Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “Hard to believe?” she asked. “That he didn’t leave me on his own terms?”

  “I didn’t say that…”

  “Do you want me to turn off the light?”

  Travis nodded. He felt like a child.

  Kathy wandered over to the wall, flipped the switch. A sudden death to artificial light. She stood by the bathroom door, arms crossed. Barely hinting at her own hideousness. Travis liked her; was beginning to at least. But at least was still defined by a lone streetlight. White shadows poured into the room, and all things remained visible, just darker.

  “Do you want to close the blinds, Travis?”

  Travis coughed. “They don’t work.”

  He could still see her smile. “You should have reported that to the front desk.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. Didn’t think it would be… necessary?”

  “I see.”

  The two of them remained motionless. Out in the hallway, a couple giggled en route to some blissful destination. The clock flashed one-twenty in the morning. A truck blazed past the hotel, diesel noises bisecting the distance. Next door, the bed began to squeak, rhythmically. Kathy stood, arms crossed over what must have been breasts, watching Travis.

  And Travis just sat.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  “What was your husband like?”

  “I’ll dance for you.”

  “Dance?”

  “Just watch.”

  And Kathy began to dance. There wasn’t much music in the air that night. The bed next door continued to squeak, and she picked up the rhythm.

  Travis reached over, turned on the radio.

  Hoping to catch the some exotic frequency that would make this more manageable.

  Caught a bit of NPR, BBC telegraphing the latest news out of Somalia.

  “Well, that ain’t too good,” he said, hitting the switch.

  “Shut up and keep watching.”

  So Travis sat, watched her transform. There was no excuse, Travis thought. No excuse for whatever curse everyone was under. Kathy danced, moved her way closer to him, and he felt himself grow hard.

  She raised her lids, still dancing. Saw that something was working.

  “Close your eyes,” Kathy said.

  Travis closed his eyes, still thinking of her in motion. Kathy had stopped dancing, he knew that much, and suddenly her mouth was on his. Her tongue was covered with the inexplicable taste of apricot.

  Now that’s just fucking impossible, Travis thought, and returned the favor, both falling back on the bed. They kissed and her breath quickened. Travis embraced her, moved his hands over her thighs, ass, what might have been tits or her ribcage.

  There was something beautiful in this bed, and he unbuttoned her blouse.

  Kathy’s bra said goodbye in the midst of all that. Travis could only guess at this; his eyes were still closed. He moved down to her breasts, small and isolated, gave his eyes the opportunity to open. She made a few noises, played with what was left of his hair. He ran his hands across her belly.

  Travis thought for a moment that maybe things were supposed to work; that most predictions were solid truth, just poorly timed. He reached down and released the clasp of her pants, led the zipper down its trail. The rest of her clothes came off, and Travis moved down, not thinking, ignoring what the world might say or do or think about that night.

  She was already wet, and Travis moved along her second set of lips, ran his tongue every which way. She gasped, sighed, let a moan escape. Travis looked up, into her face. He stopped. Kathy looked down, realizing he was watching her. She rocked her head from side to side, moved her arms above her head and arched her back.

  And suddenly she was beautiful again.

  Travis went back to work, attacked her as she squirmed and cast aspersions against whichever God she worshiped. He wanted to take Kathy and level her entire body, that poor, unfortunate, ugly girl. He moved up, kissed her full on the mouth and she moved Travis onto her, guided, relaxed, and Travis slid in.

  The bed next door stopped squeaking.

  Travis moved with quick strokes and Kathy responded with more motion, grinding her hips, both of them headed towards something. She flipped Travis on his back and rode him, swinging her head wildly from side to side, blessing him with outlandish behavior. Kathy was only beautiful when she moved, and the two of them were under no illusions.

  Travis sat up and rocked against her. The streetlight washed over them but it didn’t matter anymore. Kathy laid back, fingers wrapped around his ankles.

  They moved together, moved together, moved together.

  Kathy tried to throw herself back into missionary, and the two fell out of bed, onto the carpeted floor.

