Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Made it to the front and tried to figure my next move.

  Still nobody around.

  I couldn’t figure out why.

  Beginning to believe that I might very well have free reign for whatever mad impulse struck my senses.

  Felt a hand on my shoulder.

  Whipped around with my fists at the ready.

  Glad I didn’t let those little losers fly on their own. Didn’t know what the penalty was for punching a priest in the face, though he seemed like he could have handled it.

  “My son?” he asked.

  Not really. “Yes?”

  “Have you come to confess?”

  He had lazy eyes, a well placed scar along his temple, matching mine. Widow’s peak, already in his early thirties, pointing down between eyebrows that were barely there. Must have been one hell of a childhood, based on the size of his nose, and the strange, recessive nature of his chin. A lump of sculptor’s clay, abandoned mid-production in favor of a coronary, seizure, suicide.

  Small wonder he’d chosen to seek God’s love, I concluded, out loud. Not much chance anyone else would have him.

  He let it roll off his shoulders. “Which I’m sure begs the question, if God loves us all, what’s so special about it in the first place?”

  “I don’t believe in God,” I told him.

  “We get a lot of those.”

  “In a church?”

  “Where else?”

  “That’s funny. You know your jokes.”

  “Yes. We do that, every now and again.”

  “I’m not here to confess.”

  “Want to?”

  I glanced up to the ceiling. “You make it sound like we’re going to grab a cup of coffee.”

  “Tea, actually.”

  “We’re going to have tea?”

  “If you’re looking to.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, now or not at all.”

  For a moment, I played with the possibility that this was all a guise. Some kind of test, second chance to make a worst impression. “What?”

  “Follow me.”

  I let my heart have a walk in the park, a seaside vacation, another kiss with the departed.

  ***

  Shouldn’t have set my hopes quite so high.

  Escapism wasn’t in the cards.

  The imaginary bar I had found miles beneath this Church was replaced with what looked like a receptionist’s room. Low ceilings, lavish extravagance forgotten for a desk, sink, cabinets. Glass coffee table moderating between a brown armchair and simple couch with red tasseled cushions.

  Leaning against the water cooler, a hideously rendered watercolor of the Madonna herself.

  I sat on the couch.

  He had one of those electric kettles.

  Set the water brewing. Went to ready a pair of mugs, sugar. Half and half.

  Cabinets stocked with the mundane order of any another office space.

  “Shouldn’t you be checking to see if someone else needs you?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  I waited for him to make the tea.

  A little surprised when he took a seat alongside. Handed over a mug representing the Yankees. His, a crudely drawn rabbit with a demanding ultimatum: Quit staring at my ears. The priest sat with tea in hand and stared across the room. Eyes situated, I had to believe, on that tacky painting of a lily-white Mary Magdalene.

  “You ever think she was just lying?” I asked.

  “How’s that?”

  “Mary. Ever think she just got knocked up and stuck to the immaculate conception line? You know, just to keep from getting her head bashed in by a well-deserved stoning?”

  “Do I ever wonder?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the time.”

  “Wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Also, the painting is courtesy of my niece.”

  “You know there’s no way she wasn’t black, right?”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  I took a sip of tea. Too hot to handle, and I felt my gums fuse to my teeth. Throat dissolving in a chamomile wonderland.

  “Gordon and Skippy had their pants off,” I said.

  “This is going to be good,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Going to be bad.”

  “Gordon and Skippy had their pants off,” he said.

  “It actually started when I was thirteen.”

  “Also acceptable.”

  “I was in Florida. Don’t remember the beach. Last night of a two-week field trip through America’s penis.” I had a sip of tea. “Sorry about that.”

  “Go on.”

  “So it was freshman year of high school. I was on an excursion with my school chums. Mates? Chums. Chums, I guess that’s how the word goes. I was one of four boys. The rest were women. Well, girls, maybe more appropriate. Except for one, I always saw her as more of a woman. Melody P.D.”

