Rogers and Hammerstein

Chapter 2: She Wants

“I Ain’t Going to the Bar Tonight…No, I’m not going to the bar tonight….”

Not exactly the theme song for this place that I would have picked, but it fits. No one is coming to the bar tonight.

“Stop being a fucking pessimist,” she says. I still don’t know why I only call her she. She calls me Want, I call her She. Guess it fits.

“It’s reality, honey,” I say taking a quick swig of Shiner. “There’s no one fucking here.”

“It’s 9:45 in the morning, you asshole. And this shitbox just opened after it being closed down for seven damn years. Did you tell anyone to be here?”

“Yeah, I told a couple of folks, most of don’t live here, though.”

“You don’t want to succeed do you? Just like with women, you fall in love, then you push ‘em away. I’ve known you for, what, six months? And I have that part of you figured out.”

I think back six months ago, damn, to the day even. I hate that I’m good with anniversaries. She walked by the bar wearing a Husker Du shirt and Umbro shorts. I didn’t even know they made them that short anymore. She looked at me, trying to sand some wood on the porch.

“Why are you building a porch for the bar?” she asked.

“Have you ever seen Tarantino’s Death Proof? I want this place to be like the bar in that movie. All the way down to the jukebox…” I said looking up through my sweat.

“What about Stuntman Mike?” she replied.

“Sure, he’ll be here too…”

“If you want it, make it so,” she said walking away.

“What’s your name?” I yelled out, kind of desperately.

“Later,” she laughed.

Yeah, that was a good day. Two nights later she’d come back again. Ended up hanging out on the finished porch -- the inside was still too much of a wreck, drinking Shiners and listening to T. Rex. That went on for four months.

Then, I met Sid. Her ex-boyfriend. Well, now he’s her ex. Then, he wasn’t yet.

It was December 22nd. The night before I was going to get in my beat up Hyundai and drive the 15 hours to my parents’ house for Christmas. I’d asked She if she wanted to go with, being that she didn’t have any family that she cared to hang out with and all. She said she’d tell me later.

Well, here it was an hour before I was leaving, and I had no answer. So, I called her up. No answer.

Her apartment was near enough to I-10 that I figured I’d just stop by. I did. Big mistake. Or not. It’s all about perspective.

I got out of my car, walked up to her front stoop and knocked on the door. She lived at house number 237. That made me chuckle. I hear some commotion inside. She has two big dogs -- one a lab, the other a mutt -- but it’s not them as I see both Rogers and Hammerstein in the back yard looking at me. I notice they each have this forlorned look in their eyes. I’m good at noticing signs, days later.

“What the fuck do you want?” comes a yell from the front door in a voice I don’t recognize at the moment, but will soon come to know as Sidney’s voice. Damn, that’s the name I always wanted to give my dog. The dog I was going to get in a few weeks when I finally open my bar.

“Ummm, is She here?” I spit out nervously, forgetting that this fucktard isn’t going to know who She is.

“Natalie! Some shit bird is out here, asking for She. That’s got to be you, isn’t it? Fucking whore.” And he slams the door in my face.

Two minutes later, She comes to the door.

“I’m sorry,” She says. “I should have told you.”

“Yeah, might’ve been a good idea.”

I went home, had a miserable Christmas. But that’s par for the course. Invited my family all to come to the grand opening of my bar in a few weeks. They laughed. Isn’t that strange reaction, I thought for a second, then remembered this is my family.

The drive back to the dirty city isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. I just put on Lucero and sing at the top of my lungs the entire time. If I’d had a bottle of whiskey, probably would have drank it too. And then ended up pulling off the side of the road to sleep somewhere.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my throat doesn’t work anymore. Neither does my voice.

On cue, my phone rings.

“Hello,” I meekly say into the old flip phone. I won it on e-bay to replace the phone I broke back in 2010. Ironically, because of a redhead. Old habits die hard.

“Hey, it’s me,” she says.

“What’s up,” is all I can muster.

“We need to talk. He kicked me out. We’re not together anymore.”

“I have a feeling this has happened before.”

“Stop being an asshole. I’ve been in my car the last four days. Couldn’t face going anywhere else.”

“Where are you?”

“About six cars down from you, Want.”

When you put that pet name at the end of certain sentences, it can fuck with your mind. I think that’s why she does it.

“Ok, come on in…”