Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

“What!?” he cried out. “Want to fight? Want to fuckin’ fight?”

  I stepped up to him. Face to face.

  “Yes,” I said.

  And it would be years before I saw Zelda again, and the flush would have faded, neither one of us understanding what we had started or stated. But for the time being, I had the second greatest day on my side.

  I stepped close, wondering if he could taste the Jack Daniel’s. “Today, I’m fucking invincible.”

  He thought about it, then kept on his way.

  Sent a few glances over his shoulder. Uncertain as I was.

  I changed my heading towards Washington Square Park. Another calendar moment revealing its hand. But at the time, tomorrow was beholden to sleep.

  And I walked home, following my nose, unable to imagine a more perfect fucking day.

  Sci-Fi.

  It was a Tuesday in mid September, on a planet in its final throes . An entire population in perfect sync. Transfixed. Eyes on broadcasted skies, awaiting the moment of First Contact.

  Several weeks had passed since the government’s revelation, and humanity remained unchanged. Citizens stuck with their jobs, second and third shifts. Factories kept churning out sneakers, chairs, action figures, and the people kept on buying every last bit of it. Families continued to eat and scream at each other while couples pored over receipts, counted dollar after dollar. Everyone still drank, starved, screwed, watched television, stepped in front of stray bullets and did what they did.

  Only now, there was something to look forward to. A common thread linking all of humanity, that’s how most everyone handled the news. And on the day of the arrival, most everyone wanted to be someplace on purpose. The younger set above all others. The Greatest Generation had Pearl Harbor. The Boomers, JFK. And now history was back to claim their children in those waning summer weeks of 2001. A fresh generation, anticipating the shape of their memories. Televisions cranked to capacity.

  Poised on the brink of a brave new world.

  Still, the only thing Tess Newhart would care to remember was sitting at the end of a bar in Verona, North Carolina. Cradling a double of Irish whiskey. One-fifteen in the afternoon, and not giving a fuck about any of it.

  She gazed across the room, connections never quite landing. Staring through walls. It wasn’t a typical day for The Aussie, or the world for that matter, but all roads led to the same destination. Bars up the block must have been packed. University crowd spilling into the streets, into her bar. Too many young people. People her age, people she couldn’t stand. Her mind buzzed. Wandered, took sharp left turns.

  Eight separate screens were splashing CNN’s coverage from the capitol. Pundits killing time, recombining words in every possible way to inform the public every five minutes that the aliens had yet to arrive.

  …The announcement of their impending arrival, three weeks ago to the day, reached the ears of the world with a message of peace and a claim to the answer to – and I’m quoting the translation, here – “all of life’s mysteries and miseries…”

  Tess took a pull of her cigarette. Loosened her tie, unbuttoned her collar. Killed her double of Jamison’s. Scored another round, a minor miracle from an overworked barkeep. Had a sip. Took a lazy look beside her. Last seat in line occupied by a college senior, all smiles and bubbly as her drink. Her straw was stained with an excess of lipstick. Platinum highlights. A trail of glitter winked playfully along her neck, across her tits. There was something moderately beautiful about her, Tess supposed.

  College girl caught Tess staring.

  Then, for some reason, she spoke: “Exciting, right?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh. I see. You’re one of the cool ones.”

  “Nope.”

  “How can you not be excited?”

  Tess hadn’t really thought about it. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she said.

  “That answers my second question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Now I feel stupid asking it.”

  “Which was going to be, then?”

  The girl sighed. “I was going to ask you if you had dressed up. For the occasion… for the aliens.”

  “No.” Tess popped her neck. “I got out of work early. Everyone did. Guess a five-star restaurant ain’t the place to be today. Even the elite are slumming it.”

  “Well, forgive me for thinking aliens are a big deal.”

  “The answer to all of life’s mysteries and miseries, is that it?”

  “Their words. Not mine.”

  Tess snubbed her cigarette. “There are no answers.”

  “Everyone else seems to think so.”

  “I never even met these aliens.”

