Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

Speechless.

  Kieran plopped my double down. “Don’t switch seats on me like that, Lucky! Not tonight!”

  “Sorry!” I reached into my pocket. “What’s that going to be?”

  “Nine dollars!” he yelled in my ear. “Fifty percent of all tips go towards Ruby’s plastic surgery!”

  “Corrective surgery!” Ruby insisted.

  I settled the argument with a twenty and permission to keep the change.

  Done with half my drink before either one could thank me.

  ***

  I managed to keep my mouth shut for a good hour or two.

  Tried to enjoy what I could. Oddly enough, it was the easiest conversation Ruby and I had ever shared.

  Took care of a few drinks along the way.

  Glad to have an excuse to stare.

  Must have missed the announcement. Suddenly, Ruby was bounding to the makeshift stage, arm in arm with the lead singer, both boasting their turnout, neither one directly mentioning what we were all doing there

  And with a one, two, three, she began to sing her rendition of Wild Horses. Hardly a voice to herald angels, but just right from where I was sitting. Instruments accompanied her with mercifully low riffs. Half the bar didn’t bother to cut the chatter.

  Ruby swayed softly before the microphone, eyes closed.

  I reached for my drink.

  A stranger bumped into me, but there would be no fights that night.

  Everyone keeping their features exactly and just right where they were.

  ***

  It was Ruby who suggested we step outside to get some fresh air.

  And it was Ruby who suggested we cross the street, get a little privacy on the outskirts of Rupert Park.

  I leaned against the wrought iron fence. “When did this whole idea come about?”

  “Maybe two months ago, I feel.”

  “I really need to get uptown more often.”

  “It’s going good, don’t you think?”

  I glanced across the street. Another couple wandered out, two more wandered in. “Yeah.”

  “Hey…” she sparked a Marlboro Light, offered me one. “You all right?”

  I pulled on the white filter. Popped it in my mouth. “So. Plastic surgery, huh?”

  “It’s corrective surgery.”

  Lit the cigarette, wiped my brow. “Think insurance companies call it elective.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “If I could say this without sounding like any other asshole on the other side of the bar, I would. But I doubt I can.”

  “Lucky.”

  “You’re perfect just the way you are.” I threw the gutters a sloppy smile, quoting, “Just the way you look tonight.”

  “You say that.”

  “I did just say that.”

  “Please. Don’t romanticize my face. It’s not a fucking poem, these are scars.”

  “They’re your scars.”

  Ruby shook her head. “Not mine.”

  “Yes. Whether you like it or not.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  For a moment, I thought that was it. She had that look about her, muscles tensing for a quick exit. Back across the street and into Red Rum, where the band played on.

  But Ruby stayed behind. “Got half my face melted, lost all my money trying to make it right. I don’t like being reminded of what I got myself into every time I have to turn to those mirrors to pour some slimy monster his Jack and Coke.”

  “You really think changing you face is going to make you forget?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, Lucky.” She took a deep pull, crushed her cigarette beneath her sneaker. “And you’ve never even seen me in the daylight.”

  I lifted my head. Took stock of the sky, just to make sure. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  I turned to her. “First time seeing you on the other side of the bar, though.”

  She looked around, ran her own reality check. “Guess that’s true.”

  “You’re my height.”

  She stood close to me. Nose to nose. Swept her hand over both our heads in close approximation. “Yes… Funny thing, I always figured you were taller.”

  “Funny is the word for it.”

  The floodlight from Red Rum illuminated her face. Unhappy lips, easy eyes. A lunar surface shining bright, lighting the way, giving the animals something to howl about. Every last dent and imperfection putting my memory to the test.

  She rested her hand lightly on my chest. “I’m going back in, Lucky.”

  “Ok.”

  “See you there?”

  “In a bit. Just want another minute or so away from the music.”

  “Yeah…” Ruby dropped her hand. Smiled. “Band’s kind of shitty, right?”

  She gave Second Ave a look left and right, then crossed over.

