by Jung Yun
“Hey, how about you and me try to score a free round up at the bar? I don’t have a chance of getting laid if I just sit here all night.” Dani motions toward Aaron and her brother. “We look like we’re here with our boyfriends.”
Dani’s frankness continues to surprise and maybe even charm her a little. She’s not sure if she’s ever met someone so forthright, so comfortable with who she is and how things are. Elinor wants to talk to the bartenders and ask if either of them knew Leanne, so she follows Dani to the bar. Two men immediately offer them their seats, which they accept. When Elinor sits down and glances at the long mirror hanging behind the rows of liquor bottles, she sees the men in reflection, their faces shiny with sweat. The smell of chemicals steams off their bodies—gasoline and oil and something almost sulfurous. They hover close by as if they hope to start a conversation in exchange for being chivalrous. Neither she nor Dani pay them any mind.
Within minutes, the black-haired bartender slides another double whiskey and vodka soda their way, explaining that the guys on the end bought their round.
Dani turns to see who she’s talking about. “Eights,” she mutters under her breath. “Hell, yes.”
The men in the Depot are starting to look alike to Elinor. They all have the same farmer’s tans that cut off midbicep. They all need haircuts and a good night’s sleep. They all reek of loneliness and horniness and desperation, a desire to be the guy who gets the girl.
“Which one do you want?” Dani asks.
Elinor doesn’t look over before responding: “Neither.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, then. Suit yourself.”
She edges away from the bar with her drink. Elinor watches as the crowd of men splits open, forming an aisle that Dani glides across like a queen.
24
The attempts to strike up conversation multiply once she’s alone. Men of all profiles—young and old; handsome and grizzled; drunk and sober; Black, white, and brown—take their best shot at her, using every imaginable line. If she wanted to, she could get blackout drunk with all the offers to buy her next round. One man asks for Elinor’s hand in marriage, hissing his proposal wetly into her ear. Another man smiles a dazzling gold mouthful of caps at her and says—loud enough to turn heads—that he’ll make her scream when she comes. Feigning deafness and disinterest works on most men, but not this one. The dark-haired bartender points an angry finger at him and threatens to get the bouncer involved if he keeps it up.
“Christ. Relax.” He peels a fifty off a roll of bills and flicks it at her like a playing card. As he turns to leave, he stumbles into a man who’s been waiting to order and tells him not to bother talking to the Chinese girl at the bar. “Bitch doesn’t speak English,” he shouts.
The bartender picks up the fifty from the floor and examines it under the light. Then she turns toward Elinor, her kohl-lined eyes tired and red. “His money’s real, at least.” Without asking or offering, she pours her another whiskey. “You deserve that. The dogs are really out tonight.”
Elinor stares at the full drink next to her now empty one. She no longer remembers which number she’s on. She wishes the bartender would stay in one place for a while so they can talk, but there are too many customers to serve and the other woman covering the far end of the bar isn’t being much help. She seems more interested in flirting than taking orders.
“What are you drinking?” the man standing behind her asks.
“I’m all set, thanks.”
“Actually, I wasn’t offering to buy you a drink. I just wanted to know what you’re drinking.”
“Oh, sorry … It’s just whiskey.”
The man waits a beat. “I’m guessing you don’t drink beer?”
She shakes her head.
“You’re probably one of those girls who doesn’t like beer because it really packs on the pounds, right?”
Elinor glances at him over her shoulder. He grins at her innocently.
“So how old are you?” he asks, still grinning.
“Why do you want to know?” She regrets following up with a question. She realizes this is exactly what he wanted her to do.
“Because you seem older than some of the other girls in here. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying you look bad.” He brushes something she can’t see off her shoulder, nicking the side of her neck as he does it. “Just, you know, older.”
“Excuse you—” She jerks her head back, annoyed now. The stupid questions were one thing; the touching, another. She also recognizes the game he’s playing, a technique made famous on a television show—some sad reality series designed to help awkward men approach women. The bartender must recognize it too because suddenly she’s shouting at him.
