by Rose Hudson
Standing in the middle of the rows of tables, watching my friends laugh and carry on with their shenanigans, I can only imagine what I look like as my furrowed brow and wide-eyed expression gives way to the full on belly laugh that erupts from my lips. But that’s the beauty of tonight. I could care less how I appear to those around me. My stride increases and I approach the table with purpose. “Alright Mel. Where’s this special drink you promised me?”
STRETCHING ON THE DOCK in the early morning sunrise, preparing myself for another long day of work, aware that we’ve worked day after day for 10 days straight with no break. All work and no play leaves this guy quite agitated and tense. Although I’m pretty calm and collected most of the time, I’m sure that working with me under these circumstances would make even the most devout pothead, such as Dawson, walk on eggshells. Which I’m sure is the explanation for why he came rolling in with some type of breakfast for the last three days. Dawson didn’t possess the capacity to think outside of providing for himself. Probably the reason why he isn’t married and thank God, has no children. Dawson worries about Dawson, it’s that simple. So when he starts bringing in food for me, I probably need to recognize that something is off key with my mood.
The amount of time that Dawson and I spend together is actually pretty sickening. With no wives, children, or family to speak of, we try to include each other in just about everything we do. Before work each morning we usually get a workout in. We run a mile up the beach and back and try to get in thirty to sixty minutes on the weights, depending on what kind of workload we’re dealing that day. Staying active and fit keeps us busy and helps release tension that would otherwise keep us at each other’s fucking throats because of the amount of time we’re around each other. Of course, it also helps when we go to the bar in search of something to satisfy our needs. I’ve noticed that staying in shape has really cut down on the amount of time we spend sweet-talking our way into the panties of the good looking out-of-towner’s. Unfortunately for our dicks, that only happens about once a month, so we get plenty of workouts in between “visits”.
Walking back to the shop, I spot Dawson already stretching and getting ready for our run.
“You already stretched out,” he asks looking up from his position.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep so I came out early this morning,” I answer, pulling off my flip-flops and putting on my running shoes sitting against the wall outside the office door.
“What’s up with you? I don’t ever remember your lazy ass having a problem sleeping.”
“Just thinking a lot, that’s all. You wouldn’t know about that, since you don’t think,” I chuckle, standing from tying my shoes.
“Hey! I worry about shit more than you know man,” he scoffs defensively.
“I thought that’s why you believe in smoking grass and drinking yourself into oblivion every day?”
“Pat, you know I have anxiety and that’s why I smoke! I think if you would try it you would be a total believer in its healing qualities,” he says standing straight and leading us out of the shop.
“Dude, you’ve known me long enough to know that’s never gonna happen,” I say, following him down the walkway leading to the beach.
“Naw, what I know is that you can’t stand to not be in control of everything! Shit, that’s why my consumption has doubled in the ten years since I’ve known you. You need to figure out some sort of outlet for that compulsion you carry around man,” he replies, pausing so that we are side by side as we step onto the sand.
“I appreciate your concern, but what you need to be worried about is how bad I’m gonna smoke your ass on this run,” I say, patting him on the shoulder and taking off in a full sprint down the beach.
“This only proves you can’t beat me without cheating,” Dawson calls out behind me as I look forward into the sunrise with a cocky smile on my face.
After work, and listening to Dawson whine about needing to get laid all day long, the only place my path would lead tonight is here. I know that it’s just going to be the same people, same beer and the same shitty Karaoke, but tonight, I’m fine with that. This is where we go and what we do, and believe it or not, I’m capable of coming here without being on the hunt. A cold beer and some pool is just up my alley tonight, but I still brace myself as I walk from my truck to the front entrance of Good Time Charlie’s. God knows what kind of shape I’m going to find Dawson in when I get inside since he had an hour head start on me. I swear the dude barely takes time to change his clothes if the possibility for ass arises. Looking around, I almost don’t see his truck for the amount of vehicles in the parking lot, noting a significant increase from the number of people that usually occupy Charlie’s on a Friday night.
