Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Left our goodbyes on hold for just one more night.

  ***

  Verona’s Greyhound line was stationed at the site of a dying tire lot.

  A ten-minute walk towards downtown.

  “We’ll head on over in the morning, get you to where you need to be,” I said. Leaned over in my chair and held out my arm. She met my wine bottle with a clink from her Budweiser. We forgot to toast.

  Our commitment to one last drink multiplying in bottled Mandelbrot sets.

  I discovered a bag of marshmallows I had inexplicably brought home some weeks earlier.

  Took turns tossing them into each other’s mouths. Or somewhere in that general vicinity.

  We told each other about our lives thus far.

  “My grandfather was a member of the Communist party,” I said, having a good dose of the Gentleman. “Worked for the UN back in the fifties.”

  “My grandfather was chapter head of the Smithfield Klan.”

  “I like my grandfather better.”

  “So do I.”

  “Who do you think would win in a fight between our grandfathers?”

  “My grandmother.”

  I fell out of my seat.

  She caught the fifth of Kentucky, and helped herself.

  I moved next to her, planted my back to the wall.

  She sighed. Handed me the pint.

  I took a sip. Lit a cigarette. Took a pull. “Why do men like Clayton always win?”

  “What do you mean win?”

  “Fix the fight. Call the game. Choose on our behalf. Everything we’re doing right now is because of him…”

  “Everything I’m doing right now is because of him. Have you even read the books you have lying around here?”

  “Well, I’ve read mine.”

  She motioned for me to join her on the beanbag chair.

  I eased on in. Arms snaking, lips meeting for a quick kiss before laying back and watching the room grow small. Temple to temple. Her hair tickling my chin.

  “Going to New Orleans, huh?” I murmured.

  “I have to.”

  “Have to?”

  “It’s what comes next.”

  “I don’t believe in destiny.”

  “You lie… I’ve read your pages, too, all thrown about this place.”

  “And then what happens?” I asked, maybe not in that particular order. “Where’s what comes next for me?”

  Cali didn’t answer. We stayed put, let the question die in the air. Hang itself from the ceiling fan, then float through the window. In each other’s arms, warmth spreading. Feeling the heartbeat as I pressed close to her neck, imagining a morning sometime in the near future where she would awake to find me staring into her eyes, and asking if maybe it wasn’t time to finally settle down.

  Somewhere in the midst of these misinformed memories, I made the mistake of falling asleep.

  ***

  Couldn’t be sure what time it was, but the birds were singing.

  All things being equal, with a few exceptions.

  The bag I had packed for Cali was gone.

  Taken her along for the ride.

  And my shoes had been removed.

  Deliberately placed beneath the evergreen bridge table.

  Went to the kitchen, meaning to kick the doorstop out of place.

  Already taken care of.

  I plodded down the steps. No urgency. No purpose. This was only a gesture. Stood barefoot on the front lawn. Peeked around the trees. Listened to the birds, introduction to a sky threading a light blue loom.

  Then orange, then red.

  Cali was on her way.

  From somewhere beyond sight and sound, a stray dog padded up. Great Dane. He recognized something, I suppose. Nuzzled my leg. I reached down. Scratched its ears, felt gross lesions along his skull.

  “Now you?” I asked.

  Dark lips pulled back in a lovely grin. He licked his lips.

  “Feel like following me?”

  He nodded.

  ***

  I put a few slices of ham on a plate. Closed the refrigerator. Leaned against the sink, dizzy.

  Found the dog curled up on the beanbag chair.

  Set the plate before him and watched the ham disappear town his throat.

  Sat at my table, reaching for a half-empty bottle of red.

  Typed for a while and managed my words quite well for once.

  ***

  I woke up and the dog was waiting by the door.

  He let me accompany him down the stairs, and out into the morning.

  Cold as hell, but he made no bones about trotting away.

  I caught my eye on a yellow Post-it stuck to his right flank.

  Whistled.

