Like Magnets, We Attract

by Jaye Valentine

  For a week, Bleeker was without its bar, the heart of local social life. Then I reopened. I had been so busy with Dad's illness that I hadn't thought about what else to do. My place in the Big Easy had been torn down and hauled away. My piddly insurance check barely covered the cost of the demolition.

  The grumbling was loud and immediate when I set down a new bar rule: No Smoking in The Hideaway. Hell, I knew my dad had never smoked, yet Big Sam died of lung cancer anyway. I was determined that second-hand smoke wasn't going to get me. Lots of other things, maybe, but not smoke.

  I lost a lot of business and good will at first, but the informal boycott was broken when the sheriff brought in his deputies for a Super Bowl party. Almost all the other regulars drifted back within a couple weeks. I was grateful and thanked the handsome sheriff. All I got in return was a cranky, “No alternative, boy. You got the only goddamn game in town, but don't shit in your crib a second time. Folks here got memories goin’ back long before your diaper needed changin'."

  I was damn sure not going to fall to the level of Bleeker. I was going to lift it up. God help me, it was going to be better. And, damn it, they would thank me. They would.

  If I put in the effort, maybe that ‘friendliest’ moniker might yet come true. Still, Bleeker never had been a place where everyone loved one another. It won its title in the 1950s when old Mayor Wilkins got a brainstorm and convinced everyone in town—kids included—to grin like idiots while shaking hands with each other. There was an aerial shot of the whole town, heads turned up with smiles glinting in the sun, joined in a serpentine handshake. It looked like a demonic daisy chain, but it won over the editor of the magazine sponsoring the search for brotherly love.

  The lonelier I got, the more often I slipped into the living quarters tacked onto the bar and studied myself in a floor-length mirror. Sandy hair, full and trimmed. A frame more than six-three and filled out with muscles defined no longer by workouts at the gym but by hefting heavy boxes of booze. I had a tight ass and a satisfying dangle at my crotch. At least that's what I was told back when I'd had a life. My eyes that once looked for romance now scanned my bar for trouble.

  How long can this go on? I wondered. I left here so I wouldn't be alone. Now, I'm more apart from my community—my so-called hometown—than ever before. Should I chuck it in?

  Things stumbled along. I was wary. Customers were circumspect, but they came. They didn't like me all that much. Glasses were still raised to Big Sam, but never to me. I didn't give a shit. I made enough to survive. Thank God costs were low in this area. Things were okay as long as nothing unusual happened.

  One day, a cloudy, humid and sticky May afternoon, a big black sedan screeched into the parking lot an hour before The Hideaway was to open. What now? I went to unlatch the door.

  A burly man with jet-black hair came in without knocking. He slipped off his aviator sunglasses and looked around carefully without going beyond the entrance. He held a clipboard and a small leather case along his hip.

  "Sam around?” His eyes seemed to take in everything.

  "Not today,” I said, not wanting to give away too much. I eyed the intruder carefully. He was scary big, two or three inches taller than I, and I was easily the biggest guy in Bleeker. But the stranger didn't seem so threatening because he inhabited his space carefully, like he didn't want to intrude on anyone else. He wore faded jeans and a shirt pulled so tight across his massive chest I thought it might burst into a billion pieces. He sported a neat, dark mustache that made him look a little nasty. Finally, the eyes, brown and deep, completed their search of my bar and fixed on me. I was now the object of his examination.

  How did he know Dad? I wondered. Why did he want him?

  "Well, we may need Sam,” he said. “Time for the inspection."

  I looked at him blankly. What the hell was he talking about? Bleeker's government wasn't organized enough to perform an inspection. Then I realized this guy must be an outsider, or he'd know about what happened to Big Sam. I stood with my arms crossed. Not intending to, I was blocking his access to the bar.

  Finally, the guy got it and extended a hand. “Jake Matthews,” he said. “Regional inspector for the ABC.” His dim smile notched up several watts.

  "Yeah,” I said. “So?"

  "The ABC. The Alcohol and Beverage Commission. You have heard of us?"

