Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “Sounds like a good time.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “All right.

  “Well….” She opened her arms.

  I stood up and welcomed her goodbye. It lasted for a while. I soaked up the sunlight and closed my eyes. She rubbed my back, softly. I mirrored her movements, heard her murmur. Her lips brushed against my neck. Lightly, and I did the same too. Her petrified hair smelled clean and neutral. Neither one of us made the move to stop.

  “I’m glad I got a chance to see you,” she said. I could hear it resonating in her chest, pressed close to mine. I opened my eyes and saw the old man and his dog exit the park.

  “Wish we had more of a chance to talk,” Brianna added. Then, tightening her hold on me, said, “Or find some way into another world…”

  Nobody else in the park had any idea what I was up to.

  “A drink might help,” I told her.

  She took her time answering, and I was willing to wait.

  ***

  It was some violent fucking that night.

  Ruinous and desperate. All kinds of damp excess soaking into clothes too bothersome to remove. Pinned to my cheap futon, the both of us. Movements slick and exacting. Thrusts that cut into the walls, her hands reaching back to scratch at my thighs. Not even willing to fumble for a contraceptive, just skin against skin. Remembering how Brian always kept a box of Trojans right next to his bed, still in a plastic shopping bag. Every man’s way of feigning seduction. Covering for his intentions. A regrettable attempt at pretending there might be some chance to a late night fuck, but sometimes, there were women who believed him.

  And Brianna began to scream, WHO ARE WE? right about the same time that the dog’s high pitched yelps found their way to my room. That savage old man pummeling his faithful dog. Such a miserable disguise of friendship, and I pressed my way through the noise, genie out of the bottle, and Brianna’s screams kept on, wooden frame thumping, protests of a confused blanket left to fall to the floor.

  And when I came, Brianna’s pleasant shuddering did nothing.

  Touched me in no small way.

  Eyes closed, and her face couldn’t have brought back anything to save the situation.

  Just as I had always imagined it.

  And without a chance to lie together, Brianna stood up.

  Lifted herself off the futon and searched for her panties.

  I watched from a half-reclined position.

  Next door, nothing changed. I could still hear the old man and his dog.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Back to Sandy’s place,” she said, slipping into her jeans.

  Brianna’s shirt was still lifted over her breasts.

  She didn’t notice.

  “I once had a dream about a cat named Sandy,” I told her. “Scratched me up pretty good…”

  Brianna looked down at me. That angelic sheen had vanished.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Why would you do this to your best friend?”

  I sat up. “My best friend?”

  “Why would you do this?”

  “Brian ain’t my best friend,” I said. “Sister, you’ve been away a long time.”

  A monstrous yell from next door.

  Couldn’t figure how Brianna hadn’t noticed, said something.

  Tears joined what would be our first and final fight.

  “Poor Brian,” she said.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “What do you mean, don’t cry?”

  “Don’t cry over that piece of shit.”

  Brianna snatched her purse off the ground and left the room, white hair trailing behind. I leaped from the futon. Didn’t have much to put on in the way of clothes. Made it to the elevators in time to stop the doors from swallowing her whole.

  It was louder out there, the noise from 18G.

  Brianna was pressed into a corner, arms crossed. Eyes a watercolor smear. Dark circles anticipating sleepless nights, white strands stuck to her cheeks.

  “Let go of the doors, Lucky.”

  “I’m sorry I fucked up your side of reality…”

  It wasn’t what I meant to say, but there was no time to make amends.

  Brianna turned her back, voice muffled. “You’re a terrible friend.”

  “No such thing as a good one, Brianna.”

  “You’re a horrible, fucking excuse for a friend…”

  I let go of the elevator. “Brianna…”

  She turned, waiting.

  “…What was your nightmare? Seriously, I have to know what did that to your hair.”

  The doors shut before Brianna could throw her purse at me.

  I heard the hollow sound of impact against the gray steel.

