“Do, do, do. You feel, like I do?” is wafting through the
air in the Anchor Room on a Thursday afternoon. It’s 4:37 according to the
clock on the wall behind Beatrix, the waitress on duty.
The workers at the plant haven’t gotten off yet, which means
it’s just me and her and Johnny, the 71-year-old former teacher who taught me
U.S. Government so, so many years ago in this small industrial town tucked away
in southern Virginia.
Not sure why I’m here. My parents both died years go now.
Which was the main reason I ever came back after leaving for good at the age of
24. I still remember that day. I got into my black Firebird and pointed it
towards Arizona.
Made it eventually. After spending a week in South Carolina
after the car broke down. Watching Pulp Fiction a bunch of times. In New
Orleans, got robbed of half of my worldly possessions while hanging out with
the first girl to steal a piece of my heart – symbolism was always hitting me
over the head hard in the early 90s. Getting me first speeding ticket outside
of Houston. Seeing the Texas Hill Country alone for the first time. And
finally, arriving in Phoenix to stay with my great aunt and her mean-ass poodle.
Bitchy little thing that just growled at me.
I look around the bar. The décor is gone from my youth. It
was a karaoke bar for a bit before the whiny owners sold it to some folks from
India. Wish they’d at least put the old booths back in. That would be cool.
I saw a pub in Ireland for sale today on the phone. Little
less than 400K euros. Comes with an attached house. That would’ve been the
dream at 38 when I was L-I-V-I-N at the beach alone, drinking my life away and
ignoring signs. I tend to do that, and I end up either breaking a heart or getting
mine stabbed with a rusty screwdriver.
It doesn’t hurt that much anymore. I just think about it too
much.
I take a swig of my Mille High Life. Only beer I enjoy
anymore. It’s not attached to anything good or bad, so it’s safe.
The bell over the door dings. I think quickly that it’s
pretty annoying to have that in a bar. But, maybe this place ain’t really a bar
anymore.
It’s 4:51 p.m. The shift will be ending soon. Sending folks
my way.
I look at the mirror behind the bar and I see her. She’s
short. She’s got long hair. She’s wearing a Kix t-shirt. And I ain’t talking
about the old video game.
She ambles over to the jukebox. It’s a vinyl one, thank
goodness, and not an internet one. She puts a dollar in the slot. Clicks a couple
of buttons and walks over to the bar. She looks at the seat next to me. I look
at her.
Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got, Till It’s Gone”
starts playing. I don’t know exactly what to think about that.
“You mind if I sit here,” the short, long-haired lady
finally says.
“There?” I say, pointing at the seat next to me.
She just looks at me. She’s got far-away eyes. I start
wishing the Rolling Stones were on the jukebox instead of Tom Keifer.
I don’t get a verbal answer. I get a physical one. From the
other side.
“That’s my lady,” a voice says.
I hadn’t noticed that the short, long-haired lady from my
hometown came in with someone else.
I also don’t see the fist, making contact with my face.
I wake up 14 minutes later. I know this because Johnny, my old
government teacher tells me this as he orders me a beer.
“Two Red Stripes!” he says.
I wince. Not at the beer, but at my eye. It’s swollen shut.
“14 minutes you were out, Randy,” Johnny says. “I thought we
were gonna have ta call the cops.”
“Glad you didn’t,” I manage to say. I take a sip of beer. It
feels good going down my throat.
“Where did she go,” I ask.
“She’s left,” Johnny said. “But she handed me this before
she headed out.”
Johnny handed me a crumpled up piece of paper. On it was
this “Sorry about David. He’s a dick. But, he’s rich. Here’s my number. Call me
if you want. 804-458-5435.”
I stare at the number. It’s my parents’ old number. It had
been our number my entire life. Until my sister turned it off a year after my
mom died. A year after we all watched my mom die. In our childhood home. In our
hometown.
“You gonna call?” Johnny asks.
“Hell no,” I say. “Sometimes signs are so big you just can’t
miss ‘em.”
I go to the jukebox. Put in a dollar. Push some buttons. I
walk to the bar, sit in the seat the short, long-haired girl asked about. I feel
sometime poke me right in the ass. It’s a nail from the chair.
AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” starts playing. I take another swig
of Red Stripe. Tip my bottle to Johnny.
The door bell dings again. I feel a cold feeling and get goosebumps.
I look at the mirror. And I don’t like what I see…
