Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Why?”

  “I mean…” I paused. “No, wait. Really, now: Are you out of your mind?”

  “What are you actually trying to ask me?”

  I was about to repeat myself once more, when I caught him grinning at me.

  Drunk, no doubt. And in an undeniable sort of way, yes, clearly out of his mind for the time being.

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  I gave my own skinny, weather-beaten body the once over.

  Didn’t like what I saw, but had a feeling he didn’t agree with me.

  “Oh.”

  He nodded, knowingly. “And here I am.”

  “Can’t say I’m happy about that.”

  “Do gay people make you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, come on. Gay people make you totally nervous.”

  “You were gay a few hours ago,” I told him. Thinking of all that money, crammed at a table, lost amongst family portions of puttanesca and veal scaloppini. “Now you’re gay and about to lose your job because you thought the prudent thing to do would be to come on back down here and ask me what my name was. A gay madman, yes, sorry, makes me a little nervous, because here you am.”

  Blain found this incredibly funny, laughed and ordered us some drinks. “Well, thanks for that. I guess you’re right. But please don’t just think that I’m down here because of you.”

  “You’re about to lose your job, who cares what I think?”

  “That’s the point, I guess…” Blain sighed. “Oh, look at this suit.”

  “Ok.”

  “Just look at it…” He tugged at his tie, yanked it over his head. Gave it a home in his pocket. “I don’t know, I’m so tired of my job, my life. I needed a change. I saw you. I used you to come back down here. Hell, I want to get fired. I can’t stand my job.”

  I sighed. “But if I hadn’t been here?”

  “What if it hadn’t rained?” he asked.

  “Then neither one of us would’ve been down here.”

  “So it’s not your fault.”

  “But once it started raining?”

  “Hey, I don’t know about tomorrow.” He reached for his drink. “Time being, I noticed you haven’t left. What’s keeping you here?”

  “Waiting for a call from my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re all waiting, all waiting. Grab your drink, let’s get drunk. You owe me that much.”

  I didn’t think I did, but couldn’t argue the point. Reached for my drink. “Here’s to you, Blain.”

  “Here’s to you, Lucky.”

  Daylight was gone, baby, gone.

  ***

  The three of us were seated at a table.

  Myself, Blain, and Helena.

  She hadn’t bothered to call. I guess she knew me too well. Knew that I would still be underground, working my way through an armada of drinks. Wandered through the door around ten. Took it all in stride as I introduced her to Blain, illuminated through drunken lips the implosion of a once great executive lapdog.

  She was used to this sort of thing from me.

  Not a second thought as Blain offered to buy us dinner.

  Helena opened her arms. “First, my hug.”

  She came in at five foot one, a collection of impossible, thrilling curves. White button-down shirt meeting a pair of black slacks. Face made up from her hosting shift at Bolo. Red lips stretching out across her face in an entertained, harlequin grin. Oval eyes glittering green, the massacred colors of happy confusion, genuine interest and naïve confusion.

  I have to admit, it wasn’t a bad night. Not at all what I expected. Helena and I shared a plate of plantains, beans and rice. Blain had a dose of pork, seasoned two steps short of what he claimed was pure heaven. Rice and beans.

  Bottle of wine for the three of us.

  “So this is like your last meal,” Helena said, still giggling over a recent joke. “Huh, Blain? Condemned man, spending his last night here?”

  “Yeah, looks like that.”

  “You don’t seemed so bummed about poor Blain,” I told her, squeezing her thigh.

  She patted her belly. “A receding tide sinks all boats.”

  Blain laughed, almost cried as he wiped his mouth, downed his wine.

  Topped us all off.

  From the kitchen, Jason stopped in to inquire about the meal. Bald head and thick lips decorating a prominent shelf of white, spaciously stationed teeth.

  We gave him the ok.

  “You know, I’m going to start culinary classes in just a few months,” he told us.

  We raised our glasses on his behalf with unbridled cheer.

  Jason grinned bashfully. “Yes, thank you. Thank you.”

