Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Gloriously unconcerned with words that wouldn’t quite come. Happy to sit and drink. Reflect on what I figured were my sunset years as a barfly.

  A real good chance at going semi straight.

  Positive I’d left it all behind.

  A plausible combination of words came to mind.

  A tabby cat prowled around underfoot on a smooth redbrick floor dotted with cigarette burns.

  I put out my cigarette and gave myself a moment. Reached for a pint of Kentucky Gentleman, drank, and gave the phrase some thought.

  Caught a flutter of movement outside my window.

  Narrowed my eyes. “Are you a robin?”

  The robin answered with a few bobs of the beak. Peeking through the screen, head cocked. Curious.

  I cocked my own head. Realizing for the first time that I had never seen a robin after sundown.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  The reply was a splintering crash as someone kicked open my front door.

  I didn’t jump in my seat, out of my socks; the robin at my window must have led me halfway towards enlightenment. Heartbeat in remission, all but stalled. A slow turn of the head, eyes focusing past the kitchen, where abandoned dishes pouted in the dented sink. Deadbolt busted to shit, doorway wide open.

  Filled frame to frame by a wild man in jeans and black construction boots.

  Daggers for eyes.

  Hands balled into fists. “YOU MOTHER-FUCKING, COCK-SUCKING PUNK!”

  For an absolute stranger, he seemed to know a lot about me.

  Bobble? I wondered, straining memories as monster strides took him through the kitchen and into my living room. Swift movements, but still, so slow. I managed to catch the paint splatter on his jeans, small tear in his white undershirt, just below the ribcage. The mix of gold and brown in his oily, unkempt hair. Skull tattoo, left bicep. Muscles stretching that grin to ungodly, agonizing limits.

  I even had the leisure, it felt, to check the window one last time.

  My robin was gone.

  His fist struck my forehead with a priceless thud. All things back into an abrupt, chaotic focus.

  Yanked from calm waters in a burst of yellow and purple starbursts.

  I could smell the rum on his breath, possibly the very impediment that had spared me a shattered jaw, broken nose.

  Collapsed eyeball.

  He did me the favor of assaulting my chair. Massive fingers clutching plastic armrests, then throwing me to the ground.

  If he had only bothered to keep swinging at my face, this stranger could have easily sent me to the hospital.

  Or cemetery.

  Neither one comes cheap.

  So I took a swan dive to the floor. Tuck and roll. Steel tipped boot coming down inches from my head. I was lathered in a spontaneous sheath of sweat. Pages of useless prose clung to my body.

  I bucked, flopped onto my back. Drew my knee in, shot my foot out. Hoping to give his balls a good talking to. None too sober myself, I missed the mark. Made contact with his inner thigh. Must have hit a nerve, tendon; some unlikely bit of anatomy. His leg buckled, sent him crashing onto a small wooden table covered in assorted empties.

  Shards of glass went flying every which way, harmonizing with his hefty grunt.

  I saw an opening, and flipped myself over easy. On all fours. Looking to get to my feet. Traction spoiled by those same goddamn papers. Caught. Dog on a treadmill, scrambling for my life. Fell on my face. Worm’s-eye view of bold typeface:

  so Fast Jack downed his drink, and ran along the inside track of impending doom.

  Needs work, I thought, sending a quick glance towards the corner.

  My new best friend had made the best of his tumble: up on one knee, clutching a shattered bottleneck of Smirnoff. Jagged teeth looking to kiss an artery or two.

  Just the motivation I needed. Solid hit of adrenaline.

  Up on my feet, two powerful bounds before turning the corner.

  Confronted with a bedroom, bathroom, and door number three.

  Never one to befriend a rational decision, I dove into the empty closet and slammed the door shut.

  Cloaked in absolute black.

  I grabbed hold of the knob and pulled tight, just as it began to jiggle against my hand.

  No contest. One serious, solid yank, and that would be the ball game.

  I planted my feet against the wall and tugged, bones popping in their sockets.

  What few muscles I had strained to their limits.

  Even in all that darkness, I shut my eyes.

  Wild-man diatribes amplified.

