Seeing Stars

by A. Sanchez

  Seeing Stars

  by A. Sanchez

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by A. Sanchez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Dedication

  To Mom, who always loved to tell me, “please quit working at that damned bar”.

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes, life goes in such a way that a person finds they have unwittingly gotten themselves into a financial hole. Not the sort of hole I like to be in. I had been trying to recreate the life of Lord Byron in the 21st century, floating all over England and Wales, staying with friends, wandering around Islington at four in the morning after getting a contact high in a Reggae bar and letting a Spaniard get me drunk. And let him fuck me, of course, but I don't remember any of the details. It was just one of those nights.

  Once the UK had tired me, I made my way through Germany, cutting swaths through Frankfurt, Berlin and Munich. There is not much to tell here because German beer is very good. I remember sleeping in a train station one night and letting a guy suck me off in a laundromat, but that's about all.

  Next, I caused massive damage in Italy, where my morals disintegrated completely and I think I lost them somewhere around Treviso. I fucked a gondolier in his boat. That was not one of my finest moments, but I think it was his. I metaphorically broke the innocent wings off a man named Angel in Milan who had never known such debauchery was possible until he met me.

  At last, the money ran out and I found myself having to go back to the US and adult. And I was planning to. It was just that I'd been away so long...

  “I just got back to the US last night,” I told the officer, but she was having none of my amazing excuses. “I didn't know my plates had expired, but I'll get them done today.” Damn it, couldn't she turn off those flashing blue lights? I felt like a criminal, instead of merely irresponsible. I tried to flirt but I don't think she believed I was sincere, and I wasn't. Then, she informed me my inspection sticker was expired, which I'd totally failed to note, and when she saw my license, said that had expired, too. I'd been speeding, which was not good, and my insurance had lapsed. In all, I ended up with a smile and seven tickets. I'd only been going to Wawa for a cheese pretzel. It didn't seem worth it, now.

  I got the damned pretzel since I was already out, and some beer to comfort me when I got back home. I was really pleased with my forethought when I was stopped again, a mile from my house, blue lights flashing once more. “I've already got seven tickets here, officer,” I told him, trying to flirt my way out of it again while also control my temper. I think I did better with him, because I only ended up with two more infractions, bringing my total to nine. It was going to cost hundreds upon hundreds of dollars to fix this mess.

  I bit into my pretzel with impotent anger when I got back home. I hadn't even had a chance to get myself settled and on a normal sleep schedule before it had been made abundantly clear to me that I didn't take things—anything—as seriously as I ought. I needed money, the root of all evil and the only thing that stood between me and starvation, which meant I needed it greatly. I had to get the car up to date right away, or I couldn't even get to work, but I couldn't get money to pay the tickets without being able to drive to work. Catch twenty-twos were sticky business and I was covered in them.

  Work I no longer had was the second twenty-two. I had impetuously quit my job as a manager at an apartment complex, tired of not being able to legally kick out people who tore the apartments up or didn't pay. The owners had not taken my pleas to take the bed bug infestation seriously. When an angry renter came in brandishing a bag of live bed bugs she'd picked out her sofa and threatened to let them loose in my office, I'd had enough. I'd taken my last paycheck and fluttered off to frankly go buck wild and act like a complete slut—something I would never do in my small hometown.

  I called a friend. Cynthia owed me. I'd had to crack my fist into her Navy husband when I found out he'd beaten her, helped her find a safe place to live and help with her divorce. Then, addicted to stupid as she was, she went out and found another guy who was abusive, got pregnant by him to boot, and so we went through the whole thing again, with me beating up the useless boyfriend and moving her next door so I could keep an eye on her. Now, I needed Cynthia, and she was damned well going to help me find a job at a moment's notice. “Cynthia, help me. I've fucked up again,” I said with a sad sigh.

  “Were those blue lights for you?” she asked with a giggle. “Are you in jail?”

  “Lights yes, jail no but I have nine tickets and I need a job.” I cringed at my desperation.

  She came right over. “Staying away from the guys for a while, Cyn?” I asked, offering her a mug of coffee half full of sticky-sweet hazelnut creamer like she liked. We sat down on the sofa in my little country cottage, left to me by my dad, God bless him. He hadn't died too long ago, and I couldn't honestly swear that none of my careless behavior recently had nothing to do with it. He was all I had.

  “I did meet someone, but I think I'm going to take it slow. You're one to talk. You gonna lay off the men, too? I dare you.” She sipped her coffee audibly, which made me shiver and draw closer to my own mug.

  I was going to mention she ought to have her roots done, but I let it go. Wasn't my place and I didn't really know about all that cosmetic crap, anyway. “You know I like to keep a clean reputation here, so I don't know what you mean,” I said with all innocence, hand over my heart.

  “Marshall! I had to send you money in Pisa to pay a hooker!” she collapsed in a fit of giggles, which I deserved. I hadn't known he was a prostitute until afterward, but still... “I'm wary of sending you to Orlando. God knows what you might do, and he's a friend of a friend. Promise if I set up an interview that you'll keep it in your pants?”

