1
“You should take me for a man who doesn’t care what befalls those who wish me and mine dead. I wish them all suffering and loss.”
The Honourable Judge Robert Evans
“Let us not go to Camelot. ’Tis a silly place.”
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Ada
Stabbies is full, even for a Friday night. Students and tradesmen drain beers next to lawyers, sleazeballs, naysayers, the chronically unemployed, fuckwits, the straight-forwardly tedious, and anyone else who fancies a nine-dollar pint. Which, in this town, is everyone.
The bar’s actually called ‘Afterglow,’ but that’s never caught on with the punters—even after several hundred dollars’ worth of new signage and Afterglow-branded aprons. The reason is easily explained, ifoffensive to a wide swath of people. Cece—my best friend—had a godfather who bought the Corner Hotel Pub in 1987. In a fit of what I can only assume was peyote-induced lunacy, he redubbed it ‘Bar Navajo.’ Then, after multiple homicides were committed in the bathrooms, car park, and walk-in freezer, the place became lovingly referred to as ‘Bar Stab-a-Hoe.’ Which, in the New Zealand way of things, was eventually shortened to ‘Stabbies.’
It might shock you to learn that Cece’s godfatherwasn’tNative American. Nor is anyone who drinks in Bar Stab-a-Hoe, but pointing that out will only result in you being told to watch your skank back because this is, in fact, still Bar Stab-a-Hoe.
Take it from me.
I hate every brick and panel that makes up Afterglow—nee,Stabbies. Aside from the cheap tequila (which I could get cheaper at the liquor store, but who’s trying to get a rep as‘that vaguely ethnic gal who bulk-purchases Cuervo’?), this used to be a bar in which you would onlyeverfind me dead.
Unfortunately, Cece now owns this bar. She also lives above this bar. And since I’ve been living withherfor the past five months, in this bar, I remain. Albeit in the dishwashing area where, in the words of Cece,“You can’t do any more damage.”
I swear, you cat-hiss atoneguy, and suddenly, you’re ‘making it weird’ for the customers.
Not that I blame Cece for benching me. In the two days I pulled pints, I was the worst bartender Stabbies had that didn’t commit first-degree manslaughter in the smokers’ area.
Bloody history aside, Afterglow isn’t much to write home about. It’s your classic Kiwi dive layered over with a smattering of 2000s trashiness. The floors feel like Velcro, and the walls reek of cigs even though New Zealand banned smoking inside in 2004. And there’s a fucking stripper pole. To be fair, the thing gets a workout nearly every night. To be unfair, not from anyone who understands their own upper body strength.
I swirl the last of my Julio around my glass and finish it. It’s the weekend after all, and I have as much right to get wasted as anyone else in Auckland.
“Ada?”
I turn to see Davis, the resident bouncer, glaring at me. He’s your standard tall, dark, and handsome, but I’m not into authority figures. Especially not fake authority figures, like fucking bar bouncers. Also, he’s twenty-four. I might spend a fortune trying to look his age, but I’m hardly going to be intimidated by someone who can’t rent a car.
“What’s the problem, Davey? Is someone trying to pressure you into selling steroids? Again?”
Davis ignores me, which is fair enough. “Are you fucking with the music?”
Stabbies has a jukebox, but it’s easily overridden by the AUX cord in the kitchen. I’ve been skipping over The Eagles and Wagon Wheel and anything else that makes me want to pull my own ears off.
“And if I have been fucking with the music? I’m a professional musician. Does thatnotgive me the right to fuck with the music?”
“No.”
“Then why am I doing it?”
Davis grits his teeth.
“Oh, go on, Mall Pig. Lay it on me. I can take it.”
His jaw works, and I have the pleasure of seeing the exact moment Davis gives into the sibling dynamic we’ve been cultivating since we met.
“You’re a pain in the ass. Just because you’ve got nothing better to do doesn’t mean you can fuck with Cece’s bar.”
I clutch both hands to my cheeks. “Aww. I’m sure your desire to preserve the integrity of the jukebox is purely professional, right? It has nothing to do with wanting to brush the hair out of Cece’s eyes and tell her she’s the prettiest girl in the whole world, yeah?”
The untattooed parts of Davis’s neck go red. That’s the problem with Davis. He thinks he can take me. Everyone does. And everyone is wrong. It’s a lonely life, being a knob to Kiwis for no reason, but someone has to do it. Apparently.