  Obscene Carolina drawl spiking with every vowel.

  “YOU GODDAMN COCK SUCKER! PIECE OF SHIT, BITCH-ASS PUNK! GET THE FUCK OUT HERE, I’M GONNA CUT YOUR FUCKING THROAT OUT! YOU GET ME, JULIAN APPLEBEE!? I’M GONNA FUCK YOU UP!”

  Yeah, I got him, no doubt.

  Everything except Julian Applebee.

  And so, I found my voice.

  Screamed through the door: “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

  “KILL YOU, JULIAN APPLEBEE!”

  “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?” I yelled, feeling the knob turn slick in my palms. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

  And suddenly, the knob went dead.

  Silence. Blessed serenity from within and without.

  I heard him belch. “Huh?”

  Made my point, loud and deliberate: “What the fuck is a Julian Applebee?”

  Beat. “Who is this?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Who are you?”

  “This is Lucky. Lucky Saurelius.”

  Beat. “Oh shit... Fuckin’ bitch lied right to my face, can you believe that?”

  I sure as fuck could. “Can I open the door? Can I? Can I open the door and can we talk?”

  He made the decision for us. Yanked it right open, bruising my fingers as he tore the knob from my grasp. Done with seeking further damages. Just stood before me, a six-two golem gone soft. Healthy stubble showing off compassionate wrinkles along his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, man.” He spread his massive arms, as if to prove he had nothing to hide. Even dropped his weapon. No hard feelings. “You ain’t no kind of Julian Applebee.”

  I arose from my crouch. “Coulda told you that for free.”

  He let out a sigh, high pitched Whoo.

  Wiped his brow. Shook his head. “My name is Clayton. Clayton Richardson.”

  “My name isn’t Julian Applebee.”

  “Yeah, it’s Lucky. I know that now.”

  Our hands met with an improbable shake.

  And somehow, it didn’t feel over. “You want some rum, maybe figure this all out?”

  “Rum! My fucking favorite. You must’ve read my fucking mind!” He laughed. Foul, psychic fumes bellowing from his mouth.

  “Just give me a second to go throw up,” I told him.

  “Please, sir. Go ahead on.”

  I went right ahead on and took a second to throw up.

  ***

  It was two days later.

  I had taken the fifty bucks Clayton had given me for the door and put it towards replacing the rum and cigarettes he had consumed.

  Then I drank the rum.

  Shortly thereafter, I paid the porcelain a little visit. Threw up. Listened to the crickets outside my window, left temple resting on the throne. Thought about Clayton. Ever since his appearance, I had been using a doorstop in place of the busted kitchen lock. Meticulously remembering to set it in place every time I came in or out.

  Wait, out? I raised my head. How have I been putting the doorstop in place when I leave?

  I shuffled from the bathroom.

  Found a woman standing by my desk.

  Woman with a black eye.

  Apparently, I hadn’t been as diligent when it came to being in, either.

  “Good,” I managed. “So who are you?”

  Her lips parted in a remorseful gasp. Blonde hair fell in hampered strands around an angular, sunburned
face. Beautiful eyes, though. Inexplicably layered, even the one ornamented with a purple shiner, motivating towards dirty yellow.

  “Oh, my. Oh, no. I’m so sorry…” Her voice was raspy, perfect pitch. She sighed, chest heaving once beneath an oversized white polo shirt. Hands at her cheeks. “Oh, I am so sorry. Look what Clayton did to you.”

  I instinctively felt my forehead. Fingertips rubbing an engorged tumor. “Oh.”

  She moved her hands down. Rested them over her heart, fingers intertwined. “Can I get you some ice?”

  “I can get my own ice. Thanks.”

  “Ok.”

  I missed my robin, wondered what she was up to. “You must be Cali.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m Cali Richardson.”

  “I see you’re still using your married name.”

  “Oh, shoot. What did that son of a bitch tell you?”

  I sighed. “You like rum?”

  “I hate it.”

  “Stands to reason.” I motioned to the beanbag chair in the corner. “Please. Sit down and I’ll get you a beer. Maybe tell you a story if you don’t already know it.”

