mulch pit, chapter 2

I patted Lucy on the back. “Hey, I gotta talk to this one,” I said as she frowned at me.

“Why this one,” Lucy said, emphasis heaving on the this. She’d watched me turn down woman right and left in this place. “Throwin’ that pussy away!” as a friend of mine said to me at my 20^th high school reunion after I’d turned down a parking lot blow job.

It wasn’t the right time to tell Lucy about her. The woman who took out a rusty screwdriver and plunged it into my heart one night. On the phone. I was weeks from somehow finding a way to propose to her, finally taking the step neither one of us had been able to, but wanted to. At least that’s what I thought.

Instead, one night out of the blue she dumped me. And other than two trips to Florida – the first to try and save it, the second to pick up the scraps of a life – I hadn’t seen her since. And she’d made it pretty damn obvious that she didn’t ever want to see me again.

But there she was, standing by my favorite barstool in the world – since the passing of Nick’s on 2400 Tulane Avenue – with that same damn look in her eyes that made me melt way over a decade ago.

“Hi,” she finally said. “Can I sit down?”

I wanted to say “Fuck You!” and turn around. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. She knew I wouldn’t do it.

“Sure.”

As she sat down I noticed how much skinnier she was than the last time I saw her. But hell, I weighed about 60 pounds less than then too. She had taut calf muscles now. Something she never had before. She also had that cucumber smell. She’d left behind a bottle of that soap she used the last time she visited me in North Carolina. I never thought twice about until she was gone for good. Then I used it, very small dabs, every day. Until it was gone. I told myself when I started that I’d be over her when it was done.

That was the first of many things I did that I said to myself when it was over I would be able to move on again.

It all ended with me masturbating naked in front of a mirror with a gun in my mouth. I was even using a cookie monster hand puppet to stroke with. I’d say that was rock bottom.

More so than when I called my mom with four bottles of pills emptied out on my coffee table/foot locker. More than when I was sitting at a truck stop on the side of I-10 wondering if what was west was better than what was east. Way more than when I told my therapist that I hated the fact that all redheads reminded me of her. They still do.

But now, she’s in front of me. Smiling.

“You look good,” I say with no confidence at all.

“Thank you. You too,” she replies. But I know other than the weight, it’s not true. My hair is gone on my head, growing out of every other spot on my body now. I have early signs of diabetes and my muscles have all but disappeared from living a mostly sedentary life now.

I take a swig of my now warm beer. I figured she’d be the one talking, but she’s not. I order two Shiners, handing one to her.

“Thanks,” she says, drawing on it. “You remembered.”

Ha. I remembered. Every damn time I drink one of these things, I remember. I don’t even like the taste of Shiner. It has a soapy aftertaste that always bothered me. Until it was a way to feel connected, no matter how sad that was.

“Yeah. It’s my brand now too,” I said.

I watched her sit there. She was nervous. And I didn’t understand why. I was nervous, but I’d been building up this encounter for years now. More years than we were actually together at this point. Way more.

My calculations told me this would happen in Virginia. Either on the streets outside where she works – which of course I knew, but not because I sought it out, but because a friend of my best friend worked with her – or at some random place in the Washington, D.C. area. Hell, many times while driving by Arlington Cemetery I thought about stopping at her father’s grave. That went all the way back to when I was going to propose. I took a photo of us there, placed it on his grave and asked for his permission. I left the photo and always wondered if anyone took it away. If she did. Hell, I sometimes doubt she ever went back. Career in hand and all. All she ever wanted, I think.

I looked over a Lucy. She was staring at this redhead. I wondered what Lucy thought of her. I wanted to feel what she was probably feeling. Hatred. But I never could, and certainly couldn’t at this moment.

Finally, I leaned closer to her and looked her straight in the eyes.

“Why are you here?” It was the question that had to be asked. And surprisingly, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted her to say.

“It’s about us,” she said before taking a very long and deep breath. She exhaled and just as she was about to speak again, a loud crash sounded out behind us at the front door.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it was, but my eyes were glued to her. But her eyes were not on me anymore. They were petrified. And looking straight at the door.

I turned around, and didn’t want to believe what I saw.

Mulch Pit, chapter 1

“I don’t know what these people want from me?” Lucy screamed at the top of her lungs as she sat down next to me at the bar. I shrugged my shoulders, then asked her for a beer. She was, after all, the waitress of the joint.

“Yeah. That’s what I want too. And I ordered mine 15 minutes ago, ya bum!” an older guy at one of the dilapidated booths in this joint said as Lucy handed me a cold Ranger IPA. I’d started drinking IPAs so I could get drunk faster. They cost a bit more, but if you drank them all night instead of regular octane beers, you didn’t spend as much. Quality not quantity, someone smarter than me once said. Probably before it was used by Slater in “Dazed and Confused.”

