It had been a long day.
Graham’s first design session had started just after eight-thirty that morning, and, with the exception of a half-hour for lunch and a few intermittent bathroom breaks, had lasted until nearly six o’clock. The good news was that this particular department was likely going to be the most difficult part of his project, so no one else should require days quite this long and taxing; the bad news was that he still had this group for the rest of the week.
He stopped for dinner at a local ramen bar he’d discovered the previous trip. It was a typical suburban restaurant, small and unassuming, tucked away in some generic stripmall beside a nail salon and a cell phone repair store, but it was relatively cheap, leaving him with plenty per diem for the refreshments at the bar, and the food was pretty decent. Plus, it was on his drive back to the hotel, and, honestly, he didn’t have the energy to look for anything better.
He got back to the hotel and went straight to his room to change clothes; he’d unbuttoned his shirt collar sometime mid-afternoon during a conversational standstill, and after dinner the belt holding up his slacks felt just a little too tight. He changed into khaki shorts and an oversized t-shirt he’d purchased a couple years back on a beachfront summer vacation. He always packed this shirt for his work trips – something about the softness of the fabric and the muted turquoise color always put him at ease after a long day at the office. In truth, it had been one of his favorite shirts for years, the softness of the material eclipsed only by the fondness of the memory with which it was associated.
Unfortunately, like many things in Graham’s life, that memory had soured in recent months, becoming something jagged and bittersweet, likely to prick his finger if he held it too tightly. He thought back to the warm orange and muted purple sunsets, the smell of salt air and rosemary, and – most of all – the feeling of absolute permanence and certainty that had characterized his life at the time. Now he could only laugh at his own naivety.
Splashing some cool water on his face, he looked at himself in the mirror, his gray-blue eyes adjusting to match the hue of his shirt.
The last couple of years had had an effect on him. He wasn’t old – just a few months shy of his thirty-ninth birthday – but he was no longer young, either, and each month seemed to bring yet another piece of evidence of the passage of time. His hair was graying at the temples and in a few streaks coming off his forehead; lines on his forehead and around his eyes were starting to become more visible and didn’t go away as quickly when his face settled in a neutral expression; and more often than not he looked in the mirror to find the skin under his eyes looking dark and sunken.
Of course, he knew this was a result of his critical eye. To anyone else, he looked pretty great for someone approaching forty. In fact, he looked younger and far more attractive than half the men he knew his age, and, though he was reluctant to admit it, he always harshly judged these men who let themselves age poorly: men with bald spots and beer bellies, men whose wardrobes consisted of discount dress shirts and ill-fitting fan gear for some professional football team or another. Sure, Graham’s hair had some gray, but at least he had a full head of it. And aside from a few lines and wrinkles – nothing a little concealer couldn’t cover up – he had smooth, clear skin that gave him a healthy glow. He ate well and worked out five or six days a week, resulting in a strong, muscular body he’d be proud of at any age. He was exactly who he’d always wanted to be – or so he told himself – strong, athletic, and, dare he say, attractive. He only wondered whether it was too late in life for these more superficial qualities to really make a difference in his life.
But hey, if nothing else, it meant something to him.
Sighing, he dried his face with one of the hotel's nondescript, white hand towels, grabbed his wallet off the countertop, and left his room.
He saw Archie behind the bar as soon as he entered the hotel lobby. He was talking to a trio of men, all still dressed in their business casual best, and shaking a stainless steel cocktail shaker fervently. He laughed at something the men had said, and even at this distance his teeth gleamed white against his tan skin. It was a genuine laugh, one that conveyed surprise and genuine amusement, not the half-hearted acquiescence of a bad joke offered in order to avoid losing out on a good tip. For a second, Graham stood in the entrance to the elevator bay and watched him move behind the bar, noticing the graceful, confident air about him, the comfortable fluidity with which he mixed and served drinks, barely looking down at the glasses and bottles that shifted rapidly in and out of his hands, always keeping his attention on the customer, always keeping his smile bright and disarming.
He was a good bartender, Graham thought, an excellent one, even. He seemed wasted in a hotel lobby like this.
Graham suddenly wondered about his story, how he ended up here. He was old enough to have finished school, but Graham knew people moved at all sorts of paces and schedules. Was this a part-time gig to cover the cost of classes? A temporary paycheck while he looked for something more substantial? Maybe he hadn’t gone to school and this was all he could find without a degree. Graham shuddered at the thought, saddened by the idea of a bright personality like his stuck in the service industry indefinitely, regardless of how competent he may be. A final question plagued him – Who was named Archie anymore?
He was startled from this train of thought when an elevator door opened behind him and a couple stepped around him. A little embarrassed, he shook out his shoulders and made his way over to the bar.
“There he is,” Archie greeted him as he sat down, placing a small, black, square napkin on the counter in front of him. “I was wondering what time you’d show up.”
Graham snorted a half-laugh at the comment. “If it was up to me, I’d have been here two hours ago.”
Archie cocked an eyebrow. “Long day?”
“You have no idea,” Graham confirmed. “I feel like I worked a full, forty-hour week just between now and lunch.”
Archie laughed. “Very long day then. Want your usual?”
Graham nodded. “Please.”
Archie turned around and began pouring Graham’s gin and tonic. Graham looked around at the lobby lounge and noticed the number of tables crowded by pairs and trios of tired looking men and women.
“Busy down here tonight,” he commented.
