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We drove down a less residential street, homes being replaced by newsstands and boutique shops. There were more people out on the streets around here, shopping and going out to eat, walking hand in hand with their dates. A movie theatre blurred past, the marquee lit up like a spotlight, a long line stretching out past the ticket booth.
“You can stop here,” I said, realizing we were getting close. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice night out.”
“It is, innit?” The driver pulled to the side of the road. I thanked him again and hopped out, making sure I had the letter in my hand, although I briefly considered leaving it in the back seat and being done with it for good.
Down the street I went, the letter weighing me down like an anchor. I had a remedy for that kind of trouble, though, and it involved downing a few shots.
I almost walked past it at first. Time doesn’t stop for anyone or anything, that was certain. A lot had changed since I left, my favorite pub being one of those things. I remembered coming to this place when it was a hole-in-the-wall, serving questionable food but excellent liquor. The crowd was always the same and always entertaining, and the bartenders had turned into good friends of mine. I met my first drag queens in Hopkins Mug and taken my first body shots there, too. It had felt a little like family after a while.
Unfortunately, time wasn’t kind on friendships either, and I had lost touch with them years ago.
Part of me hoped they would still be in there. Like a time capsule just waiting to be split apart. The second I walked in, I half expected to be greeted by cheers and familiar faces, all having been preserved in amber and waiting for my return.
Of course, that would never happen. Shit changed, and that was apparent by just looking at the building.
It was a different time seventeen years ago.
Bloody hell. Seventeen years ago?
I looked at the updated facade. The pub looked nothing like it did all those years ago. For one, it had a new name: The Sword and the Sword. There were two swords crossing on the shield above the door, a rainbow behind the shield.
Clever.
The old brick wall that marked the entrance had been replaced by a sleek white wood, freshly painted and well taken care of. After the bouncer let me in, I was glad to see that the inside was at least similar to what I remembered. The tables were different and the pub looked bigger, but overall, this was the same pub I had come to as a kid and found a home in. I remembered the bussers, Alfredo and Kia, two people who had taken me under their big gay wings and taught me how to dance on our downtime. Then there had been Chris and Pradeep, the bartenders who had spent hours teaching me how to make every drink under the sun, along with how to make the most tips under the sun, too. Those two had been tip monsters, their pockets always full to bursting by the end of the night.
I went over to the bar, pulling out a stool and taking a seat by the far end corner, where the light had some trouble reaching. The place was pretty empty, which didn’t surprise me considering it was just now turning five o’clock in the evening.
“Cheers, mate, drinking anything today?” The bartender was a bubbly brunette with a stunning red rose tattoo on her forearm.
“I’ll take a vodka tonic, thanks.”
She must have judged by my all-black attire that the day wasn’t exactly going well, because the drink she handed me was 90 percent vodka and 10 percent tonic.
I drank half of it in one gulp.
On my lap was the thick envelope. I grabbed it, half expecting the thing to light on fire, and placed it on the bar, making sure there weren’t any wet spots. As much as I didn’t want to read the damn thing, I knew I wanted to keep it safe.
It wasn’t long before the pub started to fill up. At first, the music was playing a good mix of oldies and recent hits, low enough that I could hear myself think. I’d been doing a lot of that, and after three vodka tonics, my thoughts were all over the place.
“You’re gonna need a refill,” said a voice from my left. I turned my head, meeting eyes with a young guy, blond hair cut short and light blue eyes reflecting the light off the multicolored disco ball that swung overhead. “What ya drinking?”
He was a good-looking guy. I could entertain this for a moment.
“I’ve got it.” I turned to the bartender and ordered two shots: redheaded sluts.
She brought back the shot glasses swirling with Jägermeister and cranberry juice. The blue-eyed cutie looked at me, a devilish smirk playing on his face. I placed the letter back on my lap, keeping it away from the increasingly dirty bar top.
“Okay, you like control. I like that.”
I smiled at him and grabbed my shot glass. He followed suit, lifting his and clinking the glass with mine before we both tilted our heads back and dropped it down the hatch, the liquor burning its way down my throat.
He shook his shoulders and rolled his head. “That was intense. What was in that shite? Bull bollocks and cinnamon?”
Ah, Londoners. How I missed these bold, brash, beautiful fuckin’ people. I hadn’t been back in a long,longtime. Almost enough time for me to have forgotten the difference between a stonker and a todger.