  I was drunk.

  Drunk and tired, empty hallway still under assault of the old man beating his dog.

  I stopped at the door to 18G. Contemplated a knock. Action, putting a stop to this once and for all.

  There was a stupendous crash.

  A yelp.

  A body dropping to the ground.

  Silence more sinister than any disturbance I’d heard since moving next door.

  And it kept on. And on.

  Then, splitting the rails , I heard the old man wail. Anguish bled through his door and into the hallway. The old man wailed again. Then he screamed. He screamed, and screamed, and slowly, the screams were disrupted. I think sobs followed, the sound of pulp and damp eyes, but it was time I took this party to my own room.

  I lay on my back the entire night. Brianna’s exceptional smell, still lingering. Listening to the old man’s vocal chords rip apart. Screams that shook the walls, resonated, and despite my heroic decision to do nothing, shadows took on shapes I didn’t want to see. Hideous teardrops traveled down the walls, all the time trying not to imagine the old man’s fists pressed against his head, kneeling over the body of his beautiful brown dog. He cried and cried and cried, and somehow, I fell asleep.

  ***

  When I awoke, everything was quiet.

  Nothing but the sounds of the city.

  I glanced at the clock.

  Eight in the am.

  I rolled out of bed. Had a beer and stared out the window through cigarette smoke. Glanced over to the foot of the futon and saw Brianna’s panties. Morning light revealed Snoopy cartoons dancing across a background of black cotton.

  Hard to feel any sort of pride.

  But I had known someone years ago who might have.

  I hung her underwear on the doorknob.

  Showered.

  Dressed, dismayed that I had lost more weight.

  Put another notch in my belt.

  Threw on my tie, and prepared myself for anther double shift.

  Once in the hallway, I paused by the door to 18G.

  Once again, I thought about knocking.

  I didn’t.

  Put my head against the burgundy wood, listening.

  No sound.

  Nothing.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the door, barely audible through the cracks, came whimpering. Soft and gentle. At least, I thought I heard whimpering.

  There was honestly nothing left to hope for anymore.

  A door opened behind me.

  I straightened myself out, strode to the elevator and pressed the arrow. Another tenant joined me, repeated the ritual. We didn’t say anything. Weren’t even waiting for the other to speak. The hallway remained flat and unchanging. Behind all those walls, everything else continued, almost the same, but not quite as it ever was.

  I thought about Brian and found myself smiling for the first time in…

  Three, four years?

  The elevator arrived and I stepped in, doors sliding shut behind me.

  And the radio that morning had assured us all that it was going to be a lovely day.

  MoJo.

  He wore his sport coat like a cape. Face all the worse for gravity’s ongoing story. Thin red lips stenciled across pan
cake batter, triplicate chins that spilled over a black bolo tie. Silver shock of greasy hair combed back towards sloping shoulders. Twin thistles arched over eyes with no apparent iris.

  MoJo would hobble into Creole Nights, led by the scent of an empty seat. Find a perch with some difficulty. His massive gut kept him from sliding in, so he would sit with his legs to the side. Light a thin cigarillo. Order a carafe of sake. No reflection to speak of; his head hanging far below the horizon of barback bottles. Couldn’t prove he wasn’t a vampire. No way to prove he was a Navy Seal, either. All I had was his word that he was one of those two, and not a monster.

  I never got the lowdown on where he was from. Where he lived. How old he was. Married, divorced, widower. Wasn’t sure of anything other than a single exchange one night in the dog’s asshole of summertime.

  MoJo caught me staring past an empty drink.

  He motioned for Zephyr to send a little extra heat my way.

  I ended up with a helping of sake and that beady stare of his.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” His voice was raspy. Ludicrously high on the octave, especially for a man his size.

  He began to pour into his ochoko.

  Hand shaking, giving the bar more than its share.

  I took the carafe from his hand and poured.

  Set it down, poured my own.

