Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

didn’t bother turning on the lights. just sat on the couch. taking long, lectern sips from a bottle of Gato Negro. wide threshold between worlds giving a glimpse of the rest. laughing their asses off. pounding tall boys and wondering what it was that made them so distinctly unique.

  after a few minutes, Bianca joined me.

  broke the quarantine. sat next to me on the couch.

  what are you doing here? she asked.

  carrying my cocoon, i said. a kind of tribute to being safe. ignoring the world.

  you talk like someone spitting game.

  seems that way, doesn’t it?

  what you wrote?

  yes.

  it felt really honest. what you wrote. she lifted the bottle from my lap. drew herself close. knees bent, curled. head nestled against my shoulder. is it lies?

  it’s fiction.

  but is it lies?

  i unsheathed a cigarette, lit it. no. never. unequivocally, never. please don’t tell.

  i took hold of her wrist. guided it, lifting the bottle to my lips. a little spilling out over the both of us.

  she laughed, gently.

  i guided her hand, fed her some wine.

  she laughed, a little louder this time.

  drowned out by matching sounds from the next room.

  tell me about Chile, she said.

  what do you want to know?

  i’ve never had the chance. tell me everything.

  my best friend’s name is Blondie, i said. still engaged with the netherworld from my notebook. he’s bright. effervescent. charismatic. don’t think there’s another person like him on the planet. don’t think there ever will be. i lit a cigarette. took a drag. saw her mouth tilted in my direction, urgent lips insisting. i brought the cotton filter to her mouth. felt the touch against my fingers as she pulled. the lights in Chester’s house flickered as she let the smoke trickle, took another hit from the bottle. he’s the gatekeeper. the only one willing to bridge the gap between myself and this other world. this other universe, other planet in the southern hemisphere. if i have any friends down there, it’s because of him. his goddamn humanity. i took a drag. felt her breath on my neck. eyelashes fluttering against my jugular. she took hold of my hand, brought the bottle up for a lick of red. opened her mouth for a dose of cured nicotine. urged for me to keep going. without him, there is no connection. it’s a dangerous place, with a history that bleeds. spray painted along every surface. and occasionally miraculous. you can hail a bus like a cab on Forty-second Street. tell the driver you just need to go a couple of blocks. please, mister, mister? and he’ll often comply, never mind the need to make bank. the mountains are never too far from your line of sight, and if you go far enough downtown, you’ll find them painted on the burgundy walls of private property. dogs roam the streets and everyone owns them. they pad over towards you as though you’d known each other for years. friends for life, and the sun is starched in a desert white that creates… I took a drag… creates a glare that blinds you, makes colors pop. and it’s dry and interminable, but they make it work. like Blondie says, we’re all in this together, and that sense of camaraderie will spill out into the massive highways and byways. roads, if you let him let it. a man in a pickup truck done with his delivery will stop. let Blondie, let me and my friends pile into the back, all because we had the audacity to stick our thumbs out in the open. and under that sky of brilliant apostrophes, we all made our way east. lips cracked with cheap red wine, wind in our bloodshot eyes. looking over and smiling at Blondie. dirty hair running wild, painted grin right back at me. telling me everything is going to be just fine, always, and this was where i belonged.

  that last syllable wrapped in Bianca’s tongue, as our mouths pressed close. breathing in. deep. both of us rising several feet above the couch and staying there. breaking apart with a wet, worthwhile smack. enough understanding to allow for another shared cigarette. another pull from a nearly wasted bottle.

  let’s go upstairs, she whispered into my mouth.

  some sort of natural instinct guiding her, all of us. upstairs.

