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Shouts & Murmurs


WHAT I THINK WILL HAPPEN IF I GO TO A BAR AND ORDER A WHISKEY NEAT

By Maeve Dunigan

April 14, 2023
Photograph from Getty

Save this storySave this story
Save this storySave this story

“One whiskey, neat,” I tell the bartender, settling myself onto a wooden stool.
I can immediately sense, from the way he’s fiddling with his long but tasteful
beard, that he’s attracted to me and intimidated by me in equal measure. When he
hands me my glass, our fingers brush. He doesn’t say it’s on the house, but we
both know that it is.

“I never do this, but can I take your picture?” the bartender asks, sheepishly.
I tell him it’s no problem—people ask me that all the time. He pulls out a
35-mm. camera and I pose with my drink. Later, when the photo is displayed in
his first gallery show, he’ll title it “Angel in Black.”

The bar begins to fill with the happy-hour crowd. As each patron enters and
notices the beverage I’m holding, they give me a reverent nod. One young woman,
so daunted by the ease and maturity I’m radiating—and so humiliated by her own
order—whispers “vodka cranberry” to the barman and then starts weeping.

Suddenly, the phone on the wall begins to ring.

“It’s for you,” the bartender says to me, without checking to see who it’s for.
He can tell from my general vibe that I don’t have a cell phone.

“Thought I’d find you here,” a gruff voice intones, on the other end of the
line. I hang up. I’ve already told Keanu a million times: if he wants me so
badly, he’d better come find me. I don’t care what he’s filming.



I return to my stool and take a sip of my drink. I love how bitter it tastes and
I don’t grimace at all as it goes down. I notice that a woman has arrived with a
crying baby. As soon as the baby locks eyes with me, he quiets down. The woman
is relieved. She places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re tough, but your heart is
wide open,” she says, without asking my name. I know in an instant that this
woman and I share an intense astral connection. “Cute baby,” I reply.

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We’re interrupted by a man in a suit. “You,” he says, making a beeline for me.
He tells me that he’s the C.E.O. of Arm & Hammer and asks if I want a job in
corporate. I make him wait as I take a slow swig, then I tell him I don’t
believe in big business. He completely understands and apologizes for asking.
Before he leaves, he slides me five crisp hundred-dollar bills. I ball up the
cash and slip it into the baby’s fist. Money means nothing to me.

An hour goes by, and I start growing tired of strangers approaching and asking,
point-blank, “Where did I go wrong?” I’ve facilitated an amicable divorce,
convinced a billionaire to donate all his wealth, and was just made a
city-council member in a Utah mining town called Strawberry. It’s time to go
home.

I ask the bartender for the bill. He asks me to marry him.

“I love you, but I can’t,” I purr, placing my empty glass on a cocktail napkin.
I leave the bar. I never return.

The bartender will pretend he doesn’t care. But at every shift for the rest of
his life, he’ll stare longingly at the front door, pour himself a whiskey, and
think of me. ♦






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