The Coin (Three Wishes)

I want to scream. I want to shatter all of the glassware, jump over the marble bar top, and scream out my frustrations. But I volunteered to work tonight. And, I need the money. Besides, what’s the alternative? Hanging with acquaintances and ingesting copious amounts of liquor? Tempting, but depressing.

My small, dark bar fills up within an hour of opening. People stand elbow to elbow in various sweaty stages of drunken revelry. I shouldn’t feel shocked, but I do. It’s Christmas Eve. I guess the need for familial escape comes earlier and earlier each year. My parents are 1900 miles away, and I don’t have a family of my own, so I don’t understand.

Ted, the General Manager, insisted on lighting all four fireplaces, and I am melting in this drunken sauna. The pace is unrelenting. If I’m not mixing cocktails, my tall, lanky body is hunched over a tiny sink washing my barware. My back is killing me, and I’m tired. I fight the disgust that threatens to pour from my lips. I wonder if I mask it enough to keep the snotty tone out of my responses to bar guests.

A group of eight Santa-hat-wearing hipsters crowds in front of me. The Christmas crawlers slur their shouted orders. Negronis. Whiskey Sours with egg whites. Two Camparis with Green Chartreuse, up. The drinks of the Gatsby era are making a huge comeback. And Green Chartreuse? The only bottle in my gram’s liquor cabinet watered down by the rites of passage of a plethora of kids and grandkids. I have fond memories.

A pixie-haired hipster girl asks for my name. “Max,” I half-smile and turn to the next empty glass in need of a refill. She wants my number too, but I pretend not to hear her. Ten years ago, I ate up the hook-ups with cute girls. But now, they feel gross and empty, and I feel old. Pixie follows me to the middle of the bar. She tells me that she and her friend have a bet going about my age. I’m 41. “Wow,” she giggles in disgust. ‘Turns out that they were both wrong — she guessed 27, her drunk friend ventured 32. I laugh it off and turn back to my shaker. That’s about the only thing that I have going for me at this point — my ageless looks, I mean. Something about running around and serving liquor for ten hours straight keeps me young.

I zone out for a moment, letting the greens and blues of blinking Christmas lights wash over me. The truth is, I’m lucky to be here. The truth is most of this crowd is pretty chill and friendly. I have food to eat and a roof over my head. I enjoy a large group of friends. But, my livelihood consists of enabling people to make poor decisions and pretending that I love serving them. God, I feel like such an asshole. And I just can’t do it anymore. I have no desire to manage or own a bar. I want to run far away from this life that I lead. I never thought I’d find myself here in my fourth decade.

When I first stepped behind a bar, I was twenty-two. It was supposed to be a fun, “fill-in” job to supplement my income as I pursued artistic endeavors and traveled. If I’m honest, bartending is now my career. And I haven’t ventured out of the country in many years.

My internal angst is interrupted when the hipster Santa leader snaps his fingers in my face. “Dude! Can we also have a round of Fernets, please! God, service sucks here.” I hide my delight when I peer into his black, square-framed glasses. We ran out of our supply of the newest liquor craze hours ago.

I reply into his waxed mustache, which hangs inches from my mouth. “Sorry, bro. We’re out of Fernet. But we have Jager. Which I told you before.”

He slams his card into my hand but gives up his unfounded anger after a look of admonishment from Pixie. “This is for the whole tab.” He won’t make eye contact. “Happy Holidays.”

As the group disperses, a scruffy-looking Santa lingers behind. He throws down a crumpled fifty-dollar bill and calls me over. “I’m sorry my friends are such douchebags, man. I haven’t seen any of ’em since college graduation. People can change so much in five years.” I appreciate the apology and feel a bit better. I notice a small black object glistening in his clenched right hand. He drops it, along with a folded piece of white, starched paper onto the bar.

Ugh. A Fernet coin. Fernet bottles come with these small coins that act as a “secret handshake” between bartenders. The receiver takes the coin to add to his or her collection, and the giver’s reward is a free shot. While the history behind the idea is cool, it feels pretentious.

My eyes go blurry, and my insides threaten to erupt again. “Look, man, like I told your buddy — We. Are. Out. Of. Fernet.”

