hidden in plain sight

Thursday evening shifts were rarely, if ever, smooth sailing. Every week at 5 pm sharp, the local AA meeting would adjourn, and lonely stragglers who had no one to go home to would wait, ten agonising minutes at most, before meandering to the bar across the road.

Randy's was a relaxed neighbourhood-style bar. Dimly lit and homely, it was an unsuspecting treasure trove. The building was long and narrow, with a cozy fireplace tucked into a little alcove at the back, perfect for broody Striders on stormy nights.

The interior was fashioned like a historical marvel: vintage fishing gear mounted to the walls alongside mixed-media shadow boxes made from seashells and starfish, old paintings and nautical charts, replica skeletons of marine life encased in glass, photographs of sailors lost at sea, and a model tiger shark suspended from the ceiling.

Each trinket had been painstakingly collected by the owner, with a few generous donations over the years. The pièce de résistance, however, was the bar itself: a 30 ft long fishing boat, built in the 1950s and cleverly upholstered with shelves, liquor cabinets and warm lights.

Here, in this safe-haven, Xavier encountered a few heartbreakers in his time. Though he remembered their faces well, he seldom knew what became of them. His first year saw the hardest, most unforgiving crowd: a disillusioned veteran, high school dropouts, a homelessness man repenting for murdering his wife, and the most difficult (and saddest, in his opinion) — a pregnant women whose baby never stood a chance.

Needless to say, the notorious AA herding shift wasn't for the faint-hearted. Very few bartenders signed up for Thursday shifts, but in Xavier's humble opinion, that was a good thing. Thursday evening clientele required emotional resilience and world of empathy, and Xavier was the perfect fit — he always had soft spot for broken things.

They were, in some ways, almost a mirror into a path he could have followed. Xavier knew, quite well, what it meant to be a failure: he was a med-school dropout turned humble bartender, with barely any savings. But he was fortunate to have a supportive family and friends who helped him stay afloat.

His regulars, though? They had no one.

Xavier would lend them an ear, or flash a supportive smile in times when others cared little to spare them a glance. It had taken him many long, gruelling shifts, until he'd learned how to cut them off the tap with ease, and sometimes, diffuse their varying moods with quick wit.

Strange as it was, working at Randy's had healed something inside Xavier, too. He often longed for meaningful exchange; that weightless sensation of bouncing off the energy of another. Perhaps that was why his Thursday clientele liked him. Xavier breathed sparks of magic back into their lives, through his extravagant bar tending, mixed with the art of preicse conversation, and a few sleight-of-hand tricks.

Granted, it didn't always work. Some cases barreled through his door like a tornado, never to be seen again. Others burned slowly until their wicks needed a trim, but not all would manage to make the clean cut. But most nights, charming wit and quick hands were enough to spare his regulars the humiliation of being thrown out onto the street.

"Buy you a drink?" a familiar voice called out.

Xavier smiled. "What can I do for you today, Gaspard?"

Gaspard wordlessly took the seat opposite Xavier, offering him an encouraging nod.

"You know I can't drink on the job," Xavier said sternly.

"Humour me, then."

Xavier barked a laugh. "How so?" he asked with a big, toothy grin, "you're the man who found Excalibur. I'm afraid I've run out of magic for a man like you."

"I disagree," Gaspard chuckled. "You look, uh, really—" he began, mincing his words. Xavier felt his heart skip a beat, his half-polished glass forgotten in his hands. Instead, Gaspard finished to no great applause with, "so busy!"

Xavier preened himself anyway. He leaned across the bar, swearing an oath he'd made every Thursday night, ever since Gaspard had first greeted him, bumbling with nerves. "I'm all yours tonight," he vowed.

Gaspard cleared his throat. "I'll take my usual, seasonal garnish, if possible — and, ah yes! Some four-year oysters and a side of cuttlefish in coconut, if you don't mind."

Xavier nodded. "Shucked to order every Thursday, just for you," he purred.

"Ah, you spoil me!"

"It's my job," Xavier laughed, relaying Gaspard's order to the kitchen.

He then started on the drink: a heavily modified cocktail from a secret-menu known only to them. Xavier personally curated each flavour profile to match Gaspard's notable career achievements, with enough pizzazz to lessen the overall alcoholic content.

What Gaspard didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

Xavier cared for Gaspard like a friend, regardless of whether or not the feeling was mutual. Gaspard had been a regular at Randy's for two years now, and there was something about him that always pulled on Xavier's heartstrings.

Gaspard was somewhat of an enigma. He was infuriatingly handsome, even if the frizz in his curls better suited a mad scientist. His sense of humour, though simple and delightfully crass; tickled Xavier like a fingertips at the crook of his neck in spite of himself.

Gaspard was charming, too, in a wounded animal sort of way. He had a smile far to find at first; nowadays, his smokey laughter cut through the bar like thunder, each rumbling aftershock sinking into the wood of the ship, like a captain coming home.

Tonight, Gaspard looked exuberant, like he'd struck gold without telling anyone. His curls looked bouncy again, perked up like a houseplant who'd received a dose of tender loving care; well-moisturised, freshly showered, nourished with product.

Gaspard was dressed in a stately manner that suggested he came from old money; a stark contrast to the coked-up millennial corpos who occasionally trickled through the door. The fur coat — presumably vintage — probably cost more than three months worth of Xavier's pay, a stark reminder that Gaspard had won private auctions worth more than a year of Xavier's hard-earned salary, with little more than a flick of the wrist.