  ***

  a wasteland of spit and wandering hands covered our bodies.

  myself, i couldn’t have been more thankful. after all this time, these misadventures and splitting headaches, finally, something of value. pure precision, even in this virtual recreation. both topless. bodies reaching upwards of one hundred-seven degrees. a flat one-eighty against Chester’s bed.

  she ran her tongue over my face. i want to go there.

  yeah?

  i want to be where i’ve never been. take it all in.

  she lowered herself down the bed. along my body. graciously ignoring my ribs, and malnourished, concave stomach. undid my jeans.

  wait, wouldn’t you rather –

  no.

  i could –

  nuh-uh.

  seriously, i’m actually pretty good at –

  no, you’re probably not, shh...

  and we were both rendered mute as she wrapped her mouth around me. taking in what must have surely been the most putrid cock she had ever tasted, four days worth of park benches and mangled limbs. memories plastered across the windows. spirals before my eyes. ecstasy mixing with the welcomed feel of her mouth as she arched her back, reached up and moved her tits against gratitude. moved back down. she grabbed my hands. moved them, tangled my fingers in her hair. forcing the situation. driving my mind deep into pillows that reeked of old spice and anonymous hair product.

  she slid up for one brief moment.

  licked my lips. come for me soon, ok?

  i wanted more. tried babbling the sentiment through crippled lips.

  gave into her mouth and the best thing that had happened to me in the seven or so years since the start of this new one.

  gave into her mouth and tongue, hips unchained, bucking upwards as

  Gordon did us both the favor of not knocking.

  massive body barging in. slaughtered words mentioning something about the Waffle House. catching sight of our half-assed coupling. the sight of Bianca wiping her lips with the back of her arm proved too much for him. he began to blather in inconsistent simulations. closed the door. heavy footfalls heading downstairs, shaking the house to its foundations.

  Bianca laid herself across me.

  we kissed. i ran my hands along her body, signaling for another opportunity.

  is there anything –

  just fine, she said.

  really?

  i want to go there, someday.

  i gave in. wrapped myself around her, blood on a burner. heart racing, fine with the feel of her back against my arms. she licked my chin a few times. i kissed her forehead.

  seems like your friends want to go somewhere, she said.

  we don’t have to go anywhere.

  think so?

  we can stay here. curl up, never leave.

  she smiled against my neck. maybe next time.

  you have to go, don’t you?

  need to get back. i have class tomorrow.

  want us to take you home?

  you’ll see me again.

  hope so.

  soon, i hope.

  soon.

  she brought me in for a deep kiss, and i tricked myself into an endless symphony.

  even after we separated, put our clothes back on, shared a cigarette, went down the stairs, got Milo to drive us into Chapel Hill, dropped her off, allowed for a goodnight kiss, headed back into Verona, stuck at the Waffle House while Gordon did his best to keep it together through bloodshot eyes, his fork hovering over a plate of slowly cooling hashbrowns, back to Milo’s place, where I gave into sleep, i carried a Cheshire grin, surrounded by the sanctuary of what couldn’t possibly be considered a lie.

  ***

  i woke up to the sound of a phone.

  picked up the cordless.

  Joel on the other end. hey.

  Joel?

  yeah.

  morning.

 
it’s two in the afternoon.

  i don’t have a watch.

  anything you want to tell me? he asked.

  huh?

  Bianca? last night? don’t think you should have told me?

  i wiped my face clean, reached for a cigarette. stepped outside. underwear protesting against frosty temperatures. didn’t think i needed to.

  you sure?

  you told me she was one of your women. one of. i stopped. hacked out half a lung onto the stoop. if i didn’t immediately contact you about it, it’s only because i didn’t think you’d mind.

  i don’t, he said, and only you could get away with that argument.

  because it’s true.

  because you are you.

  we good?

  always. i heard the spark of a lighter over the phone. want to come out with me tonight?

  i had a pull of wine. sure thing. where?

  back in Chapel Hill. my friends run a speakeasy out of their place. nothing fancy. just a fun place to hang out.

  sounds good.

  Bianca’s going to be there. that a problem?

  why should it be?

  i don’t know.

  how did you find out about us?

  she told me.

  is it going to be problem for her? i asked. took a drag. this is a little in the way of the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.

  you’d have to ask her. beat, as he tugged on his own choice. and i’m glad you like her. i’m happy for you.

  tonight, then.

  tonight.

  we hung up on each other, and i finished my cigarette.

  caught an ambulance wandering past. resting.

  saved the image for a later date.

