Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs
Page 45
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said.
“Just occurred to me you are the only non-smoker I have ever kissed.”
“And I stuck with you for a good couple of years.”
“Just be honest. It was kind of disgusting, wasn’t it?”
“It was a pretty good run.”
I nodded. Kept drinking. From the end of the bar came a bit of laughter. Festivities. Signs that this evening might yet turn around. I turned to Helena. She smiled. I smiled back, but found myself unable to partner words. Made do with another smoke.
“What’s next for you?” she asked.
Then I made do with another drink.
***
Time took up a collection. No change in mood, lighting. Crowd picked up for a bit, only to ebb back out to the streets.
Gordon stopped in, joined by Skippy.
“End of the world!” Gordon proclaimed, nestling his towering body into the seat next to mine. “The world ends tonight, I expect nothing less!”
I leaned over, nodded. “Hello, Skippy.”
Skippy nodded through oval rims, hair cut mercifully closer than those early days of ponytails and wool sweaters. “He just kind of followed me down here.”
Gordon raised his fist in the air. “Double of Maker’s and a Bud, Zephyr!”
“Same,” Skippy echoed.
Zephyr raised an eyebrow at me.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Same.”
As the preparations took place, Gordon went into overdrive. “Wasn’t it in these exact same seats that we dropped our pants, first met Melody?”
I resized my body, lit a cigarette. “Can’t remember.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, nice try,” Skippy added. “You remember everything.”
“It was in these exact same seats,” Gordon insisted, scooping up his Maker’s. “On this very night.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said. Picked up my drink. “And I was actually sitting four seats down from you all.”
“He has proven it!” Gordon raised his drink. “To the magical underground and our thirsty gullets!”
I followed suit. “To false starts and breaking hearts.”
Skippy sighed. “To overtime.”
We toasted and made a banquet of our bourbon.
I put my hand on Skippy’s arm. “I’m sorry we edged you out when we all moved uptown. We really were kind of sick of you, and one of us should have had the balls to tell you.”
“No worries, man.”
“Don’t give me that. Why aren’t you still pissed?”
“We didn’t know any better.”
I frowned. “You’re pathetic, you know that?”
Skippy didn’t care. “I’m happy. You aren’t. And you never will be, maybe.”
I nudged my pack of cigarettes towards him.
He lit up.
I stole my pack back. “That Maker’s really does the trick, doesn’t it?”
He smiled. “Sure does.”
“We were the kings of this place!” Gordon announced. Turned to a rudderless group of underage girls and made his point: “KINGS!”
They moved further down the bar.
Skippy laughed. Turned to me and sighed. “So what’s next for you?”
I sidestepped the question with a quick elbow to his ribs.
***
Milo took his time, ordered his drink. Huddled at the end of the bar with Gordon, Skippy, and a few regulars.
Reminiscing in raucous bouts of laughter.
He finally came down my way.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He held onto his beer, bobbed his head a few times. “Been a hell of a ride.”
“Yes.”
“What’s next?”
“Who knows?”
“You were right...”
“When?”
Milo did the thing. Let his inner conflicts pull his lower lip over his upper. “You told me once I resented you. And that I always have.”
“Yes.”
“You were right. Not anymore, but you were then.”
“Ok.”
“You really are a self-absorbed weakling, though. You don’t deserve half of what you get.”
“Yes.”
“And if it wasn’t for this place, you’d be a loser without a home.”
I lit a cigarette. “And if it wasn’t for me, you’d just be a loser.”
“Nice try.”
“Sounded real good though. For a moment there, it sounded real good.”
Milo smiled. Sighed. “Well, you got your Kathmandus and your Kathman-don’ts.”
I raised my drink. “No hard feelings. One last time around the block.”
He drank to that. I joined him. Found it in me to ignore why we were all down here.
***
Ayizan slapped my shoulder, sent my beer in the wrong direction.
Ages since I had thrown up, and I met my coughing fit with patience.
Held up my hand, finger, sterilizing his sudden apologies.
“I’m good.” I told him. “We’re all good, just… trying to breathe.”
“It is good to see you after all this time, Lucky,” he said.
“Yes.” I tried to smile. Wiped spit from my lip. “Hey, now that you mention it, did Christian ever show his face down here again?”
“That piece of shit? Why do you ask?”
“He owes me fifty bucks from a heads-up stud game we played back there, corner table.”
“Pssh.” Ayizan shook his head. “Worth fifty thousand if he never shows his face around here again.”
“After tonight, then, I suppose we’ll all be rich.”
He shook his head. “Why do you ruin every moment, Lucky?”
“I don’t know.”
“I loved every moment with you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“You remember Janet’s birthday?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“We don’t come around in this life too often,” he said. “Don’t kill yourself figuring it out.”
I opened my mouth to reply.