  He gave me a look. Gave himself due time to make a decision. Padded on back. Stayed just long enough for me to remove the reminder, scratch his ears once more as he went on his way. This time for good.

  I checked the Post-it.

  Trapped inside a felt tip heart was Cali’s scribbled farewell:

  coyote was going there…

  I stood with naked toes cursing the cold, body begging me to step back into a warm sanctuary, empty walls and the promise of a life free from events and emblematic pitfalls.

  Lit a cigarette and chose the cold for just a while longer.

  Just long enough to watch a robin or two go wandering past.

  Suicide at Thirty-Five.

  At the time, I couldn’t have told you how many years I had left to live.

  Spring of 2004 in the city of New York.

  The trees were on their yearly walkabout. Some going so far as to erupt in resplendent blemishes. Cherry petals rippled along Brooklyn streets and the walkways of Washington Square Park. Buildings like vertical shutter slats, allowing for thin grooves of warmth. Crisp temperatures meted against the quiet dread of a city just three years spent from Ground Zero.

  I remained indifferent to the looming specter of another nine-one-one. Unconcerned by suspicious characters on the uptown express. No humbled respect for airliners cutting across the sky. Somebody out there almost certainly had my number, and there was nothing to do but keep on keepin’ on.

  “Set me up with some sunshine,” I called out, trotting down the steps to Castlebar. “Only one-hundred and eighty minutes’ worth of Happy Hour left.”

  “My, my, Lucky…” Brigid slid down the bar. Six foot, full-figured. Golden hair, silver-tongued, Irish accent nibbling at my earlobes. “What’s got you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine afternoon?”

  “I may have done something right.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There’s a time and place for everything.”

  She put her hands to her cheeks. Eyes wide, powder blue. “Is it now? Is it here?”

  “Is it ever.”

  Brigid slammed a coaster on the bar. “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

  “What do you feel like making?”

  “Ah. We have an arrangement today, do we?”

  “We have an arrangement, Brigid.”

  “I like our arrangement, Lucky.”

  I hopped onto a barstool. “So what’ll it be?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve made an apple martini.”

  “Hit it.”

  Brigid throttled a bottle of vodka. I tapped my foot to Fats Domino. Gave a few regulars their due, tossed their crosswords a lifeline or two. Watched the sunlight pool near the entrance. Missed the way cigarette smoke used to wind its way along those lazy rays.

  Times were changing, something fast.

  “Apple martini for Mr. Lucky Saurelius.” Brigid presented me with a neon concoction the color of radioactive kelp. Maraschino cherry bellying up at the bottom. “Tell me what you think.”

  I brought the rim to my lips. Three tart swallows took care of the first half.

  “Yum.”

  “Good, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have some more.”

  Second verse, same
as the first.

  Brigid served me up another, and I let her in on a little bit of luck that had found its way home.

  ***

  Not more than two sips into my third drink, when Lincoln clattered down the steps.

  His broad shoulders eclipsed the doorway, darkened the bar before he shuffled in. Loafers sliding across the floor. Naked ankles. Shorts stained what could have been blood or wine. Undershirt cloaked by a light blue short-sleeve. Face consumed with fading bruises, nose split at the bridge. Looking better than whatever had come to pass, but not saying much about where things were headed.

  “Jesus, Lincoln.” Brigid tilted her head. “Don’t see your face for months, and this is the one you bring us?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. Voice hoarse, breath stale with cigarettes and scotch, aged twelve years in his own mouth. “Won’t let it matter.” His eyes narrowed, buried deep in dark craters. “What the fuck are you drinking, Lucky?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said.

  “Apple martini,” Brigid told him. “The arrangement?”

  “Still no excuse,” he said. “Drink it fast, get it out of my sight.”

  I took it down. Swallowed the cherry whole. “Happy?”

  “I’ll leave that to the experts.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of Chesterfields. “Meantime, Brigid, baby, think we can get us both some real drinks?”