When I walk in, ‘Push It’ blares throughout the bar and I get a sense that the DJ has keyed into the fact that tonight’s crowd is here to party, not the regular crowd that wants to listen to all the local old folks get up and sing country classics. That’s a plus, I think to myself as I spot an empty stool at the bar and widen my stride to swoop it up before someone else sits down. Melba smiles at me in recognition and I know there’s no need to vocalize my order. That’s a positive to coming to the same place over and over; your needs are met with a knowing smile and you usually get better service because of your loyalty. I’m sure the tips I leave don’t hurt anything either.
While I’m waiting for Melba to get my beer I scan the crowd for Dawson. I notice that the ratio of females in the crowd is two-to-one tonight. That’s probably a normal statistic for most bars, but Charlie’s is usually taken over by locals, and the unfortunate side effect of that is that the odds are pretty even across the board when it’s not tourist season, making my target on an average night a bit more difficult to hit. But you’re not here for that tonight, remember? My conscience butts in as Melba places my beer on the coaster in front of me.
“You doin’ alright tonight, Patrick,” she asks with an abnormal look of exasperation across her face, given the woman is rock solid and usually holds her shit together pretty well. A woman of probably fifty or so, you usually know where you stand with Melba. Years of owning this bar, then having to run it by herself after her husband Charlie’s passing five years ago, has made her pretty cut and dry, and intolerant of bull shit.
“Decent. You,” I nod, picking up and taking a pull from the bottle of beer.
“Decent. Dealing with a birthday, a bachelorette party and hearing all the old folks bitch about it,” she responds, pouring out and rinsing glasses in the small sink located in front of me behind the bar. “I keep telling myself I’m gettin’ too old for this shit, yet I never do anything about it.” She winks.
“Well, maybe the money you bring in tonight will make up for it,” I give her a reassuring smile. “Did you see Dawson come in?”
“Yep. He was playing pool when I went out to deliver shots to a table about fifteen minutes ago. He’s done got his hands on a girl that barely looks legal, you might want to go put your eyes on him. Make sure he ain’t gettin himself into trouble,” she waves her hand in the direction of the pool tables in the corner opposite the DJ booth.
Great.
“Will you watch my beer,” I ask, standing from my stool.
“Sure will.”
Pushing my way through the crowd and making it over to the pool tables, I seeing no sign of Dawson. Sometimes, I wonder why I’m constantly punishing myself by coming out with him, but then I remember that we’re all the other has in the way of family, or friends for that matter. Given the poor relationship he has with his folks, I’m sure I’m not far off the mark when I say he’s like dealing with a kid, or more accurately, a pot smoking teenager, considering his size and choice of extracurricular activities. I turn the knob of the door leading out onto the outside deck and immediately hear his loud mouth when I step through. As I round the corner of the wraparound deck, I spot him with not one, but two women, or in agreement with what Melba said, what look like girls that would shock
me to be twenty-one.
“What the hell you doin, Dawson,” I bark in the direction of their little cluster in the corner, the smell of pot wafting up to meet me, answering my question. “You know what Melba said about you smoking that shit out here,” I continue as the girls scramble up off the floor of the deck and stand, looking down at Dawson in question.
“Yeah, I know what she said, but nobody was supposed to catch me,” he answers, giggling like a schoolgirl and causing the girls to join in. Looking at the full-length view of these females as I come to a stop in front of them only increases my worry that Dawson has once again not asked enough questions, so I decide to ask some for him.
“How old are you,” I direct my question at the younger looking of the two. She looks from me to Dawson before answering my question with a snarky attitude.
“Old enough, how old are you?” I run my hand though my hair, pushing the other deep in my pocket, frustrated and ready to get back to my beer.
“I think you girls need to hang out with boys closer to your age, and Dawson needs to get inside where he belongs,” I instruct, glaring at Dawson, who is looking from girl to girl like he’s seeing them for the first time.