  Travis made to get up, but Kathy grabbed him by the neck, drew him back inside of her.

  “No,” she panted. “Don’t stop. We can’t.”

  And Travis drove forward. Sweat broke out all along their bodies as they moved. Sweat and agony dripped off their skin and abandoned them, because there was enough of that in the world. Too much, in fact.

  With every thrust, they inched their way along the floor. Matched by every breath, far too quick to be timed or monitored. Halfway across the room and the rug burned Kathy’s back, static building, but there was no ending to any of it. Travis grunted, Kathy cried out. They were at the edge of the bathroom. Kathy’s upper back pressed against the cold tiles and the sanitation strip on the toilet smiled down at them.

  Kathy took Travis by his fading hair, bore into his eyes as he worked.

  “Say my name, Travis,” she ordered.

  “What…?”

  She thrust against him. “Say my name, Travis, or this won’t happen.”

  He didn’t want to. His wife was dead and gone, scheduled for burial in a little less than half a day.

  “Say it Travis, say my name!”

  Travis worked and worked and he felt himself getting close.

  “SAY MY FUCKING NAME, TRAVIS!”

  “Kathy…”

  “SAY IT AGAIN!”

  He followed her orders to the very word.

  They pressed against each other.

  She cried out, demanding more of the same.

  He screamed her name.

  One of their names; Kathy or Kathy, it was up to the wallpaper to decide as she reciprocated with her own violent shriek.

  Travis came, eyes closed, head aimed at the ceiling. There was a moment of pure, ideal agony as the two held onto each other, fingernails digging into skin. The universe laughed, unhinged, at the pair, as Travis collapsed on top of her.

  They remained still for two solid hours.

  ***

  It was unreal to Travis, how Kathy checked him out of his room. She was behind the desk, printing out a receipt. His bag hung loosely in his arm. Affectionate morning sunlight rolled in through the windows, and Kathy had become ugly again.

  Strange world.

  “I wish you could stay another night,” she said.

  “They’re putting my ex-wife into the ground today.”

  “Kathy’s funeral, I know.”

  “Funeral for parts of her, I guess.”

  Travis took the receipt, pocketed it. He stood by the desk a while longer. Kathy stared at a nearby ashtray. Diminutive and expectant in her uniform. Travis thought he should say something.

  “I’ll see you, Kathy.”

  “Travis?”

  “Yeah?”

  She was ugly.

  Bone ugly, no doubt about it.

  But she knew how to smile and Travis was still amazed, even at that last moment in the lobby. She smiled, scratched the tip of her nose and sighed.

  “You should come back to see me, Travis,” she said. “We wouldn’t have to get married, but we could pretend to settle down somewhere else. We could sit around, fuck, have ourselves a couple of ugly children and they could grow up and have ugly children of their own.”

  Travis gave the premise its due. Serious
ly thought what might happen if anything did happen. His ex-wife’s funeral was only a few hours away, and he would have done anything to just let go. Forget everything up to that point and simply leave Kathy behind.

  He waited, one last chance to decipher the two.

  “Goodbye, Travis.”

  Travis nodded. “Goodbye, Kathy.”

  He waited for another instant for something else to take place. When it didn’t, Travis turned and walked through the automatic doors, down the handicap ramp, and into his car. The engine started easily and within minutes he was tearing past scenery and billboards. Hot models and hot wings. Travis floored the accelerator and moved forward. He passed a sign to his right reading LOS ANGELES, 350 MILES.

  To his left, a deer, dead on the side of the road. Probably clipped by a passing truck.

  Its insides poured onto the tar, and flies cautiously walked along the surface of its lifeless eyes.

  Rest Assured.

