Fiction – Bozo

The man stood in front of an arrangement of bottles and glasses.

- By Souvankham Thammavongsa

He knew what everything in those bottles tasted like, and what to pair them with. He was a bartender. He could make a drink for you, if you wanted. All you had to do was lean over and ask.

I wanted something he could make. Something no one else had. I asked him if he could make this for me, and he nodded. I saw him pause and think. What he had in mind seemed to require him to go and look for things. He rummaged through a plastic bag and plucked something out. When he brought the drink to me, it looked like water. In the middle of the drink was a mint leaf in the shape of a heart. The leaf floated there, and then it didn't anymore.

I didn't know how to talk to him. He was right in front of me. Making drinks that other people in the room had asked for. So I just watched him work. That was all he was doing. Working. He was someone who could carry four glasses using the space his palms and fingers could provide. He did this repeatedly. He never fumbled or broke anything. He cut up oranges and limes and lemons. He scooped ice, decorated drinks with straws. He seemed to know what people in the room wanted before they wanted it. From a small machine, next to him, orders spooled like ribbons.

He didn't try to talk to anyone. Didn't walk over and ask anything. Didn't seem curious about anything. A waitress went by, and, though there was plenty of room behind him, she squeezed so close that her chest brushed up against him. And on the way back, when she passed him, she touched his arm. He didn't react either time. Part of the job. No turning around to acknowledge her with a smile. No asking about her shift and how it was going. But she got to touch. She got to be back there, with him.