  Back into the largest crowd to ever bother with the likes of Red Rum.

  I stayed behind for another five.

  Just long enough to pretend Ruby had kissed me goodnight.

  ***

  I walked right past Eighty-Sixth, and didn’t stop for a good hour and a half.

  All the way down to Spring Street.

  Paused before the welcoming doors of a tiny bodega.

  Breathed in a bit of what would soon be mid-June. Figured I had a long, lonely night ahead of me, and why the hell not?

  I browsed the magazine rack for the next twenty minutes. Picked out an issue of Hustler. An issue of High Society. An issue of Cheri. An issue of Fox. Another issue of Cheri. Another issue of High Society. Topped it off with a special all-hardcore triple-x edition of Score.

  Impulse buy involving the Gray Lady, headline reading Man Shoots 3 In Rampage In East Village.

  I dropped my stack at the register.

  Put the man behind the counter to be of Pakistani origin.

  He gave me a friendly grin and got to scanning barcodes. Porn stars clutching themselves and their lucky friends with vehement ecstasy. Eyes wide, tongues hanging out. Bodies posed, breasts of all sizes standing at attention. He took a moment before tallying the total. Reached for a pack of spearmint gum, and with a sympathetic smile, placed it atop my stack of skinny mags.

  On the house.

  I returned the gesture with my own smile and flipped through some twenties.

  Clutched the bag of pornography close as I rode the N train back to Sunset Park.

  Wondering what might happen if it were knocked from my hands.

  Artificial fantasies spread out across the floor for all to see.

  It’s for a friend, is probably what I would have said.

  But it never came up, and I never saw Ruby again.

  Something That Happened.

  This was not an act of kindness. It wasn’t charity. Wasn’t benevolence, compassion, or decency. It wasn’t a moral imperative. And it wasn’t guilt, so don’t think for a moment I ever considered it to be absolution.

  But it was that particular type of affair, the sort that too many people put on their ethical resumes in hopes of obscuring previous work. Words such as humanitarian, necessary, and enlightening kicked around like tin cans, egos and ids intoxicated with the serenity of a single, exceptional deed. Abuse, rape and social negligence swept under the rug.

  It was that particular type of affair, and I refuse to be that particular type of person.

  So look into your heart, and believe me when I say there was nothing in mine that night I brought the stranger home.

  ***

  Must have been close to three in the morning.

  Must have been a weekend, because I was transferring to the N/R at DeKalb Avenue.

  Must have been drunk, because it was close to three in the morning, and I was transferring to the N/R at DeKalb Avenue.

  Brilliant bit of luck, as the R train made its approach, only seconds after watching the Q disappear towards Coney Island. It made me smile. The smile made me sway just a little. Walls rattling, muffling the
request from a man standing to my right.

  Happened to turn and see him staring at me. Dark skin, uneven afro pegged with tiny bulbs. Paisley button up, colors popping against pin-striped trousers. Friendly eyes, angular cheeks. Fingernails clean against calloused tips.

  “Hey, man, can you spare a dollar or two?” he asked. Slight accent I didn’t recognize. “I’m looking for a place to stay.”

  “I’m on my way home,” I told him “Got a couch in Sunset Park. Want to crash for the night?”

  “Yeah, man. Thank you.”

  “It’s fine. Here’s our train.”

  The R came to a chalkboard halt. We stepped in, had a seat.

  “My name’s Lucky,” I said.

  He shook my hand. “Amadou.”

  “Amadou?”

  “Like Amadou Diallo. The man who was shot by the cops.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise. We get off at thirty-sixth, so it shouldn’t be long now.”

  He nodded.

  I stared out the window, tunnels offering an occasional glimpse of third rail sparks.

  Neither of us giving it another try until we found ourselves moving east on 40th.

  Can’t remember whether or not it was cold that night.

  “I’ve got some wine at my place,” I said. “Got a bit of rum, but it’s not the best. Boca Chica. If you’d like some beer, there’s a place at the corner.”

