Her hand sliced through the air, connected cheerfully with my face. Solid hit, too, drawing a response from the regulars and a nearby table of middle aged men.
“YOU’LL FUCK MY BEST FRIEND, BUT YOU WON’T FUCK ME?!!”
Blue-eyed and certifiable, straight out of southeast Texas. “I haven’t fucked anyone.”
The men at the table laughed.
The rest of the customers were growing bored with being polite, let their eyes wander into the action.
“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME, LUCKY!?”
“I haven’t done anything!” I yelled.
“Do you WANT to fuck her?”
I looked at Dana, drained my drink.
Zephyr was standing by with the bottle, filled me right back up as I replied: “Well, yes.”
Sandra slapped me again.
Everyone in the bar had some kind of reaction, peanut gallery gone wild.
“GODDAMN!”
“This fucking bitch is crazy!”
“Boooo!”
“You’re an ASSHOLE, Lucky!”
Someone threw a bottle at me, and it landed at my feet, shattered.
“Adam was right about you!” Sandra screamed, hot scotch burning my face.
“Who?”
Applause filled the bar.
One or two people crossed over to my side, but most of the clientele remained allied, telling me to go fuck myself. Another bottle was sent in my general direction, and Sandra left the bar. Three or four men followed her up the steps. Smelling opportunity.
Never let a crisis go to waste.
I returned to my drink. Nothing to see here, and everyone else forgot about me. The regulars kept laughing about it, and they rubbed my shoulders with paperweight hands.
“Don’t worry about it, Lucky,” someone consoled me. “She’ll be back.”
“I doubt it,” Dana said.
I faced her and let her eyes do the rest.
“When I’m done with this drink, you and I should kiss,” she added.
I nodded, went to work on my bourbon. Lit a cigarette. The clock on the wall flared, soaking up the oxygen. Then the minutes. Then the hours. The three men who had followed Sandra out the door never came back, and I suspect their friends paid for the tab.
***
It was five in the AM, and we were in the kitchen. Cramped dimensions encouraging us to press a little closer. I had her pinned against the wall, the two of us trapped in a remarkably simple kiss. Chaperoned by a mess of dirty dishes. Premature sunlight coming through the windows. She removed my shirt. I fumbled with the zipper to her dress. Red silk, nice to the touch. I ran my fingers across her face, moved down to her breasts, still safe under a lacy bra.
She sighed, and then one of them came off in my hands.
I look down and saw a concave, silicone tit in my hand. Not doing much of anything, just resting there. I looked up at Dana. She didn’t say anything. I reached down between her legs, just to make sure.
Didn’t feel anything extraneous lurking below.
“I have tiny breasts,” she said. “Pretty flat, so I use inserts instead of a lift bra.”
I thought about it some more.
My hand was still trapped between her legs.
“You know, Lucky,” she said, closing her eyes. “It works a lot better if you move it around some. Women like it.”
“Then on behalf of all women…”
“Shut up and do as you’re told.”
I did as I was told, and we made our way to the bed.
***
She watched me the whole time.
Through every position and captured moment, she never once broke contact. Eyes wide open. I sent the message right back across the stars, lids glued to the top of my skull, and neither one of us made much noise. I noticed the blue in her retina covered with gray clouds. Morning had claimed its stake, and we both kept moving, and at one point she asked, pressed close to me:
“You’re writing this even as we fuck, aren’t you?” She began to move faster. “You’re using my pussy for a typewriter, aren’t you?”
“That’s some real poetry there,” I told her. Kissed her. Momentarily enjoying this exchange, speeding up.
“Don’t be so fucking clever and just keep fucking me,” she demanded, tugging at my hair.
“Dana?”
“Yes?”
The bed creaked beneath us, and she wouldn’t stop staring. “This is the worst conversation I’ve ever had.”
The two of us came, nails in each other’s skin.
At least, I think she did.
All I know is her eyes were open the whole time, and sleep never felt so good.
***
I woke up several hours later and Dana was gone. I rubbed my eyes and rolled over, onto a wasted condom.
Milo was seated in his chair, looking at me.
“Lucky,” he began, picking his words carefully. “Why are there a pair of tits in our kitchen and not a woman to be seen?”
“These things take time,” I told him, and rolled over.
Fell right back asleep.
***
The next time we met, it was almost friendly.
Sitting at a table of all things.
Drinks over candlelight at Creole Nights.
I gave her the rundown on poker rules. Explained the do’s and don’ts of how it worked. Psyche 101. Told her about my history, my past. How I had ended up drinking myself stupid after a lifetime of healthy living. Never noticed how little she was contributing. Never noticed her probing stare, eyes taking dictation.
Until I finally asked her, “So what’s Sandra got to say about this?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“Think that’s wise?”
“Not sure I follow, Lucky.”
“I’m saying, cover-up is worse than the crime. She doesn’t know now and finds out later… then what?”
Dana shrugged. “She’s just not going to have to know later.”
I reached for my smokes. Lit a cautious cigarette. “So what you’re asking from me is…”
“Is obvious,” she said, lifting a smoke off me and bringing a candle close to her face. “You can never tell her about us.”
