The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  “Well? What do you think?”

  I swallowed my shot before responding. “Cool,” I said. “What is it?”

  “What is it? What's it look like?”

  “I... uh... it's like a...”

  She walked over to the easel and flipped the painting upside down. “Now what is it?”

  I hadn't a clue, so I told her. “I have no idea.”

  “Shit.” She sat down on the footstool. “Neither do I. Thanks for playing. How was surveying?”

  “It was alright. The beginning of a long job. I think I'll be there all summer, maybe.”

  “Job security. How many hours?”

  “Ten a day, five days.”

  “Lucrative, too. Congrats.” We tapped beer bottles and drank. She poured two more shots of whiskey. “Does the motel have a pool?”

  “This week's didn't, but I'll keep it in mind as summer comes on.”

  We continued staring at her canvas. “So what else happened this week?” she asked.

  “Met a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh? Is she The One?”

  “I told you Veronica: you're The One. Besides, she's married.”

  “So? Is she The One? You can always bring her here, you know.”

  “Hadn't even thought of it yet, but thanks for looking out for my interests.”

  “De nada. Shot?” I nodded. She poured. “Beautiful, you say?”

  I swallowed my Jamesons before answering. “Not like your average mall Barbie. Old movie star beautiful, like Norma Shearer but hotter.”

  “My goodness. TCM references. You do have it bad. Does her husband know yet?”

  I laughed. “You know, Veronica, that's really just it. That's the real deal right there. I found out she's married to a doctor. It really doesn't matter how gorgeous I think she is – and I do! –, I'm not her type.”

  “Ah. You may be right.”

  “I think I am. What are you up to tonight? Got any plans?”

  “Ellen's dragging me out to see some young cello player she fell in love with. The woman is playing at a gallery opening, so technically I suppose I'm going to a gallery opening, I am hoping to find some art I like. I usually do.”

  “How old is this cello player?” I asked.

  “Late twenties.”

  “Good lord. Ellen's what? Seventy? She's old enough to be her mother.”

  “Grandmother. But honey, Ellen falls in love with each new moon. It never goes anywhere.”

  “All the same, for a lady her age--”

  “It's admirable, don't you think? Addison, we all get old, if we're lucky. But inside every seventy year-old is an eighteen year-old wondering what the hell happened. Ellen accepts her age, honey; she's just honest about what she likes. It took her a long time to come out, you know. I'm proud of her.”

  “I like her, I --”

  “I know. It makes you nervous that she likes you, too. And has she ever put the moves on you? No? Of course not. She's just a perfectly harmless seventy year-old bisexual window shopper, and she's a dear. Care for another shot?”

  “I suppose so. I guess you're right. No telling what I'll be like at that age.”

  “Hopefully you'll be married and dogging some old lady every chance you get. Cheers.”

  “Cheers. Yeah. There's still time. I'm just hitting my stride.”

  “There ya go, sport. So do you have any plans tonight?”

  “Go out for dinner, have a few beers... maybe go dancing. I haven't been dancing in forever.”

  “That does sound like a good time. My daddy taught me to dance. In the front room, to the radio. All through the Forties and Fifties, I danced. When Bill and I started dating, we went dancing all the time. Then we got married, and we stopped. When I found out he was cheating on me, that hurt most of all. The detective I hired showed me pictures of them out dancing. At that moment, Addison, the fact that they were fucking was completely beside the point.” Veronica was quiet for a moment. “Know what I ought to do?”

  “What's that?”

  “Make Ellen take me dancing. I suppose I should shower and get ready. It starts at eight.”

  “I'll let you get dressed. Y'all have fun. I think I'll do the same.”

  An hour later I was showered and ready. I locked the downstairs door and walked down the driveway. Dancing. It'd been a long time since I went out dancing. As I reached the sidewalk and turned left toward Little Five Points, I thought about where to go. L5P is full of bars and clubs, and a solid handful feature live music, so I shouldn't have to leave the neighborhood in order to shake my groove thang.

  I stepped into ChillBlains, mostly out of habit. It's right on one of the five points. The bar has had a few different names since I first staggered out of it and home, but at this point it had been ChillBlains for a few years. The food was good, and the place had a stage and dance floor. Under different management and a different name, this bar is where I first met Rita, and I can never walk in without remembering that moment, not twenty, not thirty years later.

  Here's how we met. I popped into The Pub, as the location was called then, to drink a beer on the back deck and score a bag from my dealer friend Barney. I had a couple of beers while we shot the shit about this and that, and just as we were getting to business, some Junior Marketing Executive with a tall, gorgeous redhead on his arm walked up and started whispering to Barney about cocaine. That made sense. By and large, back before crack made demeaning sex affordable again, cocaine's primary application was helping yuppie dweebs get laid, and at least in this guy's case, the woman looked like she was worth the effort.