“Get the hell out of here with that bullshit.”
The man looks around as if he doesn’t know who she’s talking to.
“Yes, you, dickbag. Move on.”
He shrugs and walks away with a wink.
“That’s twice now you’ve saved me,” Elinor says.
“That fucking guy. You know he was negging you on purpose, right?”
Elinor nods. For a brief period in her thirties, she remembers men coming up to her in bars, gently insulting her because the show said women would be more responsive, more inclined to welcome a man’s advances if they were trying to gain his approval. She’s embarrassed by the number of times she fell for it before finally catching on.
“That piece of shit thinks making girls insecure is the big secret to getting laid,” the bartender says, still visibly annoyed. “I don’t know if it ever works for him, but it pisses me off whenever I see him try.”
“Has he ever tried it on you?”
“Yeah, right. He wouldn’t dare.” She laughs as she slaps a pack of Camel Lights against her palm and removes the plastic wrapper. “Sam!” she shouts at the other bartender, waving her cigarettes in the air. “Time for you to get to work, girl.”
Elinor doesn’t understand what kind of armor the bartender has that she doesn’t. They’re both about the same age. They’re both attractive, tattooed, and dressed somewhat forbiddingly in black. What made that man think one would be susceptible to his tricks, but not the other? She watches the bartender slip out through the side door. Elinor considers following her, but wonders if she should tell someone first. She looks around and spots Dani at the other end of the bar, holding court with three guys who occasionally erupt with laughter. Maren, meanwhile, is off in her own world, making out with Gary right at the table. The way they’re going at it reminds her of high school kids, groping each other in public because they have nowhere else to go, or because their hormones have simply taken over, replacing whatever good sense they started out with. She decides no one will miss her if she steps out for a smoke, so she stands up and shoots the rest of her whiskey, unwilling to leave her drink unattended. A swell of nausea rises up from the back of her throat and lingers dangerously. She remains very still, fingertips pressed against the edge of the bar until the sensation slowly passes.
By the time Elinor wades through the crowd and goes outside, the bartender is talking on her phone, several feet away from the door. There’s no approaching her now, but it’s a relief to breathe in the cool night air, free from the smell of beer and bodies. The exit opens onto a narrow one-way filled with small storefronts, perpendicular to Main. The sidewalks are teeming with people who look ready for a night out. Cars slowly cruise past, windows down, music blaring, a mix of country and metal and classic rock. From the safety of their vehicles, men whistle and shout at the handful of women on the street. They shout at men too, calling them “motherfucker” and “asshole” for reasons that Elinor can’t understand. Occasionally, a police cruiser passes, the officer inside keeping a watchful eye. It’s not even after midnight, and yet the crowd’s energy seems ready to combust.
Elinor leans against the side of the building. She feels protected by the dark, which makes it easier to brush of
f strangers’ beery hellos and attempts to smoke alongside her. Her thoughts cycle through Maren, Gary, Nami, Ed, Richard, Lydia, Dani, and Leanne. But all the alcohol in her system has the semipleasant effect of not allowing her to focus on any one person for too long. She finishes an entire cigarette before she even remembers to check for a voice mail or text from Richard, neither of which she has. Strange how only a few hours ago, hearing from him was the thing that worried her most.
“So, you’ve finally had enough of that shitshow?” the bartender asks, slipping her phone into her pocket as she walks over.
“I just needed some air.”
The bartender introduces herself as Michelle. She lights a cigarette from the still-lit butt she’s been smoking and leans against the building beside her.
“Is it always like that in there?” Elinor asks.
“Always.”
Michelle has sleeves of tattoos on both arms. The rings of a tree on the left, the entire tree on the right, the branches twisting and gnarling around her bicep and forearm. It’s good, detailed work that required a lot of hours in somebody’s chair. Michelle is examining her arms appreciatively in return. Neither of them comments on the other’s tattoos.