  ***

  it was the grubby basement of a dilapidated house along the outskirts of a college town. cinderblock walls, pillars digging into a floor of finely shaved gravel. worn squares of plywood leading a path along the bar. red lights. a few pale yellows and mismatched greens cutting through the smoke. music blaring from naked speakers.

  wasn’t quite like anything i expected, or even wanted.

  Joel and i slid on down the bar. got the nod from a prematurely balding redhead. we put in our orders. couple of bourbons on ice, wrapped in plastic cups.

  i saw Bianca at the end of the bar, chatting it up with a stranger.

  Joel, can i have a minute?

  from some thousand miles above the sky, he put his arm around me. Lucky, are you sure?

  i told him i didn’t understand.

  he let me go.

  i parked myself next to Bianca with a nod to her friend, and a smile for her.

  must have been one ugly sort of smile. her response was a minor motion of her head, sip of a rum concoction. got north and south all twisted. only able to manage a clumsy hello and how are you? turns out she was fine. telling her it was good to see her, that it had been good seeing her, that it was nice to be underground with her. same stilted reaction. the music blared and at a nearby table, something funny enough to set an entire table on its side. i lit a cigarette. offered her one. she pointed to the one in her ashtray. brow slanted over large brown eyes, a birthmark on her right cheek twitching in concentration. focusing on anything other than me.

  meaning to ask her about that birthmark, i managed what was next instead: you ok?

  she shook her head.

  are you mad? i asked.

  she shook her head.

  what are you? i asked.

  what are you? she repeated, emphasis on the once and future me.

  i didn’t answer. let her get back to her conversation. boyfriend, gay friend, lover, brother or any other. didn’t much matter. i stood by for another moment or so, then slowly separated myself from another chapter. couldn’t have been more than twenty people in that horrid makeshift speakeasy, and i managed to bump into each and every one on my way back to Joel.

  he ordered me a drink. let me finish mine in peace, just in time for a fresh start.

  sorry, he said.

  i started in on my second one. what do you know that i don’t?

  you gave her your notebook, he said.

  what’s that?

  he leaned down. leaned in closer. not just the story you wrote about her, the whole notebook. he lit a clove, breathed exotic spices into my face. you didn’t think she wouldn’t read every goddamn thing you wrote?

  i sniffed. so?

  so she knows about what happened to Blondie, he said. screamed into my ear. that fucking morning, that car, split in half. the end of the fucking world for you and him, how do you think that looks, to a woman like her. to a woman as confused as her? and here you go parading around as though he’s just a phone call away.

  I don’t know what’s in that fucking notebook.

  she does. i do.

  i nodded. too used to this side of the sun. because she told you.

  Joel nodded. why didn’t you just tell her?

  why didn’t you?

  he furrowed his brow. furrowed his entire black shiny dome. i wasn’t there when she blew you.

  i laughed. came dangerously close to a wail, but the bourbon made quick work of that. guess she thought i was someone else.

  you are.

  yeah.

  Lucky?

  yeah?

  you mind if i go talk to her?

  i glanced up at his wild eyes, flashing beyond the reach of a strobe light. thanks for asking.

  you’re welcome.

  tell her i said… i coughed, accidentally sent something sticky into my drink. washed it down. actually, don’t tell her anything. let her keep on thinking…

  Joel nodded. will do.

  he left my side.

  i watched him cozy on up to her. she didn’t seem to be any more receptive to him as anyone else in the room. but she listened to him at least. took the time to slide a hand along his arm. testing. happy to let him make his case. drawing closer as the music grew louder. making sure all details were heard. all avenues explored. comfortable with what they knew. like another throwback from behind the bar. another drink back in my hand. another cigarette. it was something else, those days. leaning on the bar. waiting for more. wishing for moments some twenty-four hours past. one day you wake up with all the answers wrapped around your ugly little member. twenty-four hours later, you wonder what the hell else 2001 has in store beyond jokes, tinctures, dead friends and bad dreams of burning cities.

