by Cooper, Doug
Inside the bar, familiar faces surround me, two of which are fortunately foreign to each other despite their indirect connection. Dawn and Meadow have moved from opposite sides of the bar to directly in front of me, where they face one another with their friends at their sides. Robin and Stein stand back-to-back between them.
The meeting materializes like a car crash. Stein inadvertently bumps into Robin, then they both turn and laugh at the coincidence, followed by introductions. It’s just a matter of time before they move past the pleasantries and talk about what they did last night.
A beam of light slaps me in the face as Cinch motions me to the front. I gladly flee to the porch.
Cinch says, “As much as I enjoyed watching you squirm, I need you to help throw somebody out. He keeps bumping into people and spilling his beer on them. Just watch my back.” Cinch approaches the man, who is in his fifties, short and stocky, with a sun visor on backward and thick, curly salt-and-pepper hair sticking up through the top. He is wearing white shorts covered with so many stains they look like camouflage, women’s flip-flops, and a sleeveless T-shirt that, judging from the fresh rips around the shoulders and the distinct tan lines around his biceps, he must’ve created himself not too long ago. Cinch says, “Sir, I think it’s time to move your party somewhere else.”
“What? I’m not doing anything wrong.” His movements are slow but hostile, his speech lumpy.
“Sir, we’ve had several complaints,” Cinch says. “You need to take a break.”
“I’m going to finish my beer.” He sways side to side with some back and forth. “You had no trouble selling them to me all day.”
Cinch’s tone strengthens. “Sir, I’m giving you a choice. Either walk out, or two of my friends with badges will take you out. No difference to me. It just seems easier if you leave and go somewhere else so you don’t ruin your evening.”
His body straightens. “Fuck you. I ain’t leaving.”
Cinch grabs the beer from the man’s hand. “You’re done. Either walk out, or the cops will drag you out.”
As Cinch turns to throw the cup in the trash, the guy takes a swing. Cinch never sees the punch, but the guy never sees me. I rush him off the porch and onto the sidewalk. The police charge across the street. Cinch helps me get the guy to his feet.
“What’s his story?” one of the officers asks.
“Too much to drink and took a swing at me,” Cinch says. “It’s no big deal. Just get him out of here.”
The officers walk the guy over to the park and sit him down at a picnic table to evaluate his condition.
“I owe you one,” Cinch says. “I never even saw the punch. I guess that’s why they call it ‘under the influence.’”
“Him or you?” I say. “Besides, I couldn’t let it ruin your buzz.”
Isn’t that all anything is about anymore?
After our shift Cinch and I walk out the back door of the bar, both of us beaming from the ecstasy. The empty kegs in front of the cooler glisten like an elaborate ice sculpture.
He asks, “So what are your plans? I’m meeting Stein upstairs and we’re going to Bean’s. You want a ride?”
I point to the empty kegs in front of the cooler. “There must be one hundred kegs there.”
“Hey, space cadet, you coming or not? Stein wants a package, and then he and I are going to Bean’s.”
“I feel too good to go in a car. I’m going to ride my bike to the Skyway and then to Bean’s. Give me directions.”
Cinch explains the way, but I don’t write it down. After all the biking I’ve done, how tough can it be? Even if I choose the wrong driveway, I’ll find where I’m going eventually.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EACH TWINKLE OF STARLIGHT CORRESPONDS TO SOME TINGLE INSIDE ME. With each revolution of my pedals, the tension regarding Dawn and Meadow fades. I’m free again. Goosebumps on my legs feel as big as dimes, shrinking as they travel up my body to my head, where they feel like tiny electrical shocks. I begin to sweat and can feel my heart pumping through my shirt. My mouth goes dry. Maybe I’m pushing too hard. Three cars pass. An eerie feeling swells inside—I’m being watched. I pull over to the edge of the woods. The darkness attacks. Someone is standing up ahead.
I call out, “Is someone there?”