  He smiled.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “I’m sure you think of me as some sniveling, medieval idiot –”

  “Yup.”

  “– but I have heard more in this place than your little narcissistic brain could possibly concoct. I have heard it all. I know what comes next.”

  I leaned back, reached in and pulled out my flask. “Do tell.”

  “She was several inches taller than you,” he said. Ignoring my nip at the sugarcane game. “Probably more. One foot, one, from the way your eyes are moving. Older, too, though not a senior, by any means. Too much hope at future possibilities for that. Sophomore, probably. I imagine she would parade around in cutoff shorts. Frayed hems. You’re not a boring person to say the least, so I imagine her eyes must have been something special. Grey, right. Something vicious. Even now, when you try to recall her, she doesn’t seem fifteen. She’s always an older woman, somehow, in your head. Gatekeeper. Home to all the mysteries and miseries you still wish you understood.”

  I had a sip of tea. “That was really good.”

  “Good. Tell me more.”

  “Why bother. You know already, don’t you?”

  “That’s not what this is for.”

  I sighed.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Yes, I worshipped this woman. So fucking stupid. Now, as it was then, so fucking secretly. It was high school. There was nobody to trust. She was tough, and mean, and outspoken. She was a woman. And yes, she was on that trip. So was my best friend at the time, Alex. He was a fucking all-American dream. He would eventually go on to MIT. Join a fraternity. Design submarines. Join walkathons on acid, without worries of arrest, or prison. And I was just this kid. Glasses so thick they bordered on bullet proof. Head a rat’s nest of curls. Grin like an expectant donkey, round about feeding time.”

  “That was you, all right.”

  “Well it was still me, and it was still all of us. One last night, camping out on the beach. Playing truth or dare. Had ourselves a few naked people, a few stories. Tales told out of school.” I had another hit of rum, chased it with some tea. Shuddered, feeling the wind from that peninsula swirl around us. “Then someone asks Melody, of all the boys on this trip, who would you most want to sleep with…?”

  “Alex,” the priest told me.

  “Yeah, you’re a genius, Father.”

  “Far as storytelling goes, you’ve got to bury your lead just a bit better.”

  “Yes, Alex was the frontrunner.” I smiled, not all that well. “We all knew that. Melody knew that. But she had to run down the list. Process of elimination, see? Even that hardened broad had to play it cool. So she says she could never sleep with Nicky, because he reminded her of her sister. Which was all good for a laugh, though Nicky must have felt the sting on that one. Probably more than Tim, but looking back, I can’t even remember her sexcuse for him. Must have not been nearly as harsh.”

  “Sexcuse…” The priest nodded. Smiled and added more sugar to the mix. “That’s not a bad word. Mind if I steal it?”

>   “I really don’t want to help you do God’s work.”

  “I really don’t want your help. Tell me what happened when she got around to you.”

  “It’s all so stupid, when I think about it…” I had another pull of rum, sighed. “She gets to me and says, well, as for Lucky… I mean, as you know, as I’ve said, as we’ve both said, I was already out of the running. But what she said next was so specific, so damaging, that…”

  I had another hit from the flask.

  The priest folded his hands. “That you ended up telling me about it.”

  “I couldn’t have sex with Lucky, because I would probably break him, is what she said.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Give me a break,” I said. “How could you possibly commiserate?”

  “Easily,” he said. “I think what you mean is how could I relate?”

  “Well, either way, that’s what she said.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes. And you’re right, it did stick with me. Something fierce. I went into that summer vacation with one of those idiotic teenage vocations. Go to the gym, work out. Improve yourself, your body, your face –”

  “Improve your face at the gym?”

  “Shut up, Your Eminence. If you want to know how this ends –”

  “You went to the gym. You read up on your sexual anatomy. You found the clitoris.”

  “You can’t say clitoris in a church.”