  Cali sat. Crossed her legs, revealing unseasonable cutoffs.

  I got us a couple of cold ones and we had ourselves a chat.

  ***

  Cali was born in Smithfield. Daughter of a textile worker. Her husband, Clayton, was born in Smithfield. Son of a textile worker. The pair married fresh out of high school. Moved to Verona a few years ago, Clayton looking to find work in construction, Cali looking to scrape tips at whatever restaurant would take her.

  Somewhere between shifts, Cali had fallen in love with a grad student from Pantheon University. The two of them got to seeing each other on the sly, but in Verona, there were no such things as secrets. Clayton had grown wise. Late one recent evening, Cali had come home to an ambush. Clayton had beat the name of Julian Applebee out of her. Beat the cock-sucking punk’s address out of her, while he was at it.

  But Cali had been smart enough to lie. Quick with the bit, and apparently, Camelot was the destination of her last delivery before quitting Papa John’s.

  Perfectly reasonable.

  Minus the twenty-five-year-old domestic abuse victim sharing a drink with me in my perfect, violated sanctuary.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t… I mean, I knew he’d come here, but he was hitting me. I just didn’t know what to say. And I came by tonight because I just had to make sure you, whoever you were, were ok, and all.”

  “You did the right thing. Both times…” Didn’t feel the need to rub it in. “I’m still alive, and Clayton is long gone.”

  “Long gone where?”

  I sighed. Lit a cigarette. Tossed her the pack. “I think he knows Julian went back to New Orleans.”

  “Oh, shoot!” She beat her fists repeatedly against her knees. “How could he know? How could he know?”

  “I don’t know, but he does. One of the half-dozen things he mumbled before leaving.”

  “He’s going after Julian.”

  “Looks like.”

  “And you didn’t stop him?”

  “Cali…” I got on my knees, steadied her hand as she tried to light a Marlboro. “I’ve dealt with his kind before.” I paused, looked into her eyes. One, a window to the tropics, the other red and black. “Unless you just sit there and nod, you’re going to get yourself killed. I’m sorry I couldn’t rise to the occasion. I just wanted him out of my house.”

  Cali smoked, finished her beer. “I know what you mean.”

  “Guess I don’t need to tell the expert in the room.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  “At a friend’s. Then I realized, oh, shoot, you know? Only a matter of time before Clayton comes this way. Any which way he thinks to look for me. So I took off. Came here. I mean, long as I got no place to go, might as well apologize for what I done wrong. Right?”

  I stood up. Got us a few more beers.

  Propped myself up against the wall, sat side by side with Cali.

  We smoked and drank in silence for a good five minutes.

  I caught a few traces of her smell. Cigarettes and Ivory soap.

  “Cali, if you need a place to stay for a bit...” I turned to her, neck stiff. “That sound ok? Get your shit together, figure out your next move?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” I stood, moved to my desk. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep out here. We’ll make an honest place out of this shithole.”

  “You remind me of him,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  She glanced at her sandals, toes still red from the cold. “You talk smart. Julian was smart too. That’s what I liked about him. Didn’t lecture, look down... It’s kind of like he just let me learn.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, alright.” I reached into a basket, clothes five days fresh from the laundromat. Threw a pair of socks her way. A pair of sweatpants. “Get warm. Get in bed. I’m going to be here writing if you need anything.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Please try. I need to figure some shit out myself.”

  “Ok.”

  She left me by my lonesome. Even through the smoke, I could still smell the Ivory.

  I sat down at my desk. Stared at the screen.

  Glanced over to the hallway. Bedroom just around the corner.

  Back to my computer. Had a beer.

  Had another. Then two more.

  “Lucky?”

  Cali was standing in the doorway. She had found one of my discarded shirts reading I Survived The Aussie All-You-Can-Eat Spaghetti Friday.

  I had survived no such thing.

  The very thought of all-you-can-eat spaghetti at a dive like that made my stomach bleed.

  “Yeah, Cali?”

  She tugged at the shirt, bare legs leading down to mismatched socks. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Of course. Don’t know what I was thinking. You want to hang out in here?”

