Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  I was overcome with the urge to slash throats and crush the smiles of innocent chameleons. Storm clouds in my head, flattened Midwestern landscapes. Music and eleven o’ clock laughter replaced with the rumble of a Greyhound bus. Colorless and kinetic. I lit a smoke. Pulled deep. Watched the cherry blossom brighten. Elbow perched on the bar as I absently pressed the cigarette tip against the giant’s leather jacket. Watching from another plane as the ember ate through some six hundred dollars’ worth of cowhide.

  Heard the sound of hesitation to my right.

  Korben was watching me. Mouth open, deliberating between a smile and reproach.

  I raised an eyebrow. Took another drag.

  Tilted my cigarette back towards the bombing range. Landed another hit. Turned back to Korben, who let out two syllables worth of a muted laugh. Followed by an equally toothless attempt to keep me from going again, dude. Unable to halt the show anymore than I was willing to stop. Watching as seven or so tiny foxholes scarred the surface. My own personal graffiti. Punishing a perfectly innocuous human being for the simple act of showing up.

  “No,” I said. “You’re right, Korben.”

  I put out my cigarette.

  Or maybe it happened in the opposite order.

  No reason to think I had grown a soul in those few moments.

  It probably just so happened that it was time for a fresh Marlboro, and I wanted that one all to myself.

  ***

  I was seized with a savage hunger, some two days old.

  Unable to think or do, or concentrate on myself without some kind of cheap fuel.

  Pushed back against my barstool.

  Gordon was sipping on a Melon Ball, done with playing butler. “Calling off the bet?”

  “Grabbing a bite.”

  Finley called me out, powered down the bar. “You stepping out?”

  “For a second. Two seconds. Grab a slice or something.”

  He reached back. Dipped into the tips. Shoved a fiver in my hand. “Get me a slice of pepperoni, would you?”

  “Back in a second.”

  I stumbled past Korben’s table, where him and Nelligan now sat. Both alone. Drunk and commiserating. Reaching out at random for whatever drink might get them to the end of the rainbow.

  Crossed a frigid Third Avenue. Gave myself seconds between cars. Kept my lids half shut against my destination, busted neon typo reading Rasta, Pizza, Subs. Shut them entirely upon entering. Bright lights tearing into my skin.

  Gave into the hunger and queued up. Feet anchored to the floor. Swaying in what felt like perfect tempo to the smell of garlic, oregano and grated parmesan.

  Ordered myself a slice of plain.

  Pulled out the fiver and remembered Finley’s parting words.

  Put in a last-minute order for a slice of pepperoni.

  ***

  Sat down at a table. By the window. Red hum balancing out the fluorescent headache. Tore into my slice. Disagreeable bites. Indiscriminate. Just enough to taste, followed by sky full of green. Halfway down my drunken craw before taking the next mouthful. An entire slice gone missing. Milk cartons across the world wide wondering as to its whereabouts. Smearing the grease from my lips with a swift backhand, then moving in on the second slice. Barely enough presence of mind to mutter, Sorry, Francis, as I went to work.

  Damp chewing. Wet cement, loud in my ears.

  Wondering what to do with the rest of my night as I glanced up.

  Sniffed.

  The albino gentleman sitting at my table smiled. A single, pallid eye coming in for a wink. Early thirties was my first and final guess. He lifted marinara soaked bread to his mouth and took a bite. Chewed. He encouraged me to do the same.

  So we sat and worked our way through that mouthful.

  Myself, a little more deliberately than before.

  Swallowed.

  Reached for my napkin.

  He licked his fingers with lonely satisfaction. Pleased. Tugged at his black t-shirt. Had a sip of what looked to be a Coke. Dr. Pepper, maybe. Washed it down.

  “I’m Henry,” he told me.

  “Lucky.”

  He smiled. Nearly invisible eyebrows arching sadly. “The meatball sub here has to be my favorite meal. I mean, ever.”

  I nodded. Not in agreement. Just following the miniature spots, doing their dance before my eyes.

  His own lit up. Well past their transparencies. Alive with recognition. Turned sad, then happy. Then hopeful. “Lucky… do you want to know a secret?”

