The Thing on the Bar

Tabitha Likely came back from break, convinced after two weeks on the job that she had seen every cultivar of drunk. The angry drunk, the flirty drunk, the slouchy drunk, the drunk who thinks he’s just the funniest and everyone will laugh it if he tells it louder, et cetera. Had anyone written a field guide to drunkards yet? Tabitha suspected someone must have, but if they had then why hadn’t she or the other bartenders heard of it? Maybe there was a publishing opportunity here, if only as a column in the local arts & culture rag—the one buried in tattoo & smokeshop & stripclub adverts, succumbing like Atlanta to kudzu.

While she was mixing a horsefeather, Tabitha decided this field guide—call it ‘Drunks of the World’ or something—was a worthy venture, if only to make the job bearable. Something besides the overdue rent to occupy the other half of her mind while her hands went on autopilot.

Lights next to the taps indicated seat 11 had just been filled, and Tabitha went over to find that there was no one on the barstool. On the bar in front of seat 11, there sat a robot. Sleek, ceramic shell etched with carbon scoring marks, its carapace formed a low, swept-back dome. It reminded Tabitha of the horseshoe crabs, but this had no segments, and instead of walking claws the robot could only sit on rubber landing bumps.

Tabitha assumed mistake, and started toward seat 2, who had nearly finished their margherita.

“Arnold Palmer.”

“What?”

“I’d like an Arnold Palmer, please. Strong as you dare.”

The glances of the drinkers in seats 10 and 12 confirmed Tabitha was not losing her mind. They both edged away from the robot as much as the cramped divey seating allowed. It didn’t have a mouth, or hands, so ….

“We don’t do take out orders.”

“It’s for me,” the robot said. “I want an Arnold Palmer.”

Tabitha then noticed that this robot sounded so very tired.