  My head spun. Then it clicked. “Oh, man, yes! Sorry. It's just, I thought, maybe you scheduled appointments. Let me know when you were coming."

  "Pretty stupid surprise inspection if we did that,” Jake said with a sneer. “You'd cover up anything you didn't want us to see."

  "And what wouldn't I want you to see?"

  "Man, I didn't fall off a turnip truck this morning. Reused bottles. Cheap liquor in an expensive bottle. Watered-down stock. The kinds of conditions that might be unsafe—or illegal. Substances that shouldn't be in here at all. Or folks that shouldn't be in here, like minors.” He stopped as if waiting for a response. “You got to be clean to continue.” There was another pause. “Or, don't you know that?"

  For a while, much too long a time to be friendly, we stood staring at one another.

  "Look,” Jake said at last. “This isn't meant to be confrontational. But if that's what you want, well, I'm ready for anything."

  Anything? I thought about that as I looked at this big stud threatening my business. It was unlikely he was ready for anything. I was sure my place was on the level, but then a glimmer of doubt crept in. I still had a lot of stock which rarely sold: the more expensive bottles of liquor, cognacs, and other specialty drinks which had already been at the bar or in the liquor cabinets when I came home to help out. Were they all kosher? I wasn't entirely sure.

  My intruder—for that's how I thought of Jake Matthews—started by walking the perimeter of The Hideaway, poking into corners, checking under tables and searching like crazy for something that might be hidden or out of kilter. Then he moved to the crescent-shaped bar itself, moving stools, examining the space under the customer side of the counter both by touch and by sight.

  What did he hope to find? It's not like there was marijuana growing in some corner or something illegal taped under the counter. I thought the inspection was all about the beverages, not the spit-and-shine of the joint.

  "Looks okay,” Jake said. “But you do have a couple loose floorboards over by your big screen."

  "I'll get right on it,” I said. “Should I hammer them down now or stick with you as you check the stock?"

  "Better stay close,” Jake said with another low-watt smile. “I may need you for something."

  "At your service,” I said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the guy.

  Jake didn't respond. He just swiveled behind the bar and started peering at all the open bottles. He lifted them one-by-one, held them up to the track lighting, and removed their pour spouts to sniff the contents. He proceeded through every bottle without reacting. Every ten bottles or so he made a hasty notation on his clipboard.

  The process drove me crazy. I wanted to offer help or make objections—something—but knew I should just shut up. I felt in jeopardy, like I was being violated in some way. I just didn't understand how.

  When Jake stretched to check out the overhead cabinets, I caught a whiff of his musk and almost tumbled into him. It was a strong, clean but manly scent that brought back old memories long repressed. I felt woozy.

  "Anything wrong?” Jake asked. “Maybe I'm hitting a little too close to home."

  "This is home,” I said, struggling to get the words out. “I live in the back."

  "Thought this was Sam's place,” Jake said.

  "It was; he passed away. I'm his son, Zach Bennett."

  For the first time, genuine emotion showed on Jake's face. “Man, I'm really sorry. Sam was a hell of a man. I haven't been by in a while ‘cause they rotate us through different districts in the state."

  "Happened almost three years ago,” I said.

  "So why you
still here in this shithole town?” Jake smirked. “Not that it's really my business."

  "Not enough reason to leave,” I said, shrugging. “And I thought I could make friends again."

  Finished with the overhead cabinets, Jake scrambled down to inspect the bottom storage. “And?"

  I shrugged again. “Guys I knew as a kid had all left."

  "Just like you did, huh?"

  "Yeah, just like I did."

  We fell silent again as Jake poked into the lower shelves. He splayed out in the small space to reach all the way back. He fished out a small flashlight, which he beamed into the far corners.

  I bit my lip as I watched his long legs wiggle. He had huge feet, and his big shoes scraped and pushed him along like flippers on a swimmer. Boy, could those legs work.

  Then I noticed how tight Jake's jeans were. Tight enough, I realized, to reveal he wasn't wearing any underwear. Maybe a thong? But that thought was a little too weird. Not on this guy. Better no underwear at all. I jerked myself back to my senses. My gaze fixed on the muscled hardness and wonderful curve of Jake's very manly butt.

