Corruption
by Amanda Sage Barnum

   "Will you be trying a Corruption, sir?" the boy behind the bar asked with impish anticipation. This was some kind of new drink, apparently. The wraithlike manager who’d hired the kid a few weeks before stared at me while he spoke in low tones on the phone across the room. The point of his staring seemed to be something between intimidation and seduction, neither of which worked terribly well on me, as this guy was maybe a hundred fifty pounds soaking wet and about a thousand unappealing years old. Age, though important in the mostly omnipresent eyes of the Law, was not a concern here; this place somehow slipped through whatever cracks there were in the enforcement of ID checking in my fair city. The boy in front of me was perhaps fifteen and fancied himself an apothecary, mixing a different featured vile indulgence every night. That night, Saturday, there was something sweeter about the place despite the living-dead manager. The boy looked straight at me. Shadows on either side of him were darker than usual.

   Ordinarily I had Bloody Marys, weeknights and weekends, one after another, as I watched the bar’s scene change and stretch toward dark morning. This kid would set them in front of me with a smile, clearly not noticing or caring what stage of ridiculous drunkenness I was in, just somehow altering the mix so that each cocktail was darker or redder than the last. For my part, I didn’t notice or care what he did to the drinks as long as they got me sloshed and tasted something like tabasco sauce. I would only be able to tell the drinks were different somehow each time, but I was so shrouded in the alcoholic’s hazy progression of clamoring need to submission to absent satisfaction to absolute sedation that I never thought to ask what he did to the Bloody Marys. How I settled my vulture’s eye on this bar and honed in on it I can’t recall, and how it became my steadfast routine is not worth contemplating, as I get depressed when I think about how obsessive I am. I don’t like to get depressed.

   "Bloody Mary," I droned at the boy as usual.

   "Sir, I’m afraid there’s a shortage of tomato juice tonight." Panic time. Tried not to sweat out every drop of liquid in my body all at once as I asked if they still had vodka.

   "Well, of course. This is a bar," he said. I felt my face fall and my stomach twitch in shame. He knew exactly how handicapped my mind was before I’d had the first sip. He knew that dry for me meant naked and shivering with my balls shrinking up and all of my senses on hold.

   "How about straight shots."

   "I’ll make them Corruptions for no extra charge!"

   "Fine." I was in no mood for negotiation.

   He grinned and got to work on God knows what, and I let my head loll back in its shaking socket for a moment. I must have been looking at the ceiling, but I don’t remember a ceiling. My eyes were out of commission like the rest of me. I heard a little girl laughing somewhere off to the right. There were always kids in this bar, little kids sometimes, sitting on the counter or running around the place as if mingling. I supposed they were there for a reason; beyond that I supposed nothing more. Once I saw a rosy-cheeked woman nursing a baby at one of the tables while she drank something clear and fizzy. It might have been soda water.

   The kid set the Corruption in front of me and turned away, calling "Mary!" A small girl clip-clopped over, thumb in mouth, party shoes very shiny, and disappeared behind the bar.

   "We’ll have tomato juice again for you soon, sir," the kid said. Respectful of my needs, as a bartender should be toward an elegant gentleman. Feeling generous toward the kid, like I might have been too harsh on him, I picked up the creamy Corruption (what was it, Bailey’s? Amaretto? White Russian?) and took a sip that turned into a gulp.

   It was sweet, but not sickening like I was afraid it would be. Sweet in a delicate way, constrasting sharply with the stinging warmth of vodka. So the kid really had included my liquor of choice. He was starting to look angelic. He was young enough to have pale skin unmarred by burst capillaries, and no acne either.

"How is it, sir?"

   "It’s... soft, and...harmonic." Like a Haydn piano piece- no, a Haydn chorale, or whatever it’s called when there are voices. This drink had perfectly pitched voices singing its praises. I’d never referred to alcohol as "harmonic" before. When I realized this had come out of my mouth I felt my face flush.

   "Oh yeah, it makes you laugh and cry," the kid said as though he were talking about a classic film. "Well, I’ve actually never seen that happen, but I figure I will with somebody. You’re the first one to try a Corruption."