  I nodded.

  He leaned in close.

  “Do you promise not to tell?”

  I nodded.

  Took another bite of pepperoni, then nodded off.

  ***

  My eyes rattled along their hinges.

  Lashes wet against corduroy pillows.

  I rolled over. Gave the couch a swift goodbye as I hit the floor.

  Felt my head bounce off the hardwood.

  Sat up and wondered why.

  Stood up and wondered where.

  It looked to be a one bedroom apartment.

  Furniture.

  Kitchen.

  Windows facing a brick wall.

  The shallow scent of fabric softener and bile.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  Did a double check. Every last article of clothing accounted for. Left shoe untied. I reached down. Did what I could. Reflexively picked up a glass of water from the wooden coffee table. Downed it.

  Moved to the kitchen. Clean sink. Polished dishes. Spotless counters. Cabinets gleaming a heather grey.

  I opened the fridge. Pulled a few drawers. Just enough spare parts to assemble a ham and cheese on rye. No mayo, but the last traces of butter from a swan-shaped dish did the trick.

  And I did a little rerun.

  Glanced at the fridge.

  Henry stared back at me. Polaroid dimensions. His adoring face staring through the lens. Meant for eyes other than mine. What looked to be the Metropolitan Museum in the background.

  I took a bite of my sandwich. Wondered who had taken the picture.

  “Hello?” I asked again, through a mouthful of sandwich. “Henry?”

  Noticed a fish tank in the living room.

  Don’t know how it had escaped my attention. Creation coming to life without warning. Hello, reality. I watched a single betta fish swim circles. Wondered how I knew that was a betta fish. Maybe Henry had left, asked me to feed her in his absence.

  “Guess you’re a lady fish,” I murmured.

  Picked up a shaker of fish food, popped the top.

  The scent of dried crustacean made me gag.

  I dropped my sandwich into the tank.

  “Shit!”

  I reached in. Hands wrapping around the soggy bread right about the time the fish started nibbling at the crust. I paused. Let her enjoy a little something different. The same absent-minded misery as burning holes into the leather jacket of an innocent bystander.

  I ran my tongue over my teeth. Found a bit of pepperoni lodged in there.

  “Finley.”

  The fish paused. Stared at me through the glass.

  Yes, there I was. Standing in an unknown apartment. Elbow deep in a fish tank. Holding onto the disintegrating remains of sandwich fashioned from scraps of an absent stranger.

  “Henry?” I addressed the emptiness with a casual wave. “I gotta cut out. If you need me I’ll be at The Bishop. Sorry about the fish.”

  I let go of the sandwich and hustled my way into the closet.

  Then I found the front door.

  ***

  Stepped back into The Bishop. Clock putting it close to one in the morning, making it two hours erased from memory. Close to one in the morning. Two points merging seamlessly as Finley gave me the nod. Didn’t care where I had been. Henry, the fish tank. All secondary players to the slice of pepperoni I had finally delivered. Slipped it surreptitiously under the end of the bar.

  I was back.

 
Seated next to Gordon, who filled me in. Something about Korben going home alone. Ana going home alone. Danny going home alone. Just the two of us and our pointless bet, waiting to see if we might finish what we started. Fresh round. I took my shot. Checked out the scene with slurred depth perception. The giant in the leather coat had disappeared. Good chance he was enjoying more than just a drink with his nameless encounter. Could be he’d wake up tomorrow to find his jacket pocked with juvenile vengeance. Though it could take as much as a week to discover the consequences of a single night.

  No matter.

  I barked for another drink.

  Brought Finley up to the bar. “Sorry, Lucky. Going to cut you off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go home, Lucky. Just do me this favor. Settle up tomorrow, and I’ll buy you a few.”

  Hard to argue with that.

  Hard to figure why Gordon wasn’t celebrating in my face.

  Just smoking one of my cigarettes, casually watching women’s tetherball on ESPN 3.

  “Told ya,” he muttered, reaching for his drink.

  “I’ll slip you the fifty tomorrow…”

  Wandered out the door with seven or so goodbyes glancing off my back.

