Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

Then it just plain went away. “Fuck you, Lucky.”

  She pulled a one-eighty and walked back to the end of the bar.

  Left me with a shot of beam and a thoroughly mystified bartender.

  “What the fuck just happened, Lucky?” Finley asked.

  “It’s a game,” I replied tersely.

  “Don’t look like no fucking game, son.”

  “It is.” I tossed my shot back, turned in my seat. “Another round, if you would, Finley.”

  He did as he was told, then left well enough alone.

  I let myself go numb for another two rounds, at least. Even managed to steal a few looks down Ana’s way. Felt the taste of her mouth fade. Lost to a curious, empty tingle, slowly spreading along the surface of my skin.

  A group of revelers burst out laughing some ten feet away.

  A punchline that never made it to my seat.

  Wasn’t long before my shoulder was met with a hearty smack.

  I came out of my trance, saw that Danny Nelligan had already nested himself alongside. Considerably less drunk than last night. Wearing his suit with a bit more style than his drunken twin some twenty-four hours ago.

  “Howdy-do, Lucky.”

  “Evening.” I lit a casual cigarette. “What’s the story with Ana?”

  “She had to cut out. Some kind of party FHM is hosting downtown.” He helped himself to one of my smokes. “Said she was going to invite you to come along. I didn’t figure it would be your scene. Thought I’d stick around to hang with you for a bit.”

  “She was going to invite me?”

  “Said you understood more than you cared to let on. Don’t know what she meant by that.”

  “Mm.”

  “Said you passed the color test.”

  “Oh.”

  Finley came by with a fresh beer, and the question on everyone’s lips. “What’s up with Ana?”

  Danny blinked. “Why do you ask?”

  Finley gave me a respectful look.

  I cleared him for the go ahead.

  In a few short phrases, Finley laid it all down. So simple, it stung. Set my lids battling against the smoke.

  “Huh.” Danny scratched his nose, amiably detached. “She’s a strange girl. I got the idea that you two were pretty much a thing now.”

  Finley beat me to it. “What was that, now?”

  “According to her, Lucky and her were now, I guess… Kind of seeing each other now.”

  Finley and I shared a look.

  He held up his hand. “Wait –”

  “Wait.” I swallowed, bit down hard on my cheek.

  “That means –”

  “Wait –”

  “That means –”

  “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  I took a drag. “So Ana just broke up with me.”

  “Sorry, Lucky.”

  “Finley?”

  “Yeah.”

  I put out my cigarette. “Double Jack on the rocks, please.”

  “On the double, son.”

  Finley did me good.

  I took my double down in a few programmed gulps. Felt the music fade. Televisions growing dim. All senses abandoning me except the ones that had truly overstayed their welcome.

  From the far end of the tunnel, I called out for another drink.

  “You sure?” Finley asked. “Don’t want the coppers hassling me again.”

  “Cops?” Danny asked, still living in oblivion. “When was this?”

  Slice of pepperoni and a dead albino.

  The night didn’t end with the cops. I wasn’t cut off. No pepperoni, no dead albino. I closed the place down. Last man standing, alone as the clock struck four.

  Even had the good sense to settle my tab. Squinting against house lights as I totaled the tip and signed. One last useless glance to the door, before walking through it myself.

  Eventually, the frost melted.

  Spring came around to pay us all a visit. Flowers bloomed. The sun shone a little more brightly. Trees resurrected, not a trace of envy to be found in that lovely, everlasting green.

  The city had erased all signs of winter.

  And I wish the same could be said for me.

  Roadkill.

  Travis and Kathy had only been married a few months before she told him she was leaving him for someone more attractive. Better-looking was the term she used. Kathy was a stunning woman; shapely legs triangulating with a knockout figure, taking a page from perfect, alert eyes. The whole package, and at their wedding she had cried harder and louder than anyone watching. She had sobbed, close to wailing as she choked out her vows. Travis watched the tears eagerly drop into the valley between her breasts. The newlyweds kissed, and her snot made its way into Travis’ mouth.

