 Ten minutes passed. Still no Annette. And still no drink.

 The waitress reappeared and began taking another order from the ‘Hollywood’ couple. 

 Where’s my fucking drink?

 He banged his fist on the metal table in frustration. The waitress and several customers looked his way, most of them frowning pompously.

 He fished his mobile from his jacket pocket and looked at it grudgingly. He hardly ever used the thing. Didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea of being contactable wherever he went. He managed to negotiate the address book and highlight Annette’s number. It rang several times before clicking on to the answer service. He considered asking her to meet somewhere else, so that he could make an exit in protest at the appalling service, but hung up without speaking.

 “Waitress!” he called, and she glanced at him, plucked eyebrows raised.

 “Just wondered what had happened to my drink?”

 “Oh sorry,” she called. “I forgot to put in the order. You’ll have to ask the next waitress I’m afraid. I’m finishing my shift.”

 “I hope she’s as efficient as you,” he called.

 “She will be,” said the waitress.

 “I was being sarcastic,“ said Harris, deciding to spell it out this time. “Do you know what sarcasm is? Have you ever heard of irony?”

 “Why don’t you explain it to the next waitress,” she replied, walking off.

 He watched her hovering round the bar, chatting with two impossibly good-looking barmen.

 Bitch, bitch, bitch!

 And then he snapped, stood and shoved through the crammed tables to the bar.

 “I have never been subjected to such dreadful service,” he said.

 At first she kept her back to him, continuing her conversation with the barmen, who were eying him nervously.

 “Any chance you could actually look at me while I’m complaining?”

 She turned: “What’s the problem exactly?”

 “The problem is, I’ve been here about forty minutes and I still don’t have a drink. This is a bar isn’t it? I haven’t inadvertently walked into a fashion shoot, or Madame Fucking Tussaud’s?”

 “Don’t swear at me please,” she said, barely ruffled.

 “I haven’t even started!”

 “Harris?”

 Now Annette decided to show up.

 “Is everything okay?”

 She was wearing a little black number and a pair of dangerously high heels. She’d made a real effort and now Harris felt bad for spoiling things.

 “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her arm. “I think we’d better leave.”
 “I need the loo,” said Annette, looking from Harris to the impassive waitress.

 “I’ll show you to it,” said the waitress, which shocked Harris.

 “Thanks.” Annette followed the suddenly amicable hostess through the bar and disappeared behind a partition wall.

 Harris sat on the edge of a stool and waited, avoiding eye contact with the bar staff.

 Annette returned ten minutes later without the waitress.

 Harris glanced at his watch. ”Is there still time to get a drink somewhere else?” he asked.

 “Yes, it’s only nine o’clock,” said Annette. Now even she was missing the acid in his wit.

 “Let’s just get out of here,” he said, pulling her gently towards the exit.

 “I know a good place,” she said. “Just round the corner. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but great atmosphere.”

 “Doesn’t sound like your kind of place. Have you got a cold? Your voice is kind of husky.”
 “No,” said Annette, now leading Harris by the arm down a succession of small side streets.

 “Where is this place?” he asked, as she tugged him towards a narrow alleyway.

 “Just up here,” she said.

 “There’s nothing down here,” Harris surveyed the stacks of crates and piles of old blankets. Water was dripping somewhere like in a public toilet.

 “That’s how I like it,” said Annette, turning to face him. Except she wasn’t Annette anymore; she was the waitress from the bar, wearing Annette’s clothes.

 “How…?” Harris took a step backwards toward the meagre light of the street.

 “I’m thirsty,” said the waitress, and she opened her mouth to reveal teeth as sharp as pins. Her face began to bubble like molten plastic. It ran across her bones, reforming into something hideous. The eyes that glared from the mess of flesh were feral.

 Harris just stared.

 And then she was on him, teeth ripping into his throat. He felt the throbbing of warm blood. Saw it pumping into his white shirt. Heard her guzzling.

 She’d got her drink.

 Now that was ironic.