“Maybe he’s right,” the other girl concedes, picking up her bag from the deck and grabbing her friends arm. “Come on.”
When they disappear down the stairs, I turn to look at Dawson, who feigns innocence as I pass him to head back into the bar.
“What’s wrong with me hangin’ out with a younger chick,” Dawson whines as we sit down back at the bar.
“Younger and legal drinking age are two different things,” I answer, shaking my head and waving the empty bottle of beer I just downed at Melba.
“Are you being for real right now? What’s gotten into you? Shit if anything, you taught me the ways, Sensei.” He sets his beer down on the bar and pulls his hands up into pointed form, bowing as if he’s the damn Karate Kid.
“I may sleep with younger women, but I don’t score chicks that young.” I nod my head to Melba as she puts a fresh beer down in front of me. “Look man, I just worry about you gettin’ your ass into trouble you can’t get out of. Jail is no place for someone like you. Not to mention your military record.”
“It really makes my heart sing when you get all motherly,” Dawson wraps his arm around me theatrically.
“I thought you were leaving.” He slaps my back as he stands from the stool and I wanna turn and slap him back.
“Yep, I’m going to head home. I’ve gotta’ drive up to Birmingham tomorrow,” he throws a twenty on the bar, “Make sure Melba gets that.” He waves to Melba down the bar and turns on his heel to leave.
I’m sure he’s getting just as tired of me harping on him as I am about having to do it. Dawson is like a brother to me, and yes, I give a shit about what happens to him and what kind of trouble he gets into. The fact that he is the best hand that money, or anything else for that matter, can buy, is a huge part of it too though. I’ve increased my workload tenfold since bringing him on board ten years ago. Looking at him you’d never know that he is organized, proficient, and very intelligent when it comes to boats. He does the biggest part of the major repairs and I handle all the little stuff and the business end of things. You take a chance hiring someone to work so closely with you on a daily basis, and to get as lucky as I have where Dawson is concerned, I want to hang on to him even if that means I have to mother hen his ass every step of the way.
When I turn my attention from the door back to the bar, I’m face-to-face with myself. Spanning the entire length of the wall behind the bar, is a mirror, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in this very spot and studied the reflection staring back at me. I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong. Appearance has nothing to do with it. I knew that the years of loneliness and the weight of my past would change me, and as much as I’d like to say none of it affected me, I’d be lying. I don’t care who you are, big, strong, young, old, leaving everything you’ve ever known behind is hard, but in my case, for the best. I’ve lived in Alabama almost as many years as I lived in Louisiana, so I guess you can say this is just as much my home now. When I look at myself in that mirror, and really study the man before me, I realize one thing, I’m barely living my life, barely doing anything other than existing. Feeling that all too familiar sting of anger start to rise in my throat, I choke up and reach for my beer, letting the crisp bite of the liquid slide down my throat and wishing that it didn’t feel like I was swallowing shards of glass at the thought of Louisiana, Jo, my past.
I scan the crowded bar behind me in the reflection of the mirror, watching everyone laugh and dance, envying their ability to live life as who they are and not having to pretend to be someone they’re not. Even sitting here, surrounded by a hundred people, I feel alone. Like having an out-of-body experience and watching life as a ghost. Looking at each of their faces, I see no connection between us other than breathing the same air. I hate being in this place in my head, swimming in my own pool of sorrow, because the reality of my thoughts cuts like a knife. No matter how cliché it sounds, I can’t help that every time I start to feel this way I revert back to being a young boy. One that looks for a super hero to come and save the day. To save me from this empty life.
How long can you pay for someone else’s mistakes? Someone else’s evil and destruction? Every year that passes, and every new year that comes, it seems like I always think, this will be the year that I don’t think about it, the year that it no longer holds me prisoner. I pinch the bridge of my nose, forcing my eyes closed, and say a silent prayer for peace- for love.
“READY TO TAB OUT Melba.”
