A few drinks down the assembly line, though, and venom would steep into the foundation. A calibrated dismay, free of form, sense or center, that nobody in those sunset hours knew exactly who I was. What I was really thinking, saying, or seeking to accomplish. Further drinks accompanied by the cagey certainty that I had no idea either.
I would strong-arm my way into conversations, spout predictions. Soliciting the future, what lay in store for all of us. A scorched planet, the end of all personal interaction, floodwaters that would send cities fleeing.
And from there, more drinks. Rungs slipping past my palms as the ladder rushed past, light at the end of the tunnel narrowing to a distant star. Sending all superfluous life to the outskirts, only to be told by the bartender that it was time for me to go home.
The one everlasting truth they always seemed to know.
“Brigid would never cut me off,” I could have been heard to say.
A sly look from Rowan. “Who the hell is Brigid, Lucky?”
And maybe I would squint as I laid down my tip. “I don’t know.”
And it was July when I found myself stumbling westward. Trying for a sober stride while my left and right fought over whose turn it was to pay. Possibly mumbling to myself. Most certainly not listening to either one. Patting down my pockets. Finding the flame stick. Thinking maybe I had left my cigarettes at the bar. Body doing a one-eighty. Feet just a little late on the uptake as I marched backwards into the crosshairs of Third and Sullivan.
Pinned by the yellow burn of gleaming monster eyes.
No time for the driver to hit the brakes.
Hardly time to wonder whether death might have a particular taste, when someone grabbed hold of my shoulders. A rough moment of clarity that gave strange constancy to those digits. Three fingers from each hand wrapping themselves around my chest, down under my arms, back around, over and under, creating a biologically impossible harness…
Then I was yanked.
Soaring backwards through the air, extracted with a velocity that left trails of vomit shimmering in a rotten, pastel rainbow. Not one drop landing on my jacket or faded jeans. Felt my ass hit the sidewalk. Expecting to see the face of my savior hovering above mine with sober concern.
But the ride didn’t end there.
Didn’t stop. Sliding on my back now, legs flailing. Still in the grasp of those irrational tendrils as I was dragged along Sullivan. Enough speed to lift me from the ground, flying parallel to the sidewalk, bobsledding upside down. Storefronts and stoops a pinwheel blur. Wearing my entrails for shoelaces, confident they would be decorating the streets within a few short seconds.
And within those seconds, I cleared Bleecker Street. Massive acceleration slowing the skinny hand. Traffic on West Houston reduced to a relative crawl. Both lanes home to ambling beasts, a great migration of reinforced steel and lazy headlights.
Felt my mind begin to slip, stretch. Irreversible.
Saved by a dull thud. Body meeting some malleable barrier, rising, turning summersaults through the air. I went flying. Got a glimpse of someone flying with me.
Copilot were the final syllables I managed before slamming against the wall of St. Anthony. Wind knocked out of me for a second time as I fell face down in a damp patch of grass.
I managed to get on all fours. Waiting for my lungs to decompress. Hiccupping, half retching. Finally getting in a good one. B-sides scratching against my throat as I breathed in. Coughed. Next one coming easier, lifting me to my feet.
Said feet stumbling forward, side to side.
Twirling around, just once.
Toe to toe with a superhero named David.
Known to himself and his friends as Eclipse.
He was five-five, nice symmetry to the height as well as the face. Though that symmetry was nothing to brag about. Balding, face a middle-aged network of dried riverbeds. The kind of ears you tell stories about. Hypnotized eyes of a subway conductor. Arm extended, inviting mine for a perfectly normal shake, and I had to wonder how it was we had made it this far.
“I’m David,” he said.
I nodded. Twisted my shoulder, felt a joint pop. “David, huh?”
“My friends call me Eclipse.”
“Ok. Why is that?”
“Because I can bend. My arms, lengthen them. Like light. Eisenstein’s theory of relativity, proven by Arthur Eddington during a solar eclipse, caught the sunlight bending –”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “That’s a bit of a stretch. Also, how come they don’t call you Stretch?”