  ***

  95th Street sloped downwards between Third and Second Avenues.

  I wandered on down, thinking I’d pass by Henry’s building, see how he was doing.

  Wasn’t too hard to spot the place. The red and white flare of an ambulance posted outside. A couple of rollers joining in with brilliant blues. No crime scene tape, rubberneckers who had made it their business to maintain a safe perimeter.

  I paused. Watched as a pair of paramedics wheeled a stretcher out of the building. White snowcaps on a motionless body.

  I positioned myself near a beat cop. “What’s going on, Officer?”

  Booze fumes made his nose wrinkle, but I think he sensed I was harmless enough.

  “Got a guy offed himself up on the fourth floor,” he said. “Looks like an assisted suicide, though the paramedics aren’t saying much. You need an official statement, contact the precinct.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I told him.

  “You smell like one.”

  The ambulance doors slammed shut.

  Not putting two and two together, I sent my own pair of dress shoes walking on down.

  ***

  Didn’t figure it out until I settled into my room. Fresh beer resting on the fold-out bridge table. Notebook at the ready. Pen making a mockery of all things bright and beautiful, when I remembered I was a smoker. Looked out the window as I checked my jacket. Cautious headlights streaking along the Triborough bridge. Pulled out my pack of Marlboros along with the note.

  It fell to the floor.

  Figured it for some looseleaf ramblings and picked it up.

  Undid the folding of fourths.

  Found few words to fill the blanks, written in stunning, uppercase cursive.

  THANK YOU, LUCKY, FOR YOUR BRILLIANT WORDS IN THIS FINAL HOUR…

  It was signed, Henry.

  I felt my stomach lean in. Dropped the note. Throat constricting. Reached for a twenty-two of Budweiser. Tried to wash it down. Reached for backup in the form of a cigarette. Lit a match, hands trembling. Stood and pressed my forehead against the window. Even from thirty stories up, I could see the police lights glancing off of Henry’s building.

  How had he done it?

  Momentary jealously gave way to paranoia.

  How had he done it?

  I reached out, yanked.

  Lowered the blinds and didn’t sleep for two days.

  ***

  When I finally awoke, it was nighttime.

  Felt considerably more confident the police wouldn’t come looking for me.

  Then again, neither would Henry.

  I threw my jacket over a shirt two days past due.

  Made my way to The Bishop.

  ***

  Took me less than a beer and two shots to relay the story to Gordon and Finley.

  “Tough one, son,” Finley said. Shook his head. In no particular hurry to tend a near-empty bar.

  “Yeah,” I said, motioning for another round.

  “At least you weren’t raped,” Gordon said.

  “Thank you?”

  “Sorry about cutting you off that night, Lucky.” Finley served up my double dose. “Wouldn’t have done it, only there were a group of cops sitting down the bar. Can’t afford the fine, not with rent going up.”

  “That reminds me…” I dug around in my pockets. Almost over my fear of finding another note. “Gordon, looks like I owe you a fifty.”

  “Keep it,” he said. “Insider trading, I don’t deserve it.”

  “How you figure?”

  “Finley told me about the cops early on in the night. I knew it was special circumstances, just a matter of time…”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Misery solved.”

  He smiled at me, raised his shot of Knob Creek. “No hard feelings?”

  “I won’t have any if you won’t.”

  “Cheers.”

  I took it down. Slow burn.

  “What do you think you said?” Gordon asked.

  “What?”

  “To the albino?”

  “Henry. He has a name.”

  “He had a name.”

  “Henry.”

  “What do you think you said to him?”

  I lit a cigarette. Toyed with my empty shot glass. “Clearly, not enough.”

  Gordon shrugged. “Or maybe too much.”

  I gave a silent prayer for the man whose leather jacket I had riddled with cigarette burns.

  Would have done the same for Henry, but then Korben strolled in with a lady. Redhead. Large nose. Glamorous face and a sweater bursting against the pressure of generous breasts.

  He kept his distance this time.

  These weren’t the days for taking chances on anything, never mind those final words, downtown morgues or the wild unwinding of my sad, slow burn.

  Another One From Mister Joe Watson.