“You know Lucy, you might want to give that guy a beer,” I said. “He is paying your salary.”

“The hell he is. That old fucker never tips. He’s been coming in here for 14 years now. I know, I’ve been working here for 15. And that shitty motherfucker only leaves dimes. One for every beer. If this was 1947, I’d be rich off the bastard. But it’s 2012, and I can’t pay my rent.”

“Neither can I but I still tip ya.”

“I know, honey, that’s why you never have an empty bottle for long,” Lucy smiled and blew me a kiss.

“Rent a God damn room you two!” the old bastard said.

I motioned at Lucy for two more beers. One for me, one for him. She brought me an IPA and a Budweiser. I looked over at his table, there were three empty bottles of Michelob. I swallowed hard as I stumbled over to his booth.

The vinyl seats were cracked and crusty. Probably never cleaned after this joint – Mulch Pile – was cleaned after the great cigarette ban of 2009. I remember Mulchie, God rest his soul, cursing up and down as he scrubbed those walls with a brush every night for months. All the while folks were still smoking up a storm in the time before the end. Now they all stand in front of the front door and give every non-smoker a big old lungfull of secondhand smoke every time they come near it.

I sit down and hand the old guy a Budweiser. He stares at it for a second, then grabs it in his meaty, blood red hands and takes a gulp.

“Thanks kid,” he said. “I always knew you were good for something. Not much, but something.”

“Well, thank you sir!” I said with a wave of my hand in my best Colonial style. He didn’t seem to appreciate it as much as I did in my mind. Such is the life in the bar.

“How come Lucy won’t never bring me a beer?” he finally asked as Frankie Freeman grounded into a double play on ESPN above us.

“You don’t tip, old-timer. Simple as that.”

“Don’t tip? The fuck I don’t. I leave her dimes for every beer!” he angrily snarled while finishing off the Budweiser. “Lucy! Bring me another damn beer!”

She looked at him, then at me. I nodded. She brought two more over. I hadn’t even take a sip of mine yet. She stood over us, waiting to be paid.

“Well?” the old man snarled some more. “Are you going to pay for it or not?”

I reached into my trusty Velcro wallet and pulled out a 10 spot.

“Keep the change, Lucy,” I smiled at her. “And keep ‘em coming.”

“Why’d you give her so much?” he asked me, gripping the beer I’d just paid for with both hands like some kind of kid with a controller in his hands after you’d unplugged his PlayStation3. “These beers only cost seven bucks.”

“Well, old man, you see, she now likes us. The better you tip, the better the service.”

“Fuck that. Like I said. I tip after every damn beer.” He pointed at a stack of dimes. Must have been 11 or 12 of them.

“How many beers have you drank today?” I asked.

“Countin’ the two you bought, 15!” he said proudly.

“Well, I see only 12 dimes there. Where are the other three?”

“You got me, kid. You got me.”

“Now watch this,” I said to the old man, pointing at Lucy.

“Hey Loooose,” I cooed. “Can you come here for a moment?”

She looked at me and smiled her crooked-teeth smile. There was something about a lady that had never had braces that I liked. The vampire-esque quality of teeth slightly out of kilter and a little bit stained. It told me they got what life was about. Being happy. Not being what others think is happy.

“What, darling?” she said, sitting on my lap. I felt a slight twinge in my crotch. I hadn’t slept with a woman in six months. The prospect of Lucy had never crossed my mind seriously. Until that moment. Her legs were bare and very clean shaven. She had the veins of someone who’d stood her whole life working, but they weren’t ugly. Her feet were big, but her toes were painted nice which made them look awesome. Before I knew it, I had to move her a little, so she wouldn’t notice.

It was a futile effort.

“Honey, is that what you wanted to show me?” she said, patting me on my head. “Because I’ve seen it all before.”

“Wait,” I said. “I want you and the old-timer here to bury the hatchet.”

“Wha?” the old man said. “I never said …”

“Hold on, there sir,” I interrupted. “You listen here. From now on, you order a beer, or order beers all day and night, you leave a tip of more than a dime. Before you know it, you’ll be best friends with Lucy.”

“Ha!” Lucy snorted. I loved it when a woman snorted. It meant they were in the moment and not thinking about laughing. Which meant they weren’t really laughing at all.

“Deal?” I said, looking at the old man.

“Oh what the hell!” he said. “I’ll never spend all of my money before I die anyway. And my good-for-nothin’ son sure as hell don’t deserve to get any.”

We all laughed and took a long swig. I handed Lucy my other beer and she took a sip too.

It was going to be a good night at the ol’ Mulch Pile tonight. I could already tell.

And that’s when she walked in. The redhead I thought I’d never see again. Just like the song said, things went from better to bad to worse. Only I wasn’t at no Texas Funeral.