He shrugged. “Can’t give yourself a nickname.”
“Well, thanks anyway. I suppose I owe you for saving my skin.”
“You really haven’t thought twice about it, have you?”
“Thought?”
“You just got dragged some hundred yards by retractable arms.”
“Yes.”
“By a man named David who calls himself the Eclipse.”
“At least that last part wasn’t your idea.”
His smile was a bargain at half the price. “Want to see more?”
I watched as a teenager coasted past on his skateboarded. Had a moment there where I saw him ollie off the curb, try to stick the landing. Fucking up. Back wheels hitting a crushed soda can. Landing on his side. On his side, on his arm. Snap of the radius as bones splintered in two.
Two seconds later, I saw him ollie off the curb.
Turned away.
Wasn’t enough to muffle the skater’s screams as his wrist lost all meaning.
“Why did you do that?”
I glanced over to find David sizing me up. “Huh?”
“You turned away. Why?”
“Because...” There was the kid, sitting in the gutter. Clutching his arm, shrieking. Staring at what used to be a given set of instructions. I began to walk towards him.
“Wait,” David insisted. “Answer the question.”
“What?”
“Why did you turn away?” David repeated, voice loud over the screams. “Tell me.”
“Jesus, David, come on.”
“Here come the others...” Small tribes of concerned citizens were already congregating from all sides of the street. “It’s actually our best chance.”
“Best chance for what?”
“Quickly.”
He motioned for me to follow him past the church steps, and down a second set. Paused at the wooden door, imbedded into a squat, stone archway. Sending me a second cue, this time with a circumspect urgency. “They aren’t looking at us. They won’t see. This is it, Lucky. Now, or not at all.”
I turned back to the kid, now the focal point of Houston street.
Every last soul gathered by his side, watching from a distance, or ignoring the tears and all that surrounded them.
I trotted down steps. Gave David a vigilant frown.
He pressed his palm against the door. Fingers spread far as they could go, though clearly not as far as they could stretch. The low warble of an angry insect flooded my ears. The wooden panels began to warp, just enough to hint at a heartbeat, before the door creaked open. Swinging inwards, rather than out. And rather than a rec room or dingy boiler, a metal staircase that led further into a faraway shade of aqua blue.
“Now, Lucky,” David said. “Right now.”
I stepped through the stone arch. Giving up on the outside as I took several rusted steps down into the dwelling. Heard the door close. Waited for David to join me.
“You did good, Lucky,” he said. There were no walls, no ceiling, but his voice still managed to find its echo in the rippling light. “Matter of fact, you just won me five hundred bucks.”
“So can I go now?”
“Not the way you came in.”
He was right. The door had vanished. Replaced by the same velvet darkness on either side of the stairway. “Where do these stairs go?”
“They go down.”
“Fine. Where do they lead?”
“Same place.”
I got to moving.
Hollow footfalls along a subterranean fire escape.
A seven-minute hike that ended in a steel catwalk. Mesh pattern hovering two feet above a pool of brilliant turquoise. We crossed those lonely waters in silence. Not long before we hit another door. Metal this time. Black paint job, dented in certain spots. From the other side came the muted wail of a saxophone.
“We’re here.” David said.
“Ok.”
It was as easy as turning the knob.
We stepped into a burning replica of every bar I had ever set foot in. Total identity crisis, from the clash of neon signs to the black and white frames of Irish immigrants. Every color in the visible prism represented by naked bulbs. Mismatched barstools adorning a bar that cut out at obtuse, impossible angles. Floor tilting upwards, ninety degrees, towards a jukebox with no buttons or speakers.
Miraculously managing to belt out Boogie Woogie Boo.
Bright flames leapt from the walls with no apparent origin.
I felt my new comrade wrap his arm around my shoulder.
And around and around.
“Hey, everyone!” he called out. “Say hello to Lucky Saurelius!”
The patrons all turned, joined together in a greeting both joyous and brooding.