But he was done with his goodbyes.
Went to go join the rest at the end of the bar.
I felt very alone.
Very much at the center of the universe, and very certain I was lying both to myself and the bottles behind the bar. Wondering what it would take to drain every last one of their contents.
***
Skippy was at my side. “Don’t mean to interrupt your misery…”
“It does love its company.”
“They’re burning the list.”
I picked up my drink and followed his enthusiastic prancing.
Zephyr had emptied the tip bucket. Stood before it with a rumpled piece of stationary, giggling.
A small gathering of grins and curious first-timers were gathered in a tiny conference.
“And so we say goodbye to the LIST!” he announced.
The newcomers cheered along with all those gathered to witness this brilliant conclusion.
“Should we read it top, bottom?” Zephyr asked. “Bottom, top?”
To his left, Ayisan shot of a fast bout of Creole. Got a bit of consensus back from Zephyr, who announced. “Bottom to top. Just how we like to LICK it!”
It made no sense.
It didn’t matter.
Through the applause, he began to read.
“Geroun and Janice!”
Everyone raised their glasses, hollered and sang.
“Gabriel and Veronique!”
Catcalls and commotion.
“Christian and Galadriel!”
Applause melded into a few disgruntled rumbles:
“He was a piece of shit.”
“Dickhead.”
“Still owes me fifty dollars, fucking asshole.”
“Christian is DEAD!” Zephyr announced, before moving on: “Sabrina and Candice!”
Everyone got behi
nd that one, minus Evan, who couldn’t abide.“Fucking lesbians,” he muttered.
“Skippy and Felicity!”
Everyone gathered around our local hero to pat him on the back, jostle his slouched shoulders and rattle his grin.
“Damian and Daphne!”
From far back in the bar, the pissed off cry of Th’ FUCK was joined by the crack of a skull, body falling across a table. Bottles raining down as two friends discovered yet another thing they had in common.
The next three couples were lost over the din, before affairs were settled and Zephyr reached the top.
“And to top it off! The first and last of the list… the pioneer himself, Mr. Lucky Saurelius and Anya!”
It was my turn to receive the admiration of drunks and the sons of nowhere.
Save for Gordon who began to protest in earnest: “What the fuck? Where the fuck am I? I was ON that list!”
“Lucky led the way for all those who came after!” Zephyr announced, drowning out Gordon’s continued outrage. “I remember the night like it was just yesterday! Lucky, would you care to tell the story?”
“No!” Gordon insisted, fading in the stretch. “This is bullshit! I demand a recount!”
I managed a smile. Struck a match. All those napkins, the sight of an empty glass.
Lit my cigarette. “Burn it, Zephyr. Burn it, bury it, and let’s all have a drink.”
And if the crowd had anything to say about it, we were cooking with fire.
With a nod from our MC, I brought my match to the list. Just one corner catching our fever. Flames spreading, licking ass and taking names. Primal cries without reward or grievance. Slow dissolve into smoke as I sent secret thoughts backwards, across whatever missteps I could still identify, blocked in part by Gordon’s continued protests aimed at anyone who would listen, as he raged on and on, cheated out of history’s burning remains.
***
“You’re drunk,” Milo said.
“Maybe.”
“Rabies.”
“Rabies and all them babies.”
“I don’t accept your forgiveness.”
“Bullshit. You’ll accept whatever I want you to.”
He took the cigarette from my hand and had a drag.
“You don’t smoke,” I said.
“So now you know how I feel…” He snubbed it out in the ashtray. “Check me in a few years when you actually mean it. Once you’ve really gotten your ass from underneath these streets.”
“Fuck you, then.”
He smiled. “Fuck you, too. You miserable bastard.”
I heard the bell jingle and turned around.
“Don’t go,” I said.
But he was good as gone, another yellow ribbon tied around whatever was next.
***
As the minutes skipped past, I kept checking the door.
Wondering if Wanda might make an entrance.
“Always in love with the way she walked into a room,” I mumbled.
Zephyr pricked his ear from down the bar. By the door. Locking up. Willing to stay open, but closing the doors to all opportunity. Any chance at a random encounter, passerby with a boot heel in their heart and curiosity on the tip of their tongue, locked out. Shut out.
Bartender sliding up to me with a smile and a bottle of Hennessey. “What’s that you’re saying, you fucking drunk?” He laughed. So loud it only served to remind us all that there were less than ten people left to tend to the dying moments of Creole Nights.
So it didn’t matter when I told him, “I wish Wanda had made it down one last time.”
“Me too,” Zephyr said. Poured me a glass. “She loved the fuck out of you.”
“We could have been something else.”
“Yeah, you and her,” he said. “You and Helena, you and Magali, you and Anya. Hell, you and Milo, you and Black Jack Joe that one night you set the bar on fire.”
