Seven Shots to Afterlife

Lean Jane Pantorilla

There’s a small bar somewhere down the corner of the street, tucked within alleyways. A crack into the underworld, many people call it. Rumor has it that it doesn’t even exist—just a thing made out of urban legends and false advertising—unless it finds you.

At least, that’s the way it usually goes, until a man steps into the wooden floors of the said bar, startling even the barkeep. Patrons of all kinds snap their heads toward his direction: crumpled coat, coffee-stained shirt, and eye bags that look heavier than the sky when it’s about to pour.

Another lost soul finds its way into their fine establishment, so it seems.

But the barkeep says nothing, and instead sets a clean glass on the counter. Loud enough to cut through the noise, yet gentle enough to keep things quiet. He knows what the straggler will order.

“Let me guess,” he stares at the man, setting his palms flat across the

counter. “You want the specialty drink?”

The straggler blinks. The barkeep’s hair had already turned silver with age, with brown eyes that burned ruby red under the bar’s ambient light.

He takes off his watch, his coat, then his necktie. He pops open a few buttons from his shirt to give himself time to breathe.

“Yes, please.”

The barkeep nods and proceeds to his task. It’s only to be expected that anyone who would dare ask for that drink had to be tired to the bones, may it be from a day’s work or a lifetime of misery.

The barkeep has served enough of them to recognize the same hollow eyes, hunched shoulders, and a posture no different from a sack of flesh being held together like marionnettes to a string.

He slides the finished glass toward the straggler, “Your order, sir. First round on the house.”

The straggler accepts the drink, a look of amusement flashing across his face. He can’t recall who recommended this place, but he’ll never forget the fervor of that person’s words.

“I’ve heard many great things about this,” the straggler murmurs, mixing the shot glass in his hands. “What’s it made of?”

One shot will make you forget what you came there for, the faceless person in his memory had said. The second will make you forget about yesterday, the third tomorrow, the fourth about all other days, and the fifth, of days that had never begun. Sixth will make you forget about days lost, and the seventh of days filled with sadness and love—

It was the first time he’d heard someone wax poetic about alcohol, so at worst, he’s only suspected that the drink must’ve been spiked with some kind of drug.

“If I told sir the truth,” the barkeep treads carefully, “will he spare himself from drinking it?”

The barkeep has an odd way of speaking, the straggler remarks. This, partnered with the curious stares he’s been getting since he stepped foot inside

the bar, is already way too much attention than he’s used to. He feels heat rise on the flesh of his cheeks, and he hasn’t even touched his drink.

“What’s that?” he asks, chancing upon the small black board hanging above the wall. There are names of different people written in chalk, accompanied by a string of numbers. Six. One. Five. Three.

“A scoreboard,” the barkeep says without looking up. The murmurs are getting louder, as though a fight is about to break out at any minute. “Everyone who’s ever drunk the specialty drink tallied their points, from highest to lowest. It’s a miracle we get anyone to drink this at all, most usually don’t have what it takes to beat the record.”

The people around them flinch at the barkeep’s words, as though whipped into submission.

“You’re an ass, barkeep,” a person slides beside them. “You know damn well why everyone can’t beat it.”

The man—no, woman—who just slid beside them looks to be in her late thirties, with a blood red smile and a crinkle in her eyes. A gold band glints from her finger as she lifts her own glass to toast with the straggler.

“You’ll never beat the record, lad,” *clink!* “...no one’s ever made it past six.”

Strangely enough, the sight of this gold band feels like an attack to his person more than the jab at his alcohol intolerance.

He thinks of another woman, with softer eyes and lips the color of sunset skies. Another gold band thrown across the floor, like a dignified version of a spit. I can’t be with you anymore, her voice echoes in his mind, shrill like breaking glass.

“One,” he takes the shot glass, and drowns out the memory with his first shot. Somewhere around him, the woman lets out a wolf-whistle.

The victory is short-lived. It takes a while for the taste to settle in, but when it does, it feels like a wildfire scorching both the roof and floor of his mouth. He doubles over and chokes on air, clawing on his throat as if it can cease the burning sensation.

“This is a one way trip, lad,” the woman whispers, rubbing his back.

“The second round will be much worse.”

There’s no hint of mockery in her voice—almost as if she’s tasted it before. Still, he forces himself to ask a question:

“What do you mean...a one way trip?”

When the time comes, and we’ve gone ahead of you, remember we’re all heading down the same road—

“Do you have anyone you want to meet?” the barkeep cuts in, leaning forward. “Anyone who’s passed on ahead of you? A long lost relative or family member—”

“My parents,” the straggler whispers, almost as if the answer was pulled out of him. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking of his parents while wasting away in some shady bar. He hasn’t thought about them when they were alive—he shouldn’t start giving fucks now, either.

But to his surprise, the barkeep only refills his glass, and slides it back to him.

“Have one shot for every person you’ve ever lost,” he offers, eyes twinkling. “The pain will go away, I promise.”

No one in their right mind would fall for the same trick twice, but the straggler didn’t come for comfort anyway. He takes the glass, unaware of the fact that he didn’t even say anything about losing anybody.

The sweetness melts with the tang of citrus, reminiscent of his grandmother’s signature honey lemon tea.

“How—” he starts, unable to form words.

He takes another shot. This one is warm, going down smoothly like milk. He couldn’t recall exactly where he had tasted it, even more so who made it, yet could taste something akin to love in there—if love even had a taste. It leaves him feeling sated and full, as though he’d just eaten a satisfying dinner with the family.

The third is more distinct—a roasted texture fills his taste buds—not too bitter and not too sweet. Like the kind of coffee his father would make, and share a cup with his son.