  Tell you what, Lucky. Here’s a story for you…

  It was divine as that first cigarette, another bottle from the bin, the solid crack of a cue ball as it sent numbers one through nine ricocheting at two-fifteen on a Sunday afternoon.

  Casper Noel circled the table, sizing his next move.

  Mr. Joe Watson to my right, leaning against the bar. Taking a moment to survey his kingdom. Shuffleboard meditating a wooden sheen, stretching from the bar to the back. Jukebox resting next to the men’s room. Bare tables and empty felt awaiting later hours.

  He scratched at his beard, white trim still clutching to traces of basic black.

  The original On The Rail was located down the block. Shady side of the street, some four doors down from Caliban’s Funeral Service. That ain’t news to most. Most every one of our regulars knows that when they walk on in here, they’re stepping into a second life… But the best kept secret about that first place is the first day I came to own the joint. That’s a clever little story you won’t hear from anyone but me. Because people miss the point. Because they don’t understand. But, son… I believe you just might.

  Casper sunk the two. Top-left English, and the hollow plunk echoed up and across the ceiling.

  This was back in the bad old days, when Verona was every bit the battlefield that it’s now only reputed to be. And I would know. Before I did the road, I was a cop, as I’m sure I’ve told you. So I was predisposed to the dangerous lives of others, on both sides of the law.

  Joe lit a cigarette, had a pull of his beer. Watched Casper put number three away, straight shot to the top-right corner.

  I’d snaked my way through all the continental states. Returned to Verona with a decent bankroll, and a suspicion that my misspent youth might not carry me through my older years. I was looking for a reason. I was looking for a risk. A way to lose it all, or take hold of all I c
ould. An excuse, if you get me, to get out. And looking back, I think maybe that was exactly where Carl Traverse was at.

  Now, Carl Traverse was the original owner of On The Rail. His father was a bookie, just like mine. Only Carl was some twenty-five years older than me. I cut my teeth on his tables. All four of them, the place was old school. Had a fifth was housed in the basement, along with a card table – that was where you went if you wanted to play for some real green. I’d seen men lose everything they had in less than twelve hours, son.

  Casper sunk the four, drew the cue ball all the way back to the kitchen.

  Well, Carl was looking for a game, it seems. Left his man, Charlie, in charge of the bar. Not that there was any reason to. The second we stepped to table five, everyone in the house went flying down those steps. Hadn’t even agreed on the stakes before those dregs started taking action on the outcome.

  Those were the days no self-respecting hustler walked into a pool hall with his own stick. A sneaky Pete, maybe, but the better players could spot those a mile away. So I settled on a house cue. Carl busted out his McDermott, a real nice one you might have recognized once or twice, on those few occasions you and I had a chance to play.

  I smiled.

  So we settled on fifty dollars a ball. Straight pool. And I ran the first four racks. Gave up two and a half, only to come back with eight. He offered to raise it to one hundred, then two hundred. By the time we hit five, word had spread, and the basement was wall to wall. Some of those cats even crouching on the steps, balcony seats for the pool hall aristocracy.

  Casper took the five, but got himself parked behind the seven. No clear shot to the six.

  By the time we started racing to three hundred, he had already put up his cue. I did him the honor of not playing with it. Some two hours later, he went double or nothing. Race to one thousand. All I had, against his whole damn business. Almost thirty-six hours straight hours of nothing but straight pool. But you already know how that turned out. Once again, there are plenty who’ve heard how I ended up where I did. But it wasn’t until next day, ‘round about this time in the afternoon, when I realized what I had stepped into.

  Giving himself time, Casper waded across a thick sunbeam. Slid behind the bar, served us up two more cold ones.

  I walked into On The Rail. All things on schedule, as always. A pair of players at the back table, laying bets. Charlie at the bar. No guarantees he had even bothered to go home. He handed me a beer. Gave me a smile made mostly of missing teeth.

  Casper gave the table a good look. Stretched his stick at an angle, counting the diamonds. Lowered himself. Closed bridge, and sent the cue ball up the table, back down, glancing off the rail before gracing the six, into the corner pocket.