Archie placed Graham’s drink on the black napkin and began to fill a pint glass with water. “It is,” he agreed. “It usually picks up Tuesday and Wednesday nights; that’s when all the business crowd has arrived. And from what I've heard, it sounds like there were a lot of long days today.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” Graham took a sip of his drink as Archie quickly wiped down the bartop. “Been a long day for you yet?”
Archie smiled as he stowed the washcloth somewhere underneath the bar. “Not too bad, thankfully. My weekday shifts are never bad, though.”
“That’s nice,” Graham commented. “Weekend shifts are worse?”
Archie was about to answer when the lounge waitress appeared behind the bar and listed off a half-dozen drinks she needed for a couple of tables. Archie nodded politely and immediately began reaching for various glassware, liquor bottles, and cans of beer. Graham figured his question would go unanswered and was just about to pull out his phone when Archie spoke.
“I work a different job on the weekends,” he said over his shoulder as he filled a pint glass at one of the beer taps.
“Oh,” Graham said, intrigued. “What do you do?”
Archie smiled and began filling a second pint glass. “Well, I bartend, just at another bar in town. This place is nice during the week. With all of the business travel, the weekdays are busy, tips are pretty decent. But my shift is only from four to ten, so it’s hard to get a lot of hours. Plus, it’s pretty dead come the weekend when all of your type head back home.” He smirked at Graham. “So I work the other gig on Fridays and Saturdays to make up for it.”
“That makes sense,” Graham nodded. “Wait. So how many days do you usually work?”
“Usually six.” Archie pulled out two tumblers and began pouring whiskey into each. His face was neutral and pleasant, his voice steady, with no trace of bitterness or cynicism in his answer.
“Shit,” Graham raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his drink. “I guess I shouldn’t complain about my day, then.”
Archie smiled and flashed his eyes up to meet Grahams, not missing a beat as he topped off the tumblers with Coke. “No, please, complain away. Trust me, the stories I hear about corporate life from this side of the bar make me pretty happy with my lot.”
Graham laughed, surprised by the wise – if not slightly sarcastic – response. “I’ve no doubt.”
“Besides,” Arche continued, collecting the assortment of drinks he’d prepared and staging them at the end of the bar for the waitress to grab. “I like what I do. Tips are great. Gives me a chance to stay active, be on my feet. And I get to meet some pretty cool people.” He smiled at Graham with an earnestness and that was as endearing as it was off-putting, and if Graham didn’t know any better he’d think there was a slight air of flirtation in his answer.
“Doesn’t sound so bad when you put it that way,” Graham answered, slightly flustered.
“It works for me. For now, at least. I’ve always been a night owl, and this gives me my morning to do chores, run errands, go to the gym. All the good stuff.”
“True, there's a lot to be said for having time. I try to hit the gym every morning before I head to the office, but some days that six o'clock alarm is just too damn early.”
Archie grimaced. “Yeah, I could never.” He laughed. “But good for you. Looks like it's keeping you in good shape, though.”
He said this with such nonchalance that Graham almost missed the compliment, but as soon as this registered he didn't know what to say. He was struggling to think of a reply when a man at the end of the bar flagged Archie down, who promptly and cheerfully went over to attend him. He spoke with the man as if with an old acquaintance – perhaps another regular traveler – and as he spoke, he crossed his arms, his hand scratching lightly at his ribcage. Graham watched the fabric of his shirt pull tightly across his back, stretch around his biceps, and once again admired his quiet confidence and effortless beauty, two things which Graham knew he never possessed at that age.
In his early twenties, Graham had been shy, bookish, and unremarkable, his physique more suited to long hours in the library than long hours in the gym. He’d never been too skinny, lacking that lean musculature like some of his friends who'd run track and cross country, nor was he ever particularly fit, never filling out t-shirts with shapely muscles and defined silhouettes like some of his other athletic acquaintances. He'd just been…plain.
He hadn't minded at the time, at least he always claimed this. Sure, he often noticed the strong, athletic bodies of several of his classmates – the curve of their biceps, their thick and powerful legs, their sculpted shoulders and broad chests; sure, at times he felt the pang of something like envy at their poise and self-assurance, at the flagrant manliness of it all. But he was always quick to dismiss these confusing feelings and assure himself that those types of bodies were vain pursuits, that he was making a far better investment in himself and his future by focusing on academics and accomplishments.
Still, looking at Archie now, he felt a similar sensation in the pit of his stomach, that familiar burn of envy, though it was now accompanied by a dull, hollow sadness, a recognition of the youth he’d lost, or, more accurately, of the youth he never had. For a brief instant, he felt sorry for that young, sad boy sitting up in the library, and he wondered how that version of himself would feel sitting across from a guy like Archie. Shy? Inferior? Insecure?
He was shaken from this train of thought when Archie looked over and met his eye. Realizing the extent to which he’d been staring – and mortified at getting caught – Graham’s first instinct was to look away, to stare at the tv or pull out his phone or pretend he was twisting his shoulders to pop his back. But Archie simply held his gaze and cocked a friendly half-smile, acknowledging Graham’s stare without the faintest hint of judgment or arrogance, a smile like that shared by two old friends communicating wordlessly and effortlessly across the dinner table or a crowded room, a smile that made Graham forget he was wasting time in a chain hotel bar for the fourth night in seven days, a smile that almost made him happy to be there.