This shouldn’t be possible...yet it was. The straggler could only savor the drink down to the very last drop.

The barkeep wordlessly offers him another shot, a hint of amusement flashing across his weathered skin. The straggler reaches out to it like a man possessed...or an addict reaching out for his next opium dose.

He missed the taste of better times.

“What the fuck!” he hisses, “It’s gone back to shit!”

The barkeep takes a spare rag somewhere under the table, and uses it to clean the spittle across the counter. “Every once in a while, we drink something that makes us sick. Isn’t that what you came here to do?”

To forget about one’s troubles, people indulge with vices to drown out their sorrows. Fighting fire with fire, they succumb to the sins of the flesh, and corruption of the soul. Maybe, they thought, if you drink enough poison, one can forget that they are dying.

This glass feels like a gasp of fresh air, mixed with water in the lungs. This is uncalled for. And yet, he couldn’t think of anything to refute against the barkeep—it was his own fault to let his guard down, anyway.

The barkeep prepares another glass, and offers it to the woman beside them. She shakes her head in response.

Once again, the glass slides back to the straggler.

A sinking feeling settles deep in his stomach. “What exactly is this?”

The barkeep prepares a glass for himself, and smiles. “It’s made of the hardest pills to swallow, and all the finer things in life.”

Sixth will make you forget about days lost, and the seventh of days filled with sadness and love—

“You shouldn’t—” the woman tries to speak, but a look from the barkeep and the words die in her throat. She develops a sudden interest in her “drink” despite nursing an already empty glass.

“You have five shots down. Three more to beat the record,” the

barkeep turns his attention to the stragglers and slides the drink closer. “Don’t you want to see the prize?”

“There’s a prize?!”

He looks at the woman beside him, who hasn’t spoken about anything about the prize at all.

“Everyone around here started off wanting that so-called prize,” she huffs, keeping her gaze focused on the glass. “Every single patron had sat on the same chair you’re sitting on, thinking they could beat the barkeep at his own game. Eight shots, with one chance to drink all the way to the end. They couldn’t do it.”

“Those who’ve tasted bitterness feared tasting something worse, while those who’ve had it good are afraid to ruin it.” The woman spits the words out like a curse. “It’s either you’re good at eating shit, or you’re not. It’s rigged!”

“How many have you tasted so far?” the straggler asks.

“Six.”

That makes sense. He thought. She doesn’t want me to win.

He drinks his sixth cup and wishes he could take back his words.

“And now...it’s a tie,” the barkeep announces.

If the straggler hadn’t been too busy trying not to puke his guts out, he would have realized how the drink was reminiscent of the cold beer he’d drunk with his estranged co-workers, cold and stale. He’d smiled at the same drink and boasted how it was the best he’d ever had, except the lie had tasted worse than the drink itself.

But at that moment, all he could think about was washing the horrible taste down his throat, so he simply gestures for the barkeep to move on with the seventh glass...

Only to be completely dumbfounded.

Oh.

“What does it taste like?” the barkeep asks, his voice finally betraying

a hint of curiosity. This is the first time someone has tasted the seventh . It tastes like the red wine I would’ve shared with my wife, if we were able to work it out. The straggler thinks, at loss for words. Like a glass of orange juice I would’ve squeezed out for my kids, if I had any. It’s the coffee I would’ve made for my father, if I knew how to, and a glass of scotch I’d have shared with a long-lost friend.

But the straggler keeps those thoughts to himself, afraid that if he spits them out, the world will once again conspire and use it against him. He switches the attention to the barkeep, whose eyes seem to burn straight into his soul. “You’ve never tasted this before?”

Ruby-red eyes flicker, and for an instant, they take on the shade of human brown. “They all taste the same to me.”

It’s the same moment that the straggler doubles over, gripping his stomach in pain. The taste of sweet wine turns into something metallic, warm and viscous. He detects a bit of rubble and the saltiness of tears.

The next minute is a series of disjointed sensations:

6:58 PM. There’s a sick feeling every time he checks his watch. He wants to go home, but at the same time, he doesn’t. There’s a high chance he’ll be coming back only to see his wife leaving. He has no kids, no family, no friends to even cry to. He never imagined it would turn out like this.

Then, as if the heavens heard this wish, he sees headlights heading toward him at high speed. He hears the pit-patter of rain as it falls over his umbrella, and then, the screams. A chorus of move it and watch out, pounding inside his skull like drum beats. He has a split-second to feel the clash of metal against human flesh, the impact rearranging his guts and hurling him a few feet away.

The eight will make you forget the days yet to come.

The pain melts away as realization settles deep into his stomach.

“Last shot?” the barkeep chimes in, sliding him the final shot glass. All around them, the bar falls into silence.

There’s another silent offer being made here—another shot at another life.

He glanced at his watch. 7 PM since time stopped ticking. He can’t believe he actually forgot.

“Shit. I said I’d be back by eight.” He gathers his watch and wraps it around his wrist, almost as if in a rush. He fishes his wallet and takes out a wad of bills, pinning it under the unfinished glass.

For the first time since it was established, the bar sees a customer leaving.

The barkeep doesn’t know what to say.

“The drinks are good.. but my wife will kill me if I’m late,” the straggler gets up, now with a smile on his face. He looks worse than he had when he first came here: there are rips where the shrapnel pierced through, and blood mixing along the coffee stains. However, there’s a spark of life inside him that hadn’t been there before. A drunken kind of excitement fueled by the seven shots of alcohol, instead of being washed out.

“Where are you going?” the woman whispers, aghast.

He thinks of all the bitter tastes life has to offer. And then, underneath it all, the good parts.

“Home.”