  “Spent all that time thinking when school was let in, that you would show that girl, or woman, or however you saw her, that you were a man. Or however you saw yourself. You dropped the glasses, got yourself a pair of contact lenses, cut your hair, got yourself some new clothes. All ready to blow young Melody’s mind, only to get back for sophomore year and realize she was gone. Transferred to another school, or gone out of state, right?”

  I stretched. Went boneless for a moment, then stood. Walked away, towards a window facing an alleyway, a redbrick building with barred windows. “Yeah, you guessed right. Figure it has to be because I wouldn’t be telling you this unless there had been some kind of conclusion. Either she wanted me, or didn’t. Now we’ll never know, and now we’re having this conversation.”

  “Confession,” he said.

  “I’m not doing that,” I said, turning. “This isn’t some fucking thing where your God gets to speak through some emissary, which, by the way, you were lucky enough to arbitrarily be. I don’t want my sins cleansed, and when this ends, there will be no Hail Marys. Ave Marias. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

  “Because you’re not an Atheist.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Because atheism bores you.”

  “It really does. So do you, by the way. So does this whole conversation.”

  “Want me to skip ahead?”

  “To what?”

  The priest cleared his throat. Downed his tea. “You’ve done worse things. You know you have. You’ve cheated, lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve hurt people. And for the most part, it’s omission. You never meant any of it. But if you want to consider sin as an interplay between pleasure you receive against the pain it causes others, then this is why you’re here. Because you’ve done something. You did something to retaliate against what Melody said about you. You did something, on purpose to someone. My guess is you didn’t even know them. Right? Evil is about asserting yourself, planting flags. Evil is about intention. At some point you did something to someone, and it was purely for the singular purpose of hurting someone else.”

  I killed the flask, shelved it back into inner pockets. “I’m not telling you that.”

  “But you know you did something.”

  “I’m not giving you the pleasure. The perverted gratification you people get from hearing about the ruined lives of others. All the while, enjoying the privilege of the untouched. You make me sick.”

  “Just give me a name, and then you can be on your way.”

  “I can go whenever I want to.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “So?”

  “So tell me who you think is out there, waiting for you.”

  “His name is Bobble.”

  From some other room, a phone rang.

  The priest stood, left me.

  I went and sat at the desk, kicked my feet up. Lit a cigarette. Adjusted my ass and farted. Spat on the floor. Was thinking about setting the whole room on fire, when the priest returned.

  “No smoking,” he said.

  “Want me to put this out?”

  “No,” he reached down, took my cigarette. Took a drag. Breathed in, eyes closed. Exhaled. Put it out in my tea. “I got the name. Bobble.”

  “That was his nickname,” I managed.

  “And he’s out there, somewhere,” the priest said. “Brain on a burner. Yes? He’s just waiting for you to walk back into his life so he can do whatever he needs to take care of you. Stuck in another room like this, waiting for his chance at absolution.”

  “His name was Bobby, actually. Christian name, if you prefer. His girlfriend called him Bobble. We all did. For the hour or so that the rest of us spent with him.”

  “He was just visiting.”

  “From out west. California boy. Visiting his girlfriend. He traveled across the country, just to see the girl he loved. For Valentine’s day.”

  The priest smacked a hand down on his thigh. “Confession is from three to five.” He rose up, stood. “Come back when you’ve got nothing left to prove.”

  “That’s it?”

  The church bells started to ring. “I’ve got people to take care of,” he said. “People who aren’t you.”

  “Sitting in a booth and giving out free advice.”

  “Gets mighty lonely for me, this time of day.”

  “You did it to yourself.”

  “Oh, my, yes. I know this much is true.”

  “Well. Hope it was worth it.”

  “How are you doing these days, Lucky?”

  I stood. Walked towards the door. Stopped. “I’m doing great. I have a book I just published in the UK. They want to release it here in the States. Made myself a bit of a haul writing for HBO just recently. Nothing that saw the screen, but I’ve made enough connections to last me a lifetime, and less’n four years ago I was flat on my back, sleeping on a rock in Central Park, so, yes, I’m actually the best I’ve ever been.”