  “Culinary classes!” Blain proclaimed. Jacket hanging on some forgotten barstool, shirt unbuttoned down along a perfectly waxed chest. “That’s wonderful, my friend. You follow that dream, do what you want to do. What you were meant to do.”

  He made to put a hand on Jason’s arm, and slid out of his seat in the process.

  We helped him back to the table.

  Jason did his share, promptly retreating back to the kitchen.

  “Maybe it’s time we all went home,” Helena suggested, laughing. “You ok, there?”

  “Yeah,” Blain said. Leaned back and stole one of my cigarettes. “You have any brothers or sisters, Helena?”

  “Older sister, younger sister.”

  “Ah. Classic middle-child syndrome.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” She laughed. It was perfect, melodic. A reminder of what had kept me from slipping off the deep end, something along the lines of a wish. “Classically in the middle of my older and younger sister, sure.”

  “I had a brother, you know.” Blain took a drag of his cigarette, coughed. Coughed some more, waving away our concern before taking another hit. More balanced this time. Picked up his glass of wine. “Had a twin brother.”

  Helena and I glanced at each other. By default, she knew it was my turn to ask. “Had?”

  “Oh, he died.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “No big deal. Never even knew about him. Found out the day I told my parents I was gay.”

  Even with this grim revelation, Helena couldn’t stop herself from reaching for a plantain.

  I gave her a look.

  She gave me shrug, popped it in her mouth.

  At that moment, I couldn’t have loved anyone more.

  “No big deal,” Blain repeated. “I got kicked out of my house. My mother, a fine upstanding Catholic, told me that the very sight of me made her want to vomit. A fag for a son. A degenerate fag, that was me. And my father just went on a litany, speculating, listing in surprisingly graphic detail all the nasty things I had probably done with other men. And with surprising accuracy…”

  Blain sniffed, almost smiling. “And then they added… your brother would have never done this to us.”

  “And suddenly, it turns out you once had a brother,” I said.

  “For about five minutes... guess it was enough for them to know God had made the wrong choice.”

  The Erikah Badu mix slipped into rotation, encouraging us all to catch a four leaf clover.

  “In one of those strange twists, I guess I owe them,” Blain slurred. “I was out on my own, but I made it into the Wharton School. All on my own. Had to deal with the men who run this planet, the guys who… I don’t know, could be worse. Could have ended up trading securities, those guys…” he was mumbling, then suddenly brought back to the moment. “Kicked my parents in the balls, though. Rose up, worked my ass off. Ended up where I am.” He took a look around. “Ended up down here.”

  “And now you’re going to end up fired,” I concluded. Sighed. “I really am sorry, Blain. Sorry about this whole mess.”

  “What for?” He lifted a glass of scotch, paused before drinking. “Someday
, your life will change.”

  The drink never made it to his lips, suit drenched in Black Label as Zephyr sent me the signal.

  Cut off.

  ***

  We stood on Macdougal, a thoroughly saturated city now breathing in the empty skies.

  Reborn.

  “How you getting home?” I asked. One arm wrapped around Helena’s waist, the other shaking his hand. “Want us to call you a cab?”

  He shook his head, eyes closed against the bright yellow sign of Creole Nights. “No.”

  And that would have to be the last word he ever said to me.

  As for the last I ever saw of him, it was his uneven steps, slouching his way towards Bleeker Street. Arms limp and pendulous. Turning the corner to see what was waiting around that bend.

  ***

  Helena’s room was dark, save for neutral streetlights, forcing their fingers through plastic shutters.

  She held me close, curled in her bed. Face to face.

  Her eyes were closed.

  Mine simply would not shut. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Maybe he heads down to work tomorrow,” I whispered. “Walks into that ugly fucking tower, takes the elevator up into the skies, and maybe he salvages something. Maybe those overseas accounts had the adventure of a lifetime, just like us.”

  “It wasn’t the adventure of a lifetime.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She sighed. Opened her eyes.