  That was easy enough. I really was a saint when I was on my own turf. I wouldn't want the people I'd grown up with to lose all respect for me. “Promise.”

  “And you'll come to Stephanie's christening? You agreed, and I won't let you back out of it, because contrary to the evidence, you really are the best man I know.” She looked worried, like I'd really tell her at the last minute I wouldn't be her daughter Stephanie's godfather! It made me feel awful to inspire so little trust. “God, Cyn! I'm not going to back out! I bought her a silver rattle in Rome and everything.” Now I was grumpy. I don't know how a person could reveal that by how they sipped their coffee, but I tried anyway. “When can I meet this Orlando?”

  “Since you can't even drive over there, I'll take you now. If he hires you, I'll lend you the money for the car.” She couldn't be fairer than that. I agreed and went for my jacket, somewhat mollified.

  I was not impressed. It looked like a bygone honky-tonk. I stared at the building with weeds growing between the brick and concrete and the area looked like I'd get jacked the first night. “What the hell is this, Cynthia?” I asked, unwilling to get out the car. The bar sat beside a motel that charged by the hour and I thought I saw someone doing a drug deal in the parking lot. Don't even get me started on the state of the pool.

  “It's a bar! Come on, don't be a snob. It's just opened and Orlando is doing his best to fix it up. Give it a month, and it'll look
like a different place, I swear.” She was begging me, and I didn't want to make her look bad. I took another look at that fleabag motel though, and I just knew this was a bad idea. I'd gone from white-collar management to...this? Shit, I regretted Europe now.

  I'd thought I could flirt my way into this job relatively easily, but Orlando was an old man. Nope, no way. He was a moderately dark little Dominican with a slight accent and he spat when he spoke. I tried not to make a face and handed over my resume. We sat at a grimy table and I had to scream over the construction noise in the background while we talked. Cynthia had not lied. They were certainly dedicated to fixing the place up, and it made me feel better, but only slightly. I never thought I'd be begging for a job at a low-down bar. Cynthia sat at the table too, talking me up when the hammering quieted. “He even speaks a little Spanish,” she was telling him. I cut my eyes at her. She knew what my Spanish vocabulary consisted of, and it was all dirty.

  “I don't need a bartender, but I do need waiters. The tips can be very good on the weekends, two hundred a night easy.” I thought Orlando might be lying about that, but even a hundred a night would hold me over. I didn't have many bills and the cottage was paid for. I just nodded and waited for him to finish reading my resume. “You have a degree and very good work experience. Why would you want to work here?” he asked me. Because I fucked up? I went out of my mind crazy because there's no one to fuck in a relatively small town like this, so I took all my money and ran off to Europe so I could indulge all my whims and took it a little too far? I said something banal in reply and he seemed satisfied.

  By the end of it, I was hired and good as her word, Cynthia lent me the money to get the car inspected and re-tagged, plus a down payment for the insurance. Cynthia was stupid as hell when it came to men, but she was a damned good gold broker and always had her finances in order. I owed her so much. Not many people in this town would have had that kind of money on hand to lend. When we got back to her house, I hugged her as hard as I could and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, honey,” I told her, then walked over to my house next door. She was the only one who really knew me; knew I'd been completely celibate for two years prior to my European escapade and had never cheated on any boyfriend in my life, but there had only been a couple of them, because no one wanted to live in this goddamned town with no nightlife, no prospects. If it weren't for my happy memories of the cottage, I'd have sold it and moved to a big city with a vibrant gay scene, but that would be like betraying Dad, and I couldn't do that, not after how he'd suffered. I'd never sell it.

  So here I was, about to start working as a waiter in a honkey-tonk run by a Dominican. Only in the US, I thought. I started tomorrow, dress code black shirt, pants and shoes. I would look like a Goth with my black hair and white skin, that damned stupid tattoo on the back of my neck a string of black stars to cover up my first love's name. Don't ask. I was eighteen and stupid. I could cover it up just fine when wearing a dress shirt and tie, but a tee-shirt wouldn't come up far enough. There was no intent other than covering up the name, but the bold, solid black stars of varying sizes on my white skin gave off a punk vibe which I didn't want. I wish his name had been something like Ben or Dan, but no, it had to be Nicholas.

  I took that day and the next to get my car in order and clean up the cottage. It wasn't horrible but the windows were dirty and there was dust all over the place from being left empty for two months. While I mopped, I tried to tell myself I could do this. I had to work to pay back Cynthia, but I wasn't looking forward to it. Those hole-in-the-wall places were notorious for fights and drunks and drugs, and I didn't know how long I could keep a smile plastered on my face while dealing with such people. I felt like I was going just as low as I could; saw it happening, knew it was happening, but unable to turn things around. I hated myself, seeing what I had become.

  I pulled up that night and looked around for the most well-lit area I could. The car would be sitting on blocks by the time my shift ended. I was sure of it. Crackheads were already starting to swarm. I jumped out and locked the doors, then ran to the front of the building.