“Really? That’s the best, that’s your strategy?”
“And what’s your contribution?” She had yet to light her cigarette, features shifting with every candle lit flicker. “What’s your dazzling move, so late in the game?”
“Honesty?”
“Best policy and all that?”
“Seems trite, when you put it that way.”
Dana shifted the flame to the left of her face, moving through the lunar cycle. “It’s a trite saying, Lucky.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”
“I suppose this whole candle thing must look weird enough.” She lit her cigarette, placed the candle between us. “And no. But I am trying to get something through your thick skull.”
“You keep trying, and this conversation’s going to need its own table of contents.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“If you tell me in Esperanto, yeah, probably wouldn’t.”
“Sandra would forgive you…” Dana said. She exhaled with nervous puffs, eyes shimmering. Darting towards the ceiling, down to the floor. Now very different from the scheming chess player who had initiated this exchange. “She would forgive you, but if she found out about what happened, I wouldn’t get the same graceful response. Not for me, no way.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how women are with women.”
“That’s stupid.” I had a drink. “You don’t have to be a woman about anything. Same as I don’t have to be a man about anything.”
“Yeah. That’s because you’re a man.”
I reached for my drink. Changed my mind. Lit a cigarette, then followed through with a sip of Jack Daniel's. I opened my mou
th to say something, but was beaten by Dana.
“And don’t use a what if as an argument. You know better than that, Lucky.”
“So it’s lips locked and throw away the key?”
“If it’s not asking too much.”
I threw myself into the proposition. Settled back in my chair, crossed my legs. Tapped a brittle portion of ash onto the floor, and picked up my drink. Someone had forgotten to tend to the music. In the absence of steel drums and electric piano, conversations gave life to the voices in my head. Each convincing the other that this was my fault.
***
It wasn’t unusual for me to get a call at Creole Nights.
If I wasn’t in my room, there was a good chance I was boozing it up along with the rest, several feet below sea level.
First time Dana had ever bothered to call, that’s what marked the occasion.
Zephyr handed me the phone.
I snubbed out my cigarette, exchanged a second or so of pleasantries with her disembodied voice before she informed me: “We won’t be seeing each other anymore.”
I’ll never know why those words stung. At the time, I was so unwilling to understand, that I went along with it, gladly. Easily. “Ok.”
“Just thought you should know.”
“Ok.”
“Don’t want to know why?”
It was eight in the evening, and Creole Nights couldn’t have been more dead. Just me and Zephyr so far, but I pulled a bit of make-believe, so loud I had to say
“Sorry, Dana, you want to repeat that?”
“Fine, I’ll tell you.” I heard her sigh. “I’m sorry, but it turns out you’re just not a narcissist.”
We both knew it was too interesting for me to pretend I didn’t care. “What?”
“I just kind of figured you were.” Her voice resonated in my ear in a dispassionate electronic signal. “I thought it was interesting, I thought… well, anyway, it turns out I was wrong. You know one of the first signs of a narcissist?”
“No.”
“You call them a jerk, and they don’t give a fuck. You suggest they aren’t special, and they freak the fuck out… Before you and Sandra broke up, that’s what I always gathered from our talks, but I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
“You don’t want –”
“And the dead giveaway was when I asked you not to tell Sandra about us. I saw you think about it. Not about what was best for you but about what was right. You don’t kid yourself, Lucky. I mean, you do, for the most part. But not enough. You’re just not a real man, it turns out.”
I glanced around the bar. Empty. Nobody but me and Dana, so it was the perfect time to actually show that I cared. “You’re done with me because I gave a shit about your best friend?”
“I was hoping to get an in depth glimpse into the heart of a narcissist. Guess I blew the call.”
“Still and all, I did decide to fuck you.”
“Well, sure, Lucky…” Even over the phone, I could hear her chewing on the cap of a ball point pen. “That just means you’re an asshole. And nobody’s interested in those, they’re a dime a dozen.”
“So if I’m an asshole for going along with the lie, what’s that make you?”
“A psychology major.”
Damn it, she really was interesting after all. “Goodnight, Dana.”
I hung up.
Handed the phone to Zephyr.
He poured me another drink.
I gave the ice cubes their due respect, looked up. Saw Zephyr waiting to tell me what was what.
“Do you believe in hell, Zephyr?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you believe in a place where you…” Shit, even I didn’t believe in that. I regrouped. “Do you believe that God punishes us for our sins?”
“You ever been to Haiti?”
“No.”
“God doesn’t punish. If he even exists, he just redistributes. Unevenly, so good luck.”
“How long before I have to wait, then?” I asked.
“Until you do something truly evil.”
“And how will I know?”
“You’ll wind up in a church, cathedral, or some fucking place.”
“What do I do ’til then?”
Zephyr smiled. “Welcome to hell, Lucky… You just thank God it has a bar.”
The silver bell above the door jingled, and I jumped.
Looked over my shoulder.
Spent a good deal of years looking over each shoulder, before it all came back to rest on both of them.
But that’s another story, and I hate that you can’t wait to hear about it.
Edit the Clouds in the Sky, If You Have To.