“Just get me next time, tied up right now.,” she yells from down the bar.
“I’ll leave it here,” I point at the glass tip jar in front of me. She waves me off, and I give her the best smile I can muster. I’ve had enough time in the pool of sorrow tonight and my entire body aches with misery. I need my bed. I need to go to sleep and forget.
I stand from my stool, placing my billfold in my back pocket. Not taking my eyes off the mirror, the trajectory of my view changes and my attention is caught by a woman sitting by herself in the corner half-moon booth. I’m sure it was her gorgeous wavy red hair that caught my eye, partially pinned atop her head, falling in waves down to meet her shoulders. But that initial grab of my attention turns into something else, and I can’t look away. I’m frozen in place, eyes unmoving as I study her. Usually when I study a woman, it’s for obvious reasons, but this is different somehow. I was taught not to stare, and I’m sure if my momma were here right now she’d smack my shoulder. But I can’t help myself, control has lost this particular battle.
She sits in the middle of the booth, hair tousled, her heels off and sitting behind her head propped between the wall and the lip of the bench seat, letting me know she’s had quite a time tonight. But the way she twirls the dark flower she’s holding, sitting alone in her own world with so much going on around her, makes me wonder if tonight has turned out like she wanted. If I hadn’t seen an impish smile catch one side of her mouth a couple of times, I would’ve thought she was upset. I mean, we are in a bar. Women getting mad at the men they’re with happens probably every time I come here. The unfortunate side effect of combining alcohol and hormones. Call it a gut instinct, but I know without asking that it’s not what’s going on here.
I don’t know what it is about this woman that holds my attention, other than the fact that from where I’m standing, she is stunning. God knows I’m a man, and reading facial expressions isn’t my area of expertise, but when I look at her, for once I feel like the super hero, like I’m the one sent to help her. No, she’s not in danger per say, but the look on her face and the way it makes my chest tighten, feels like a call for help. I’ve had one beer, so it’s not the alcohol talking. For some reason though, I feel like going to her, but I can’t make my legs move. Before I can do anything, like wind and a prayer blew from her
to me, she looks up and our eyes meet in the mirror. They slam into mine like a train, like a speeding bullet released from the chamber of the most powerful weapon known to man. Eyes so bluish green and piercingly bright I stop breathing. I expect her to immediately dip her head and look away, but like her eyes are magnetized to mine, she surprises me by holding my gaze. The longer I stand here staring, the thicker the air around me becomes, making me place my palm on the round surface of the stool in front of me, trying to remember how to breathe, but I can’t. It’s too fucking much, too real.
I drop my eyes, breaking our stare, and bolt for the bathroom. Pushing through people like there’s a fire somewhere, I force through the door with purpose, quickly pushing each of the two stall doors open to make sure nobody else is in here. I cross the room back to the door and turn the deadbolt. As soon as the click of the lock echoes off the walls, I heave a breath that expands my lungs so wide, my ribs feel like they’ll rip through the denim of my shirt. I take two steps, reaching for the sink and grasping the porcelain sides, trying to regain control of my breathing.
“What the fuck was that?” My words echo and I look up into the mirror. Needing something to snap me back, something to help give me back the control I require, I turn the cold-water nob on the old sink. I gather handfuls, leaning over to splash the water on my face, but relief doesn’t come, so I continue. Handful after handful, growing frustrated at the lack of control I have over myself. I pull piece after piece of paper towel off the roll, looking in the mirror as I dry the water from my face and hands. Like a true madman, a deep uncontrollable laugh starts to build as I stand there staring at myself, shaking my head at the idiot looking back at me. I wipe my hands and unlock the door to the bathroom, pushing through a line of pissed off old men as I walk with giant strides back to the main room of the bar. As I make my way through the throngs of people and maneuver around the tables and chairs, getting closer to the corner booth, I see three other people sitting there, but not her. I stand rooted for a moment, turning in circles to look for her. Where has she gone? If she isn’t in here, she had to have gone outside.