No one answers. I walk my bike forward. The figure doesn’t move. The lights from an approaching car chase away the darkness. The person is only a shrub. Two more cars pass: police. I remember what’s in my pocket. Cinch isn’t with me to save me this time. I must keep going. The Skyway’s ahead. I need to be around other people.
Twigs snap in the woods. Someone is following me. I pedal on, but the eeriness remains.
The sight of the Skyway lights calms me. I hide my bike in the back. A group of strangers are in the kitchen. I step up on the stairs but withdraw. I’m not ready to deal with unknowns. No one from work is inside because they’re at Bean’s. Why didn’t I go there when I had the chance? Maybe Meadow is back at the condo. If I see someone I know, I’ll come out of this state.
I leave my bike and walk. A couple approaches. I wander off the path to avoid contact. The soft lights in the parking lot comfort me. People by the pool stare as I pass. Maybe they’re expecting someone. Are there always this many people around here?
Meadow’s condo is dark, pushing me back toward the Skyway. I’ll go to Bean’s. I need to keep moving; I need to find Cinch. Maybe I should stash my bag somewhere. No, I’m not ready to part with it. Everything will be okay once I’m at the party.
I start fast but coast after a half mile, afraid to overdo it again. I stop and rest, but the environment overwhelms me. Someone, something is fucking with me. The monument is ahead. I ride around front and step off the pedals, straddling the bar while bouncing the bike back and forth between my legs. I can’t stay here. My destination is only a little farther.
What am I running from? What am I running to? Perhaps the drugs are fucking with me; perhaps it’s something else. Even the monument’s friendly, protective stance can’t help me tonight.
The stars and the occasional house provide the only light. Unfortunately most of the houses are dark. My bike light will draw too much attention. I know people are at Bean’s, though. I just have to find the place. The landmarks Cinch conveyed don’t match the picture before me. Silence has built walls, walls that I attempt to break by pedaling faster, only to be imprisoned a hundred feet down the road.
A car pulls out of a driveway ahead. The lights blind me, concealing the passengers. I stop at the driveway and turn my light on. If this is the place, now I want people to see me.
For every twenty feet I ride, another twenty open before me, revealing nothing, only increasing the space behind me. Probing stares from invisible specters replace the comfort I’ve felt other nights. Noises from the woods, now on both sides, call out to me. What were once soothing whispers are now screams of terror. Nothing is back here. I should turn around.
My light catches a reflector on a car parked off the road. Several other cars sit empty in front of it, none of them familiar.
The path opens into a clearing that extends to the water. People are sitting around a fire on the beach. The smell of burning pine and the sound of laughter ease my fear, but a dark cottage to the left startles me. It’s not the house Cinch described. Yet I can’t turn back now. I stash my bike in the woods with a glance at the foreboding structure, eager to move away from it. I rush toward the beach. Something knocks my feet out from underneath me.
Daisies caress my face. I put a hand on each side of the rowboat-turned-flowerbed and push myself up, trying not to cause further damage.
“Can I help you?” a voice asks.
It is posed as a question, but the tone imparts dismissal. I move toward the voice, but the person remains out of sight.
“Uhmmm, I’m just, uh, here for the party. Is this Bean’s?”
“There ain’t no Bean here.”
“Do you know where Bean lives?”<
br />
“There ain’t no Bean here,” he says. “You should go.”
I feel him on my right and left. Maybe he’s not alone. The edge of the flowerbed grazes the outside of my calf as I rush by.
I struggle to get my feet into the toe stirrups of my bike. My right foot locked in, I give up on the left. The stirrup scrapes the ground as I pedal. I keep going until I’m safely in front of the monument. I no longer care about the party. I just want to be home. Cinch will notice I’m not there and come to the red barn looking for me. If not Cinch, someone else will. I don’t care if they’re only looking to keep the party going. I’ll give them the drugs. I’ll use them just as much as they use me.