  After the divorce, Kathy moved west with her newfound love. Travis and his unmercifully receding hairline stayed behind, alone in their two bedroom house. Windows looking out over a tattered front yard, remaining panes lined alongside neighboring houses. Inside wasn’t much better; just cardboard Kathy had never bothered to unpack. All of them stacked against the white walls, and Travis thought those boxes must have known his wife would leave him.

  When he got the call, Travis was caught off guard. Tackled sideways. A boot to the stomach, doubled over with unexpected spasms. Ever since, nights had been spent envisioning Kathy pinned under a car, falling out of a window, choking to death on an apple. A Rolodex of death sentences. Blood spurting, bones crunching, no discrimination as long as her last moments were spent in an unrecognizable pulp of agony and regret…

  If only I had never left poor, dear, sweet Travis.

  And now his work was complete.

  Travis screamed at the walls, refused to accept responsibility, then went about his plans…

  The funeral was five days pending. No point in rushing things; Carolina to California was more than doable. Travis threw a few bags into his sickly, beige hatchback, and made tracks for Los Angeles.

  The world became a singular blur for the next twenty-four hours. Nice and hypnotic.

  Having frayed every last nerve, he stopped at a motel. Howard Johnson, maybe. Answer unclear, his decision based purely on the word VACANCY.

  Travis picked up a loaf of Wonder Bread, block of cheddar at a nearby convenience store. His second pit stop, a liquor store with burnt out neon signs. He bought a bottle of red, and an opener while he was at it. Outside, an old man with soiled clothes and ruined teeth stopped him in his tracks.

  “Hey, man, you look like you got a dollar.”

  Travis gave him two, and stepped into his car.

  That night, Travis ate the entire loaf of bread and watched headlights drift over the ceiling. The bottle of wine by his side grew lighter in weight, timed perfectly to the tune of the air conditioning. When he did sleep, finally, he dreamt of highways and supermodels. Each one naked and exact, reminding him of Kathy. They melted into the horizon, and before Travis could play catch up, it was time to wake up. Pay the fine and keep moving.

  ***

  Within days he was almost there. And with each new signpost, Travis struggled with the idea of arrival. Zeno’s paradox for the chronically alone. Five hours to go before reaching LA, and he decided to stop. Spend the night outside Cali in one last motel.

  Travis parked. Pulled the brake. He popped the trunk and removed his bag. Cars blew past on the highway, big rigs creating timid, impermanent dust devils. Afternoon sunlight cast a homogeneous veil through gray clouds. Closing the trunk, Travis crossed the near-vacant parking lot.

  Inside, he was greeted by an abandoned counter adorned with miniature American flags. He rang the bell and waited. Behind him, a doorway led to an empty room; light brown walls and a set of tables awaiting next day’s complimentary breakfast. An industrial strength vacuum cleaner stood in the middle. Overweight and confused.

  Looking out the windows, Travis noticed the sun had come out again.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Travis turned back
to the counter.

  He was confronted by one of the ugliest women he’d ever seen.

  Ugly.

  Her hair was pulled into a bun, glorifying every last hideous anomaly. Her eyes were sad and drooping, a pair of viscous puddles. Nose arguing the case for three separate directions. Mouth slanted, scales of justice barely balancing out her jutting cheekbones. A few plain brown strands plastered flat against blemished skin. Even her makeup appeared to be making sly motions towards the nearest exit.

  “I’d like a room,” Travis said, trying not to stare.

  “Are you single?”

  He balked.

  She frowned. “Single room? Double?”

  “Single. For the night.”

  Her face was a melting ice sculpture.

  “All right, sir,” she said, voice trembling, amiable. “Do you smoke?”

  For some reason, Travis didn’t understand the question. “Yes.”

  “So smoking? Your room, sir?”

  Travis blinked, “Yes.”