  “Anything you want. Unless you want to smoke, then you’re going to have to step outside.”

  He grimaced. “Since when?”

  “July, last year. Come on, you know this.”

  “This is no longer my city, no longer my world.” He tucked his cigarettes away. “Brigid, baby. Please, two doubles of Johnnie Blue.”

  “Johnnie Blue?”

  “Also answers to the name Max Walker.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  “Doubles.”

  Still wasn’t sure I’d heard right. Didn’t ask, though. Didn’t want to jinx it.

  Lincoln caught me staring. Gave the left side of his mouth a bit of a lift. “You are the only other writer I could ever stand to be around.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hm.”

  Brigid placed a pair of glasses before us. Proper ones, weighted at the bottom. Must have had them stored away for just such an occasion. Whatever this occasion was crying for.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “Shh.” Lincoln motioned to the bottle in Brigid’s arms.

  Brigit nodded. Took the bottle by the neck and tilted. A thin stream of blended scotch spun golden threads. Sound of the pour somehow killing the music as it filled in the blanks. The regulars leaned in, pack animals, the whole dirty lot.

  Two mammoths of Johnnie Blue.

  Sizeable.

  Brigid pushed in, set us up.

  Lincoln smiled like a man in love. “Thanks, Brigid, baby.”

  “You’re welcome…” She bit her thumb for a moment. “You know I can’t let you run a tab, Lincoln. Not on these. I don’t know what today may be, but I’m going to need it up front. It’s for your own good.”

  “Sure thing, Brigid, baby. What’s the damage?”

  “That’s going to be thirty each, Lincoln. Sixty for the pair.”

  Lincoln came through with a bankroll the size of my fist. Flipped through the meadows, then set five twenties on the bar. “Sixty for the scotch, and forty for your troubles.”

  “Lincoln?”

  “Every second passes I see that money on the bar, I’m putting down another twenty, so –”

  Brigid took the cash, tended to the antique register.

  Bells ringing as Lincoln handed me my drink. Took his in hand and tapped it against mine. “Here’s to the end of all things.”

  I nodded and brought the rim to my lips. Felt the fluid caress my tongue, closed my mouth and swallowed. Tiny bite, no burn. Tasting the scent of fresh wooden floors. Sliding, settling into my stomach.

  Pitch perfect.

  Easy street.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Grab us a seat, I want to talk to you…” Lincoln pointed to a nearby table. “Going to tip the jukebox, get a little something going for us.”

  I glanced at Brigid. She nodded.

  I sat down.

  Careful to keep my drink at bay. Make this moment last.

  Got a little Billie Holliday for my patience, and Lincoln sat down with a tired grunt. Dragged his fingers down along his face, stretching the skin. Rubbed his eyes. Sighed. Reached for his drink. “How’s the book going, maestro?”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one, he asks.” Lincoln chuckled, shook his head. “Can you believe this fucking kid?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “The book you published, over across the pond. The one the Brits done brought out.”

  “Don’t know. Don’t want to know the numbers. Can’t be distracted by numbers.”

  “Amen.” He had a taste of treasure. “But now I can see, on beyond those big brown eyes of yours, that there’s something else, right? Don’t lie, now. I once had that same look on my face, some million years ago.”

  “You’re barely thirty.”

  “I’ll be thirty-five in four days.”

  “For serious? Happy birthday.”

  “Don’t you even fucking THINK of drinking to that.”

  I paused with my toast in midair.

  “Now,” he said, motioning for me to move on. “Why don’t you enjoy your drink and tell me all the muse that’s fit to print?”

  I took a sip. Still marveling. “Brits sold the rights to their U.S. division.”

  “Random House is publishing your book?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well blow me down.”

  “What, right here in front of everyone?”

  Lincoln cackled, and without warning, knocked back his drink. Wiped his busted lips and pointed. “Now you.”

  “It’s Johnnie Blue, Lincoln. I want to taste it.”

  “You ever want to taste it again, you’ll do as I say.”