  “You’re not excited.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.” Tess took a swallow of whiskey. Tried again. “No. Are you?”

  “For a few years now.”

  The telecast was replaced with a commercial for the Conair Cord Keeper. Tess pretended to be enraptured by the bouncing blonde, hairdryer to her temple like a loaded gun. The college girl stared into the blue skies of her drink. Tess knew that was it for their conversation. She slid out of her barstool. Battled her way through the bar, catching the chatter.

  Vested hopes.

  Two steps behind a flock of chickadees on a little field trip to the lady’s room.

  Tess helped herself to door number two.

  She breathed in the putrid stench of the men’s room. A pair of frat boys kept right on with their hair, sharing the mirror. Tess walked into the stall. Wiped the seat. Had a squat. Listened in, kids telling tales out of school. Saturday night conquests. Multiple positions, countless orgasms, gallons of cum all over those tight, coed bodies. Their conversation seemed to lack a certain honesty. She finished and waited for them to leave. Flushed the toilet and went to wash up.

  Ran wet hands down her face.

  Stared at the mirror.

  Doe eyes gazed back with wasted longing. Porcelain skin. Black hair cut close, front end gelled to full attention.

  Tess reached for the towel dispenser. Pumped it once, twice. Turned to the left, regarding a railway body, shapeless beneath her white dress shirt and black slacks. Tugged at her belt. Pumped the handle ten more times. Tore at the winding paper curtain, wrapping recycled brown around her hand. Moving fast. Took the impromptu bundle and slid it down her pants.

  Put on a profile pose. Gave her new bulge a tiny pat.

  Pendulum swinging to the right.

  Tess made her way back to bar’s end, stumbling slightly. The Aussie had doubled its numbers, a thick net of tuna-safe dolphins struggling to make room. She slumped into her seat. The girl with the painted smile was glued to the tube.

  Tess gave the bartender a wave, before catching sight of her glass.

  “I got you another drink,” the college girl said. “Got one for me, too. Jamison’s, right?”

  “Yeah.” This was different. “Thanks, you.”

  “And my name is Lisa.”

  “My name’s Tyler,” Tess said. “And thanks, Lisa.”

  “I have a big heart.”

  “Careful, then.”

  “I suppose.”

  “The bigger your heart, the more likely you are to choke on it.”

  “I’m sorry you think that.”

  Tess glanced up at the television. Another rundown of the dais; all the leaders, authorities and dignitaries chosen to best represent this blue planet.

  Camera holding tight on the face of a nervous chaplain.

  “Ha.” Tess raised her glass in a toast no one was sharing. “You want to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for those poor assholes. Genesis ain’t going to rewrite itself.”

  Lisa ambushed Tess with a quick clink of her glass. “You don’t believe in God?”

  They drank, wiped their lips in unison. “I do, actually.”

  “You don’t seem to be on very good terms with him.”r />
  “I am.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It’s his friends that I don’t get along with.”

  “That’s a lot of people.”

  “I know.” Tess lit a cigarette. “And that many people couldn’t possibly be right.”

  “Never been to church?”

  “Used to. Every Sunday, dressed in my best. An outfit my mother used to keep in her own closet, keep me from getting grass stains all over those pretty colors.”

  Lisa helped herself to a cigarette. “What happened?”

  “I got sick of all that truth.”

  Lisa laughed.

  Tess liked how it sounded, clean and frightened.

  But the music sort of went away before it was done.

  Tess was having trouble keeping her eyes from a blatant stare.

  Lisa toyed with her hair. Turned to face Tess. “You’re not like other boys.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I show you something?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lisa pulled at the neckline of her shirt. Wasn’t wearing a bra, right breast laid bare. A single, light brown nipple peeked up at Tess. Sharing the stage was a tattoo of a miniature crucifix. Size of a thumbnail, just a pair of intersecting lines. No one else to witness. All eyes on the television.

  Tess reached for Lisa’s shoulder, and Lisa quickly covered herself.

