Drinks Over Gatsby

The piano was beautiful from fifteen feet away. It stood in the corner, gleaming even in the dim restaurant lighting. I tossed back my drink, set the empty glass on the bar, and walked over to the stunning instrument. I’d waited all night and finally the paid player had abandoned the piano for a smoke break. It was my chance. Something bold and daring, that I had wanted to do for so long.

She was a classic Cavendish grand mahogany piano with off white keys. I thought of all the hands that had played her, as I gently ran my fingers over those keys. She had held up miraculously, considering how long she had been resting in the bar. My fingers caught on some of the raised keys, but that was to be expected. All that mattered to me, was that each key went down and bounced up under a precise sound. She had sounded good all night, so there was no reason to doubt her now.

I rested my fingers over the first few keys of the song. I breathed in deeply, turned my mouth away from the microphone, and exhaled all my anxiety. I turned my head back and began to play the beginning of my favorite song. “So far so good,” I thought as I leaned in closer to the microphone. I open my mouth and the first few words came out in a steady low voice, “You give your hand to me…” My anxiety would never allow me to be a professional singer, but I always wanted to sing in public, just once. I just wanted to know I could do it. I wasn’t going to concern myself with what people thought, this was going to be something just for me. I continued to my favorite part, “I am just a friend…That’s all I’ve ever been…”

I was sure I would hit a wrong note, either on the piano or with my voice. I had made up my mind to go slow and to continue, no matter the mistake. I was positive the people in the room were curious, but I told myself they were too preoccupied in their conversations to notice me. Everything fell away, and I was alone with this gorgeous piano. It had been perfect so far, and I was getting close to the end. Just the last verse to go. I sang out steadily, “I watch you walk away…beside the lucky guy…”

I made it through the song, and it was perfectly done. I pushed off the bench and slipped a hundred in the tip glass on the piano. I walked out and into the busy street without looking up. I was proud and felt so good, that it was time to reward myself with a treat.

The cookie aisle of the nearest grocery store was intimidating, mostly because everything was labeled “biscuit”. I knew “biscuits” were “cookies”, but I wasn’t quite expecting the brands names. I picked up something called “Digestives” and was looking at the wrapper, when I noticed someone standing very close to me. I looked up to catch a familiar smiling face, that I thought I’d never see in person. A face from the movies. The actor/singer Johnny Dark was standing barely an inch away from me.

“That...was...brilliant!” He said enthusiastically. “Well done, You.” His irises were so dark that they bled it into his pupils, so his eyes looked like two large black glass marbles. His dark hair was the perfect length to frame his pale face. His expression was soft and giddy. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying, but I finally realized what he was asking.

“Yes, I’m American.” I responded. “Thank you, but I was just fooling around.”

“You must come back.” He beamed. “My mates and I demand an encore.”

I laughed nervously. “Well...I...Ummm...only know the one song”

“We must have you back!” He demanded. “Even if you don’t sing, we need your expertise.”

“My expertise?” I said confused.

“Well, you’re American.” He paused and looked down before saying, “and a writer, as well.” He lifted his head and smiled. “I happen to be a co-founder of the Royal British American Literature Society…. Or R.B.A.L.S. ‘R’ stands for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. That’s the program we all attended. ‘B’ because we’re all British. ‘A’ and ‘L’ because we all have a great love for American Literature. We meet once a month to celebrate an American Writer. Since you decided to crash the party, you’re required to finish out the night with us.”

“So, you’re in a British book club called 'R' balls?” I chuckled a little as I asked.

“It’s R.B.A.L.S.” He emphasized back. “As the cofounder and mixologist, I formally request your attendance.”

“I’m afraid I’m trying to lay low, so I-”

“Yes, of course. We will take the super-secret way back in.” He interrupted. “I’m a little surprised that you’re not at all interested in the writer we are discussing. It could be you.”

“Is it me?” I asked shocked by the coincidence.

“No, it’s not you.” He admitted nervously. “It’s someone great though, and I’m not going to tell you who. You have to guess, and you have to come back to get the clues.” He lifted on his toes and then plopped back down.

“The moment someone approaches me, I’m outta there!” I said as I tossed the cookies aside.

“Absolutely.” He agreed.

I grabbed his hand and together we navigated the narrow aisles of the store. I was expecting to go out the front, but we made a hard left. He guided me to the stocking area in the back and out into an alleyway. Once we got down the alleyway, I could see someone holding a door open. We zipped by and into the kitchen of the restaurant.

“Took you long enough,” the man said as he closed the door behinds us.

“Sorry,” Johnny shouted over his shoulder. “She needed some convincing.”