   His first test subject. He would remember that, no doubt. Vodka rushed through me at an alarming pace, although the drink hadn’t been all that strong. When I thought of the delicacy of its flavor, the more I understood just how sweet it was, the more it felt as though the vodka was boiling my veins. "Why... uh, corruption, why did you..." It was impossible to speak a real sentence.

   "Why did I call it that? Why do you think? Maybe I call it that just for you." The kid smiled again, and my thoughts became an auditory series of responses to his comment, things I could not possibly say and so they stayed trapped in my mind and rattled on my inner ears. And in fact my eyes did sting with tears from the mysteriously hot and painful drink. I laughed, I cried, I looked like an idiot, I thought.

   I felt a tap on the cuff of my pantleg, and I looked down at a tiny girl gazing up at me with her five tiny fingers grasping my pantleg. Large dark eyes surrounded by red-gold fringe darted over my face. Her mouth opened to speak, but the drink’s heavenly singing drowned out her small voice. The bartender heard what she said and shook his head. "No, Tracey, you aren’t old enough. Leave the gentleman to his pleasure."

   So she wanted some of my drink? "I could give her some," I said to the kid.

   He rolled his eyes. "Tracey’ll be an amazing charmer for us in a few years, but right now she’s just a persistent brat, aren’t you honey. Go back to your mommy, Trace, so she doesn’t flip the fuck out and get me fired." Tracey slipped away like a wraith, not with the clumsy toddle I associated with children her age. Her dark red wisps of hair floated behind her. Pale arms across the room scooped her up into a lap, where a breast was exposed for her to suck. I thought about the language of teenagers, the lyricism of the phrase "flip the fuck out."

   "Thing is," said the kid, "they always want to start before they’re old enough. Personally I don’t think there should be a minimum age, since every single one of them is thrilled when we finally let them join- what’s the harm, then, if all of them love it so much?"

   "All of..." My focus was on the fourth- no, fifth?- Corruption being mixed for me behind the bar. All of the drinks? Loving to join the others in providing alcoholics with blessed relief?

   "The angels. All these little girls around here." The kid set the drink in front of me and for the first time I hesitated before snatching it up. Angels... what were they doing in a bar? Tantamount to asking what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this. When you ask that, you’re hoping you already know the answer. The point is to make her think she looks innocent and fresh. You want to let her think she’s a good girl. But mostly you want her to think you’re hot shit, you’re the master of masculine protection, the rock steady good-hearted guy who not only has a huge boner for her but also respects her purity. I have never asked a pretty girl what she was doing in a place like this.

   Someone was watching me knock back Corruptions- the ghoulish manager. His stare might have been mocking, but it was hard to tell with all those wrinkles. You’re disgusting too, I said to him telepathically. At least I still look like I’m alive. But now his face seemed softer... I have never been able to determine the moods of old people. My great-grandmother, who died at ninety-two when I was very young, didn’t speak for the last three years of her life. She was demented, I suppose, or just cranky. Her face would change when she got angry, but it was not an anger-face to me because the pronounced skin folds were too abstract to be human. I would only realize she was angry when she grabbed me by the straps of my toddler-overalls (the days of Osh Kosh) and licked the claw she wasn’t holding me with and then slapped me, covering me in decaying spit. The manager would have spit like that, I thought. Horrible rotten grayish ooze.

   The bartender was trying to get my attention. "Excuse me for a minute, sir, it’s been nice talking with you." He turned away and walked down the length of the bar toward the woman who sat with Tracey sucking at her breast. The woman’s face from where I sat was featureless, covered in shadow. They spoke briefly and the woman began to shake her head emphatically, clutching Tracey harder. Tracey began to struggle out of her mother’s grip, reaching her hands toward the bartender. "See," yelled the kid, "she wants to come with me! She wants the gentleman to have his drink of choice!" He laughed that cackle of his that I was getting to know so well. The woman said something and they seemed to come to some kind of agreement, both nodding. Tracey was placed on the floor, where another adult hand grabbed for her, and the woman got up and followed the kid behind the bar. As they moved toward me I saw her face- it was an exhausted face, feverish, the eyes bright but glazed over and accented by deep hollows. She was either sick or very aroused. The kid lead her into a room behind the bar, and as she stepped in she began to take off her shirt. I saw a flash of chewed red nipple and bruised areola. The kid did not follow her in, but instead closed the door behind her and returned to his position in front of me with the solid oak bar between us.