  As the exceptional quality of our evening began to fade, her eyes grew sad. “Maybe he’ll never go back. And maybe it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  I gave her a light kiss. “I really did try.”

  “Huh?”

  “Or maybe I didn’t.”

  “Lucky. It’s late.”

  “Ok.” I kissed her forehead. Stroked the back of her neck. “Goodnight.”

  She smiled. Giggled a little.

  “What?”

  She sighed. “One day, your life will change.”

  Helena fell asleep on the promise of those words.

  I remained awake on the wings of that same rainy wish, frightened into watching the sunrise, eyes dry and bleeding, all the while asking myself, Lucky Saurelius, what have you done?

  Mistaken Identity.

  it was day four of my bender on that second day of 2001. same horizon on either side of the equator. hideous daylight. ruthless nights projected along Verona streets. fresh enemies. tragic rounds of one-pocket. shattered fifths of Kentucky Gentleman. bruised ribs. the sad laughter of a busted house, queens full of bullets. death threats. nameless psychopaths in the parks and winding side roads. this is what it meant to lay low. no occasion to come up for air. there were creatures waiting just above the surface. wild animals, sirens, corpses, spiders, misshapen dolls. sentient balloons. a sea of lethal imagination. best to stay beneath with the liars, drunks and thieves. lungs bleeding. aching joints held in place with tar and cotton filters. smoke curling from my lips, up towards the stucco ceiling. head resting against a floor-bound mattress. one hand curled around a bottle of flat Korbel. the other scribbling a couple of ill-chosen words along a yellow notepad. something about Sonia’s window. mellow hue of a soft bulb by the desk. sixty watts reflecting off Joel’s midnight skin as he popped in another track from the rack. Band of Gypsies. watched him lay back in his chair. arms crossed. a six-three arachnid, sending a smile to Bianca. let my own eyes drift towards her, seated alongside my ratty dress shoes. raven hair, eyes like inkwells. breasts nestled in a navy long-sleeve. thighs painted in a light blue jean dream. legs crossed, Indian style. she smiled at me. tapped her cigarette into our shared ashtray. asked me what i was writing.

  something about a room, i told her. in Santiago. it once meant something to me.

  i told you, Joel told her.

  Joel told me you were from Chile, she said.

  that’s oversimplifying just a bit, I said. but… sure.

  Bianca’s from Chile, Joel volunteered.

  i raised an eyebrow.

  over simplifying it a bit, she said. my parents are from Chile.

  well, here’s to birds of a father … i raised the Korbel. realized she didn’t have much to drink. i stretched out, passed the buck. another drunken smile as she brought the bottle to her mouth. milked. swallowed. handed it back. i responded in kind.

  transaction complete.

  write something about me, she said.

  anything specific?

  i want you to write about now. right now.

  he’ll do it, Joel warned. lit a joint and gave a lazy grin. he’ll make you more immortal than you ever cared to be…

  you sound a little immortal yourself, there, Joel.

  kind of.

  she straddled my shins, reached for the roach. took a drag. leaned back, perched on one arm. tits rising, held aloft. she exhaled: kind of? returned the jay to its rightful owner. disengaged from my legs and sat back down.

  nestled a little closer this time.

  Joel took another hit. Lucky based one of his characters on me, in a wild kind of novel. however, he dies in the end. he let his enormous eyes walk on along the ceiling. i die in the end.

  what was it about?

  Joel glanced at me.

  i tilted my head. why don’t you tell it? picked up my pen. i’ve got to see about a strange request.

