The Creeps

Muswell Hillbillies plays in the background. The bar is pretty empty this time of the morning. I guess it really should be that way. The windows shine brightly inside. The dust stirred up from the barkeep’s ever-moving broom looks like the milky way galaxy for a moment.

All is good in my world.

“Have a cup o’ teaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Ray Davies bellows. I take a slow, but long swig of my Abita.

“What the hell is this shit, Rodney,” a stranger cackles from the door. He’s about 6-foot-6. Blonde hair, cut to a buzz, like Chet from “Weird Science.” I can only hope he gets turned into a pile of shit by Kelly LeBroc any moment.

I wait. I wait. I wait.

It doesn’t happen. Maybe I should have put a bra on top of my head.

Slap. A giant, meaty hand hits my back. I lurch a bit forward. Instantly, my body stiffens. I hate it when strangers touch me. Especially at 10 a.m. in a bar.

“You like this shit?” Chet-a-like says, staring directly at me. I’m glad, for once, that I’m wearing sunglasses inside.

“The Kinks are quite possibly the most underrated band of all time,” I say. Echoing the words of my best friend. But, I have long-ago taken these words as my own. I’m sure he won’t mind.

“The Kinks? Who the fuck are the Kinks?”

“The band playing on the jukebox right now,” Rodney jumps in to try and save my morning. He’s a decent guy. We’ve spent too much time together, and really don’t know anything about each other’s lives outside of the bar. Of course, maybe neither of us has a life outside. Honestly, I don’t feel like getting into another debate about how the Kinks really should be considered in the same breath as the Beatles, the Stones and the Who. It’s one that most folks can’t comprehend. They’re either Beatles or Stones people, the old cliché. But every once in a while you get a guy who can’t get enough of Pete and Roger. “Fuck the Beatles and the Stones,” they’ll say. But, they are in the minority.

“Put on something else, man,” Chet says to Rodney.

“Can’t man. He paid for this. Always does. Every morning.”

“Fuck, dude. You’re a pain in my ass. I need to hear me some AC/DC.”

“Bon Scott or Brian Johnson?” I ask.

“Who?”

Never saw that one coming. I turn back to my beer. I look up at Rodney. “Life is so complicated,” I belt out in my best Ray Davies accent. I fail, much like my awful Sean Connery, but it doesn’t matter. At least not right now.

“Yes it is,” Chet says. “Let me tell you about my fucking girlfriend. She’s a damn whore. I don’t understand women at all.”

“You don’t say!” I yell. I think better of it immediately, yet I’m oddly satisfied in it. “Let me buy you a beer.”

“Hell yeah man,” Chet says, the dull look of vacancy disappears for a moment. “Give me a Bud, will ya Rodney?”

I cringe. I don’t understand it. This bar has so many better choices.

“So, are you a Beatles or Stones fan?” I ask. Rodney tilts his head a little bit. He can’t believe I’m actually going to try this conversation. I usually try it on the hookers that hang out here. I stumbled into this bar one day after a job interview fail. It was for a copy editing job with a book publisher. I got all the way to the final interview stage. The lady in charge of what would be my department if I got hired asked me one question: “Have you ever written anything that got published?” I answered truthfully that, yes, I had been published 1,000s of times. She was taken aback by this answer. “How so?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Well, ma’am I was a newspaperman. Used to crank out the copy every day of my life. Even when I wasn’t working, I was working.”

“Oh,” she said. Looking down at her papers. I knew right then I was doomed. “Well, we’ll be in touch.”

They never called me. I called twice.

On the way home from the interview, which I took a streetcar to instead of driving, I decided to walk. After about three miles I saw a neon sign “Cold B” it said. The eer had burned out or been broken off or something. This intrigued me. So did the sound of “David Watts” echoing into the alley.

I noticed a couple of hookers down the way from the place. One was white, one was Korean. “You don’t see a lot of Korean hookers here,” I remembered thinking as I pushed open the black doors, the bottoms of which were rotting away slowly. They reminded me of the door at Nick’s Bar. Sigh.

Inside, the place was dirty. It was hot. And there were about a dozen or so people inside. I sat at the bar, it was empty. Everyone else was in a booth.

“How’s it going suit and tie?” the barkeep said to me. I’d later find out his name was Rodney. He was from Texarkana. Had been tending bar for 11 years this summer. Six of them here at his bar. Aptly named “Rodney’s” However, there was no sign inside or outside bearing such a moniker. It was just “understood” I came to know.

“Been better, been worse,” I said. “What do ya have on draft?”

“Shit, really. But we got a fucking awesome selection of bottles,” he said pointing over his shoulder to the far left side of the bar. There sat a giant glass fridge. Filled with bottles. Clear ones. Dark brown ones. Not a green one in the place however.

“You got no green beers?” I said as sarcastically as I could attempt to sound.

“Fuck green beer. It’s all skunk,” Rodney replied.

“True dat,” I said. “Give me a Shiner Blonde.”

“Coming right up!”

I fell in love with the bar that moment. And she’s never let me down. Neither has Rodney.

“Beatles or Stones? Shit dude, you trying to pick me up?” Chet said.

“No. You’re not my type. I like ‘em cheap and platinum.”

“You’re weird, man.”

“I’ve been told so, yes.”

“Rodney, I’m out of here. This guy gives me the creeps.”

I stumble over to the jukebox. Fully knowing what I’m going to play for my quarter. I finger around in my pocket, finally discovering my George Washington -- a 1976 Bicentennial coin, that’s fantastic, I think to myself. Remembering the times when my dad used to horde quarters, to give to my nephew one day. And how excited he’d get when he found a ‘76. I rub it, then plop it into the jukebox. An it’s one of those Rowe/EMI ones that is a CD-only one. But damn if Rodney didn’t stock it well.

The young lady screams….the drums kick in….then the guitars….

“I’ll be vigilant
I’ll be silent
Yes, no one will know
You want something for nothing
A toast on your grave…

I just wanna give you the creeps.”

I love it when the music comes in at the right time. Even if I had to make it happen. Not forced like some of Quentin Tarantino’s latest efforts. Although the “Baby, It’s You” from Death Proof was fucking awesome…

“Rodney, man. That guy. He’s got problems.”

“Tell me about it,” I say with a wink and a smile.

Chet leaves, shaking his head.

“When you gonna learn, Randy?”

“Tomorrow. Not tonight.”

“It’s 10:17 in the morning.”

“Well, tomorrow. Not this morning, then!”

We smile, clink glasses and share a shot of Jameson. I don’t even remember him pouring them.

At that moment, when the burn hits you hard, she walked in. Jamie. The redhead hooker.

“It’s gonna be a good day,” I say to Rodney.

“You think?” he replies. “I heard it was going to rain.”

“Exactly, this place’ll be full up.”

“Yeah, with hookers.”

“Best conversations I’ve ever had.”

“Only you would see it that way. Only you.”

“Well, my favorite book is ‘The Sun Also Rises’”

“You want me to raise your baton,” a voice from behind purrs.