  Nigger Pool.

  Alex was everything I wasn’t, and twice as good at everything I was. Tall, all-American suburban prep. Athletic. Overconfident. He paid for his own haircuts. His smile was wide and symmetrical. Eyes an infuriating watercolor of gemstone green. He was the ideal. Catch of the day, the one who got to fuck the bartender, then shrug it off as another story.

  Exception to the rule being that I was a better writer than him. But we were kids at the time, babies, and there was no way to prove it, really.

  And it was September of 2002.

  The stars shone in delirious fits of blush and preordained shapes. Bombs raining down on Afghanistan, on the radio, and Alex took a left turn at the closest bar on Emerald Isle.

  A pair of sliding doors welcomed us into the Palm Club. Dark carpet spread out over a magnanimous floor, dotted with upright tables, mostly empty. Pair of wooden steps leading down to a pool table, upper level cordoned by a wood railing, last line of defense between a three-foot drop and a tumbler of whisky .

  A series of weathered sunburns glanced up from their game. Sleeveless shirts, upholstered skin. Hair gone white beneath dirty baseball caps.

  Alex was dressed in khakis and a navy polo. I had my battered grey leather jacket, jeans and white crewneck to represent the other half of the equation.

  They sent their daggers in our direction.

  Alex saw his chance to show and prove, walked right on down and laid a couple of quarters on the top left diamond.

  First round would have to be on me.

 
The bartender was Mike, co-owner along with his wife, Molly. Their smiles were warm, sincere, synchronized in the best of all possible ways. One with a grey mustache, Molly with tiny matching moles on either side of rosy, piglet cheeks.

  “What do you think of the lights?” he asked, gesturing towards a string of luminous red peppers hung over a yellow backdrop of anxious bottles, each waiting for what might come next.

  “Love them,” I said. “They remind me of a bar I used to live in.”

  “We got lots of room beneath the counter,” Molly said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do a little housework, you can set up shop in the back. Patsy Cline, Brenda Lee, Dolly, all of them on the jukebox. You’ll never be lonely again, Lucky.”

  “How did you know my name?” I asked.

  Mike sent a gnarled carpenter’s finger pointing towards the back.

  I turned in time to catch Alex repeating himself. “LUCKY!” he was chalking up a stick, balls already racked. “Got a game, let’s go!”

  Back to Mike and Molly, and I still felt the need to stifle the obvious. “He’s with me.”

  Mike nodded. “What’s he drinking?”

  I laid down the exchange. Picked up two beers, sidecar of Beam for each.

  Grains of sand shone intermittently from the carpeted floor.

  And I carried myself across the face of that twinkle, twinkle little universe.

  ***

  They did not like us.

  Bad enough this frat boy was dipping into their till, but his ugly little sidekick, an ugly sun baked brown, he knew how to bank a shot. Played frequently enough, not nearly as brash as they would have liked, Southern hospitality and all that modest madness. Another trip to the bar, and Mike verified my concern with a thinly veiled piece of advice:

  “Might want to consider pulling a punch or two.”

  I nodded. Took a quick look around to gauge a possible exit strategy.

  Had myself a helping of the only woman in the joint at this early hour. Body of a blue heron. Legs stretching somewhere past infinity, mini skirt that understood what was at stake. Dirty blond hair laid flat. Cut close. Black leather vest with nothing but a bit of laughter underneath.

  She made a move, lengthy arm reaching for her cigarette.

  Caught me watching.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” she asked.

  “Alex,” I said, inoculated to this line of conversation . “Put something nice on the jukebox for him, and he’s all yours for the evening.”

  She smiled.

  Not at me, though. Never at me, and that’s just the way things went.

  ***

  I got back to the table just in time to catch Alex pulling a safety. Kiss off the thirteen, resting calmly behind the eight.