“When?”
“You don’t even know, Lucky.” Zephyr raised my glass to his lips and kissed the rim. “You don’t even know what to regret. Be happy. Try it. Creole Nights is a place of love.”
“Creole Nights is history.”
“Yes. But not for another few hours.”
“Yes.”
“Drink.”
“Yes.”
“You are the one. Don’t forget us.”
“Yes.”
I reached for my glass, still thinking that Wanda, Janet, Zipper, Melody, Bobble, Mojo, Tarquin, that kid claiming to be James Joyce, hell, even Sandra might make one last appearance. One last call to tell me what was next.
***
All I did was blink, and the bar was abandoned.
Six in the morning. Light tinctures of sunshine, grey eyeshadow over every table, broken bottle, half empty glass, and suicidal ashtrays. I was seated at the bar, still. Full glass of rum before me. Left wondering how I had pulled it off. If I hadn’t been locked in. If I hadn’t suddenly become the luckiest son of a bitch on the other side of the earth.
The kitchen door swung open, and Zephyr ambled in.
“You ok, Lucky?”
I quickly downed the rum, cleared my throat. “One last drink?”
“You forgot to settle up.”
I scratched my nose.
“Just kidding,” Zephyr said. “You haven’t forgotten anything.”
There was no escaping that particular fact.
He reached blindly for a bottle of rum. Bacardi Select. Poured me a triple.
It wasn’t a dare. Wasn’t a sign of anything other than closing time.
“Got to reconcile,” he said, heading for the register. “You enjoy your drink. Think about things for a while.”
I did as I was told.
Moses strolled in. We eyed each other warily. Cat paws wandering through a dragnet of cigarette butts, prompting a feline sneeze.
“God bless you.”
He leapt up onto the bar.
Prowled towards me, leaving ashen prints along the surface.
Curled up by my arm.
I lit a cigarette, possibly the last one. Scratched his head. Felt his purr run through my body.
Another sip of Puerto Rico doing the job.
“The fuck is going on with this machine?” Zephyr muttered.
I watched as he pounded his fist against the credit card terminal. Fiddled around. Pulled on a wire, followed it upwards. Boosted himself onto the tiny outcropping alongside the register. Raised himself towards the descended ceiling. Followed the wire as it disappeared into one of the naked overhead tiles, straw hats already stripped a few days ago.
He punched through it. Tore it down. Jagged hole revealing a network of wires, pipes, and ugly hardware. Saw his path leading him towards the next one. That grey charcoal leading him to tear down just another one as he cautiously leapt onto the bar. He kept on tearing down tile after tile. The ceiling rained down in large, angelic fractals.
Loud enough to tear Moses from his catnap.
Send him scurrying to the kitchen.
I drank with a numb wonder, managed to squeeze in another cigarette as Zephyr ripped the sky from our wasted terrarium. Each and every tile as far as he could reach from his position on the bar. Hardly seven minutes worth of destruction before he realized he wasn’t going to solve this one without a ladder. He sighed. Eased himself down. Sitting at the edge of the bar. Head and shoulders covered in debris.
Casually brushed himself off. “I’m not going to figure this fucking thing out tonight.”
I nodded. “It’s time, then, I guess.”
“That’s right, Lucky.”
I picked up my glass. “Good of them to stop by, though.”
“Who?”
“Milo, Helena.”
“What?”
“Skippy, Gordon.”
“Gordon?”
“Good of them to stop by.”
Zephyr giggled. “You are drunk, son.”
“What?”
“They never came down.”
“Not tonight, Lucky.”
I glanced at the wall.
Just below the Budweiser clock, there was the list.
Back once again with another reminder from Zephyr: “It’s time to move out.”
I downed the rum. Trying to mock his own indifference. “Figured we’d be busier tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re shutting our doors for good.”
“I knew we’d be dead tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it was a Wednesday.”
I nodded.
“Straighten your tie,” he told me, and jingled his keys.
Our goodbye wasn’t spectacular. A brief runaround of thank yous. A quick and insignificant embrace. He made his way downtown. I made mine any which way I could. Headed towards a pale awakening, courtesy of Washington Square Park. Drug dealers and knockabouts from an asylum with the honor system in place of prison keys.
Leaving it all behind.
And the world wasn’t meant to consume the caress of city streets. Inside every moment, stoplights red with anger. Each crossroad, endless and repeating. And the world wasn’t meant, finally, to place a bet in early morning traffic. Protest of a car alarm. Stores shut down for another evening of rest. And the world wasn’t meant, and I knew, and every one of us never once thought to try. Surrounded completely by the wild, indefinite, stench of survival.
The stars disappeared and sunrise escaped us.
And we all walked out into that February morning
in hopes of finding evidence
of moonlight.
###