  She was dressed in spandex: black on top and aqua blue on bottom. Three-inch heels plus her severe 80's 'do put her four inches over her date Her bangs, which should have fallen in loose curls, were swept dramatically skyward by hair gel. The rest, which wasn't much longer, was pulled back behind her head, drawing one into sparkling green eyes enhanced by glittering eyeshadow. As far as that went, she was heavily, dramatically made up, but if it were ever going to look good on a woman, it was that woman, at that moment. Of course, if ones attention should wander from such a captivating face, one might find the aforementioned spandex serving its finest and noblest purposes ever. At that moment of our first meeting, Rita's was a figure you'd find in an Esquire calendar or a Playboy spread, not pumped with silicon, not starved, just perfectly curved everywhere. She was by no description fat, but damned sure not what anyone would call skinny, either.

  And I guess I stared. I didn't mean to. I was younger then and more easily caught. Worse, I was staring while thinking that I myself would not mind spending a Friday night feeding her cocaine, and when I looked up, she was looking me in the eyes. The next thing I knew, Barney was patting me on the shoulder and telling me to order another pitcher. He disappeared with Mr. JME, leaving me alone with this hot strange redhead who just caught me admiring her Spandex with covetous intent.

  We didn't say much. I think I offered her a beer, and she said no, so I drank alone until they got back. I tried the usual approaches to conversation: finding out what bands she liked, asking her where she was from, that sort of thing, and she just sat there looking at me and said little in response. I didn't mind her looking at me, though. She was instantly memorable.

  I was only in Atlanta for a visit, though. Business called me away for a couple of years, but when I returned to the neighborhood, I saw them in the grocery store. She wasn't wearing heels, most likely because she was pregnant-- at the peak of ripeness--, and they both looked entirely miserable. I thought she recognized me, so I nodded and smiled, but she turned away. But anyway, that's how I first met Rita on the back deck of ChillBlains, back when it was The Pub, and as I said, I can't walk into the place without remembering it.

  I ordered a beer at the bar, paid for it, and stood looking around. The wall and floor coverings had changed, but the tables all occupied the same positions, and the bar was in the same location, which meant that standing alone with my beer in 2002, i
t all looked remarkably similar to 1984. The same singles spread out along the bar, men gesturing to illustrate their stories and women twirling their hair in the exact same way they did the night Ferraro debated Bush. The tables held the same out-of-town young professionals drinking and talking far too much, the same earnest young artists drinking pitchers on limited incomes and sneering at the tourists, the same older couples out for a drink, the same young couples out on a date. The only difference I saw was that everyone looked a little younger than I remembered. The older couples weren't quite as old now as they were in 1984, and all the single women at the bar seemed barely old enough to be in here.

  I saw the sound man climb into his miniscule nest and slip on his headphones, but there was no band onstage for sound check, just two pasty guys in their early twenties, each plugging in a Mac laptop on either side of the stage. They put on headphones and signaled the sound man. The lights went down, the guy on the left began bopping his head, and a beat was born. The other computer answered with a sample from “Suicide Blonde”, and it was on. Beats and samples streamed from two Mac laptops, and sure enough, people took to the floor.

  Some rather attractive people took to the floor, to tell the truth, Mighty attractive. I scanned the tables for single women or women in pairs and saw a few, a couple of them tapping their toes. On closer look, though, they looked like the women at the bar: barely old enough to drink. They bobbed their heads in perfect, unchanging time, for the beat never changed. Other, recognizable riffs and melodies came in and out, but the beat throbbed like an atomic metronome. Boom tsi! Boom tsi! Boom tsi! Boom tsi... Heads bobbed and booties shook to the endless, constant beat... boom tsi! Boom tsi! Boom tsi!.. It was like disco music on angel dust, and it was downright annoying after a very short while.

  I wanted to dance to rock and roll music, and I knew just where to go. Tailfins is a rockabilly joint across the street, and their Friday night bands always played danceable rockabilly. I finished my beer, left the pint glass on the bar, and took my leave of the atomic metronome. At Tailfins I found a line outside, usually a good sign of a kickass band inside, so I got in line and waited my turn. Nearing the front, I was glad to see Kat and Junior, the owners, working the door, Junior taking money and Kat checking IDs with a flashlight. Junior has a buzz cut, is fairly muscular and is covered in tatts. Kat has a full sleeve down her left arm, but down her right is only “Junior” in elegant calligraphy. Her hair is cut to enhance her resemblance to Betty Paige, except that Kat keeps hers dyed in fun colors. Tonight, she was a tricolor display of bright blue on top, platinum white, and bright red at the bottom, the exact same colors as a Bomb Pop. They're fun folks.

  “Ten dollars,” said Junior. “I've seen your ID,” Kat smiled.

  “Ten bucks? Who's playing?”

  “Sons of Muspell.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It's drone doom metal from Iceland.”

  “Wow. Drone doom metal. From Iceland. Too bad it's not Republican drone doom metal from Iceland. That's my favorite. People pay for that?”