Didn’t take a mastermind to notice there was something wrong with each and every one of them. But David was quick to notice that I had more pressing issues on my mind.
“Who’s in charge of drinks?” I asked.
David withdrew his arm with an elastic snap. “As you pass yet another test.”
He led me up the wall, sideways along a mural of Guernica.
Wild angles vandalized, spray paint outlining exposed tits and erect cocks.
Made our way back down to what could barely pass for the floor. Had a seat.
The bartender slid on up. Or what the bartender was wearing did, at any rate.
Nothing but a bowtie was floating before us, surrounded by a pale, industrial mist.
“This is Spectrum,” David told me.
The bowtie bobbed slightly. “Lucky Saurelius. Pleasure to meet you.”
I extended my hand. Felt an electric tingle as he shook mine.
David signaled for a pair of drinks. “His thing is he’s invisible.”
“You don’t fucking say.”
“I do.” David reached for a pair of floating glasses, doubled with ice and Jack Daniel’s. Set them down. Stretched his arm out to a rusted cigarette machine. Pulled a knob and reeled in a pack of Dunhills.
Struggled with the cellophane.
Ignoring the vertigo of odd dimensions, I took a moment to take in the regulars.
Saw a fellow floating placidly above his table. Laid flat on an imaginary mattress, one arm behind his head. Mouth open. Voraciously taking down a stream of whiskey, poured by a woman with ebony skin and bright lipstick; dressed in full denim, with bare feet and her remaining hand stuck to the ceiling.
In the corner, a pair of identical twins sat concentrating over a chess set. Matching scuba suits doing what was possible to imprison their curves. Miniature ice sculptures in place of knights, rooks, and bishops. Every so often, one of the twins would unzip to the valley between her breasts. A select figurine would melt, crawl towards another square, and reconstitute. Sometimes as the same creature. Occasionally, as another beastie, only to take a bite out of some unfortunate statuette in a bright spark of cold fusion.
A weathered face stepped into my line of sight. Hawkish features, stern smile. Celestial blue against a wrinkled face cut from the Dakota badlands.
“Huh?” I asked.
“He’s got questions, Eclipse,” the old timer said, helping himself to David’s cigarettes. “Don’t be fooled by his cool.”
David nodded. “He’s got questions, then, Ksa.”
“Yes.”
“Seeking the answers to life’s mysteries?”
Ksa borrowed the arm of a passing drunk, who barely took notice as his palm was used to light the old timer’s Dunhill. “I don’t recall life’s mysteries asking him anything.”
Then Ksa went on his way, copping the gin and tonic from a distracted patron and knocking it back.
David offered me a Dunhill.
I popped it in my mouth. Turned and borrowed an arm, lit up.
Smoke mingled with the strange taste of burning flesh.
“You got questions?” David asked.
“Who was that character, just then?” I asked. Took a sip of Jack. “You called him Ksa.”
“His thing is he reads minds,” David said. “Pretty much runs this place.”
“He’s your leader.”
“He runs the place. We don’t have one of those.”
“Ok.”
“So you figure we’re a group?”
“There’s a group of you, no doubt.” I took down a bit more of my Jack. “Group of who, more like, is what my question is.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes. So obvious I don’t actually know the answer.”
“We’re super heroes.”
I polished off my Jack. Motioned in the general direction of that floating bowtie. Got another double for my doubts. “No, you’re not.”
“Well, let’s see…” David turned in his seat. “Jamie over there can glide through the air. We call him Magnet. The lady on the ceiling? That’s The Spin. She can crawl up and along any surface. The Gentleman, he’s not here right now. But he might be. He can walk through things, likes to hang out in crawlspaces. Whenever he’s not sojourning in women’s locker rooms. The twins? We call them the Absolute Zygotes. Got a way with temperatures…”
“Yeah,” I lit a new cigarette off the end of the other. “I get it. But what do you all do?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Have you stepped outside this bar lately?” I made to gesture towards a window. Realized I was several miles underground. Made do with pointing towards the ceiling, where the face of a well-trimmed gentleman in a top hat melted through the panels just long enough to realize he’d been made, then withdrew from sight. I ignored it, soldiered on. “We’re sitting on a caldera.”