  Beating a quick retreat, Tess finished her drink. “I think tattoos are the lowest form of self expression possible.”

  “I know, right?”

  “How old were you when you got it?”

  “Ten, maybe. Ten, something like that.”

  “That’s… early. For tattoos.”

  “Wasn’t a choice,” she said. Finished her drink, and reapplied her lipstick. “I’m not so fond of truth myself.”

  Tess ordered another round. They sat without speaking, ignoring the television and massive crowds stationed at the nation’s capitol. Tess nudged her pack of cigarettes towards Lisa.

  Lisa took one and lit it with a broken match. Helped Tess get her own going. Fresh drinks arrived. There wasn’t much to go with in the world, Tess felt. Not much of anything, really.

  “Hey, you,” Lisa said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the cigarette.”

  Everything had grown quiet somehow, and Tess thought of kissing her for the length of an entire week, taking her to bed and never leaving. She didn’t, though, because they most likely didn’t have more than a few minutes left between the two of them.

  “You know what you need?” Tess asked.

  “What?”

  “Hold on to whatever uncertainty you can get your hands on.”

  Lisa laughed, this time letting it ride. “I’m sorry. What was your name, again?”

  And Tess would have told her that second time around. Confessed to everything, but the moment was stolen as a scream ripped the walls apart.

  All heads caught on fishing lures, yanked towards the television screens.

  Live and direct, as a silver orb floated innocently towards the reflecting pool. Settled on the manicured grass. The legions of officials, leaders, advisers, and common folk all took two reflexive steps back.

  Overhead, a flock of geese made their way south, sensing an early winter.

  The bar went quiet. Bodies leaning forward, pressed together. Waiting. A silence heard the world ‘round. Everybody’s mind one massive question mark.

  Tess felt the early stirrings of a headache.

  The orb began to split apart along a vertical seam. Opened wide to reveal an interior of sunburst yellow, free of all depth. Window to an endless sky. No point of reference for the staircase that unfurled towards the ground like a beaded, metallic tongue.

  From the back of the bar, a woman began to sob.

  Nobody made a move to comfort her.

  Tess was filled with an inexplicable rage upon discovering that the alien looked remarkably human. Explicitly human, the last thing on everyone’s mind. Dressed in androgynous reds. A computer simulation of every race, poured into a single, six-foot vessel.

  The woman’s cries turned to wails. Murmurs erupted across the bar, as the alien coasted gracefully towards a wooden lectern. It leaned into the microphone. Translucent eyes maintaining their distance.

  Tess’s stomach folded into fourths.

  Outside The Aussie, traffic stalled.

  Lisa bit her tongue, and Tess could hear the blood begin to trickle along her teeth.

  Field reporters watched in wonder, and the nervous chaplain remained stiff, his face ashen, damp.

  Finally, the alien opened its mouth. Didn’t take a breath. Lips unmoving as he spoke his first words, each one in crisp, artificial English.

  “Citizens of your Earth…” the announcement bypassed the amplifiers, echoed over the buildings of downtown DC. “I bring you the answer you have all been searching for… the purpose... the answer to all of life’s mysteries and miseries...”

  Tess left her bloodlines behind. Began to fade away in the face of future history.

  The alien held out its palm. Within seconds, a thick black book had manifested, held aloft for everyone to see. Childish confusion spread as everyone tried to make out the letters on the cover. A quick bit of focusing from the lens at CNN took care of that, and suddenly the title jumped into sharp focus.

  Twelve letters, etched in gold, all in a very specific order to spell out a very specific phrase:

  THE HOLY BIBLE

  Tess felt a lonely, horrified tear wander down her cheek.

  Lisa reached out to grab Tess’s thigh, oblivious to the papery bulge in her pants.

  Both of them the first to speak in perfect unison:

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Live and direct from the centerpiece of history, the chaplain relaxed, a tranquil smile now resting on his face.

  Grey Was the Color of My Resolution.

  Not a lot of people can say they woke up in Scotland.

  A handful of Scottish people, maybe.

