2. en retenant

(fr.) holding back

          "I'D LIKE SOMETHING much stronger, boss."

"Coming right up, sir."

         A man in his late twenties slumped onto one of the leather stools, his mouth twitching into a frown. Zander noted the continuous sighs slipping past his lips and the way he drummed his fingers on the countertop as he downed each shot quickly, his blue dress shirt soaked in sweat. Zander decided the best solution to his obvious low mood involved getting him wasted on a load of drink deals.

He spun on his heel and grabbed clean shot glasses from a cabinet and the four pint glasses resting beside the sink. "Would you like a Jäger-train, sir? They're on special tonight."

The man smiled, briefly, his attention shifting to the front of what looked like a new Balenciaga wallet. "That'd be perfect. Thank you."

Zander assembled the pint glasses on a wooden board, filling each one halfway with Red Bull. "You'll feel like you're on cloud nine after this."

        "That's the plan, I hope."

With the locquacious handful of accountants, marketing managers and lawyers taking advantage of Happy Hour, exuberant laughter and talks of corporate successes and office gossip filling the room, the Dirty Plum was occupied. Denzell thrived off his business exceeding the sales goal for a Wednesday evening, and all the waiters hustled and scurried to serve draft beer and shots of Jose Cuervo, sweeping crumbs of fries and nacho chips off the floor in between customers.

         Upon discovering that he no longer had to perform everyday at Spadina last week, Zander was pretty desperate for shifts, and tonight was an ideal opportunity to earn double the pay. He had to fight Marcus, a bartender higher up on the chain at The Dirty Plum, for the third spot on the bar through a passive aggressive round of poker.

The expert he was, Zander positively and absolutely owned him.

He carefully balanced each shot glass between the rims of the taller cups, spritzing them full with a newly opened bottle of Jägermeister. He placed the Jäger-train on the counter directly in front of the man, who gave him a nod of thanks.

          "Is there a special occasion tonight?" Zander asked, wiping his palms on his black apron.

          "I wouldn't exactly say special," the man answered, immediately chugging the first two shots and glasses of Red Bull as if the whole room pressured him, shouting chants like they were at a cliché high school party. His low voice, which complemented the soothing beats of jazz oozing around the pub, seemed downcast, almost bitter. Stacking the empty glasses, he hauled in a sharp breath and spoke up again. "More like life is mundane, and I have nothing better to do than sit here and get drunk as fuck."

Zander smiled at this, as though the man read his own mind, holding onto the piled up shot glasses in a mock toast. "Cheers to that."

          The man gulped down another sip of Red Bull, curling his fist to stop himself from letting out a burp. He sighed again, bringing his hand up to his forehead, shielding his gaze. He began to shake his head tentatively, and Zander sensed that there was something deeper than his comment about life.

"My wife actually—" The man paused, taking a swig of Jager Bomb, his nose crinkling from its distinct aftertaste. "She, uh, left me, and this is me moping around, pining after her."

Zander's heart plummeted.

          This was the thing about working customer service. He encountered a mosaic of characters ever since he began working the bar at The Dirty Plum: middle aged men experiencing existential crises, groups of twenty-something girls who ordered rounds and rounds of vodka shots, wannabe casanovas eager to tempt another naive soul. He had listened to a range of stories, accompanying several customers on walks down memory lane, all while making the right cocktails for their needs.

         The tips were fan-freaking-tastic.

         However, this man's emotions dictated his every move, and Zander felt a wave of knots in his stomach whenever he'd peer in the man's direction. "I'm sorry you have to go through something like that. Perhaps, with all this freedom, now is the time to do what you always wanted."

"No need to apologize." The man consumed the last of his energy drink. "My fault for not reading the signs."

"The signs?"

"She had an affair with her co-worker, and she decided that it was the best time to leave me when I got laid off. All those times she said she had to work overtime was just a hoax. Can you believe it?"

Zander suddenly couldn't feel the air reach his lungs, the gentle tempo of Christian Sand's jazz withering in the background, the exigeant demands from his supervisor dissipating. He raised his head and forced himself to blink quickly. All he could make of what was in front of him was the fuzzy silouhette of his customer.

"No, I can't," Zander said, almost whispering, and extended his hand to snatch the rest of the empty glasses. He hooked his fingers around them and took a step forward until he almost dropped one of them on the floor.

You little shit.

"Are you all right there?" he heard the man ask behind him.

"I'm okay, sir."

Zander straightened his back and sloppily dumped the cups into the sink, bringing attention from the other bartenders. In his peripheral vision, his supervisor, Yvonne gawked by the kitchen entrance, her clipboard nestled in her arms, which were folded in disapproval. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he whirled around and offered his customer a diplomatic grin. "Um, you know what? Your drinks are on me. I hope you feel better this evening, sir. I'm sorry again."

         "But, you didn't do anything wr—"

          Zander laughed nervously, his arm muscles trembling. "It's fine. Have a great night, sir. Thank you for coming to The Dirty Plum."

And he bolted towards the washroom.