  Goddammit, she was ugly. Her body modeled after a thousand toothpicks, all angles and no curves. It was a wonder she even had tendons to speak of. Travis was positive it would be any moment before one of her limbs simply clattered to the floor, followed by nothing more than a stilted apology from that ugly, wayward mouth.

  She typed a few strokes into the computer.

  Travis’ bag hung loosely in his arm.

  “Room thirty-five, sir,” she said, handing him the key.

  “Thirty-five… that’s how old I am, you know that?”

  “No, sir.” She stared into a glass ashtray. “I’m thirty-one.”

  Travis thanked her and took the key. He went outside, ascended a flight of stairs and took a left. Down a corridor soaked with the smell of chlorine. He counted the rooms, one by one, eventually stopping at thirty-five. The key slid right into the slot, perfect fit.

  Travis dumped his luggage in the closet, turned on the television. He thought about ordering an adult feature from SpectraVision. Didn’t bother, figured VH1 was a poor man’s alternative. Occasional music videos, coupled with celebrity skin, enough to make the mind wander. He lit a cigarette and watched the walls. Seven minutes passed, and he lit another one. Travis thought about calling in to work, explaining his absence, but stopped short of reaching for the phone. He was fine. As long as he kept on moving, there weren’t nothing that could possibly change.

  He thought about his first few weeks as a married man, settled.

  Those thoughts only lasted a minute or so, and soon after, Travis fell asleep.

  Face pressed against the snow-white pillows of his temporary bed.

  ***

  There was no town.

  That was the story with most of America. No town, just farms, houses, highway strips.

  Travis knew this and didn’t bother searching for any native cuisine or entertainment. He sat in his room, watching the sun fall past his window. Next door, a couple managed to make their bed squeak a few times. Nothing exciting, just something in general. That orange ball finally descended on the horizon, forced him to turn on the lights.

  Travis showered. Faded tiles gathered steam. He wrapped himself in a towel, stared at his reflection in the mirror: bushy eyebrows and flat features. Hairy, half developed chest. Thick forearms out of sync with skinny legs. A caveman with the basic ability to use modern appliances.

  This, Travis thought, is why Kathy ran away.

  A small rhyme ran through his head and he hummed tunelessly, chipper notes unable to reconcile with those words:

  Ran far away, to LA, only to find herself dead one day.

  ***

  And so Travis ended up in the cramped hotel bar.

  Dim lights cast shadows, and his bourbon cast a glow. The jukebox belched out top-twenty mega hits, and the bartender had been working point for thirty years. Some customers were regulars, others guests. Traveling sales reps, truckers, local workers and random exceptions. Hard to tell the difference. Everyone drank, smoked, eyes decayed by disinterest. This was one of the few places people could come together. Local taverns replaced by motels, franchised menus, and half-priced margaritas.

  In the midst of all this, Travis signaled the waitress for another drink. She flashed a papier-mache smile, freshly glued, and five minutes later returned with another shot. He sipped, looked down through the table, thinking about what to say at the funeral. What to say to the man with a face of chiseled abs, and how to mean it. The man had taken Kathy away from him and it was all genetics. Now Kathy was dead and it was all nothing. A pretty face wouldn’t bring back the dead.

  Cheers and aroused hollers erupted at the bar.

  Travis joined in without thinking.

  Stopped when he saw what the fuss was about.

  A woman was dancing. There in the middle of the floor, a woman was dancing by herself. She spun in circles, moved her hips, raised her arms reaching for the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, and she smiled.

  Travis couldn’t bear to look away.

  She mainlined the music through her entire body, drops of sweat on her forehead, graceful face, half conscious and serene. A cheesy disco ball did all it could to keep up with her. Isolated spotlights covered with red and gold gels. Everyone watched her motions and some thought about sex. Some thought about sex with her, pressed against clean sheets, watching that face and body move, baby, move.

  It was all Travis could think about.

  He watched her dance, pulse quickening. Took down the last of his shot, set the glass down, and the song ended.