  But then again, most of the Scots I’ve met don’t describe it that way.

  Admitting the world is grey, that’s how I’ve heard it.

  And grey was the word for the day. Color of the light, dropping its mention through the window, dimensions one by one. A reminder of where I was. Couple of empty bottles in my head, open transcript of what went right the previous night. Half covered by a dusty quilt, sprawled over a spongy mattress, springs phoning it in. Boxes piled high against the wall. Consequent rows gradually stacked lower, meeting the bed in single units. A storage deposit for what must have been an amazing life.

  Half naked body next to me, reminding me of all that was left to be thankful for.

  Three hours of sleep tucked under my belt, and I sent my hands over her body, if only to assure myself this was the one thing I didn’t deserve.

  Kate stirred. Took hold of my arms, wrapped them around her breasts, then sent them down her body. My lips pressed against her neck, and I sensed the two of us anxious to rid ourselves of the same thoughts. Tight knit haircut giving room for my breath to accelerate along her shoulders, down her back, tongue looking to perform a soft, wet spinal tap. She turned towards me. Turned towards me, and through the headache and misunderstanding of what had brought me there, she smiled. Grassy eyes wide, flecks of a Celtic sky matching our surroundings.

  “Please tell me you slept,” she said.

  I brought my fingers up to her forehead.

  Wished there was some other chance for a better tomorrow: “I slept.”

  She kissed me.

  I kissed her back, and it filled in for absent hues.

  And grey was the color of the sky, and sunshine, a spotlight, highlighting a room on the outskirts of a strange Scottish city.

  Church Mouse.

  It was a slow reckoning before realizing I had made a mistake. Went back to the Church of St. Anthony, crossing Houston in broad daylight, this time. Very little chanc
e it would work out the same, this time. And this was how time let lovers make fools of themselves, idiots of each other. Trust and embittered hope.

  I stepped onto the small patch of grass. Bent low. Ran my hands over what must have been where I landed from some five blocks away, some million years ago. Straightened. Looked around. Unfamiliar sun sweeping dual traffic lanes, refining its search. Reached into my jacket. Pulled out my flask. Had a few bombs of Boca Chica.

  The rum went down something rotten.

  I skipped the front steps, dipped down into a second set.

  Paused at the wooden door, embedded into a squat stone archway.

  I pushed.

  The door didn’t budge.

  I sent paranoid glances back up behind me.

  Pedestrians, tourists, names from a list. Anyone of them capable of killing me if they knew what I was thinking. I pressed my palm against the wood, just as Eclipse had, remembering his fingers, spread far as they could go, though clearly not as far as they could stretch. The low warble of an angry insect as the thick panels had begun to warp, just enough to hint at a heartbeat, before the door creaked open. Swinging inwards, rather than out.

  I pushed again.

  It didn’t happen.

  Gave up and pulled.

  Nothing.

  Wondered if maybe there might be a back entrance to this back door. Rude logic, sullied reasoning insisting that if I could only push from the inside back out, I still might find entrance to the underworld.

  Returned to the sidewalk. Walked up the steps, a casual churchgoer looking to confess.

  Whatever that might look like.

  I was given three doors to choose from, each one a thin, ten-foot-tall Hershey bar.

  I chose the center square, pulled. Up another flight of steps, each one leading me further from where I needed to be.

  Stood in the lengthy vestibule, green carpet stretching to either side.

  I moved in on a pair of glass doors, stepped through.

  Found myself in unfamiliar territory, a mix of the modern and medieval. Jade pillars supporting a domed ceiling. Yellow walls painted to match the lighting, stained glass saints staring down. To my right, a white marble basin of holy water alongside a stocky, well-fortified confessional booth.

  As before, my only course of action was to go deeper down the devil’s throat. Cautious steps took me past four lines of pews. Twelve rows that dominoed towards the front. From above, empty balconies stared down in honeycombed tiers. To be sure, the entire church was empty. An abandoned impossibility. I slid my shoes across the polished floor, unwilling to add my echo to the description.