The red barn is as deserted as everywhere else I’ve been. Faces from the weekend flash into my head, intensifying my loneliness. I try sitting in the living room; I try sitting on the porch. Inside, something calls me outside; outside, something forces me back in. I lock the door. What if something bad happened? What if Cinch got busted? Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen anybody. Maybe that’s why that guy chased me away. Maybe they’re watching me. Maybe that bouncer from the Beer Barrel got in trouble and turned us in. I left before the cops got here. Cinch and Stein got arrested. The police must not be able to come in without a warrant. They’re waiting for me to do something stupid like leave with the drugs. Otherwise, they’ll wait for the warrant and come in the morning. I’m not crazy. There really is somebody out there. I open the door. At least now I know.
I smile into the darkness outside. “You’re not going to get me.”
I just have to get rid of the evidence. The money is not a problem. The bar business is a cash business. I’ll flush everything else down the toilet.
I go back inside, lock the door, and pull the drapes. I’m not going down easy.
I can see outside my bedroom window even with the curtains pulled, which means they can see inside. I can’t allow them to know what I’m doing. It might give them reason to break in. I gather all the towels and turn out the lights. Methodically, I cover each window with towels. If I eliminate all traces of the outside world, I’ll disappear from their view as well.
Standing on a chair I remove the panel and reach my hand into the attic space, which is still warm from the day. But nothing is there except four dried leaves and an old sock. I turn on all the lights. What do I have to be afraid of? Nothing is here.
They must have pinched Cinch with all the stuff. The only thing saving me is that he probably didn’t turn me in. He probably said I didn’t have anything to do with it. Why did we have to be so stupid? I should just turn myself in. I can’t leave him hanging. I can’t let him go through this alone. But what good will it do if we both get busted? It’s not like they’ll lock us up together.
Stay calm. Don’t do anything rash. Get this place clean and then relax. Maybe everything is okay.
I wash the mirrored surface and any plates with residue on them. I gather all the empty baggies and paraphernalia. I go into the bathroom and empty the contents of my pockets: a bag of coke, three bottle caps, a lighter, a pack of matches, a piece of a bagel, two credit card receipts (one is not even mine), a rolled-up twenty, two straws, a balled-up fifty, sixty-three cents in change, two empty baggies that have been torn open and licked clean, and four business cards from people I met in the bar. This is what my life has come to. This amalgamation of miscellaneous shit is the summary of my life.
I sort the stuff into two piles. One pile can go in the trash; the other, down the toilet. I scrape the first pile into the trash. Whoosh. There goes half my life. Now for the other half.
One by one, I drop the items in the toilet. Plop, plop, plop. Ripples travel away from each splash, reminding me of my first night here when I was in the water, free from my past but not yet imprisoned by this reality, simply existing in the moment.
The only thing left is the full bag. I rub my fingers across it. What a waste. I open the bag and dump the contents into my hand. Squatting down with my hand over the toilet, I wiggle my fingers, allowing the coke to fall into the water. The rocks dissolve before they hit the bottom. I return to the sink, splash cold water on my face, and peer into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror. “If I get out of this, no more fucking around. I promise,” I say. “Please don’t let anything bad happen.”
A loud banging noise wakes me. I want last night to be a dream, but I’m waking into this nightmare, not out of it.
I stumble to the living room. On the porch the silhouette of a man leans on the door. His head rests on his left arm, which extends up the wall. His right hand is still managing to pound with force, although somewhat tiredly. I open the door. The sunlight and fresh air rush in as if I am being released from a coffin.
“Man, it’s about time,” Cinch says. “I’ve been knocking for fifteen minutes. Why’d you lock the door? Oh shit, you cleaned the place. What happened to you last night?” Still confused by what’s happened, I stare back at him in silence. He barrels on. “You missed a great party. There were about fifty people there until sunrise. I went to Robin’s with Brooke and crashed for a few hours. What the fuck is wrong with you? You still drunk?”