He stands and smirks. “Not a Fernet coin, friend. But I think that you could use it, Max. Oh, and the fifty’s for your troubles. Happy Holidays.” A fifty-dollar tip is huge. I mumble “thanks,” and Scruffy slinks back into the crowd. Max? I don’t think that I told him my name.

Curiosity kills me, so I grab the money, coin, and paper in one fell swoop.

The coin is black like a Fernet coin, but thicker and more ridged somehow. It wears an unrecognizable crest. The words “A Two-sided Coin” stand out, engraved in silver.

Ted struts behind the bar and tells me to take my fifteen-minute break. I grab my jacket and hurry outside to the Employee Smoke area. I take the coin out and turn it over in my hands. What the hell is this?

The brisk December air causes my breath to exhale in white puffs, illuminating the coin and giving it an ethereal quality. I unfold the paper and find a short note, written in thick, black cursive letters: This coin enables Max Murphy to three free do-overs. Three moments in time to change the course of your life. Choose wisely and choose quickly. This offer ends at 3:00 a.m., December 26.

I’m freaking out. Are my friends punking me? This is bogus, right? I sit down on a concrete stoop, brushing hundreds of stubbed cigarette butts away. I flip the coin again and re-read the note. I try to live without regrets, but my mind swims through a flood of things I’d rectify if given a chance.

***

Ella. My first thoughts are of Ella. I’ve had more than a few long-term romances, but the only woman I’ve ever loved in the core of my soul is Ella. And, I screwed it up. I let her go.

I met her just after I dropped out of University. We worked together at a sports bar, and we fit together like jigsaw pieces. Our friendship grew for years, but our timing was off for romance. And then, in our mid-thirties, we fell in love. She saw me: the ugly and broken spaces, the bright, illuminated spots, and she loved me still. And I saw her. Behind her flaws and insecurities stood the most unique, compassionate, fun, and beautiful woman that I had ever met. And, for a moment, we were happy.

***

I can’t explain why I blew her off. In hindsight, I guess I knew that she was “the one,” and I feared that if I committed, I’d hurt her, and she would leave. I thought she’d discover that I’m not good enough, that I always fall short.

She’s still single, Ella. We run into each other from time to time. She is always gracious, but her gazes whisper the broken heart I left in my wake. And, I can’t bring myself to say how I feel. I’ve not met anyone like her since, and my life feels … lacking without her presence.

I’ve never stopped loving her. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want to apologize and give her my vulnerable heart. I’d give anything to take back my stupidity and love her as well as she deserved. And then I remember that in the movies, there’s always a catch to things like this coin. I can’t use my first “do-over” on Ella, or I’ll mess it up.

“So, what made me think that I wasn’t good enough?” I ask the night. The whoosh of passing cars is my only response. I think about my shame at not finishing my higher education. I know that if I’d just graduated, the doors to professional opportunities would open. I’d have stability and success, and I’d be good enough. I could provide for Ella.

I put the coin on the stoop next to me and spin it on its side. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But, there’s no one here to see my craziness, and I have nothing to lose.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the moment I decided to drop out of school. A sharp, “whirring” sound surrounds me, and my world starts to spin. I can’t feel the ground beneath me.

***

I hear my Dad’s voice call in the distance. “Son, you’re so close! I don’t understand why you’d drop out with only 15 credits left!”

My petulant 22-year-old voice responds with urgency. “Because, Dad. I don’t even know what I want to do yet. And a European tour with the band is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

Yikes. I’d almost forgotten about the band. My buddies and I formed The Angry Mennonites just before our third year. I was lead guitar/backup vocals, and I was rotten. I knew three-chord progressions and loved playing Dave Matthews covers. But we played around campus a few times a month and gained a bit of a following. A friend-of-a-friend’s father with connections in Western Europe managed to book us a two-month tour, and we were pumped. The tour lasted ten days through France and The Netherlands before our bus broke down, and the lead singer caught pneumonia. We never played again, and I never went back to school.