   The manager had been observing all this with no obvious reaction, but he smiled slightly when the kid glanced over at him. The kid looked away and started chattering at me again. "The boss likes me," he said smugly. "That’s because I know how to treat customers. I guess he figures you’re satisfied with the Corruptions for tonight even though I wanted you to have your usual."

   I realized he wanted me to say something. "Maybe, uh... I like this, but maybe the usual tomorrow night, if you can."

   "I knew it! People should always get their favorite drink, it should always be available. I’m going to talk to the boss about this."

   "Well, thanks..." I had already forgotten the beginning of the conversation, but I thought the kid may have been telling me that he was going to make sure they always had enough tomato juice for my Bloody Marys from now on. I decided that was a good thing, and started on Corruption Number Unknown.

   "One wouldn’t have been enough for the way you like to drink ‘em." The kid was looking at me closely, I thought, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. They didn’t want to make my brain figure out why this mysterious adolescent was staring at me. My brain might be wrong anyway and then I might do something ridiculous. His hand rested on the bar, inches from my drink, fingers tapping.

   "Yeah I never really just have one drink," I said. The stupidity of that statement didn’t escape me, even in my rapidly advancing inebriation. I flushed. The kid leaned closer. "Nice," he murmured, "nice good color you’ve got."

   This was too much. Everything in me stirred and I resented having my tendency to blush pointed out so bluntly. "Could you just. I want to be.... I want to drink by myself for a while."

   "Ok, sure, whatever you want." He smiled and backed away, towards the room where Tracey’s mother might be doing something naked. The kid opened the door and she came out with a bottle of milk in her hand. Breast milk. Her shirt was buttoned wrong. She stepped out in front of the bar and looked around. "Tracey?" she said in a dull voice.

   "Yeah, whatever, she’s around somewhere," the kid replied, and gave me a look that said "women." I nodded slyly, then wondered why. What did I know about women. I took a long drink of Corruption. It seemed vital that I say something before the kid got busy with something else, so I asked how many of these he could make.

   "I can mix that drink to fucking infinity, man." He smiled. "But if you’d prefer to drink your usual tomorrow night, sir, it shouldn’t be a problem." His smile was a smirk, had been all along, and for some reason I hadn’t realized. Did I want to drink my usual? He seemed to be going to all sorts of trouble to make it available for me.

   "That would be great," I said finally, and decided I hated the sound of my voice and never wanted to speak a word again. I looked away, around at the bar, anywhere but at the kid. But the place was teeming with kids younger than he was, girls in dresses and adult high heels made tiny to fit them. I focused on the shoes, the unsteady twig legs trying to walk in them, the hems of dresses that grazed their knees. This place was a pedophile’s dream. Dirtier men than me would have a blast here. But I only came for the drinks.

   "You like this place, sir? Think it has a good atmosphere?" He had noticed me looking at the girls.

   "Yeah... uh, the girls are cute." I thought it was probably safe to call them cute. To let him know I wasn’t some kind of pervert, but that sure, I had noticed them. Any man would.

   "You know what, I like it that you don’t ask questions," the kid said. "You’re a real gentleman. You don’t even stare at women breastfeeding." Was he mocking me? I remembered the manager, the stare that held a hint of derision.

   "I just buy drinks," I said. Entirely by choice, offhand, like I just noticed this bar on my way home to my wife and decided to drop in.

   The kid wasn’t fooled. He laughed. "You sure do, you sit there and buy those drinks like there’s no tomorrow, sir. And then you drink them. I don’t even know how many of those I’ve made for you tonight."

