The bar was unusually empty for a Saturday night. Makoto had little doubt that this was due to the sign posted over the DJ's box: Stereo system down, sorry for the inconvenience. Once patrons saw that, they would groan, and exited as quickly as they could, but not before complaining, as loudly as they could, that she should do something about it. The fake smiles and simple shrugs she responded with pissed her off about as much as it did them.
As she wiped down the bar for the thirtieth time that hour, she let the focus of her thoughts settle on the good-for-nothing "manager" sitting on his laurels in the back office. She had even money on the fact that he hadn't even called a repairman yet, and probably wouldn't for another week. Meanwhile, their business consisted of a few regulars who couldn't be bothered to find a new joint, the crusty village loon who didn't seem to notice a difference, and a table full of college boys near the back corner who had come in so somber she was all but certain someone had died.
Every so often the table would whoop or holler about something-or-other, but Makoto couldn't be arsed to care. She refilled their pitcher of booze whenever one of them came with bills to pay for it (she'd be damned if she gave college boys a tab--not after being shorted a hundred bucks her first week) and smiled politely, and they left her alone.
That isn't fair, the back of her head muttered at her, these boys have been nice enough all night. Makoto sighed at herself and lifted one of the regular's glasses to wipe the counter under it. He didn't look up from his paper.
Another whoop from the college table jerked her attention to them in time to see the brunette's fists raised in the air and something pass over his head. The short-haired blond crowed as he got up, doing a little victory-jig as he went to pick up whatever it was that had flown off the table. After a moment, Makoto realized they were playing table-football.
She shook her head and found a mug that needed polishing. Any other night she might have been annoyed--but at least these guys were decent enough to pick up their mess. And it weren't as though they lacked the space.
Someone's chair slid back and one of their group began to head her way with their pitcher. Makoto glanced up at him as she put her mug down, then had to turn and stare. Behind him, the brunette's table cackled and snickered--actually, one of them was giggling, the back of her mind informed her--as he moved with precision, joint-lock movement in her direction. Without the music it took her a moment to realize he was doing the robot.
Her hand clapped to her mouth as he ended the solo act with the pitcher placed before her and a cheesy smile stretched across his. After a pause she cleared her throat, forced the smile off of her lips and took the pitcher from him. The guy grinned, showing off a chipped tooth and a set of matching dimples, before he lurched backward.
“Watch—," Makoto caught herself as his stumble segued into another dance session. His head bobbed to a nonexistent beat, but for the claps and whooping of his comrades, as he threw the dice, and electric slid over the empty dance floor. Frozen behind her counter, Makoto could only watch as he threw himself to the floor and wormed to the other side of the room, hoped back up and wind-milled into a pop-lock routine. He dropped down to his knees, crawled across the floor and he got back on his feet. He wiggled and he jiggled to the watermelon crawl.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” a voice at her elbow stated and she jumped. Makoto pressed a hand to her breast, feeling her heart beat a tantrum behind her ribs. Sometime during his friend’s stunt, one of the other members of their group had made his way the bar.
The man’s shocking white eyebrows knotted together as he glanced back at his still-dancing friend. The brunette had transitioned, somehow, into attempting headpins. He didn't have a hat on, and with hair down to his shoulders he wasn't having much luck. Makoto winced and touched her own hair.
"Nigel is... ah. Quite well pissed, at the minute," the man continued with a sigh. "I think, if you don't mind, a round of water rather than a refill."
"Right," she nodded and managed to tear her eyes away long enough to fill his request. The man nodded his thanks and left a generous bill on the counter with a quick "for your trouble." As he gathered the glasses into his arms to carry back, Nigel (the name didn't seem to fit, she thought, but if the slurred accent she'd noticed on them was real and not drink, she gathered that the lot of them were from the Isles) did a Michael Jackson spin, moonwalk, and dropped into a wince-worthy split.
The sound of tearing cloth ripped through the empty bar.
Her laughing snort was the first sound to break the silence after. Makoto clapped her hands to her mouth, but she couldn't completely smother the laughter. Nigel fell onto his side, both moaning in pain and laughing at himself. The two blonds at the table got up to pull him to his feet, both walking rather wobbly themselves. The task took a few minutes, and involved a lot of falling down on all their of their parts.
All the while, Makoto tried. Really, she did. She bit her lips, she hunched her shoulders and squeezed her nails into the palm that wasn't glued over her mouth.
Eventually, their relatively sober friend force fed the three of them their glasses of water and lead the gaggle out of the bar in much more merry a fashion than they'd come in. Nigel did not seem to notice or or care that the back of his trousers now announced to the world his love of Tweety Bird so much as he noticed that they were leaving the bar, and loudly declared that he "dinnit wanna."
His friend bullied him through the doors as he turned, pointed to Makoto, and announced "She's hot!"
The door shut in his face and Makoto bent over the bar, laughing till her sides hurt. The regulars didn't even look up.