  Applause flooded the room. Travis couldn’t bring himself to clap, just kept his eyes on the woman as she walked to the bar, sat down and ordered a drink. Just a few stools down, with her back facing him. Travis signaled the waitress. His drink arrived. Travis lit a cigarette, trying to catch what he could. Sweat clung to her shoulder blades. Men walked over, talked a bit of game, then lost interest and walked away. Travis sat and drank. A few others approached her, men with business on their minds, wives a million miles away. Wedding bands tucked into their pockets alongside baleful erections.

  And then they were gone.

  Something wasn’t making sense.

  The woman remained alone, unmoving.

  And without meaning to, Travis was suddenly behind her: “Excuse me…”

  She turned to face him.

  It was the woman from the front desk. The one who checked him in.

  The ugly woman.

  It’s the ugly woman, Travis thought desperately.

  She smiled, that slanted mouth betraying far too much honesty.

  Travis didn’t know what to say.

  “You’re the thirty-five year old,” she said.

  “You’re the thirty-one year old,” Travis managed. There was no explanation. He had seen the dancing woman walk from the middle of the room to that exact seat. And now she was gone, replaced by this other thing.

  What?

  Who the fuck was responsible for this?

  “Would you like to sit down?” She asked.

  No. “Ok.”

  Travis sat down, ordered a bourbon from the bartender, double.

  “What’s your name, again? ” she asked.

  “Travis.”

  “I’m Kathy.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my wife’s name. Ex-wife’s name, Kathy.”

  “Oh.” She scratched the tip of her nose apologetically.

  “She left me for someone more attractive…” Travis thought about it, why he had said that. He looked into her eyes, then back to his drink. Then back to her eyes. “I saw you dance.”

  Her face softened and Travis saw guilt somewhere in there.

  “You’re very good,” he assured her. Compensating.

  Kathy stared at her hands, a little more hair below the knuckles than either one of them would have liked. “I know.”

  Travis nodded, kept nodding and didn’t say
anything else. Music kept playing, and the men at the bar kept looking over, trading phrases, looking over. Travis missed Kathy, the dead one. The Kathy next to him stayed silent. Travis stole glances at her every now and then. Three or four more songs played on the box and outside, a gaping highway stretched out towards Los Angeles.

  “I’m only attractive when I move,” Kathy said abruptly, not looking at him. “I’m only attractive when I’m moving, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  Exactly what he was wondering, but he didn’t have the balls to say it.

  “Not like I’m moving now,” Kathy continued. “I have to be moving somewhere, towards something, see? I don’t know why, but I can’t be beautiful just sitting here and talking. I have to move, you know? Dance, or walk across a room… or fuck, see?” She turned to him. “I’ve lived here all my life, Travis.”

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  “And go where?”

  Travis lit a cigarette and watched her drink.

  ***

  The door closed behind them. Travis threw his key on the bed. He remained standing, in the middle of the room. Kathy took off her coat and left it on the floor. She leaned against the television.

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” she said, smiling crookedly.

  Teeth rioting against her lips.

  “Where are you supposed to be?”

  “Anywhere but here. Company policy. I can’t spend the night in any of our rooms.”

  Travis didn’t say anything. Kathy was looking uglier than before. It was an ugly room, maybe that was it. An ugly room in the middle of nowhere.

  “We could have a drink,” Kathy suggested.

  Travis poured a bourbon into separate plastic cups.

  He gave himself a considerable amount more.

  Kathy accepted hers without a word. They downed the bourbon and Travis poured them another. He sat on the bed and looked at the clock. Digital numbers flashed one in the morning.

  Wasn’t sure what time zone he was in, but he was fairly certain it that it was the same as Los Angeles. He thought about Kathy’s body, his Kathy’s body.

  The clock flashed one past one in the morning.

  “What are you thinking about, Travis?”

  “Clocks.”

  “Clocks?”

  “Clocks and my ex-wife.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dead.”

  “So is my ex-husband.”

  Travis was relieved to have finally come across such a bridge. “You were married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he leave you?”

  “He died. I just told you he died.”

  Travis tightened his jaw, felt his ass clench.