The Wrong Ones

“Is it possible that you grabbed the wrong ones?”

“It’s possible.”

“Well what did they look like?”

“They were white and round.   Chalky-lookin.”

“Yeah—what did they say on them?  Was there any writing?”

“Well the right ones have a ‘4’ on one side and a three-digit number on the other side—‘561’ or something.  But I had them all in an altoids tin, along with some Excedrin, which actually look sorta similar, so….”

“So what?”

“So…you might have gotten an Excedrin.”

“An Excedrin?  Jesus Christ, Frish!  I didn’t pay you four dollars for a fucking Excedrin!”

And he slammed his cellphone down into the carpet.  Hard, but not hard enough to break it.  Frish, who had been sitting on the edge of his recliner, slumped back into it.  He thought about kicking up the footrest but he decided against it.

“You’re gonna break your phone doin something like that,” he said to Bail.

“It’s—I’ve got others,” Bail said.  “Goin back a ways.  They’re all the same—the same number.  So, it doesn’t matter.”

And then he started to smile a little bit.  He cocked his head, squinted his eyes, and smiled again.  He was starting to get a fuzzy sensation at his temples.  He blinked a few times.  Frish kicked up the legrest.

“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?”

“I think I am,” said Bail.  “I think I am.  Very interesting.  Very interesting.  You wanna make some drinks?”

“Definitely,” said Frish.  He popped the legrest backdown and sped off to the butler’s pantry.  The recliner swayed back and forth as an afterthought.  Bail could hear Frish clap his hands and then rub them together.  Then he heard the sound of a cabinet being opened.  He got up and went over to the pantry.  There wasn’t much in there.  Lots of odds and ends.  A bottle of sherry, some Rose’s lime.  Water bottles with unkown liquids of various amber shades.

Frish asked, “For which do you care more, bourbon or gin?”

“Do you have any olives?”  asked Bail.  “If you’ve got olives, I’ll have a martini.”

Frish stretched out his bottom lip toward the left, and his eyes bulged a bit.  He was looking into the liquor cabinet for something he knew wasn’t there.  He wondered if one of the small bottles might be….

“Got olives,” he said.  “But no dry vermouth, I’m afraid.”

“Jesus Christ, Frish!  What kinda business are you runnin here?”

“I’m sorry.  I don’t drink too many martinis.  How about a gimlet?  There’s lots you can do with gin,” he said.  “Gin and lots of lime juice is pretty good.  And I’ve got fresh limes.”

“A gimlet’s good,” said Bail.  “Been awhile.  But it sounds good.  Anything right now.”

And he went back into the living room, took the recliner, grabbed the remote, lit a cigarette, and started flipping through channels.  He kicked up the footrest, thinking about how good that cold drink was gonna taste.  In the pantry, Frish was shaking away.

“Can’t wait for that gimlet!” Bail exclaimed.  He didn’t figure Frish could hear him but he felt a need to say it.  “And after, maybe a bourbon.”  The sky was the limit.  He found a game on the local FOX Sports network.  He turned the sound down.

Frish walked in with the two gimlets, a stout highball glass in each hand.  He looked hard at Bail’s cigarette but decided not to tell Bail that smoking wasn’t allowed.