  I broke out in a heavy sweat. When he clambered back up I demanded, “What the hell are you looking for?"

  He smiled a perfect shit-eating grin. “Whatever I can find.” He licked his lips. “Whatever I can find.” Then he turned to jot more notes on his clipboard.

  And I resumed my hungry scan of his ass. I found him looking sideways into the bar mirror, watching me drool over his body. Caught, I felt condemned to one of the lower rings of hell.

  After retrieving his leather case, Jake opened it and huddle back over the bar shelves. He consulted his notes as he carefully dribbled various kinds of booze into shiny glass vials from the case. He filled the last two vials with samples from the draft beer taps. I felt confident that most everything was copasetic, but at least two of the samples were for things I'd never poured. One was some damn 25-year-old single malt Scotch. The other was a gold-hued liquor in a corkscrew-shaped bottle I'd never even noticed before. Was there some horrible possibility that bottle had been planted by someone, Jake or an accomplice, who'd been here on some recent visit?

  I could barely look at him without anger rising full and fast. Jake slipped behind me. Something hard brushed against my butt, lingered the slightest instant and was gone. I knew it wasn't Jake's flashlight. Holding my breath, I looked over to the end of the bar where Jake stood, a wicked smile dancing on his face. Fucking asshole, I thought.

  Jake carefully strapped the vials back into place and zipped the leather case. He shook my hand, nodded, and headed for the door without a word.

  "Hey, man, when do I hear back from you?"

  "Soon, Zach,” he said as another crooked smile traced his lips. “Real soon."

  After he scooted out the door, I went to the window and watched. Jake trotted back to his car like an excited colt. What did he find? Was I going down? I could see a broad, evil grin on his face as he slipped behind the wheel of the state car.

  "Bastard,” I muttered, then went to clean up the bar and get The Hideaway ready for guests. I never hated this damn town more. Bleeker seemed bleaker than ever.

  * * * *

  My dreams made me restless and uncertain over the next week. In them, Jake was trying to smother me. His methods were varied and many. He poured cognac into a funnel and it seared down my throat. He held my head hard enough to hurt and it excited me, or he kneeled over me and gradually edged forward until his body covered my face and stopped my breathing. I woke feverish and gasping. I was scared he would show up soon.

  A second week went by and then a third without Jake's return. My anxiety turned to an odd disappointment. I almost called the number on the business card he'd left, but knew I should just wait out any bad news.

  I must have been back in the residence when he pulled up because I didn't hear him park. I was unlocking the front door when it suddenly pushed in. I stumbled back. As Jake walked through the door, sun blazed behind him. He was an ominous shadow entering to fill my space and seize my life.

  The test kit was under his massive right arm again, and there was that wicked smirk. Again. “Got your results,” he said, that low, soft voice hinting at reassurance.

  He handed me a report. Before I could read it, he asked if I had a cigarette. There was a pack on the bar I had confiscated the night before. I offered it to him, and he nervously pulled one out. I struck a match and he lit the cigarette. I wasn't about to enforce my no-smoking rule.

  He inhaled. “Thanks,” he said. I watched him draw in, seeming to savor the acrid flavor. Smoke curled out in a wide cone as he exhaled. Jake shook his head, smiled, and spoke. “Man, I'd forgotten how seductive that is. Hell, a couple puffs and I feel high."

  He drew in another drag then let it escape. “Damn,” he laughed. “I can't believe this shit is still legal."

  "You only do things that are legal?” My eyes fixed on his.

  "Try to,” he said simply. “'Course, that covers a lot of territory."

  "A whole lot,” I said. I opened the report. It looked about fifty pages long. What had there been to say? I couldn't believe he found that much in my little dive.

  "Want the bottom line?” he asked. My head bobbed a yes. “First, the vodka was okay, but the rum seemed contaminated by molasses and water.” My stomach shriveled. “That single-malt wasn't the premium Scotch it was supposed to be, but some low-quality stuff with burnt caramel added. The Patron tasted like hell, but we couldn't identify why. The beer—hell, beer is cheap—it smelled like horse piss but was legit. As for the premises..."