“What’s your question?”
“What the hell have you all done?” I asked. “Haven’t read anything in the papers recently.”
“You familiar with comic books?”
“No.”
“X-men?”
“No.”
“DC comics?”
“No.”
“But you understand the concept.”
“Yeah, I do.” Thought about refreshing my drink, got one courtesy of Ksa. Some kind of rum concoction that burned my throat. “And where were you when Amadou Diallo got shot? Columbine? Or fucking Rawanda? All this talent, and what?”
“Well, it’s complicated.”
“Not in the comic books.”
“I thought you didn’t read those.”
“Other people do. Have to sit and listen to their bullshit sometimes.”
“And that’s how you know they’re not complicated.” David said. Lit another cigarette, and as though on cue, the music died. Got every one of those eyes focused on us. Cyclops at the corner table included. “You think we haven’t done our share of interventions? Wiped out a good old-fashioned fascist or two? It never works. You know this.”
“I don’t know shit.”
“Well, stop asking why we don’t just take down every super villain that comes along.”
“So I shouldn’t even bother to ask about the usual street crime?”
“Well, the Gentleman can walk through walls, but so what? People see him the instant he pops out of hiding.”
“Don’t you have an invisible guy –”
“Spectrum?” David laughed. Joined by the rest of the freaks, all gathered around with their various drinks. Cigarettes. Floating in the air. Hanging off the wall. Orbiting the crass angles of this impractical bar, drunk smiles and tired eye
s. “Think about it. Can an invisible man really manipulate anything if he can’t see his own hands? And how invisible can you be when your digestive tract is visible to everyone.”
“He serves drinks pretty well.”
“It’s the only constant. The bottles and glasses are always where they are.”
“Blind people seem to do ok.”
The bowtie slid by, served me another drink. Told me: “Their eyelids aren’t transparent.”
David nodded. “We have to put him in a coma every night just to make sure he can sleep.”
The bowtie bowed with a certain sadness. “Eye masks make me itch.”
“Want me to go on?” David asked. Drank. Got a rousing chorus of murmurs from the rest. “The Arachnid can climb anywhere she wants, but the second she loses contact with a surface, she goes hypoglycemic. Ignition, the guy whose palm lit your cigarette a couple of minutes ago? He can only work his magic when touching easily combustible material. The twins? Well, the scuba gear says it all…”
“Tell it!” one of the twins called out.
“Tell it!” the other echoed.
The bar erupted into drunken revelry, shot glasses manifesting from the clear blue. Each one taking theirs out without a second thought.
I sighed, plucked my own drink out of the ethereal plane.
Took it down.
“You see,” David said, wiping his lips. “We’re not prognosticators, Lucky. We don’t know how our actions play out. The results. Unintended consequences. And we have no way of knowing who is going to be needed in the short term. No way of telling who’s getting mugged when or where…”
“You don’t have a guy small enough to change things on a molecular level? Genetically enhance wheat fields, food supplies. Find a cheap way to desalinize seawater? Create a cleaner fuel?”
“Sure, that never goes wrong. Split the atom. Radiation. Science. Mary Shelley.”
I smirked. “She one of you, too?”
“Wish she had been.”
“Say what?”
“We weren’t accepting women in those days.”
“Wow. So you really are all useless.”
“I’m sure you can relate…”
I sipped my Jack. Didn’t argue.
David waved everyone off.
They scattered. A lanky man with blue fingertips stuck his digits into the jukebox. It sprung to life, Fantasy is Reality.
“Well, yes,” David said. “We are all just a few minutes to midnight. We can’t contribute to innovation. We can’t kill Hitler. And we don’t know when Joe Average is planning to attack… until now.”
“How you figure?”
Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs Page 34