“I haven’t seen you around before. How’d you find us?”
“A friend of my sister’s convinced me to come.” She hesitates to call Gary that, but it’s better than the alternatives. “He said the Depot’s the big place to be in Avery.”
Michelle snorts. “God. That might be the saddest thing I’ve heard all night.” She exhales a huge white plume of smoke over her head. The cigarette she just lit is nearly half-gone already. Only one of her inhalations seems to equal a regular person’s three. At this rate, she’ll be back behind the bar before Elinor even gets around to the question she came out here to ask.
“Did you, by any chance, work with Leanne Lowell when she managed this place?”
If the question seems odd or abrupt, Michelle doesn’t register it. “She’d been missing a couple of weeks when I moved here. Kind of a weird time to be arriving with all the volunteers out looking for her.”
“And the other woman working tonight?”
“Sam? She’s even newer than I am.”
They both take another drag of their cigarettes. Elinor takes two in quick succession, her desire to continue the conversation doing battle with the sick, swampy feeling in her stomach. She regrets coming to the Depot and having so little to show for it. She regrets how much she drank just to get to this point. Her temples are pulsing and everything is starting to look blurry to her, like she’s watching the passing traffic through badly smudged glasses.
“Why did you want to know if I worked with her?” Michelle asks.
“I’m a writer.” Now that she’s drunk, it feels less awkward saying so. “I just think it’s an interesting story, that’s all.”
“You in town for a while?”
Elinor mentally counts backward, startled by how much time has already passed. “Six more days.”
A tall, skinny white guy runs past them at full speed. They watch him turn the corner, followed by a half-dozen others.
“You want some advice on how to deal with all these idiots who keep coming on to you?”
It’s not the lead she was hoping for, but under the circumstances, Elinor is curious to hear what a woman who works in a bar has to say. “Sure.”
Michelle puts out her cigarette under the heel of her boot. “Get yourself a ring. Not a real one or anything. Just a shiny fake, like the kind you can buy at Goodwill for a dollar. Guys are way less likely to hit on you if they think you’re married.” She pauses. “Well, not all guys, obviously, but more than you might expect. At least half of them are probably married themselves. And if you don’t want to go to all that trouble, just pick someone across the room, someone who looks a little juiced up and crazy, like he’d be ready to throw down over nothing. Then when these jerks come up to you, you can point him out and say you’re waiting for your boyfriend. Word’ll get around. Trust me.”
This is sad advice, using imaginary husbands and boyfriends to scare off real men who won’t take no for an answer. But she understands that Michelle shared it in the spirit of being helpful. Elinor manages a nod of thanks as she glances at her hand.
“You’re not wearing a ring though.”
“Most of the regulars around here know I’m only into girls. Like I said, word gets around.” She turns at the sound of a glass or bottle breaking nearby. “Actually, my ex—the one I moved here with—she used to work with Shane Lester before he skipped town. Kind of a strange guy, she said. Really quiet.”
Elinor feels like she’s on a boat, bobbing gently in the water. It’s soothing, until she realizes that the motion is coming from her. She’s nodding her head over and over again, a sign that she’s far beyond her limits. Still, something tells her to keep it together, to pull herself back into the conversation before she misses the thread.
“Who’s Shane Lester?”
“Leanne Lowell’s husband.” Michelle glances at her, startling slightly. “Hey, are you alright? Your eyes—”
The skinny guy runs past them in the opposite direction. The shirt he was wearing only a minute ago is in tatters, the torn hem fluttering like sails.