As soon as he slammed the door shut, locking it, Zander raced to the sink and twisted the faucet on. He splashed his face with water biting enough to smother the fiery nature of his nerves and lifted his head to stare back at his reflection, his hands clutching on to the wall to restrain himself from sinking down to the concrete floor. The trembles lingered, but Zander urged himself to breathe in and out, in and out, to extinguish the volatile beating of his heart.

You're going to be okay, he thought, eyeing the pink flush sprawled across his face, then shutting off the faucet. Everything will be okay.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated from the back pocket of his pants, startling him. Zander grabbed it and peeked at the screen, sighing.

I swear, this man is a fucking voodoo doctor.

Zander pressed the green button, raising his phone up to his ear. "Yes, Tristan?"

"A hello would be nice."

"Now is not the time."

          "You good, Z?"

          Zander ogled his reflection in the mirror. Sweat dripped from his forehead, cascading down his already red cheeks. His brows scrunched together. "I'm just dandy. Why'd you call?"

          Tristan cracked up. "Dandy? Are we a part of the bourgeoisie now? The Victorian Era, though crazy as shit, would be an interesting period to see—well, if time travel existed."

          Zander clicked his tongue. "I'm hanging up."

          "Wait, wait," Tristan replied, his voice louder, and Zander rolled his eyes. "Just trying to lighten the mood here. Shouldn't you be working the bar right now?"

          "Yes." Zander paused. "But I'm in the washroom."

          "Oh. Sorry, dude."

          "Yeah, so hurry up and spit it out. I need to get back out there."

          "Okay," Tristan said in a way that was too peppy for Zander's liking. "Are you coming home right after your shift?"

          "Where else am I going to go?"

          "I don't know. Anyway, I met this hot girl at work today. She's one of my co-worker's friends, and I invited her over, so we could, you know." Tristan faltered, and a lightbulb flashed in Zander's head.

         It was safe to say that Tristan was notoriously known for taking a different woman home almost every night, especially when Zander had a closing shift. Of course, the latter obliged. His cousin had helped him get by on several occasions, and the mere fact that he had an extra room for Zander to live in when he really needed it encouraged him to support Tristan in return with all aspects of life—including his sexual endeavours.

         Zander pursed his lips. "What time should I come home then? I can't walk around all night. Apparently, it's supposed to rain."

          "It'll just be a couple of rounds," Tristan responded instantly, obvious excitement conveyed in his tone; Zander cringed at his cousin's uncontrollable eagerness for casual sex. "Take your time getting here. Trying to protect your precious ears from erotic—"

          Zander had to cut in. "I'll just wait at the twenty-four-hour Tim Hortons. Text me when it's over."

          "Dude, you're amazing. I could hug you right now."

          "Tell me something I don't know."

          Zander could almost hear Tristan smiling wide. "Enjoy your shift, Z. Work hard, but not too hard."

          "Thanks. Be careful."

          "You know I will," Tristan said smugly, chuckling, and the call ended.

          Zander inserted his phone back into his pocket and gripped the sides of the sink. Oddly enough, the phone call alleviated the tension in his body, calming his unpredictable heartbeats. Although his cousin consistently poked his nerves, Tristan's buoyant character almost always made things feel better, removing any bit of negative energy that bothered Zander. That's what cousins are for, he figured.

          He rubbed his hands with sanitizer, heaving a long intake of breath.

          The second he marched out of the washroom, Yvonne beckoned him over at the opposite end of the hallway, maintaining a neutral expression. He gulped, but crept closer to her, attempting to mould the best excuse for his abrupt behaviour and exit. She was much more intimidating than Denzell, who was supposedly her superior considering that he established the pub. Yet, this woman managed everything from handing out endless–sometimes stupid–tasks to appeasing unsatisfied customers.

"I'm sorr—"

"Zander," Yvonne interrupted, her voice quiet enough to make chills scamper up his back. "If you can't deal with a certain customer, you have to tell me. You know this. You can't just walk away from the situation the way you did earlier."

"It wasn't him. I just had to deal with something... personal." How convincing.

"I see." Yvonne turned her head to sneak a glance at the pub for a moment before refocusing her gaze on him. She was a head shorter than him, but her aura just screamed gargantuan. "Well, whatever the case may be, your customer must've felt bad for you."

"What do you mean?"

Yvonne ran her hand through her auburn hair. "He left you a very generous tip, and he told me to thank you for your kindness."

         Is she fucking serious?

          "I placed it in the back office, so feel free to take it when we close up."

          A hesitant smile etched Zander's lips. "Thank you, Yvonne. I'm sorry about that. Won't happen again."

          Yvonne arched a brow, which was clearly filled in with the wrong shade. Zander could easily see the layers of foundation that drenched her face, even under the dim ambient lights. He didn't want to be rude, but she reminded him of a miniature version of that villain from the Disney film about the mermaid.

          "Good." She gave him a callous look, her mouth in a firm line. "You can demonstrate your repentance by taking on dishwashing duty tonight."

          His shoulders collapsed. Screw, Tristan. I think she's the real voodoo doctor.