We shared the bed last night. No wider than the surface area of a snack machine. No more comfortable. Lying on my back, stomach, either side, there was no avoiding some kind of contact. Hair, or skin, shoulder, or the back of her thigh. The rise and fall of her breath displaced the air around us. Kept me waking. Wondering. Nothing happened. And if it was ever going to, that would have been the day. That would have been the night.
Finley swept into frame. Replaced the empty husk of my gin and tonic with a fresh round. He peered at the shoebox I had set on the bar, its dusty lip brimming with cocktail napkins, stacked two by one. “What’s this, then, Lucky? Caught the cold, or something?”
“I feel fine.”
“You never feel fine. At least, you never look fine.”
“Didn’t have to make this my new home, you know.” I squeezed the lime, licked my fingers. “Had a perfectly good dive on Macdougal.”
“That was when you lived near Macdougal.”
He was right. The Bishop was the other end of the spectrum. A straight jacket turned inside out, all buckles and belts hidden from prying scientists. The bar was spotless, the wood varnished. Tables sturdy, kitchen open ‘till two in the morning. Bartenders every bit the professionals. White shirts tucked into black slacks. Didn’t drink on duty, and smoking behind the bar was akin to spitting in the drinks.
But they somehow turned professionalism into something warm.
And that wasn’t half bad considering where I had abandoned myself.
“For real, though, Lucky…” Finley propped his foot against the basin. Rested his arm on a raised knee. Quizzical look grazing beyond a pair of green pastures. Crew cut glowing a wild, Irish red. “What’s in the box?”
“Notes from the underground.”
“Feel obligated to warn you, son. A certain mad Russian beat you to the punch.”
“I’ll kill him.”
Sixth sense kicking in, Finley jettisoned himself down the bar to top off the regulars.
I drank my gin. Reached into the box, pulled out another handful of cocktail napkins and kept reading.
Milo, Jake Maxwell, Beatrice. They really don’t care for her. Thrown the whole lexicon at her feet, practically in her face. Stupid. Moron. Ditz. Idiot. I’ve told them, time and again, that if any of us could stomach the thought of sounding stupid to others, we’d be the most brilliant of all stars in the sky. You really haven’t experienced deaf ears until you’ve tried explaining anything to your friends.
An old man sporting an argyle cap and matching vest planted himself next to me. Bristled face, a red nose of fractured bones pointed to one of seven screens. Yellow eyes staring through rugby highlights.
He made a noise, trapped somewhere in the back of his throat.
Brought Finley marching down the length of the bar. “No! Out! Right now, Liam!” He pointed towards the doors. “I am not even joking!”
The old man shuffled away, garbled words found in translation.
“Right out the door, sir!” Finley yelled. “You’re not welcome here!”
Another croak from the old man.
“You’re not welcome here!” Finley repeated. Took a beat. Came in close for a better look at my box. Read the name scrawled on the side. “Who’s Anya, then?”
I lit a cigarette. “Som
ebody that I used to know.”
“Pretty name.”
“Pretty face to boot.” I did something with my lips. “Dazzling smile. Lips that went from ear to ear. Slight overbite. Brown eyes, shaped like birthstones. She was slender, but she wasn’t skinny. Best part of all, she never tried… Blonde hair tangled with darker shades.”
“Mm. Curtains match the drapes?”
“Carpet, Finley.”
“I’m tired.”
He left me alone with my napkins.
Caught a shift in the date, some five months later, in March.
And Anya was crossing the street at random. She caught my eye. Or I caught hers. She flashed that smile. Reached into her satchel and pulled out a check. “Got paid today. And I’m looking to buy.” There’s no saying no to that. We dug our way down into Creole Nights. Grabbed a seat by the door. Milo and Tarquin drinking beer. Myself with my Jack. Anya taking shots of Stolichnaya, demanding I match her for each one. Happy to oblige. Don’t know what it was. Maybe the circumstances. Wild cards. She went to buy another round of shots. Milo and Tarquin busying themselves with musician talk. As Anya got to the table, I got to my feet. Wrapped my arms around her and started dancing. Slowly. Even though the reggae was demanding something in a faster beat. I think I heard Zephyr crying out from behind the bar. Possibly more ecstatic than I was. And that was a tall order. Anya’s body pressed against mine, feeling the raw burn of vodka on my lips. And she was smiling. That’s what it was, she was smiling…
I finished my drink. Summoned the genie.
“Another one, Lucky?”
“Yeah. Just going to crawl my way to the jukebox, if you don’t mind…”
“Mind if I…?” he tapped his finger against the napkin.
“Go ahead.”
I picked out a few tunes. All from the same album.
Sat back down.
Finley set the napkins back on the bar. “This is really quite bad, Lucky. No joke, it’s kind of awful.”
“Can’t imagine anything grabbing your interest that wasn’t written along the dotted line of a credit card slip.”
“Now that’s mean, Lucky… mean, and actually well written.”
The jukebox got to my selections.
Finley shook his head. “Van Morrison? Really?”
“Not a fan myself.”
“Then for Christ’s sake, why?”
“You don’t have the Strange Days soundtrack.”
“I don’t even know what that is.” He rapped his knuckles against the bar.
Buyback.
Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs Page 10