I held on tightly to his hand, as he maneuvered us through the kitchen and out a set of double doors. We ducked under the bar counter and crossed behind the bartender and ducked back under the bar again. He stopped, at what appeared to be, a stain glass panel wall. He slid his hand in the middle and pushed one-half to the left to reveal a small room. We slipped inside and he quickly pulled the door back behind us.

In the small room, there was a bar to the right side. There were several bottles of alcohol and glasses cluttering the top. One man stood behind the bar and another was seated on a stool. Five men were seated at a table in the center of the room. A roulette table was on the other side. The floor was littered with gold and silver confetti. The room looked as if a wild party had taken place moments before we came in. I realized then, that each man was wearing formal dress clothes.

“Right, we need introductions. This is Richard Montgomery,” Johnny said as pointed at one of the men seated at the table. He gestured to the man on Richard’s left and said, “Here we have, Todd Holly.” He moved over to the next man and said, “This is Caleb Green.” He circled around to the next, “We have David Pearce. Finally, my fellow cofounder, Ryan Yarrow.”

“Don’t do that!” The man called out from behind the bar. “We’ll never get him through the door.”

“That’s Fletcher Ford, filling in for me.” He moved over and behind the bar, as Fletcher came around to the front. I followed, but I chose to stand in between Fletcher and the quiet man at the other end. The quiet man nodded and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Quincey.”

“That’s right. Quiet Quincey. Sorry, Old sport.” Johnny smiled and pulled two glasses from behind the bar. “Your Clue. We have a glass with a tea light at the bottom, and a shot glass glued over the tea light. So, you don’t swallow the light.”

“Safety first!” Fletcher yelled.

“Then, we pour in the Midori.” Johnny poured a green liquid in over the upturned shot glass. “Then, some gin.” He poured another bottle with clear liquid. “Then, a splash of sweet and sour.” He poured in a different green liquid. “And last, but certainly not the least, a sprinkling of gold sugar for glamour.” He slid the concoction in front of me. “We call it...The Green Light.”

I looked down at the glowing green drink. “Mmmm...Gatsby. You guys are doing Fitzgerald.”

“Top Marks.” Fletcher gleamed. “Bottoms up.”

“What the hell?” With that, I kicked back the drink while everyone in the room cheered and clapped. “That’s disgusting!” I coughed up. “Don’t you have rum or bourbon? This tastes like the worst parts of a fruit salad mixed with gasoline.”

“Yeah,” Fletcher said flatly. “I tried to tell you, mate. Drinks are not your thing. Stick to fame and fortune.” Fletcher passed a bottle of water over to me. He leaned in and whispered, “So Klipspringer, what brings you to London?”

“Fletch!” Johnny stared intently at his friend.

“It’s ok.” I smiled at Johnny. I turned and said. “I needed a break from L.A.”

“A break from what?” Fletch whispered.

“Fletch, I’m going to kill you.” Johnny blurted out.

“I’m just trying to inquire, if she knows any details about the missing American writer.”

“What?” I cried out.

Fletcher leaned in and with the excitement of pitching a movie, he began to sum up the gossip. “Apparently, this American writer was sleeping her way around Hollywood. Actors, Producers, and Directors, oh my! All of them married, and it was all in an attempt, to get her books made into movies. One of the wives found out about the affair and went ballistic. Cat fight and it was all broadcast on the Telly.”

I stared at him in panic. “No!” I whispered.

“No,” He shook his head. “It actually didn’t go out.” He said in a serious tone. Then he perked up and said, “But, it’s all over social media. Wanna see?”

“No!” Johnny and I exclaimed at the same time.

Fletcher leaned in and whispered, “You have to tell us...How many did you actually sleep with?”

I lifted my head from the bar and screamed, “None of them, Fletcher. I didn’t sleep with anyone’s husband.” I lowered my voice and said, “It wasn’t like that. I was in L.A. I was interviewing production companies to make my books into movies. One of them was owned by...”

“A famous movie star.” Fletcher interjected.

I nodded and continued, “He suggested that I help with this televised benefit for animals, as like a trust exercise. I love animals, so I helped. We spent a lot of time going over my books. His wife didn’t like that. During a commercial break, she vented her frustrations in the lady’s room, and someone’s mic was still on. Everyone heard.” I looked up at Johnny and said, “She made some seriously horrible accusations. I stood there as everyone stared at me. No one said a word. Some people were even smirking. Funny, it was a lot like Gatsby. All those people at his parties, and not one at his funeral. All those people wanted my books, but not one stood up for me.”

“And Daisy didn’t call?” Ryan asked from his chair behind me.

“No, He didn’t.” I answered. “So, I left.”

“Stay as long as you want, Luv.” Fletcher said. “Never go back to those horrible people. In fact, I think you should select the next author.”

I smiled and asked, “You guys ever read Ray Bradbury?”