  He went on, but I couldn't hear him for the rumbling in my head. I was devastated. How could this be happening? I saw that stupid grin spreading. Damn, it was getting wider and wider. I still couldn't listen to what he was saying.

  Finally, he just stopped and looked at me. He laughed, and I just hated him. “Hey, man,” Jake shook my shoulder. “Look at your bar calendar!” I searched for today's date.

  Wednesday, April 1. Shit.

  "Jesus, Zach, I'm sorry as hell. Didn't mean to scare your ass off, but you've been punk'd!"

  As much as I wanted to go at him, I held back, started breathing again, and let out a guilty laugh. “Fucking bastard. This isn't playtime. This is my fuckin’ living!"

  "Probably deserve that.” He came closer. “Things look good in here. You obviously work hard as hell. Listen, I got a couple other beer joints to bother in the county. Take a glance at the report, and I'll swing back by to tell you what else I found. Okay?"

  I agreed. Jake winked and was gone again. I pulled a barstool to a window and opened up the document. There was nothing bad in the report. Comments ranged from adequate to exemplary. I was pretty emotional by the time I finished. Even Jake's rotten April Fool's joke seemed funnier. I started feeling better, even whistling from time to time in a way I hadn't done in years. But the afternoon still dragged by.

  * * * *

  As the sun went down, the parking lot filled up. I heard cars crunching gravel as they pulled in to park. Jake entered and glanced around for me, but I was watching from the residence through a two-way mirror disguised as beer advertising. I had a sound system that let me listen in on conversations at the bar if I needed to. Tonight I did.

  I watched as Jake approached the middle-aged blonde who tended bar for me. She spoke before he could. “You the state man?"

  Jake nodded.

  "I'm Lucy."

  "Nice to meet you, Lucy,” Jake said extending his hand.

  She ignored the gesture. “You got the boy real worried."

  "I'm gonna make him feel real good."

  "Do that. He's right through that door.” Lucy nodded, indicating the door by the bar, which connected to my living quarters. “Don't bother knockin'. His papa put so much soundproofing ‘tween the house and the bar we could shoot a cannon and he'd never know."

  She reached under the bar and I knew she had pressed the entry button. “You
're buzzed in. Make it right with him."

  "We'll be cool,” he said before he disappeared through the opening.

  "We'll see ‘bout that,” Lucy muttered as she drew a stout for one of the local boys.

  The lights were low. I'd set a fancy table complete with tall candles. He didn't seem to see me at first; I was in a chair in a corner, thumbing through the report again.

  I got up and walked toward him, leaving the report behind, my hands folded behind my back to keep them from fidgeting. He turned toward me.

  "Ready for the follow-up?” I asked. He looked puzzled. “Your additional findings?"

  "Oh, my findings!” He sounded more than a little nervous. “I found we're a lot alike. Work too hard, play too little, and avoid our lives—our real ones. We serve others and forget to serve ourselves.” He paused. “Want more?"

  "Depends? What you got?"

  "Zach, I'll give you whatever you want.” He stopped, perhaps uncertain. “Ain't it time?"

  "Hey, I'm the one on the hook here,” I said. “My future's in your hands."

  "Man, I hope so,” he said with more assurance than he'd shown. Then, quickly, quietly but surely, he pulled my arms from around my back and draped them around his. “Don't like one-way streets much.” His head came forward, and he pressed his lips to mine. I resisted only a moment then pressed back. His tongue came out as if looking for mine. I took his in, tasting a hint of the tobacco he'd smoked in the afternoon, but something more, deeper and sweeter. Our kiss went on a long time, especially for having been wary adversaries. We broke, looked into each other's eyes, and kissed again with ramped-up passion.

  I broke the kiss to take a breath. I feared he might reconsider what was happening. “You ever kissed a man before?” I asked.

  "Kissed my daddy goodbye in his coffin. That count?"

  "Don't think so,” I said.