Vermouth Verde

Ten minutes before opening time, Marek cautiously turned the nozzle for the main lights slightly to the right and looked over the now dimmed Vermouth Verde. He would, as always, wonder if there had been one singular person in charge of the bar’s aesthetic.

At first glance, it was much like any one of the other inner-city bars with its vague and artificial nostalgia to a brownish yesteryear that had never existed in Sydney. A closer inspection revealed a great clashing assortment of various vintages: the bark-coloured walls that were supposed to remind one of a speakeasy were adorned with 80s movies posters; blues music (as well as classic rock, country, folk) were played at a volume that could not allow the music to be appreciated but nor could it offend. Slowly, as it neared five o’clock, at the wooden faux-antique tables, there would be manicured, white-collared fingers, cautious not to get too greasy as they picked up burgers and hotdogs (available in vegan, duck meat, organic options). Soft green and red lights gave the impression that everyone was snugly inside the miniature world of a Christmas decoration.

The owners, who, up until recently were investment bankers, decided to get into ‘the restaurant and bar game’, were initially wary of Marek - his few tufts of greying hair, a set of crimson square cheeks (a legacy of from his Polish mother) that had begun to droop, an upper lip that was perennially moistened by sweat, his animated high-pitched voice and love for cashmere shirts all lent him an air of theatricality . However, after a few trial shifts, they understood that his age and experience gave him an authority over the younger colleagues. Moreover, he put costumers of both sexes at ease. On Friday nights such as these, where they be a slight wait, Marek maintained just the right amount of small talk. Besides, the competing Lobos Inn and Baxter’s Bar did not even have a host.

Even amidst the chaos of a Friday evening, however, Marek noticed him immediately. Wearing a chic, brown winter coat that had too many buttons and a tight-fitting pair of jeans, his mop of black hair and toffee skin, which, in the darkened arena of the bar, gave off a reddish-purple glow, stood out even more. Thick eyebrows and hard-set eyes that didn’t until betray any weakness until they conversed. Welcome to Vermouth Verde. Do you have a reservation by any chance? Yes. Under Vikram Golding for 8pm, 2 people, his eyes fluttered in deep concentration as he spoke, showing more white than the ink black of his pupils.

Right this way, Marek allowed himself a slight ripple of excitement and asked himself that question that was frowned upon these days, where was Mr Golding from? His ethnicity? Had he even been 10 years younger, perhaps he would have felt the cruel ache of desire that always began in his chest and then elsewhere. Instead, as he led Vikram, Mr Golding, to his table, something about his subservience and nervousness reminded Marek of the past: rooms equally poorly lit as Vermouth Verde, but sheathed in black, and of his fingers pressing into the flesh of his younger lovers.

Over the years, Marek had come to be able to determine, which customers were the friends, lovers, colleagues, adulterers. But these days, more labels arose - friends with benefits, ethical non-monogamous, fuck buddies and he had trouble identifying those. If he had once listened to the stories of the 1960s with envy, the undefined sexual and social norms of today confused him, inspiring him to retreat than participate.

A little while later, a tall blonde woman, attractive yet unremarkable in that sort of suburban way, came to sit with Vikram. Marek stole furtive glances but caught nothing. When it got quieter, he decided to walk over. Everything ok here? Yes, yes thank you, the blonde answered without even looking at Marek but continued stirring her cocktail. Vikram looked up at Marek, not the flirtatious one that Marek had received in the past but a frightening one of pity. Marek stayed away from the table for the rest of the night.

Marek offered to close up that night. He sat down at where Vikram and the blonde’s table. Perhaps, Marek though, he could now understand the explosive hopelessness that was the blues. He wished to wail or plea with an amorous desperation. But, as was the case after most shifts, there was only the fading echo of the chatter, squeals and laughter of the past few hours, not unlike like the wafting feint smell of wet leaves after rainfall and the memories of his own life.