Free Faking Life by Jason Pinter Page A

in?”
    “Economics. Lot of good it did me.”
    “There's still time.” She paused. “Or do you want to do this forever?”
    “Forever? Not a chance. If I knew in fifty years I'd still be pouring beers for a living, I'd probably put myself out of my misery right now.” Esther ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. A thin wail of sound played like a violin chord.
    “So what do you want to do then? Direct?” John laughed.
    “No, nothing like that.” He looked down at the bar, picked up the cloth and wiped away some non-existent dirt.
    “So what then? You have a secret dream? Are you a tortured artist aching to break free?” John shifted uncomfortably. He folded the rag and tossed it in the sink.
    “Hold on, be right back.” John did a lap up and down the bar, checking to see if any customers needed refills. He poured the requisite drinks, hesitated, wary of talking to her again. She was making him woozy, as if she could read his mind. Artist? Not quite. He wasn't starving and didn't have a stash of paintings hidden away in his basement. And he didn't consider himself a writer, not like Paul was a writer. He was just jotting down notes to sort things out, get his life straight. The title of 'Writer' was strictly for people like Paul whose stories were read and adored. People whose stories were made into movies that grossed hundreds of millions of dollars. Writers had articles written about them in Vanity Fair and owned antique typewriters. He owned a Dell pc and had decided not to renew his subscription to Entertainment Weekly.
    Just then, Paul entered the bar, drawing his attention away from Esther. John waved and took a clean pint glass from the shelf, mixed a Tom Collins for a businessman. When he turned back, Esther was gone. Paul walked up and took the stool she'd occupied.
    “Howdy barkeep. Canst thou bring me a mug of thy finest ale? Spare no expense.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip. “For this pauper has received his paycheck today, and has a heavy night of drinking ahead.”
    “I get mine tonight too. Maybe we can combine our paychecks for the week and buy a sandwich,” John said. He scanned the crowd looking for Esther. Though was never one to get overly sentimental about patrons, he hoped she hadn't left.
    “Who're you looking for?” Paul said.
    “No, just…nevermind. What can I get you?”
    “Your finest Bud Light.”
    Paul removed his coat as John poured the beer. “Bottoms up buddy,” Paul said, taking a long sip. “Ah. A perfect end of the day drink. I didn't have lunch so I'd guess in about, oh, four more of these I'll be good and ripped.”
    “Excuse me,” Esther said. She was standing behind Paul, handbag slung over her shoulder. She must have been in the bathroom. John should have thought of that. Paul saw the wine in front of him and hopped onto the adjacent stool.
    “My apologies Ma'am, didn't know you were sitting here.”
    “No problem,” she said. “And Miss will do. Ma'am sound so old-fashioned”
    “Then Miss it is.” Paul looked at John and nodded slightly, imperceptibly. John picked up on it and smiled. This was going to be fun.
    Paul put on his hardest frown and stared morosely into his drink. John went to the other end of the bar, took an order, and came back. He hovered over Paul until he was sure Esther had noticed. Paul looked up.
    “Hey you're,”—John snapped his fingers—“you're that writer guy. Yeah, I know you. Paul something, right?” Esther barely registered this. Paul nodded modestly and raised his head.
    “Guilty as charged. Paul Shrader, it's a pleasure.”
    “Yeah, Paul Shrader. I love your stuff. Beautiful, really.”
    “Can I have a refill?” Esther asked, raising her empty glass. John grabbed the Merlot and refilled it.
    “So anyway, I think I actually might have one of your stories right here, hold on a second.” He took out the West Marion Quarterly and held back a grimace. The magazine was getting