“You mean Shane Fost—”
Before she can finish, the guy stumbles over something and falls face-first into the street. By the time he gets to his feet, the men who were giving chase catch up and form a loose circle around him. Another bottle breaks and the skinny one starts throwing punches, his long arms spinning like propellers. It’s useless. He’s no match for any of them. It takes only a few seconds before someone lands a hard right to his chin and he’s on the ground again. The men quickly close in, kicking him as he curls up into a ball. Passersby cut a wide berth around the huddle, ignoring the pleas for help coming from the center. Others stand back and watch from a safe distance. Elinor can’t help but watch too.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Michelle pushes her toward the door.
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
“About that fight?”
“There’s so many of them.”
“Men fight,” Michelle says, pushing her again.
25
Elinor rereads her note, which she wrote more illegibly than usual. ONE OF THE I-STATES. (INDIANA?) She inserts the words “Shane Foster moved to” at the start of the sentence in the event she can’t remember what Michelle told her in the morning. Then she tucks her notebook back into her bag, fumbling with the zipper as she pulls it closed. It’s not a particularly good lead, but it’s better than the nothing she thought she had.
When they first returned to the bar, Michelle gave her a glass of lukewarm water and told her to drink it slowly. She even watched Elinor take her first few sips before moving on to other customers. The glass is empty now; the water sloshing around in her stomach along with some fries and not much else. Elinor inhales and exhales, inhales and exhales, trying to steady her heart, which is beating too fast. Everything she drank earlier this evening is hitting her all at once. She’s grateful for the empty stool that Michelle deposited her on at the dark end of the bar. It’s a good place to not be bothered while the room continues to spin and blur and pulse. From her seat, she can see Maren and Gary, who are still making out at their table. It doesn’t seem like Maren even noticed that she was gone. Dani is making out with someone too. One of the roughnecks she was entertaining earlier. And Fat Mike and Aaron have moved to the dance floor, hovering along the periphery along with everyone else.
Michelle returns briefly to refill her empty glass. “Slow,” she warns, before heading back to the register. “I’m not kidding. Drink it slow.”
Just as Dani predicted, more women arrive at the Depot. As soon as they get their drinks, they take to the dance floor in small groups, shouting at each other over the music. The cover band is gone now, replaced by the sounds of autotuned dance hits blasting through the s
peakers overhead. Despite all the shouting, the women appear less interested in conversation than in simply being seen. There’s an element of performance in the way they toss their hair back and laugh dramatically at things that can’t possibly be that funny, all the while scanning the room to look at who’s looking at them.
Elinor reminds herself that it’s not a moral failing to enjoy being the center of attention. She used to behave like many of the women here tonight, casting about with the same flirty glances while wearing the same tight dresses and high, high heels. But when she imagines her younger self walking into a place like this, inviting everyone to take her in, she’s flooded with panic at the thought of who else that affected, who it could have hurt. Maybe it’s the whiskey clouding her brain, but being in Avery confuses her about how to be in the world. She thinks women should be able to do what they want, look how they want, be as sexual as they want. But is it really that simple? Doesn’t Maren’s behavior, and Dani’s too, have an effect on how men treat other women? Isn’t the relentlessness of the attention she receives here partly a by-product of what they’re doing now? Of what Elinor herself did all those years ago?
The longer she thinks, the more the questions multiply, generating answers and explanations and exceptions and excuses until her head feels ready to split in two. Then something in her stomach begins to churn, threatening to come up. Elinor pushes her stool away from the bar, knocking it over with a metallic clang that pierces through the music. She catches a concerned glance from Michelle as she walks toward the back of the club, where she assumes the bathroom is. She prays that she’s right, prays that it’s free. Halfway there, and she hears someone calling her name. She turns, hoping to find Maren or even Dani, but sees only a group of newly arrived young women standing around a high-top table, scoping out the crowd. One of the women is staring directly at Elinor. It takes a moment to realize that it’s Hannah—big, bosomy Hannah from the hotel—and she’s smiling at her.
“Hiiiiiii,” Hannah shouts, waving her plastic cup and spilling some of the slushy contents on the floor. She teeters toward her like an oversized baby, all wobbly ankles and outstretched hands.