  But the threat rang hollow. Limp, without any promise of retribution. Toothless. Enough to get me drinking, just so Lincoln might think he still had it in him reach across the table and force the scotch down my throat.

  I couldn’t even fake a grimace. “Which begs the question, how is your latest handling itself?”

  “Stay put, I’m not through with you.” He picked up our glasses and hit the bar.

  I watched the ritual unfold once more. Another hundred dollars on the table, another glass of Blue.

  Lincoln raised his glass, and we drank.

  “What’s going on today, Lincoln?” I asked.

  “People lie, Lucky.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not going to be around forever.”

  “None of us are, probably.”

  “I’m going to start not being around forever far more sooner than you.”

  “More sooner?”

  “We are gathered here today, on this fine spring, so that I may impart…” Again, the emotion didn’t quite resonate. Words stripped of their intentions. “I want to tell you a few things before I die, and I want you to listen.”

  “Before you die, when?”

  “Ok, then don’t listen.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. Tossed it onto the table. “Take out one of those college-ruled nightmares you carry around in your bookbag and write this down.”

  “Now?”

  “Now, Lucky. Now.”

  I put myself at the ready.

  “Thank you…” Lincoln had a drink. Worked his lips, made a dying kind of birdcall. Cleared his throat. “There have been cases where people survive a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Even pressed against your temple, there’s still a slight chance you’ll just end up a carrot in some bed, some sanitized room at Mount Sinai. Only way to really do the trick, I’m told, is to actually suck on the barrel. Point i
t up to the roof of your mouth and squeeze the trigger.”

  I pulled off a little shorthand, chicken scratch. Had a look to see if anyone else had heard. Barflies welcoming the late afternoon. Brigid taking a serrated blade to a couple of limes. I reached for my drink. “Are we live, here?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Are you doing this?”

  “Who cares? You are here to write, Lucky.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “To give you a few words to live by, until you end up sitting where I am. Because things may be going good right now, but there are no guarantees. None. Don’t care if your editor at Random House thinks you’re the bee’s knees today. Come tomorrow, a few years down the road, they will ditch you for dollars. And when was the last time you tried hitting the bricks with a manuscript and a stack of manila envelopes? There are authorities, gatekeepers. Demons, Lucky, who get to choose what happens to you.”

  “We’ve all done it. They’ve all done it. To quote the poet, roll the dice…”

  “Do it, do it, do it. Please. I don’t care how much the Bukowskis and Paul Austers and Rick Moodys were made to suffer, they made it. And they can wax all they want, sing praises to a waning moon, but one look outside their window will say otherwise. This world is sick with failure, and we’re supposed to listen to the scant percentage who happened upon miracles, all dressed up as bootstraps. You think a single book, or even two or three makes for a levy against the floodwaters of the Mississippi? The second you get dumped on your ass for having guts, for writing what’s what, who’s going to be there? Who’s going to see that your words are heard over whatever the New York Review of Books claims is king?”

  I didn’t even realize I had been writing the whole time. Felt that final word come pouring from the pen before clicking it shut. “Yeah, and I know someone at this table who got dumped, then went and did it on his own.”

  “And I can barely make it to my own bed, because I’ve got stacks of books some four feet high, covering some twelve square feet of warped, wooden floors. The cost of vanity’s burning a hole in my pocket some several thousand dollars deep. Can’t you see, it’s not a goddamn game? It’s an actual risk, what you’re doing?”

  “So the big guys dump me. I’ve still got my network.”

  Something about this sent his scotch down a one-way street. He coughed, sputtered. I felt a few beads of spit land on my lid. He washed it down with more scotch.

  I followed suit. Once gentle sips graduating to larger swallows. “I have friends,” I said.

  “Friends?”

  “I know people.”

  “Any of them like you? Any of them give a serious shit about you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure? That’s what you got for me? That’s the sum total of your argument, Mr. Clarence Darrow? Sure?”