  I located Orlando behind the bar setting up the register. The bastard set me to sweeping right away. A girl was wiping down the tables, and another was cleaning the mirrors on the dance floor. Everyone was doing something. When I finished, Orlando took me back to the kitchen and explained where I needed to stick my orders up and where everything was. I didn't believe anyone would be stupid enough to eat here, but he assured me they did. I spotted an angry-looking man in the corner fighting with a pipe, his muscles rippling as he pulled the wrench back with both hands, his face red and sweaty from his efforts. Orlando introduced me to the handyman, which I thought was unnecessary, and the man only grunted and asked if I was the new waiter. “Yea. I'm Marshall,” I said, offering my hand. He just looked at it and turned back to his work. “Don't fuck up, Marshall,” he snapped. My desire to drop-kick him was intense. What a dick.

  The place got slam packed. There was no shortage of low-down people in this town and I was run off my feet bringing pitcher after pitcher of stinky cheap beer and plates of everything fried—onion rings, fries, chicken wings, quesadillas, jalapeño poppers, et cetera. There was a pool table in the back by the bathrooms and the waitresses were very iffy with their fake eyelashes and glitter and red lipstick that got on their teeth. The customers were almost all men, and Orlando ignored the law when it came to cutting them off, preferring to simply let them slide off their chairs and let their friends carry them out. I wondered how long it would take before alcohol control raided the place.

  I checked my apron. I was making good money, all right, with the drunks getting more benevolent as the night went on. I must have had a hundred after two hours. Everything was going just fine until the end of the night. I chatted a little with the girls for the hell of it. Most of them lived right around here, which was terrifying. They all had fatherless babies or drunk boyfriends. That kind of life was so alien to me, I hardly knew what to say, so I just kept cleaning and nodding, pretending I had no idea they were flirting with me.

  Suddenly, I was summoned to the kitchen. I put down my nasty cleaning rag and went right away. The plumber was sitting on a stack of milk crates and he had a scowl. I said hello and he ignored me. “Are these your tickets?” he demanded. I took them and looked them over. They were. I said so, and handed them back. “You're short almost a hundred dollars,” he yelled. I stood there with my arms crossed and the worst frown I could muster. “No fucking way. Look again.” I didn't know how he had come to this conclusion or even how he was involved in this. I didn't know what he was basing this loss on or how he could think it was me and not someone else. I didn't like feeling helpless to defend myself.

  He cut his eyes up at me with sheer hate, and looked through my tickets again. “Everyone else's ticket numbers match up. You're new, and the first night, the register is short? If you have a drug habit, tell me now.” When I heard this, I wanted to knock him out. He was judging me by those fucking black stars on my back! “I'm not a drug addict!” He was just too arrogant and judgmental for words!

  “Pay Orlando the missing money or get the fuck out of here, and I swear, if you come up short again, I'll kick your ass.”

  I just stared at him. Was he some kind of thug Orlando had hired to do his dirty work? Orlando looked like he was pushing seventy, so it made sense he'd hire someone like this guy, but it was too much. I wasn't going to pay out half my tips! “I don't know who you are, but I'll meet you out back, no fucking problem. I quit.” I walked out so much more calmly than I felt. My fists were shaking and I wanted to yell and break things. It was three in the morning and I was exhausted and still jet-lagged. I didn't need this shit.

  Chapter 2

  Cynthia was banging on my door first thing the next morning. “Christ Almighty, I can't deal with this,” I wailed as I crawled out of bed and padded barefoot to the front door, shirtless. I opened up and there she stood,
all five feet of her looking like a rabid squirrel. She pushed past me and went to the open kitchen where she began to make coffee. “What did you do last night, Marshall?” she asked with fake pleasantness.

  “I went to work. I did my job. Then I got accused of being a drug addict and a thief, and a fucking plumber threatened to kick my ass. Why do you ask?” I plopped down at the kitchen table and looked out the window at the sunny day, the bright green trees swaying in the breeze, and I wanted to chop them all down.

  “Orlando called me. He checked your tickets again and he believes you. He said he stayed up all night getting to the bottom of it. He sends his apologies and wants you to come back, but he did say your temper is out of control.” She shook her head as she pressed the button to start the machine.

  “It doesn't matter. I quit last night,” I said, going to my jacket hanging by the door to get my wallet out. I handed her two hundred dollars and kept twenty for myself.

  “I don't want this right now. You have to eat and put gas in the car. Keep it and go back to work tonight. Orlando's an old friend of a friend. Don't you dare be ungrateful and make me look bad.”

  Fuck it, she was right. I was indebted to her and I had to put all my pride to the side and get on with it, at least long enough to pay her back and pay my fines. I rubbed my hands over my face and yawned. “I hate that plumber,” I muttered.

  “What plumber? Orlando didn't mention anything about that.” She waited by the counter and just stared at me. “Marshall?”

  I growled because I didn't want to scream. “It's one of his thugs or something. Never mind.” I never wanted to see that violent-looking lumberjack plumber again, but I would have to, because he worked for Orlando. As long as he stayed out of my way, I would do the same. I had no choice. “I'll go back, but I'm not happy.” After coffee, Cynthia left in better spirits, but mine were crushed. I would lose every speck of my self-respect going back in there, and it mattered to me. That was all I had!