  I raised my glass. “Thanks again.”

  “Yeah.”

  I took the unwelcomed warmth down my throat. Bitter and recriminating. The grateful taste of bad leftovers.

  I poured myself another.

  Caught MoJo barely sipping on his.

  Ripples of a damp August heat had made their way underground. Glistening dewdrops along the foreheads of regulars, clinging to the breasts of irregular women and the necks of dangerous parasites.

  MoJo wasn’t sweating. His face one sweeping Saharan wasteland.

  I pointed to my carafe. “There’s nothing refreshing about this shit.”

  He nodded. “Got a taste for it when I was stationed in Japan for a spell.”

  “Be sure and thank it for me.”

  We drank for a while. Had another round. I poured both our helpings, lit our smokes.

  He began to cough. Hacking away, jaw tearing at the seams.

  A nearby table of bachelorettes turned up the volume on their conversation. Shared glances and omigods.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He wiped a bit of saliva from his chin. Extracted a pocket square and cleaned his hands. Reached for his drink. “You know, it wasn’t Kennedy that created the Seals.”

  “Sorry if you think I ever said so.”

  He gulped down his sake. Hands on a more even keel, he poured himself another. “It was the UDTs in Korea that really got it going. They refined their skills. Expanded. Wasn’t just mine demolition anymore. Moved inland. Bridges, tunnels, railroads.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And all of it started with the Sea Bees. World War II. My father was there. D-Day. Normandy. Omaha Beach. Didn’t luck out like the boys at Utah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got my training back in ’62. Coronado. Me and my buddies set foot in Vietnam before anyone even knew there was going to be a war. Marines can go to hell. First to fight my ass.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Runs in my blood…” Mojo closed his eyes, gave his enormous head a shake. “Born to kill.”

  I didn’t say anything. Had some sake.

  “Think it’s not as real as all that?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You want to tell me I did what I had to do…” He couldn’t bring his face to register the accusation. Made do with making his cigarillo sneer a bright red. “Tell me what’s what. What’s right. Help me rationalize. Make it good. Make it acceptable to you and everyone else down here in hell.”

  It wasn’t the worst of questions. “Did you do what you had to do?”

  “If you’re running a raid on a village. And it’s pitch black. And you round a hut and find yourself face to face with a four-year-old boy who crawled his way out of bed for God knows what reason…” He glanced up at the clock, then back to his drink. “You got less than one second to ask yourself what happens if this kid screams and wakes up the whole goddamn place. Gives us away. Am I going to feel bad? Yes. Am I going to pray that God forgive me? Yes. Am I going to be able to have a drink with my buddies afterwards? You better fucking bet.”

  The memories weren’t enough to make him sweat, but his eyes were stuck in the swamps.

  I tilted my head.

  He took down the last of it. “Still want to thank me for my service?”

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  “Thank you.”

  But he was right about one thing.

  He was right about the rest of us.

  Even me.

  “So what?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “So you sliced and shot your way through Vietnam.”

  “I killed women,” he told me. Beaded raindrops all along his hideous face . “I killed children. Women and children.”

  “And now it’s over.”

  “It never is,” he said.

  “Killing. You must be done.”

  “I still do it,” he said.

  I took another look at his overweight figure. “You think you do.”

  “I train,” he said. “I train others. Young men. Lots of men. I tell them what I did. I tell them what I did wrong. And I teach them how to do it better. So much better than we were, and we were the best… Someday, they will be too. Better than we ever were.”

  “Can you really kill better?”

  “You can.” He reached out to touch the ashtray. Just touch it with a single, clubbed finger. “Because that’s what I am. It’s what I do.”

  He was crying now. Rivers of saline watering his gut. Soaking into his white button-up. His whole face shone like a dying puddle.

  I wasted several seconds searching for something else to say.

  `“Stop making sense,” he told me. “Don’t make sense, because what comes next won’t. It just won’t bother. Stop making sense.”