  “If you'll get out of the way, Pops,” came a voice behind me. I quickly turned to the line snaking down the sidewalk and spoke.

  “Look, if I'm anyone's 'Pops', it's as much your mother's fault as it is mine, but if you'll keep your mama out of my yard, I'll try to keep my yard out of your mama.” There was a momentary hush, followed by a group appreciation of the insult, in staggered timing. “OoooOOOoooh!” Kids think they invented the burn. I've traded “yo' mama” jokes with guys straight out of prison. Turning, I was relieved to see Kat and Junior grinning.

  “Come back tomorrow night, Addie,” Junior said. “The Twin Carbs are playing. It's PBR night.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  Ginny's is a jazz joint down the hill next to the theater, but on this night some little blonde woman was singing standards with a beefy pianist. I got there just in time for “I Thought About You,”performed with admirable melancholy, and drank a remarkably overpriced beer before I left. Wild horns and crazy beats make La Cubana just sound like the kind of place you want to go dance, until you get inside. Then you find out it is well-supplied with great-looking Afro-Caribbean men who dance like I only ever dreamed of dancing. I took my humiliation with me across the street to The Beer Hole. It's the narrowest, tiniest joint imaginable, packed to the rafters with patrons drawn to its 400-beer menu. There's no room for dancing, of course; I just wanted an 8% beer. I had two before giving up and going to Rita's.

  The official name of the restaurant/bar co-owned by my friend Margarita Anastasia Mackenna is The Side Door. I realize the first time I try typing it that I have always called it Rita's. Jennifer, the co-owner, probably wouldn't like that, but it really doesn't matter, because Jennifer opens at eleven and leaves just before the cocktail hour begins. Consequently, I had only seen her a handful of times in three years, and we'd never held a conversation. So to me, the place was Rita's. If you walked in there after five o'clock and just sat down, pretty soon you'd know who's in charge.

  To begin with, you'd see her. She is 5'8” and weighs a solid 175 now, with generous “mommy bits”, which is how she refers to her breasts and hips. Her shade of red hair is rich, tending toward auburn, with silver glints. Now minus the dramatic makeup, her green eyes still sparkle, highlighting a face gently creased by laughter and motherhood, and the last may be the key to her effectiveness as a manager.

  As a result of her marriage to Mr. JME, Rita has two children, Carly and Dylan, named for Simon and Thomas, respectively (but she doesn't mind if you guess Bob). She is bossy, yes, but only because she knows what should be done and as a mom, she is accustomed to people she loves taking her advice, but she is nice about it. She drives a new Honda every five years, makes Ethiopian coffee in a French press, and smells like Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap. She likes Beat and Romantic poets, cooking and baking, and growing tomatoes in summer. I used to wonder what might have happened if I hadn't been caught staring in 1984 and had instead saved her from Mr. JME, whose real name, according to Rita, is The Jackass, he who impregnated her twice, then left her for a younger real estate agent with a wealthy daddy. What would my life be like if we'd actually talked to each other at the table? I used to tell her that if it had been me, I would never have left her and our children. Even now, I still think that's true.

  I paid a five-dollar cover and proceeded to the bar, which was packed and already lined with drunks awaiting drinks. The music was live and eclectic: two women playing banjo and fiddle over congas and a funky bass line. I tapped my foot to the rhythm while waiting to be noticed.

  “What would you like, sir? Guinness?” She smiled and her green eyes sparkled.

  “I would like to go dancing,” I responded.

  “Guinness to drink?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She handed one across the bar. “I started pouring when I saw you come in,” she said.

  I handed her bills. “Keep the change. Let's go dancing.”

  “Not right now,” she said. “Have you had any dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, I'm feasting on liquid bread.”

  “I thought so. You look tired.”

  “Hah. Liquid bread sustains and energizes me. I want to go dancing.”

  “You see that empty table behind the sound man? You should go sit there, and I'll have a burger sent out to you. Blue cheese and mushrooms okay? Fries?”

  “Ooh, that sounds good. Yeah, okay. But then, dancing.”

  She gave me a smiling head shake and sent the order to the kitchen. I did as told. I couldn't see the band while seated at the table, though, so I stood to the side while waiting.

  The band, two sisters raised in the neighborhood and their friends, were great. With accoustic instruments and tight harmonies, they played new songs with old instruments and old songs in completely new ways. I was so entertained that it seemed only a minute before my burger arrived with a fresh Guinness.

  I sat down a
nd took a bite and suddenly realized I was ravenous. I ripped into that burger like a starved dog and within a couple of minutes, I was picking at my fries. I looked behind the bar and saw Rita smiling. I picked up my glass and walked over to her. She started pouring as I placed it on the bar.

  “I want to go dancing,” I repeated.

  “Enjoy yourself. You know I'm here until midnight, then I need to go home. Busy day tomorrow.”