Short, with long hair

 

“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…

maybe

The lady in the purple dress was looking at me. It was painfully obvious. But to me, Mr. Oblivious, it meant nothing.

She had extremely blonde hair. The kind that either was bleached to the point of falling out, or she spent every waking moment not at work or at home on the beach. I’d most likely go for the latter given her tan.

She was walking along the beach about 100 yards in front of me before. Now she was perched on a park bench. You can’t really watch the sun set here, since we’re facing south pretty much. But it still is pretty at this time of the day. The time right before night wins out. When the birds are still out, however, they’re in a hurry to get wherever they go for the night. A nest, a hole in a wall, or just a tall branch out of reach of the predators that come out here. And by that I mean feral cats. They’re everywhere. I don’t feed them, but someone does.

The three-legged one is my favorite. He/she just kind of limps around, with the ‘what the fuck do you care about it?” look. Never once has it even stopped for more than a quick glance at me. And I guess that’s OK.

I’d pet it if it came up to my house. No food, however.

The girl on the bench keeps looking at me as I settle on to a wall nearby. I just want to lean back against the ropes and relax. Watch all the rich tourists in their BMWs and Audis and such drive by. Without fail every car does the same thing … the passenger looks at me sitting there, then looks away when I make eye contact. Soon after, they look back. I guess to see if I’m still looking.

It amuses me. Simple things like that usually do.

Kind of like this girl on the bench. I guess girl isn’t the right term. She’s a woman. Probably my age, maybe a little older. I’m guessing she smokes Camels and drinks Budweiser. Definitely not a MicUltra kind o’ gal.

I keep glancing over at her and she at me. I know I’m not going to go over and say anything, because I don’t do that. I’m shy. Painfully so. Kind of ironic that I used to get paid to talk to strangers and ask them pretty intimate questions. It’s that whole distance thing, though, that made it ok.

One time in a bar, a friend said to go up to a girl as if she was just an interview subject. Then it would be easier.

It was easier. To interview her. But then the thought process go in the way and I made an ass of myself. It’s a charming thing to watch, I’m sure. But very painful.

Finally, the girl in purple gets up from the bench and starts walking to me. I’m listening to Lucero in my L-pod (yeah, lucero-pod, I’m witty, like Edward Norton in Fight Club), and I turn the volume down just in case she talks to me on the way by. I’m deaf enough as it is, so having headphones on at the beach certainly doesn’t make idle chit chat easy.

She gets near me and crosses the street with a little glance over her shoulder. Yeah, she did that.

I watch her until she disappears into the fading daylight a couple blocks away.

“Oh well,” I think to myself. I do that a lot.

After watching a few more cars worth more than two years salary, a cop pulls up. He slows and looks at me. Glaring would be the better word. I look like a bum. My bathing suit is old and faded, I once wore it every day on a trip that my ex and I took -- 10 days in a row. But that was when it was brand new and I liked the way it fit. Now? It’s old, faded and the pockets have holes in them. Those annoying mesh pockets.

I finally started wearing the bathing suit without underwear here. Funny, it takes me living at the beach to under stand the concept.

My eyes meet up with the cops’ eyes again. I want to say “fuck you, I’m drunk as a sailor!” but I don’t. I just lift my flip flops from off the corner of the ledge I’m on and flap them at him.

He accelerates off.

I get up and start walking, barefoot, the ½ mile or so to my house. I think of turning up one street, but decide against it. Instead, I got to the street with motels on it.

After passing the first one, I see the girl in purple, sitting on her porch at the first house after the hotel. I swallow hard. Why do I still get so nervous about such innocuous stuff?

As I get to her house, I look over.

“Hi!” she says.

“I smile and say “Hello!” back at her. Never missing a beat as I keep walking away.

Of course, I think a few seconds later that a normal person would have stopped to chat. But I figure I’m a resident here now, she’ll be there the next time I walk by.

Maybe.