I force out a response. “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me last night.”
“Better than the night before? Bring it on.”
“Definitely different. I freaked out last night. I thought the police were out there. I heard voices and thought I was being watched. It seems crazy this morning, but it was so real. Why didn’t you come looking for me?”
“After Saturday night I figured you were with those chicks at the Skyway.” He sinks into the recliner. “That would’ve been cool: Me, Brooke, and Dawn all go looking for you. You already dodged that bullet earlier in the night.”
I flash back to last night. I know I didn’t imagine the missing lock box. “Where’s the stash?”
Panic seizes Cinch’s face, and then he laughs. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. After you left, Stein and I were partying here, and I started thinking about those squirrels running around. By the time we were ready to go, I was so amped, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I hid the box behind a loose piece of paneling in my room.”
“Good move,” I say. “I was ready to flush it all down the toilet. Instead I only flushed the five grams I had in my pocket.”
Cinch says, “Look at the bright side. One, nothing bad happened, and B, we still have ten grams left. Don’t ever forget: it’s just shit.”
“But it’s your shit.”
“Don’t worry about that. Can always get more. You actually should feel good about last night. You have things in perspective. When given the choice between getting caught and flushing drugs down the toilet, you chose ditching the drugs. You could’ve sat there and done it all because the thought of wasting it tortured you. I don’t know if most people would have done what you did.”
I’m not sharing his optimism. I say, “Most people wouldn’t do drugs in the first place.”
“But we aren’t most people.” He reaches under the recliner and pulls out a plate with coke on it. “Ah, there it is. Looks like you missed one.”
I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Screw it.” He walks toward the table. “Let’s do a line and get ready for work.”
I step in his path, not ready to forget about last night. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Fuck it. Who cares?” He shrugs his shoulders and moves around me. I grab him by the shirt. “You know what? I fucking care.”
He pulls away. “That’s your problem.”
I knock the plate from his hands. “Yeah, well, I don’t have Daddy to fall back on.”
“Fuck you.” He shoves me back into the couch. “You don’t know me.”
I scramble up and get in his face. “What’s wrong? Daddy’s boy getting mad?”
“Better back off.” He pushes past me.
I grab his shoulder and spin him around. “Why? You going to tell Daddy on me?”
He lands a
punch on the left side of my jaw. I fall back into the coffee table. He shakes his hand. “Damn, man. Why’d you make me do that?”
I spring up and tackle him. Intertwined, we roll around on the floor.
He pins me. “Are we done?”
I struggle to free myself, eventually surrendering. “Just get off me already.”
He releases me. “You act like you’re the only one going through shit.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. It’s obvious.”
I stand up. “At least I’m trying.”
He pushes past me toward his bedroom. “Congratulations. Invite me to the awards ceremony.”
Clouds roll in off the lake, and an algid dampness fills the air. The patches of sky that have been visible for most of the day are now gone, and a dark cumulonimbus cloud has parked itself over the island.
Even Caldwell has given up for now. From the porch I watch him gather his belongings and amble toward me. I ask, “Calling it quits?”
“There’s a nasty storm coming. Tonight’s a good night to be indoors.” He motions toward the bruise on my face. “Looks like you need to duck.”
“Good advice,” I say, eager to change the subject. “What is it that you light and rub on the ground before you play?”
“Sage. It wards off evil spirits.”
“Are you superstitious? You always go through the same ceremony.”
“Not really. It’s more like a ritual. Helps me find that comfortable place inside myself.”
“You’re a lucky man, Caldwell. You really are. I hope someday I find something I enjoy as much as you enjoy playing in the park.”
He projects his trademark grin. “Most would look at me and think otherwise.”
“Fuck ’em. They’re the same ones who kept telling me how lucky I was to have such a good job.”
“I just try to keep things simple.”
“That’s not really a secret formula.”
“Doesn’t have to be. Have what you want and want what you have.”
“You just have to know what you want.”
