the Wheel (a vignette)

a series i began to celebrate/commemorate the important people in my life from the eyes of an anonymous bartender. titles/themes derived from the 22 major arcana tarot cards.

The sun shone through the tall paneled windows. Shelves of neatly spaced booze sat between them and so light refracted through the liqueurs and made them shimmer. I looked out on the hotel’s vast grounds, its manicured lawns criss-crossed by elms and gravel paths. A few finely-dressed kids were racing on bicycles around a fountain, lap after lap after lap, I’m sure giggling uncontrollably. A thicket of slate-grey clouds was clumped on the horizon, and I frowned.

I looked at the clock; an hour into the shift. Shit. Not too many drinkers at 3 in the afternoon today. Working in a venue catering to the ultra-wealthy means kowtowing to the mercurial and protean cycle of health trends. Alcohol was out, and (I think) peptides were in?

The luxury hotel, besides boasting acres of garden, meadow, and forest, also had a famous casino. And from one roulette table came a man looking for a drink.

Dark brown hair and slightly-less-but-still-dark brown eyes, the man was dressed in a blue suit with no tie (and a striking three buttons undone) and was grinning.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hey, pal, what’s the story?” He was Irish. I noticed his accessories next: four rings on one hand, three rings on the other, a dangling earring, a nose ring, a chain (all silver), and a few bead bracelets made of garnet, tiger’s eye, and amethyst.

“You getting a drink?”

“Yes sir,” as he stole a glance at the shelves and then at the draft beers. “Hmm, not too sure. Just won 50 quid so maybe something nice, right?”

“Congratulations. Lucky man. Happy to decide for you if you don’t know.”

“Sure, why not? I trust you.”

I spun around to grab a bottle of Japanese gin. The sunlight was dimming, weakly pushing its way through the approaching storm front. My gaze lingered on it for a moment. Cheers erupted from a blackjack table, and I remembered my task.

With the botanical gin went the sunshine-burst of yuzu juice and melleous, earthy fig purée. A whip shake, then double-strained into a single-rocks glass and topped with a splash of prosecco. The Three-Fold Path, I call it.

“Beautiful, thanks man,” raising it subtly in toast, “Sláinte.”

We got to chatting. He worked for the European Union, but his career had flitted between the public and private sectors. He was as cosmopolitan as it gets, a world traveler, trained in policy, in philosophy, in economics. Undoubtedly a lady’s man, he seemed to always know exactly what to say and so his charm was irresistible. Even the cadence of his voice was exceedingly engaging, and he spoke deftly in the language of the emotionally intelligent. I could tell, if the 50 quid (now 30 from the cocktail) proved it, that he was indeed very lucky.

maximize your own luck, embrace serendipity

“It’s pissing rain out there, Jesus.” I looked over my shoulder. The elms were thrashing in the wind, the carefully snipped hedges were shivering violently, the fountain’s stone basin was overflowing. But still, the kids were racing around it, hollering madly with sopping hair and soaked clothes. Where were their parents??

“Do you see them? Mad bastards, that looks fun.”

That was telling. A daredevil, perhaps, a thrillseeker? An agent of chaos, or maybe just a man who loved to live to the fullest? Perhaps he was someone who enjoyed the rollercoaster of life, and not someone who balked at or fretted over its highs and lows. Whatever the case, unlike so many men who frequented the hotel, he was genuine, secure in himself, unbothered, gregarious, roguish, and soulful.

The last of the golden-ish liquid vanished from the glass.

“Where you off to now?”

“Train to Paris, actually. Meeting a friend there from overseas.”

“Very nice, enjoy your train ride, sir.”

“Oh, I will. I fuckin’ love trains.” He dropped out of the velvet-padded barstool and strode out the mahogany double doors.

I looked at the clock; an hour and fifteen into the shift. I smiled and turned to the window. The rain had stopped, and the watery sun was beginning to dapple the yard in misty light. The kids were resting under a tree in their soiled jackets. Someone must have finally won the race, or perhaps it was never a race to begin with.