   I don’t have a wife. I looked down at my drink. Creamy, sweet... or was it salty? Delicate. Exquisite. The color was a diluted white, perhaps tinged with pink, or maybe yellow. No, pink. A pink drink, vodka with a fresh twist of innocence.

   "Wondering what I put in there, sir?" The kid had turned on his cocky magic-bartender attitude again. He looked as though he thought I would never guess.

   "What did you put in it." I was woozy and getting a headache. I had no idea how late it was.

   "Tit juice. Not my first choice, but the bitch over there wouldn’t let me take Tracey. Sorry if the taste is less than satisfying, sir. I swear she’s gonna be nursing that kid forever, and Tracey is ready to move on to bigger and better things, if you ask me."

   "Hmm?" My eyes had slipped shut. I massaged the lids and saw nothing on the insides of them other than the chaotic mass of phantom light that appears when pressure is applied to the eye. Those pressure-flashes were familiar. I felt a creeping dread of having to see the world again when my eyes opened.

   "I said Tracey is ready to contribute to the servicing of our customers here at our friendly bar. You are a very loyal customer, sir, in fact I think I’ve seen you here every night since I started working, and I can only assume you appreciate the extra effort we put in with creating the right atmosphere and the best possible flavor in each drink we make. As you know, Bloody Marys are one of our specialties. You wouldn’t have kept coming here if it was ordinary old tomato juice and cheap vodka we used. Have you noticed the intense color of our Bloody Marys? The blood is always fresh, young, and healthy. A nice bright red to please the eye as well as the palate."

   "What are you, some kind of satanist? Blood sacrifice?" I tittered and tried to cover the sound with a cough.

   "Come on, man. You see anything religious about this place? This is all about enhancing the quality of our beverages. There is no sacrifice - nothing more extreme than what happens at the doctor’s office, when they take your blood for testing."

   This wasn’t good. It had taken me too long to notice what they did in this bar. He had probably told the manager about me- the guy who comes in every single night and never notices the little girls or the exposed breasts of nursing mothers. I had to change his perception.

   I began a rambling monologue. "So you, you and your manager- you have the girls here so you can in a manner of speaking enhance the flavor of your mixed drinks with a certain... kick, that comes from taking- uh, from adding their blood to the drinks, some of them, like the Bloody Marys, and it’s... exciting to think of drinking something that, that came from a... girl, who is so young and virginal, it’s..." And I gave up.

   But the kid didn’t give up on me. "It’s what? Erotic, sir?" That angelic smirk.

   "Well, because they’re, uh, sexy in those outfits, those heels and everything, Lolita-ish, that sort of thing." I recalled Sue Lyon playing Lolita, remembered watching the film, tried to conjure up an erotic image of her in my mind. The kid would think I was into youth, young women, not children exactly. Young female flesh. Perhaps any suggestive display by a female, even a four-year-old, would tend to stimulate my general male desire to deposit my seed in a vagina. Which was a natural desire, not something to be denied or avoided. I continued to look at the girls and counted around eleven of them. I did not look at that damned swaggering teenager behind the bar.

   "Sure they’re sexy," he said. "Tracey’s a goddamn tease, I don’t care what her mother says. Once I start drawing her blood I might not be able to stop, so you might end up with a whole year’s supply of Bloody Tracey mix." His breathing sped up as he leaned towards me. I tried not to let my own breath quicken in response to his. Was this kid really old enough to be working in a bar? What did he do with his time when he wasn’t working? I drowned these thoughts in my drink of breast milk- whitish, sweet, definitely not salty or sexy. Definitely female in its delicacy. Being consumed because it was kinky, or comforting, or the only available substitute for my usual. I planned to drink until I could envision myself being driven by the dark sexuality of this bar to go fuck whatever woman I could find, give it to her hard in my masculine frenzy, hard as she could take and then beyond until she bled, perhaps, because I would be unable to control myself, the Corruption having released all inhibitions and revealed my fierce desire. So that now I must want to shove my dick inside a woman the way most guys would under such circumstances. I’m very, very drunk and can almost see myself wanting what most guys would want.

©2003 Amanda Sage Barnum