Oingo Boingo
by Al Jacobs
Eitan yammered to the bartender he used to work with who didn’t seem to be paying attention.
The bartender rattled pink liquid from a tumbler into a low glass kissed with salt.
Eitan raised the freshly poured glass when he saw me and said, Orale Papi.
We dapped and I draped my jacket over the chair.
Get him one of these, Eitan commanded the bartender, tinkling the ice in his glass.
What is that? I said.
A habañero margarita, Eitan said. To the bartender he said, This is probably my oldest friend. He just moved to the city.
The bartender judged me and snorted dismissively.
He poured out more pink liquid into a glass in front of me and said, That’s $19.50.
Put it on mine, Harold, Eitan told him.
The bartender shook his head, disappointed in me.
My margarita tasted like spicy candy. The drink was mostly ice, but the place had a marble counter, subway tile floors and elaborate Edison bulb fixtures, so I felt like we were paying to hang out somewhere nice.
Beneath the counter, Eitan gestured for my hand with his fist. He smashed a little baggy onto my palm and said, Mambo, Papi. Just no Cacka-lackas, capiche?
And I wouldn’t usually.
But someone just handed it to me.
And Eitan said that the stalls here were individual rooms.
Cowering to make the act feel wrong, I dipped my key into the baggy and morphed into a momentary genius. Ceiling-piercing IQ.
I flushed for the ceremony of it. And prolonged the charade by rinsing my hands.
Upstairs, Eitan talked at the bartender’s back as the guy pecked at the register screen.
Fuego right? Eitan said to me.
Johnny Jump Off, I said.
Oingo boingo, Eitan said.
Let me get another one, Harold, Eitan called to the bartender, who was talking up the dinner menu at the far end.
He choreographed his eyebrows to beckon the baggy, which I pressed into his hand. I’ll be right back, Eitan said.
He sniffed loud enough to give himself away. The bartender grimaced at me and shook his head, expecting better.
I’ll show you around, Eitan said. Bring your drink. We’ll be right back, Harold. I’m gonna show my friend around.
The bartender shrugged like, Whatever, and we ambled to the back dining room whose emptiness seemed amplified by its mirrored walls. Eitan assured me it was usually packed.
Through the Employees Only door downstairs, palates of clean plates cluttered the dish pit counter.
A server at her open locker raised her eyebrows as she watched us shuffle past. It’s OK, Eitan told her, I used to work here like two years ago.
Around another tight corner, Eitan pulled open the walk-in fridge’s massive door.
Eitan clicked the hash pen three times and dragged. Coughed out a violent cloud.
I shivered next to a shelf of lettuce. Christ, I said through chattering teeth, nodding for the pen. I coughed too, and the room began to swell.
This oil isn’t that good, Eitan said.
It’s good enough, I said, staring into the sunset of heirloom carrots.
Back upstairs, I realized I left my drink on a shelf in the walk-in fridge.
Get this guy another one, his tab this time, Eitan told the bartender. And get me another one too.
The bartender shrugged as if he didn’t fucking care, and shook the tumbler of both drinks in a vaguely Latin rhythm. Clop, chi-clop, chi.
What the fuck kind of pour is that, Harold? Eitan called.
Harold the bartender curtsied and said, What the fuck kind of pour does it look like?
Uneven, Eitan said, eyeing the drinks side by side. The disparity, negligible but extant.
The bartender shook his head at my face-down credit card. The regular-sized tip I left felt disingenuous.
Eitan clapped my shoulder and said, I’ll show you the kitchen. Bring your drink.
I stumbled onto the non-slip mats behind the line. A cook scrubbing the griddle with pulpy steel wool looked at us like, Excuse me.
Many many nights sweating over this grill, Eitan said to him.
I probably smiled like a high asshole.
Eitan picked up a knife and twirled it like he knew how and I remember feeling like this was a bad idea.
Hello numb nuts, someone yelled at us. The bartender. He snapped: You can’t fucking bring glass back there.
I tried to feign surprise, like I didn’t know I was transgressing.
Come on, Harold, man, chill out, Eitan said.
Harold said, You can’t just walk into the kitchen with glass, like you’re the Chef. You worked here like three years ago.
Whatever man, Eitan said, motioning for me to follow him back to the bar.
Harold declared to the empty bar area: You were never the Chef here and you never will be.
Eitan said: It’s OK, calm down.
Fuck that; you are so disrespectful it’s not even cool.
Uncool to Harold but not uncool to me. Then Eitan said: It’s OK.
To me, Eitan said: He’s just PMSing right now.
You’re a fucking jackass, Harold said.
Eitan peeled a 50 dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bar. For the friendly service, he said.
I don’t want your fucking money, Harold said.
I can tell you could use it, Harold, Eitan told him.
Harold silently incanted something sinister in Eitan’s direction. To me, he said: Get yourself a new friend.
Al Jacobs is a writer and designer from Toledo, Ohio.