  What I found was that NYPD wouldn’t hassle me, long as I brought along a good book. All suspicions allayed by the paperback spread across my face. This was how I made the most of dawn through late morning. Anything past eleven am was too damn hot. Dreams cremated in a nuclear furnace. Soon after, the monotony of waiting for sundown would set in. I would watch the city, or wander in and out of tourist snapshots, the shady sides of Manhattan streets committed to memory. Slowly wind my way uptown, toting my worn duffle bag. Wait ‘til ten and wander into The Bishop. Cool off with gin and tonics, monitor the buyback. Let closing time roll around and sometimes I got lucky. Managed to make my way home with someone. Most times, I would head west. Find a rock in Central Park and rest for a few hours. Precognition always had me on my feet before being found, and it was back to the East Village on the 6. Washington Square. Settled beneath a decent tree as sunrise approached, falling asleep between the pages of Douglass Adams. Four hours of shuteye for every night. Hardly sustainable, but my remaining days in the Apple were drawing to a close.

  It was just a matter of staying alive and out of jail.

  ***

  Another blast of UV rays had me up and wandering towards Third.

  Knees aching. Throat constricting from the reek of boiling garbage.

  Thought I’d take shelter in Castlebar for one hot minute.

  Empty, save for Steffi, who was searching behind the bar.

  She tilted her face to match the moon, soft skin and sunburned cheeks. Brown eyes taking in my packed possessions. Darting up towards the green blades resting in my hair. Tied her own in a pony tail and motioned for me to sit down.

  The five-foot elf at the inn.

  “Heard you moved out,” she said

  I nodded. Sat down real slow. “Way out.”

  “Yeah, way out, looks like.” She tossed a coaster before me. “Feel as though your friends probably would have let you crash there a little while longer.”

  “Those idiots? Maybe.”

  “Still, you don’t look bad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you look tired.”

  “I am. A little.”

  “Wish I didn’t have to worry about you.”

  Glanced at my wrist. “Train leaves in five days.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Steffi.”

  “Wow.” She reached down, pulled out a pint glass. Scooped some ice. “That does make me worry. Tell you what…” She pumped some water, set the glass on the bar. “You drink three of these and I’ll set you up with a Greyhound or two.”

  Five minutes later, there was the sickly mystery of grapefruit and vodka.

  Helped myself to a bent cigarette from a soft pack of Reds.

  Steffi sparked a match and smiled through the smoke.

  Morning whistled in through the windows, set at street level. Illuminated projections inching their way across the floor. I ran my tongue over the roof of my mouth and exhaled.

  “You look so happy you could cry,” Steffi said.

  “I feel…” tapped into an ashtray, read the tea leaves. “I feel far away.”

  “You’re tired.”

  “I’m twenty-two.”

  “What are you going to do when you get to North Carolina?”

  “Keep on crossing my fingers, I don’t know. Keep trying to write my way out of this paper bag.”

  “Want to see some art?”

  “Long as it’s yours.”

  “It is.”

  I took a swallow of grapefruit and Aristocrat, motioned with my cigarette.

  She placed the binder on the bar. Opened. Cardboard cutouts, multicolored, cautiously pasted along the surface. Two mercifully abstract bear cubs on a subway platform, staring up at an alligator in a wool cap.

  “Is this the one about the bear cubs lost in New York?”

  “The alligator is homeless.”

  “I like it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes…” The ice in my drink shifted. “Though I hear children’s lit is a bitch to break into.”

  “Neither one of us is doing so hot,”

  “No.”

  “You ever meet with the woman from the agency?” she asked.

  “She told me to grow up. Write about my family. Gen-X nonsense. Gave me a few cheat sheets, best sellers from her shelf, and told me to try her again in a few years.”

  “You’re empty.” Steffi went to pour me another greyhound. “And you just hang in there, Lucky.”

  “Thank you.” I lit another cigarette. “Guess we’ll both do just that, then.”

  She smiled.

  Left me to my drink for five minutes, which led to another, which led to lemons.

  “Think you can run to the corner for me?” she asked. Slapped a fin on the counter. “Get me six or so ‘til Rowan gets here?”

  “I was born ready.”

  “Ok, but can you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Also…” She pulled out a ten-spot from her apron. Leaned in close, even though it was just us and the known universe. “Think you can pick me up a pack of tampons? I hope this isn’t strange for you.”