  “I’m going to have to go to the bathroom first.”

  “Go.”

  I went.

  And when I came back, MoJo was asleep. Still trapped in the same position. Shoulders a little more hunched. Muscle memory assuring he wouldn’t slump over, seek any comfort. On watch, even in his dreams.

  It ended the same as any other night for him.

  Zephyr made his way over and snubbed his cigarillo. Tapped him on the shoulder a few times. Told him the bar was no place for sleep. Go on home, MoJo. Go home and we’ll see you tomorrow.

  MoJo didn’t bother to say goodbye.

  Left the way he came in. Retraced his steps back out into the jungle.

  Zephyr gave me a look.

  I sent it back with a request for a refill.

  Our conversation left me with a taste for sake, so I ordered nothing but for well over a month, before Zephyr realized MoJo would never be coming back in.

  Soon after, I walked down the stairs and saw the oversized sake warmer had been replaced with an extra seat at the bar.

  I sat down. Ordered a Jack Daniel's, and waited to see who would step in to finish MoJo’s work.

  Crouched Below the Shoulders of Giants.

  Remembering to breathe can become a back-seat priority on a dark and lonely beach. Must have been pretty damn lonely that night. One moment, I was planted in the sand, ending a liter of red and watching moonlit couples walk by. Another instant, and I was on my back, eye to eye with a curious ghost crab.

  Albino shell guarding against unwanted predators.

  “Hello,” I said.

  The crab scuttled away, leaving me with my bookbag and empty bottle. I picked one of them up. Stood up. Legs wobbling. Slung the bag over my shoulder, second bottle of Gato hitting the small of my back. It would
have to wait. I stumbled down the beach beneath a starless sky

  Ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth .

  Grains of sand cutting into my gums.

  ***

  In his more settled years, Charles Bukowski owned four or five cats. I could never remember whether it was four or five. Maybe it was three. Wasn’t sure, or just plain didn’t know. Not the most pressing issue on my mind at the time. All I did know was that I was looking for some way to wash God’s litterbox off my hands, the left side of my face.

  I made my way up the path, towards a random beachfront house. On either side of me, dune grass waved and rippled along with an easy wind. I muffled a cough against the sleeve of my jacket. The sand stuck to my lips. I spat into the dunes, kept on my way.

  The gate was open.

  Behind me, an ocean roared softly and spread itself out over the rest of the world.

  I was met with a cement oasis. Skirted the edge of the pool, watching the reflections dance. All along the wood-paneled house, windows remained unaware of my movements, empty sockets; asleep, dreams floating somewhere inside.

  It was late. No one was around.

  Electric spheres adorned the poolside, peeking out between trimmed hedges. Within that carefully maintained foliage, something moved. I turned to the sound of branches parting.

  From out of those shadows stepped a cat, superstition silhouetted against a dim lemon peel.

  “Cat,” I murmured.

  Those paws crept forward. Graceful, fluid, matching the wind gust for gust. Glanced in my direction. Casually wondering why it had it had called me into existence. Wandered to the edge of the pool.

  I made room for a smile. Cats had it all figured out. No question. Bukowski’s cats didn’t know he was a writer. Celebrated poet of the broken and debauched. Didn’t care about that sort of thing. All four of them must have simply prowled his house, day and night. Hunting moths and unwelcomed roaches. Bellies full.

  Or at least all three of them had…

  Maybe it was five.

  The sound of a compact splash snapped my thoughts back to the moment.

  Water churned softly towards the deep end of this moment. Drawing closer, I saw that the cat had fallen in. Its head bobbed up and down, in and out of the water, clawing at the sides. Its eyes glinted, timed in seconds.

  Wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Never occurred to me that a cat would get itself into such a situation. Not when a tree, box, or some kind of cabinet would do the trick just as nicely.

  Those eyes shone, went under. Shone, went under.

  The cat let out a pathetic mew.