"Shit," he muttered. He'd poured a little too much gin into the shaker.

Xavier wasn't sure which was more cruel: the corduroy bell-bottoms, which sinfully left little to the imagination, or the generous swath of chest hair that was visibly there. He added some St. Germain for a splash of French summer, then shook his frustrations out, vigorously, until his thoughts chilled.

When Xavier returned, pointedly ignoring The Chest, he noticed Gaspard was reading from a well-worn leather journal.

"So, what has you all, ah, wound up?" Xavier rasped, planting Gaspard's drink in front of him.

"Honduras," Gaspard enunciated with intrigue. "La Ciudad Blanca, ever heard of it?"

Xavier leaned over the bar with a quirked brow. He licked his bottom lip, eager for a story. Gaspard loved telling him tales of his grand adventures, high-speed pursuits, salacious conquests, and of course, the many woes of archaeological digs with nothing but false leads.

"Enlighten me."

And so, Gaspard eagerly discussed his new point of interest over a decadent share of creamy oysters, coconut cuttlefish, and two beers going on a third. He'd been researching the legendary La Ciudad Blanca, sometimes known as The White City, in eastern Honduras. The city was known for its buildings made of beautiful white stone, with an elaborate pyramid and extensive plazas, formerly inhabited by a culture lost to time.

Some claim it was ritualistically abandoned, perhaps due to an outbreak of disease. Gaspard believed otherwise. Countless tales had been told of a stone white paradise. Eden-like. Gaspard argued that the citizens had stayed behind, heroically burying the city beneath the earth, to protect their guardian deity who had fallen ill. They traded their human lives for immortality, to watch over him in his temple whilst he slumbered.

Several sources claim the guardian deity was a fearsome monkey god. Fate struck like lighting four months ago when a team of American geologists had unintentionally discovered a strange array of monkey statues. Gaspard believed they were clues to finding the city's entrance.

"This could be my chance," Gaspard finished, peering into his drink. "There's something there, I can feel it. I know my gut, Xav. It's real."

Xavier could see hope written all over Gaspard's face. He was touched that Gaspard trusted him, to share his knowledge without fear of judgement of mockery. This sharp-dressed man with a splash of coconut in his beard, was no longer the Gaspard of two years ago — a miserable, shell of a man, who'd grunt his order and retreat to the fireplace with his demons.

Xavier recalled the story on the news. Gaspard Augé, Ph.D, famed archaeologist and treasure hunter, the man who found lost cities and discovered Excalibur, had led an expedition of twelve men to their untimely deaths, all for nought. He'd been called a raving lunatic, useless hack, stripped of his accolades, shunned from elite society, dumped by his ex.

The tabloids ran wild. PhD in Perversion. From Serial-Mythbuster to Serial-Killer. Xavier even recalled a reddit thread dedicated to dredging up all the sordid details of Gaspard's love life, first year undergrads claiming he traded good grades for sex, the whole ordeal. None of which could be proved, but the damage to Gaspard's reputation was done.

But what the world didn't know, was there were much larger schemes at play, concerning a missing stone tablet, a corrupt organisation, and a brutal betrayal that cost Gaspard his life's work.

"History is always written by the victor," Gaspard had told him one night, after downing his fifth beer. He laid the truth bare, without the glamour and the glitz, all his short-comings as a person. But he was an honest man about his research. "No one ever wants to hear the truth."

"Well?" Xavier smiled, "why not go for it?"

Gaspard chuckled, shaking his head. "It's dangerous to go alone. I'd need an expedition team, well-paid, for the hardship they will face. I could partially fund it myself, I suppose, but I'd need permits, public support…let's just say there aren't many people willing to give an old fool like me a second chance," he explained sadly. "Ah, Xav, can I get another beer?"

"That's enough for you tonight, my friend."

"Okay." Gaspard hiccuped. "You're good to me, Xav. Thank you."

"The pleasure is mine, truly," Xavier said earnestly. "I get off in ten. You will wait for me, yes?"

"Ah? It's that time already?" Gaspard looked around. The crowd had thinned out significantly. "I better get going before—!"

"Nonsense, Gaspard. Let me see you home safely."

"Sure," Gaspard mumbled, glancing at the doorway.

"Don't you think about running away on me."

"Okay. I won't."

Xavier raced through his clock-off routine like his life depended on it, thankful he wasn't closing. He gave the bar a quick scrub 'n' refresh, like he'd done countless times before.

When he was done, Gaspard was waiting for him, dutifully, by the door. He shuffling on his feet. Xavier breathed a sigh of relief. The last time he'd offered, Gaspard disappeared.

"Now, Gaspard," Xavier said over his shoulder as they stepped outside, all too aware of Gaspard's hand hovering his lower back. "I'll take you home on one condition."

"Mm?" Gaspard narrowed his eyes, though his smile betrayed his scepticism.

"You must tell me more about this Monkey God," Xavier grinned. "I always thought myself a monkey. A small one."

"Well, this Monkey God, he is quite big," Gaspard chortled. "Supposedly, he is resides atop a temple, the staircase leading to him a test of strength and sacrifice…"

In a feat of bravery, Xavier linked Gaspard's arm with his. Gaspard melted into his touch like liquid gold. As the pair strolled slowly into the night, Xavier couldn't help but think he'd discovered the most precious hidden treasure of them all.