  “I don’t drink,” he said, smiling. “I’m Muslim. But thank you.”

  “My brother’s a Sufi.”

  “Ah. You must know Rumi, then.”

  “Not personally.” I lit a cigarette. And then: “Anything you need, just ask.”

  “Tobacco is fine.”

  We paused at the corner of Fifth Avenue and got his Marlboro going.

  I pointed north. “Further up that way, there’s Greenwood Cemetery.”

  “Greenwood?”

  “Jean-Michel Basquiat is buried there. William Livingston. Samuel Morse. Eli Siegel. Walter Hunt, inventor of the safety pin. Some of the Roosevelt family.”

  “It sounds like a nice place to live.”

  “Also, Jim Creighton.”

  Amadou nodded. “He died hitting a home run in 1862.”

  “Really.”

  “He died four days later, actually. But it began with that home run. It was a hernia, I think.”

  “Can you beat that?”

  “No, I don’t believe that you can.”

  I motioned with my head.

  We turned along Fifth, then left on 41st street.

  For a moment, I thought I had lost my keys.

  Prayers answered, just a case of mistaken pockets, and I managed to shove the door open.

  We walked into my basement apartment. Two steps down.

  The cat arched its back for a moment. Black shorthair, claws cutting through white socks.

  “Easy, Hank,” I told her. “This is a friend.”

  Hank took the opportunity to run out the door, go hunting.

  I locked up. Turned on a few lights. Pointed to the blue couch I had lifted from the curb. “Get comfortable.”

  Amadou stretched out.

  I went to the kitchen. More of an alcove with a stove, sink.

  Fridge.

  Popped open a magnum of Gato Negro.

  “Want some water?” I called out.

  “Yeah, please.”

  I filled a glass with tap.

  Handed it to him.

  Large sips. Done in an instant. I went to get him more.

  Came back.

  Saw him eyeballing the pornography on the floor.

  “Help yourself,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I get some work done.”

  “Please.”

  He picked up the latest issue of Cheri. Thumbed though it as I sat at my bridge table, a warped, green fold-out situation, situated at the end of the couch. Watched his toes wriggle. Poured myself some wine and went about deciding the fate of a woman named Carmen.

  “You are a writer?” he asked.

  “For the moment.”

  “That’s good, man.”

  I lit a cigarette. Found a spare pack and tossed it towards him. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  A good hour into my work before I looked up.

  Amadou was fast asleep, an issue of Hustler folded over his chest.

  A naked Sylvia Saint on the cover, rising, falling.

  I kept on until signs of a prepubescent dawn got me leaning into sleep.

  Woke up two hours later to the sound of scratching.

  I was in my bed. Looked out the window.

  Face to face with Hank. Green eyes furious with my decision to drift.

  Must have been seven or so in the morning.

  Walked past the couch, where Amadou remained. Sleeping.

  I opened the door, let her in.

  Popped a can of tuna, special treat. Saved the juice in a separate bowl.

  Amadou wandered past. Stopped, then turned to me. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” I said. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Want something to eat?”

  “I should go.”

  “You sure? You can stay, if you like.”

  “You’ve been very kind.”

  I nodded. “At least have a shower. Get yourself a fresh start.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Use whatever towels you find. I’ll make you something to take with you.”

  Heard the shower start up.

  I assembled a couple of sandwiches. Cheese and tomato with mayo. Cheese and ham. Both on wheat. Wrapped them in cellophane as Amadou wandered in. Forehead beaded with steam. Same paisley shirt, same pin striped pants.

  “Made you a couple of sandwiches,” I said. “Cheese and tomato with mayo. Cheese and ham.”

  “Cheese and ham?”

  “Yes”

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Fuck…” I reached for the last dregs of wine, had a sip straight from the bottle. “Muslim. Right.”

  “It’s ok.”

  “Give me two minutes.”

  I reconstructed another cheese and tomato.

  Pressed down, wrapped it. Ready to go.