I can feel my Dad’s hand on my shoulder, and I open my eyes. I’m not back living in that moment exactly. It’s like I’m experiencing the flashes of how it’s changed. I can still remember my current reality, but I feel it changing as well. I decide not to go with the band, and without a replacement, they cancel the tour.

I never go to work at Sneakers, the sports bar where I met Ella. I get a dull, well-paying job with a pharmaceutical company, and I never meet her. I can feel her falling away, and my chest feels like a thousand knives are stabbing it. I’m still 41 and lonely. My heart aches for something it can’t remember.

I curl my hand around the coin.

“No!” I shout, “No. I have to meet Ell…” I can’t remember her name. “Give me a chance to meet her!”

***

The cold night air seeps into me as my world spins again. The whirring noise returns but is silenced by the clinks of glasses, mumbled conversations, and background music. I open my eyes, and this time, I am present in the new memory.

In a trendy downtown spot, I sit at a bistro table with well-dressed people whom I don’t know. I clamp the coin into my jacket pocket. Am I wearing a suit? Oh, God. I’m wearing a suit. My left hand holds a martini glass, and I don’t think I like this version of myself. A blond guy with slicked hair sits to my left and jabbers away. I tune him out as my eyes scan the room. My heart skips a beat before I register what I see. Ella saunters toward our table. Beaming, she stops in front of me and extends her hand.

The blond turns to me. “Max, this is the friend I told you about! Meet Ella.”

I leap from my seat and extend my hand, knocking over my glass in the process.

She laughs and squints. “Have we met before? You look so familiar.”

My mouth is full of a thousand cotton balls.

“I-I think I’d remember meeting you,” I manage to stammer. Ella grins her beautiful, slightly bucktoothed smile. And I melt. “Here, sit down!” I pull out my empty chair.

“Oh, no, thank you, “she motions toward the bar.”My husband, Sam, is just grabbing us drinks. We’re going to sit in a lonely corner. We’ve only got an hour before the sitter leaves.”

My throat constricts, and my stomach drops. “Ah, kids, huh?” She spills out details about her two lovely children with Sam. She whips out her phone to show me pictures and gushes about her amazing husband. I fight tears and feign interest.

Blondie jabs me in the shoulder. “Don’t talk to Max about kids — he’s a big one himself. I don’t think he’ll ever grow up.”

I want to punch him. So, behind my successful persona, I’m still an immature failure? Great.

I shut my eyes and turn the hidden coin in my pocket.

“I don’t want this,” I think. “Ella’s married and happy? I want her to be happy, but — “

I peek out as the bar blurs past me like a tunnel. The cold pierces my skin as I open my eyes. I’m back on the stoop. A thick white cloud permeates the atmosphere, and I look down at my phone. It’s only been ten minutes. Did all of this happen? Am I delirious? On the off-chance, I take out the coin.

“Take me back to the shaggy Santa,” I command.

In an instant, I am back behind the bar, facing the cash register. My mind is foggy as I try to process it all. I hear a voice apologizing for his jerk friends, and I turn to see Shaggy as he places the coin on the bar. I rush over and push it back toward him. “No thanks, man. I think I’m good.”

Shaggy looks puzzled. “What? My bad. ‘Was just giving you a Fernet coin. You know, so you can have a shot on me after you get it back in. Sorry. Happy Holidays.” He shakes his head as Ted tells me to take my fifteen. I grab my jacket and head out toward the Employee Smoke Area.

I pull my phone out, and my hands tremble as I scroll to Ella’s number. She answers on the first ring. “Hey, stranger!” She says, sans animosity or tension.

“Hi, Ella. I know this is random. But it’s Christmas. And, I’d, er…I’d love to chat with you. Is there any chance you’re free Saturday night? Could I maybe take you to dinner?” I spit out. Without hesitation, she agrees.

“What took you so long, Max?” she whispers. “Merry Christmas.”

I jump with the excitement of a teenager as I hang up the phone. I sit for a moment, watching my breath form white puffs in the inky night.

“Merry Christmas, Ella,” I say out loud. I scale the small set of concrete steps and go back to finish my shift. I’m thinking about buying a bottle of Fernet on my way home.

*Original version published on Medium