  “Clearly, you deserve it. Correct?”

  I walked away.

  Back through the cavernous church, where the masses had begun to converge. Sad singles, perched in scattered pews. Eyes closed, lost in prayer and other dubious absolutions. Indifferent to the slow trickle of sinners seeking an easy fix.

  I parted the seas. Swift steps echoing this time, imagining the priest chasing after me, on all fours. Transformed, a wolf well past the door. Looking to take a fresh bit of flesh from my neck.

  Outside. Down the steps.

  Paused as a kid skateboarded past.

  I waited for him to get some air. Ollie off the curb, maybe misjudge the landing by just enough to break his wrist. But he didn’t. Curved his destiny up towards Broadway traffic.

  With a cautious cry, I ran back up the steps. Took the doors one by one, this time. Right to left. Pushing. Pressing hard, waiting for the secret to reveal itself. Another chance. A second step into the inner workings of the world. Whack-a-mole. Each door left untended allowed any number of people to wander in. Lining up to cleanse themselves of themselves. Got to door number three when one of those people burst back out. Made me some seven pounds lighter, some twenty tons of doorway smashing into my face, sending me down the steps, head over heels in love with this sad trajectory, remembering a chance I once had at another life, this one opportunity to get things right.

  An LA memory, standing alone on the top of a San Fernando rooftop.

  Swearing I could hear a distant piper, lights in the distant Valley, notes to Amazing Grace.

  Landed
flat against the sidewalk, not one bone broken, and another doorway opened in my mind. Leading too many years into the future, trapped in a windowless room, Bobble telling me that none of it mattered and that the worst moments of my life were of no greater consequence, even less significance, than taking the name of the Lord in vain.

  Dirty Day.

  From what the windows had to say, it was going to be another lovely morning in Sunset Park.

  Thought I’d give it a spot test.

  Rolled out of bed. Headed for the front door of my basement rental.

  Careful to avoid the empty bottles, tiptoe around incomplete notebooks and pornography.

  Paused at the door.

  Little bit of backtrack to the bridge table. Snooped around. Brushing aside pens, paper clips.

  Bottle of Boca Chica catching my eye.

  Let the hangover execute justice in its own time.

  Found a book of matches before snagging the cigarettes. Popped a Marlboro into my mouth. Took another look out the nearest window, level to Brooklyn’s 41st Street. Sunrise catching up to my side of the house, just barely.

  One or two sets of sneakers. Workmen’s boots plodding past.

  Occasional sandals that promised better times.

  I sparked my smoke, then back towards the door.

  Clad in boxers and a white crew-neck tee.

  Opened the door to find Hank waiting for me on patient paws.

  Bad luck cat with white socks. Proud pair of evergreen eyes offering up the soft body of a baby bird. Talons twitching. Tiny wings shuddering. Needlepoint beak open, one eye punctured. Pinpricks of blood already drying, turning an oxidized color along trembling feathers.

  Hank stared, expression of love and whatever loyalty cats were capable of.

  Not her fault, and it was a matter of Thank you, Hank, before she dropped it to the ground.

  Let that little bird tumble from her mouth, to my feet.

  Hank slipped past my bare shins. Meowing for a decent meal.

  I watched the bird convulse on the concrete patio.

  Another litany of complaints from my cat. Impatient. Asking how, after all this time, I still hadn’t figured out how this whole arrangement worked.

  Welcoming the delay, I went to the kitchen.

  Out of cat food. Reached for a can of tuna.

  Halfway through my waltz with the opener, when I noticed the knife.

  Reached out. Ran the blade across my palm. Checked for blood. Gave it another go, pressed with precision this time. Nothing. Lifelines sticking to their scripts. Too dull to risk the results.

  You get what you pay for.