  I took the ten, the five. “Write out the brand, though. To the letter.”

  “And I’m going to need a receipt for the lemons.”

  “I’ll try not to get them confused.”

  “I’ll try not to, either.”

  “You win.”

  Popped an ice cube into my mouth and laced up.

  My eyes crackled audibly in the sunlight. Shoes narrowly missing a friendly reminder from some neighborhood dog. Ducked into the deli and scanned my list. Went to the counter. Paid for the lemons. Placed the tampons down and searched for the ten. The girl at the register was pushing sixteen. First generation, no accent to match the other Koreans taking inventory. She made change. Smiled at me.

  “Hope your girlfriend knows what she’s got.”

  “There’s always hope.” I glanced down. Extracted a crumpled bill and laid it down. “I’m taking a pack of Sour Patch Kids.”

  “There’s two dollars here.”

  I picked up a copy of the Times on my way out, then

  Brought it all home and organized the change, receipts.

  Handed Steffi her sweets.

  “You always remember,” she said. “You’re a good friend, Lucky.”

  “I’m shit.”

  “You’re tired.”

  “Yeah.”

  Steffi carried her tampons around the bar. “When I get back, you go get some rest.”

  I nodded. Turned to my drink. Figured my free ride was up.

  Gas, grass, or ass.

  Still, as far as momentary reprieves went, this one had been an A+. There was something to be said for counting the minutes based on the contents of a drink. I’d killed a good hour off the streets, and now there were only nine or so left to kill me. And those odds weren’t bad. Not bad in the –

  “Ok, Lucky.” Steffi returned, wiping wet hands on the back of her jeans. “All good.
Head on back, get comfortable.”

  “What?”

  “Well, finish your drink, of course. I know how you feel about wounded soldiers.”

  I felt my lids manicure what was left of understanding. “I was just thinking –”

  “Oh, he’s thinking, now,” Steffi said. “It’s getting worse.” She took my arm. Guided me from my stool and towards the back, where an open floor of empty tables gathered before an barren stage. A built-in bench stretched along the wall, small portion turning in, hidden from the bar by an overreaching podium and soundboard.

  “Here,” she said... “Lie down.”

  She stretched me out. Took off my shoes and tucked them beneath the bench. Hadn’t noticed her taking the time, but there was my duffle. She fluffed it once, twice. Gently laid my head to rest.

  “You know none of our regulars makes their way back here… you’re good until at least five.”

  “Five.”

  “Get some rest, Lucky.”

  “There was a girl named Melody. And also Sandra…”

  “Sleep them off.”

  She left me to try and recap what I thought I had started back at the bar.

  As far as momentary reprieves went, this one hadn’t been bad.

  And then it wasn’t anything.

  System crash, sending me to sleep.

  Final thoughts that one or two people like Steffi every one or two years might be just enough to make it around that next corner.

  One Day Your Life Will Change.

  Woke up well past the hour with a lonesome, carnivorous headache.

  Par for the course.

  Par for the course, I mumbled, stepping into the shower.

  Plump, greedy drops of water pummeled my body. I leaned against the tiled wall. Face to face with the mildew, arms folded over my abdomen. Fingers tapping against my ribs. Mouth dry, eyes doing no better against dusty lids. Bones aching. Throat coated in Marlboro tar. Par for the course, realizing with unease that this had become my waking routine for nearly every day. Nearly every day for the past couple of years.

  I stared through the small, square window. Thirty floors up had a way of making modernity appear terrifyingly serene. A line of ants marching across the Triborough Bridge. Rikers Island and its eponymous prison floating nonchalantly in the East River. Shay Stadium a gaping crater on the horizon.

  I yawned. Deep breath, inviting a stream of water down the wrong pipe.

  Flung the shower curtain aside in time to bend at the waist and throw up into the toilet.

  Some of it landed on my left arm.

  No worries. All I had to do was straighten up, and there I was; back in the shower.