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This is an excerpt from a novel I am currently working on -- a work-in-progress whose working title is That'll Teach You . Much more work to do on the novel, but it provides impetus to share a bite or two.
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Phil parked in his driveway and walked down the street, around the corner and into The Frosted Mug. He sat at the far corner of the bar. “Hey, Phil.”
“Hello, Murph.”
“I keep telling you not to come around here anymore.”
“Yeah, you’re a good friend, Murph. I appreciate your tenacity.”
“Hey, anytime. You gonna leave?”
“No, I’m going to stay.”
“The usual?”
“The usual.”
“Ok.” Murph put a shot glass on the copper bar in front of Phil.
“Make that two.” Murph reached under the bar and brought out a second. After putting it next to the first, he slid back a door behind the bar and brought out a green Jameson bottle with a chrome pouring-spout, and “Phil” written on a small label.
“Oh, Murph, you put my name on the bottle?”
Murph shrugged. “The other tenders were getting confused and serving your stuff to other customers.”
“Well, we can’t have that.”
Murph filled both glasses. “We sure can’t.”
An hour later, Phil was still sitting at the bar. There were ten empty glasses in front of him, and one that was full. There were two other people at the opposite end of the bar and a few more scattered around the place at tables. All of them were watching Phil with a poorly masked sense of awe. Phil sat up straight and continued to carry on a coherent conversation with Murph while he worked.
The bar door opened and a balding middle aged man came in and sat at the bar, one stool empty between him and Phil. He turned his head and looked at Phil hard, stared at him really, for a full five seconds before asking Murph for a Jameson on the rocks. Tumbler on the counter, a clattering of small cubes, a bottle from the shelf and a little drizzle. “Just a sec,” said Murph, “Gotta get a new bottle.”
As Murph opened the cabinet behind the bar, the newcomer pointed to the bottle in front of Phil. “That one empty too?”
“What?” Murph saw where he was pointing. “Oh, no, that’s his.” He pulled the pourer out of the empty bottle and stuck it into the new one. Amber liquid poured into the tumbler, enough to cover the cubes.
Phil tossed one back and beckoned Murph for a refill. Murph slid a fresh shot glass over to Phil and tipped the bottle marked “Phil”. The newcomer looked across the surface of the bar and counted glasses. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” He flared his nostrils. “To think my son was supposed to learn from you. You had the nerve to give him a C, and you nothing but a drunk! It’s a good thing you left the school when you did, or my daughter would’ve had you too.”
Murph was reaching for the man’s drink, but Phil stopped him. “It’s alright Murph.” He turned to his accuser. “I’m sorry you’re so angry, my friend. If your son got a C, I’m sure he earned it. I don’t give C’s out for free.”
“Why, you son of a….” He was up from his stool and had his fist up. Murph caught it and interrupted the man’s train of thought. Murph held on to his fist until he took his seat.
“What is your son’s name?”
The man looked at Murph - who was looming over him even from behind the bar - and choked back another assault; whether physical or verbal none of the three was sure. “His name’s Timmy. Timmy Covey.”
“I remember Timmy. Timmy’s a bright kid. He’s got a flare for words. Most of them are curse words, mind you, but even those he uses with a certain eloquence. But he didn’t apply himself. Timmy never turned in his homework on time, and when he did turn it in, it was clear that he had not put much work into it.”
“He told me you just didn’t like him.”
“In fact, I regularly told Timmy how much I did like him, and how articulate I thought he was. I begged him to put some effort into his work.” Phil picked up his full glass. “This binge drinking by the way started only after I stopped teaching.” He tossed the shot back and motioned for a refill.
Mr. Covey looked at Phil for a moment more and then dropped his chin to his chest. Phil didn’t think an apology was coming. Judging from his body posture, Murphy thought the guy might hit Phil. “Have a shot on me.” As he spoke, Phil reached out his newly filled glass. When Mr. Covey didn’t take it from his hand, or even lift his head, Phil set the glass on the bar where Covey’s dropped gaze would fall on it.
Slowly, Mr. Covey picked it up. He looked into Phil’s eyes and nodded. He tossed the shot down his throat. “What the… What.” He spit on the floor. “What is that shit?” Phil nodded for Murph to fill him up. Murph tipped the bottle into the glass in Mr. Covey’s hand.
Covey looked back and forth between them. He stared down at the glass and sniffed it. He took a little sip. “Well shit! This shit is iced tea.”
Phil got up, tossed a few bills on the bar and walked out the door.
“Iced tea, Damn.”
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That'll Teach You follows a few months in the life of Phil a one-time teacher who's had some really bad luck, been disillusioned by a student who betrayed his trust and is having trouble finding meaning in his life since teaching holds no meaning for him any longer.
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