Warren Mitty
Layla McLaurin
“Do you want anything to drink?” the bartender asked.
The clock, fixed by the bar’s black French door, ticked nine times.
“This is technically my first time at a bar,” Warren said. “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”
The mahogany counter glowed under warm orange bar lights. Warren came forward, resting pale, jagged elbows on it. His legs swirled languidly in circles and his stool creaked. Jazz crackled softly over the radio. Red nails clinked jugs and empty glasses.
“ID, please,” the bartender murmured. Warren pressed a dinged driver’s license to the counter. The bartender smiled, her glossy lips twinkling in the light. The red arcs of her nails lightly grazed the brittle card’s plastic. She squinted, eyeing it lazily. “You’re the first customer who’s ever handed me a South Carolina license — and the first tonight. How about a whiskey sour?”
“Sure – why a whiskey sour, though?”
“Just because it’s my favorite drink.”
The clock ticked thirty-one times before the whiskey was fixed. Jack Daniel’s, lemon juice, syrup, and egg white swirled and coalesced in a silver shaker, the bartender rattling it lazily, nails clinking metal. She poured the drink from the shaker to a ribbed whiskey glass and stuck a Maraschino cherry on its rim. Little beads of its red juice dripped slowly down the glass.
The bartender slid Warren his drink, glass clinking as it met the counter. “Enjoy,” she sang, pulling a rag from her wrinkly apron. She swiveled to the bar’s rear and flicked the silvery faucet of a sink. She wet the rag and spryly wiped the counter.
“Why doesn’t this place get more business, anyway?” Warren murmured, swishing his yellow whiskey in a lazy circle. He watched its foam bubble lightly.
“There’s a club further down the block. Not sure what they’re doing, but they’ve got people hooked. They skip right past this place to go,” the bartender said.
“That place? What’s it called? The, uh, Albatross or something like that?”
“Close. It’s called The Seabird. You know that song by the Alessi Brothers? I think it’s named after it.”
“I love that song! The Innovations version, too,” he beamed.
The clock ticked five times.
She only smiled, gripping her rag. She tossed it gently to the bar. “You ever heard that version?” he jabbed.
“Yeah,” she said, wiping cherry juice and beads of egg from the mahogany. She wiped languidly, the bend of her arm harsh, and silently eyed a deep brown spot on the wood.
Warren’s fingers stiffened on his glass. “They turned me away – The Seabird. I don’t remember the reason the bouncer gave–it was so long ago–but I guess he could tell I’m an outsider.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just,” he paused, sipping, “separate from everyone else. I don’t even really feel human. We’re supposed to be social animals, right? Well, I’m 22, and I’ve never had any lasting relationships. No friends. No girlfriend. I thought things would be different when I moved away for school, but now I’m a senior and everything’s the same as it’s always been. I thought that maybe at a club, I’d suck up some of the other people’s sociability–dance with somebody, have a few drinks–but I couldn’t even get in. That– this just proves it.
The clock ticked seven times.
“I was going to guess it was because your license is expired,” the bartender smiled stiffly.
“It is?”
“By two days.”
“Well, why’d you serve me, then?”
She huffed. “This place is boring. No one ever comes. No kid would wanna sneak in here. But I get it. Being lonely really sucks.”
“You get it?”
“Well, sure. I just moved here in September. All of my college friends are still in Jersey–I went to Rutgers. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re just so beautiful. You’re beautiful, Salem,” he paused, staring up with heavy lids. “I find it hard to believe that people don’t naturally gravitate towards you. I’d think if you had any problems at all, they’d be the opposite of mine.”
She smiled lightly. “I, uh, appreciate that. But,” she paused, “how’d you know my name?”
“You’re not–you’re not wearing a name tag?” he sputtered.
“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you how I knew,” he grinned, sipping. “I’m a psychic!”
“Really?” Salem kidded.
“Really!”
“Then, shoot. What else do you know about me?”
Warren grinned snidely, sloshing his whiskey. “Let’s see. Your name is Salem, of course. You’re 24. You’re getting your master’s in public health at Drexel. Your bachelor’s is in psychology, though. This is your second job; you also work receptionist at a nursing home. Your favorite bands are The Doors and–Oingo Boingo, was it? You wanna dye your hair, which, you really shouldn’t–guys like natural girls. You’re turning 25 in April, which scares the crap out of you. And you play piano,” he prattled.
“You’re one of Joshua’s friends, aren’t you?” Salem sputtered. “And this is his idea of a prank. He must’ve sent you. That’s what’s happening, right?”
“Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Warren groused. “That’s not fair. I’ve been listening to you, Salem, and remembering, too. I already told you that I have no friends–not one in my entire life.”
“This isn’t a joke?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Then–how do you know so much about me?” she pressed.
“I’m a psychic,” he chimed.
“You’re a psycho, that’s what you are. And I’m about to call 911 and report you for stalking if you don’t tell the truth.”
“You want the truth?” Warren bit, hands shaking. “You told me all of this yourself. This is around the eighteenth time I’ve talked to you tonight. I swear to God. I’m stuck in some sort of time loop. It all happens over ten minutes. The set up is the same each time. I swing the door open and sit on this creaky barstool and you’re here. You ask me what I want to drink and we talk. They’ve been good conversations, for the most part. Until now. Then some guy enters the bar and he shoots you square in the head before you even realize what’s going on and he takes all the money from the register and he leaves. Each time you die, the loop restarts. I’ve been trying so hard to save you–and for what? For you to yell at me like this? I don’t know why I bothered in the first place. This is the longest I’ve ever spoken to a woman, and I’m finally starting to get used to watching you die.”
Salem glowered, her breath heavy. “But it’s been twelve minutes since you walked in.”
“What?”
The clock ticked six times.
“You came in at 11,” Salem said, tone hard but shaky, “and now it’s 11:12. I don’t know if you’re high or crazy or what, but you need to get out of here. Now.”
“What happened to the loop? Now? It’s ending now?”
“I’m done talking to you!” Salem broke. “Now get out of my bar, you creep!”
Warren hurled his glass at the bar, shattering it. His yellow whiskey slowly blotched the mahogany and the burst cherry smudged it red. Glittering, jagged shards littered the bar. Shakily, he snagged one and jerked it to Salem’s neck. “Don’t call me a creep when I’m trying to do you a favor! Shut up, bitch, or I swear I’ll kill you and reset the loop! And you’ll die a dozen more times!”
The clock ticked three times.
“In all of the times you’ve re-lived it,” she panted, “did you ever think about just–not entering? Leaving me alone? Why do you keep coming in? What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to save you, Salem! What don’t you get? If I didn’t—who would protect you?”
“You,” she flared, eyeing the glittering tip of the shard at her neck, “think you’re trying to protect me? Real hero, the guy cuts the necks of women in bars. You’re a real hero, dude.”
Warren’s arm fell slowly, and the shard he gripped hit the tile. He paced to the door, head low. Pressing it, he felt the January cold, and his breath came in smoky puffs.
Layla McLaurin is a member of the class of 2028 who plans to major in history. From Voorhees, New Jersey, she has always been interested in different forms of art, from music and theatre to visual art and creative writing. She is excited to continue developing as a student and writer during her time at Rutgers, and hopes to become a lawyer or archivist.