  Joel filled her in on my behalf, as i began to write.

  the first sentence was already a lie: i was already running my lips along her thighs when she asked me to keep going.

  but it was a flying start, and there was no stopping. black ball point racing across college ruled pages. absorbing every detail of her face, body. clothes. i gladly stripped her of those. imaging what lay beneath. framed her against the rudimentary features of the room. details of everyday delirium. brought Joel into the fold. built myself a perfect sanctuary. lounging alongside my childhood friend, inundated in the body of a broken, flawless woman. the three of us living in perfect harmony. warm, safe. alcohol in place of plasma, fuel for the fire, seven pages deep before my mind could bother to count the eighth. words traveling back up my arm in left-handed spirals, reprogramming landscapes. accepting my interpretation of the evening. welcoming the protection.

  ending on a sentence fragment before dotting my own wrist in dogged ellipses…

  i broke free to find that Bianca had drawn closer. leaning against closet doors, her legs draped, back of her knees resting on my featureless chest. the bottle had magically relocated into her arms, my neck resting happily between her tits.

  you finished? she asked.

  Swedish, actually.

  Joel burst into a violent cough.

  yeah, i amended. all done.

  can i read?

  can’t guarantee you’ll like it.

  is it dirty?

  it’s intimate.

  too bad. she raised the bottle. jiggled it. trade you?

  someone had finally agreed to buy one of my stories, and i didn’t hesitate.

  i sent three swigs down my throat. warm champagne joining rush hour. lit a cigarette. smoke escaping through my teeth, swirling its way towards Joel. he viewed the scene with placid detachment. turned his seat towards me. didn’t say a word. something in those eyes between encouragement and accusation. then, another smile. he flattened the lapels of his black trench coat and silently suggested i turn my head. i did. watched Bianca devouring my broken prose. turned back to Joel. he graced me with another benevolent smile. sealed with a wink.

  did my best to send him a mental message.

  he blinked, softly.

  hey.

  i turned to Bianca.

  her palm pressed flat against that last page. fingers spread wide.

  can i keep this? she asked.

  yes.

  you sure?

  i nodded, head bouncing in yo-yo patterns.

  this isn’t just something you do? she asked.

>   everything is just something i do. you’re going to have to rephrase the question.

  she peeled her palm from the page. reached out. begging for the bottle. freshly tattooed ink on her hands. words imprinted along her lifelines. mirrored, backward vowels and dyslexic consonants.

  i handed her the drink.

  our fingertips touched, sixty watt bulb at the desk flickering for just a moment before the connection broke. she had herself a healthy pull. i turned to Joel. he was examining his lamp, puzzled as anyone.

  back to Bianca. she was staring at me.

  i held her eyes.

  she drank, slowly. throat working.

  handed me the bottle.

  not much of a reach; she was sitting right next to me.

  Gordon burst in with his customary grace. garish New York accent all set to shatter the walls of my halfway house.

  i was wondering where you horrible fuckers were, he said. laughed. reached down and snatched the champagne from my hand. downed it. killed it. Milo and i are going to Chet’s house. any of you assholes interested?

  i nodded.

  Joel was happy where he was.

  Bianca folded my notebook into her arms and agreed it was an adventure worth having.

  i checked to see if Joel might change his mind.

  he was busy changing the light bulb and waved my psychic powers off with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  ***

  those were the dying days of Milo’s ’82 Corolla.

  we bumped along potholes and savage pavement, through the ghettos of Verona. closest distance between two points. streetlight wonderland sweeping through the windows. casually illuminating the back seat. Bianca behind the driver’s side. myself, cramped behind Gordon. passenger’s rolled way back to make room for his insidious, goblin legs.

  Milo hung a left, took that one magical block back into respectable neighborhoods. i felt her right hand wrap around my left. fingers interlocking. heat blasting, palms slick with wet encouragement. both our thumbs sliding, pressing. either one of us looking out at passing scenery.

  certain we were both hoping to catch glimpses of a graveyard.

  ***

  after a few rounds and well-placed cigarettes, Chester Springs suggested we watch a movie. grin spread wide beneath an overachieving nose. fingers calloused, courtesy of too many guitar chords. sliding in a bootlegged copy of Mystery Science Theater 3000. the Mitchell episode. mainstay.

  it was Chester, Milo, Gordon, and Bianca.

  i think Korben, possibly, along with Jeff and Delilah, but those were some interchangeable nights, back in early 2001.

  five minutes in, i moved to an adjoining living room.