  “I don’t want to waste your sandwich,” he said.

  “I’ll eat it. Today, probably.”

  I don’t know why, but I had a brown paper lunch bag at the ready.

  “Can you walk me to the station?” he asked. “I don’t remember how we got here.”

  “Sure. You need fare?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I reached into my jeans. Pulled out a couple of crumpled bills. “I’ve got twenty-two dollars. Enough to get you where you’re going?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Just a few steps into the chill of 41st, I pointed at the curb. “That’s where I found the couch you slept on.”

  He glanced up at the corresponding stoop. “Be sure to thank them for me.”

  We wandered down the pale blue streets. Store fronts sent metal gates rattling upwards, open for another day of business in Sunset Park. Moving along Fifth Avenue, when his eyes lit up. “I remember now.”

  “You sure? Tell me.”

  “Down this way,” he pointed. “Half a block, then a right.”

  “Then keep going.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve got it. Thank you.”

  “You know where I am if you need me.”

  “I think so.”

  I had lit a cigarette without realizing it. Offered him one.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Take care, Amadou.”

  “You too, Lucky. As-salamu alayka.”

  “Yeah, man. Salam.”

  He followed his directions, paper bag clutched in his right hand.

  I stepped into the corner store to buy some beer.

  Didn’t have the
cash, so I charged it.

  Got home to find a cat cheated out of its tuna juice.

  Far too tired for this conversation, I took the bowl from the fridge.

  Laid it down by my table and took a seat.

  Noticed a red bandana lying by the couch.

  Took a pull of beer, laid my freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray.

  Stood and picked it up.

  Noticed copper crust adorning the outer edges.

  Was that blood?

  Had Amadou been bleeding?

  Transmission is an irrational thing, and I threw the bandana away.

  Left it in the trash, picked up my beer, finished my cigarette.

  Didn’t give it a second thought in the following days, though barflies would question the wisdom, while the bartenders thanked God I wasn’t killed, and my apartment wondered where Amadou had gone.

  Truth is, it was just something that happened.

  Star Fuck.

  Gavin Delanco wasn’t born with any sort of gift. He grew into it by pure chance. People first noticed the resemblance when Gavin was sixteen. Before then, nobody had really noticed Gavin at all. He took to the hallways of his school like a ghost. Girls did the walk-on-by, tight designers cradling magnificent legs, and Gavin would stare with irritated longing. Never quite managing to breathe through his nose. His ill fitting sweatpants chaffed against a dead giveaway, and the popular kids would call him out. Slam him against the wall, rap their notebooks against his measly, bewildered erection. He kept pictures of nude celebrities pinned along the inside of his locker. The promise of perfection kept him warm at nights, covered in soft folds of confused wishes.

  Then, a young man named Castle Nash inadvertently managed to get his foot in the door. He was discovered on the Santa Monica Pier. Sitting on a bench, alone, drinking a cherry soda. Watching the sun set. A studio exec happened upon him, slipped Castle a business card, and the rest is just as the saying goes…

  Although, it should be noted, history has a rich tradition of double dealing.

  Castle Nash grew older. A young star rising in the sky of a celluloid city, even as Gavin’s body continued to contort to the every beck and call of his hormones. It was the mid 1990s, and America’s urgent need for a celebrity fix was picking up steam. A train set to fly right off its tracks, ushering a golden era of runaway idolatry.

  Gavin hit sixteen years on the same day that Castle’s first major motion picture hit the theaters. The resemblance between the two was there all right. Subtle. Slight. Close to inconsequential. But as far as the world was concerned, Gavin didn’t exist; until he hit twenty-one, Castle’s twenty-first movie hit number one, and the both of them became dead ringers for each other.

  The cross-pollination had become uncanny. Gavin lost his virginity to a Castle Nash fan. His next lay was the exact same movie, save for casting. All those years, nothing, and suddenly, Gavin was tabloid-fucking his way through more women than his West Coast counterpart could have ever hoped.