  She nodded. Went back to the beanbag chair.

  I got her a blanket and a book.

  Cali read the cover out loud. “Coyote Was Going There?”

  “It’s a collection of myths. Indian folklore.”

  “Like Hindu stuff?”

  “No, like whoop-whoop, feather Indian.”

  “Native American.”

  “Yeah.”

  She frowned, revealing small creases in her chin. “Whoop-Whoop. Feather. That wasn’t a nice thing to say, Lucky.”

  “Sorry. I know. I was just being glib.”

  “What’s glib?”

  “It’s exactly like being a coward.”

  Cali seemed to approve of my definition.

  I got her a beer.

  Got myself one, too.

  She settled into her book, and I went about trying to write one of my own. Wasn’t easy. I could feel Cali pressing against me. My fingers stuck in their home. Smoke drifted across my face. Mingled with a scenario, Cali’s arms unexpectedly wrapping around my torso, lips close to my ear.

  I took a swig of beer, swiveled my chair around.

  There she was. Nose deep in creation myths.

  I turned back to my writing.

  The worlds IVORY SOAP stared back at me.

  I reached into a drawer and pulled out a pint of Kentucky Gentleman.

  One hit of cheap bourbon led the way for his friends.

  Resting my head for a moment became sleep, and I woke up that morning to find random Post-its plastered to my face.

  Cali was curled in beanbag chair, clutching the book to her breasts. Snoring lightly. Eyelids fluttering, right side still black and bruised. Shirt lifted up, revealing her lower flank. Home to a sheath of raw, tattered skin.

  Dragged along several feet of salted concrete.

  I set my head down.

  Let Clayton die at my hands once or twice, then dreamed my way back to reality.

  ***

  I r
eturned from work at half past midnight.

  Cali was seated in her beanbag chair.

  She looked up from a mess of papers. Looked significantly more rested than our first meeting. Blonde hair hanging in damp clumps, freshly showered. She gave a light wave, pointed towards misspelled paragraphs. “You wrote this all on your own?”

  I sat down, uncorked a bottle of Gato Negro. “This garbage helped a little.”

  “You’re funny.” She shook her head. “And you’ve been through some wild stuff.”

  “Please.” I had a drink of muddy cabernet. “The runaway bride with the black eye’s telling me I’ve been through some wild stuff.”

  “Are you being glib?”

  “Yes. You eat that sandwich?”

  “Yes.” She helped herself to my bottle. “What are you thinking?”

  “Had a robin visit me just seconds before your husband busted in here,” I told her. Lit a cigarette. “Guess maybe I have been through some wild shit. But I’d like for it to stop. I thought I might be able to make it stop. But I like having you around.”

  Cali gave a sad smile. Traced a finger along her black eye. “You’re very dramatic.”

  “I was sneaking the bourbon at work.”

  “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “I decided earlier.” She went into the kitchen, got us a couple of beers, handed me one. “Here, switch to this.”

  I followed my orders. Let her talk.

  “I’m going down to New Orleans. Clayton’s gone down there, I’m sure of it. He’s out for blood, looking for Julian. And I got to make sure he’s ok.”

  I didn’t ask. There were too many worst-case scenarios to choose from.

  She nodded. “Then that’s going to be how it’s going to be.”

  “Maybe Clayton won’t find him.”

  “How many Julian Applebees do you really think there are in New Orleans? In all of Louisiana?”

  “Four?”

  “And once he’s done with the first three?”

  I took a hit of beer. The night crowded in, settled around us. I felt the floorboards resting against my feet. Rubbed my neck. “I can get you on a Greyhound to New Orleans. Day after tomorrow. Give me a chance to cash my check, give you a little walking around money.”

  “I ain’t going to say no, Lucky.”

  “Good.”

  We finished our beers in silence.

  I gave her the rundown over a fresh round.

  Tomorrow, we would get her a ticket. Get her some clothes. Get to a payphone, see what contacts I could dig up in the Crescent City. Get her strategy straight. Get a few more drinks. Get ready for departure.

  Dawn crept up, and I fell asleep at my desk.

  Cali in her beanbag chair.