A question

Johnny walked out of the bathroom, he struggled with the small wooden door. Everyone did. It was on some kind of spring that shot the damn thing right back at you when you pushed on it.

“When did I become such a shit factory?” he said when he plopped back down on the barstool next to mine.

“Are we talking about poop or your writing?” I countered pointing at the just placed bottle of Budweiser on the bar.

“Very funny, compadre,” he said. “Very fucking funny.”

“He’s got his moments,” a voice cooed from the corner.

We both turned our stools to the source of this angelic voice. It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, there usually weren’t such things hanging out with us and our ever-depleting sources of alcohol.

She was stunning. In every way possible. Legs that didn’t end. Pale skin like just poured milk. A figure that would have made Jessica Alba jealous. And red hair. God damn it was the reddest I’d ever seen – and I made it a point to see a lot of red hair. Even if I have to pay for it.

“Hello trouble, come on in,” Johnny said when he was done observing.

“A Buck Owens fan, I see,” she purred. I was beginning to like this lady.

Silence filled the bar. Sarge, the afternoon barkeep had gone to the back to get something, I don’t remember what it was. The jukebox had stopped. The televisions were all on mute. And Johnny and I were completely in awe of what we were seeing.

“You boys going to invite me over or what?” she asked, slicing that silence like a chef in a Japanese steakhouse – with lots of moxie.

“Oh course, darlin’,” Johnny said. “Come on over.”

“Your friend’s gotta ask,” she replied, looking straight past Johnny and right at me.

“Well?” Johnny said, poking me in the ribs. I hated it when anyone poked me in the ribs. Not just because it was in and of itself an annoying thing to do, but because I’d broken a rib years back in a “minor golfing accident” and it still bothered me to this day.

“Only if you can answer one question,” I replied. “Get it right, I’ll buy you beers all night.”

“It’s actually the afternoon,” she tried to sass.

“That’s my point,” I shot back.

“Ooooh, a confident man,” she went back to purring.

“Not really, just full of enough shit to make it work,” I said, not knowing what to say. “But to continue, get it right, you get beer. Get it wrong, and my buddy John here will pay for the beers.”

“Hey…” Johnny said. “That sounds like a trick.”

“Shut up,” she said to him.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, slinking down just a bit on his barstool.

“Well, what’s this question?” she asked, now a bit of eagerness in her voice. That, I decided, was a good sign.

I racked my brain for something great. Something worthy of the buildup I had given this. But my mind was blank. Like it usually got around a beautiful woman. Completely wiped clean of anything useful.

Finally, I dorked out.

“What’s your favorite Lucero song?” I said.

She smiled. An even better sign.

“Sing Me No Hymns,” she said, walking up and sitting in the barstool next to mine.

“Looks like I’m buying,” I said.

“Leave me be and let me drink, I need none of your good intentions,” she said raising her bottle of Abita amber to my face.

“Well, if that’s not an invitation, nothing is,” I said, clinking my bottle of Shiner Bock to her bottle.

Johnny slinked a little lower in his barstool. I noticed and pointed at him ever so subtlety.

The redhead turned around and gave Johnny a peck on the cheek. Years later, he’d always brag that she kissed him before she ever kissed me.

“Why thank you ma’am,” he said, perking up.

“Listen Johnny, please don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “It makes me feel my age.”

“How old are ya?” he asked. Johnny was never too smooth.

“Old enough, babe. Old enough.”

The next couple of hours went by like lunch period in high school when you sneak out to go to Hardee’s. I looked at the Dixie Beer clock when she sat down and it said 2:11. The next time I noticed it, it read 4:57.

“Damn, the after work party’s gonna be here soon,” I said. “All those, those …”

“Employed people,” she finished my sentence.

“Are you implying, that I have no job?” I retorted.

“Why yes I am,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were so white they scared me. I wondered what she thought of my gold teeth, and I wasn’t talking 14K.

“He’s a writer,” Johnny slurred to her. “Best damn one I’ve ever read.”

“Really?” she replied. “And how many have you read?”

I laughed hard at that. I liked this gal. She had spunk. It didn’t hurt that she was way out of  my league and she was paying attention to me.

Yeah, I was a writer, I went on to explain to her. I wrote mostly about heartbreak and sadness. But my published work was about travel. I went on road trips and wrote about them. I’d stop at the ugliest, most beat up roadside diners or wig shops and find a story. I’d hang out for a couple of days, drink with my subject matter – sometimes I’d go to church with them instead – and the write up a couple thousand words. Slip it in the old electronic mail and a couple days later, I’d get a check.

“What do you do with the checks?” she asked.

“Half in the bank, half to Mick.”

“Mick?” she asked.

“He owns this place. He’ll be in here any minute now.”

“Mick doesn’t own this place,” she said puzzled.

“Huh?” I could only muster. I’d been coming here for two years now, and Mick always told me he owned the place.

“No, my father owns it. His name is Sid. He owns the taco stand a couple blocks from here too.”

the kid

Bob Marley’s “Talkin’ Blues” was playing on the jukebox when I entered Manny’s bar on Conti. Over the years, usually when I got to Conti, it was after a night alone in a hotel room wondering about the past. A curse that has stuck with me since grade school.

I looked around the place. It was dark, dirty and full of smoke. Another rarity in these days was a bar full of smokers. I’m not a smoker, never was. But I found something comforting about being in a dive with the hovering cloud of those that did.

“Hey Kid,” Manny said as I sat down at the bar. Funny, I’m 43 years old, he’s maybe 45. Yet from the first time I stepped foot in his bar, he called me “Kid.” Reminded me of that Jeff Nichols’ movie “Shotgun Stories” where all three main characters were named “Kid” “Boy and “Son”. When that movie came out, life for me was pretty shitty. Now? It’s up and down and all over the place.

I ordered an Abita amber. Always did for the first beer when I was at Manny’s. He didn’t put it out for me before I ordered it. He knew that I’d rather not feel like that much of a regular. Even though I asked him to put The Replacements in the juke one day. Just so I could hear “Here Comes a Regular” whenever I wanted.
First sip taken, I sighed a long, low sigh.

“Long day there, Randy?” Manny asked.

“Nah, just the normal. Diapers, words and more diapers.”

“that kid hasn’t learned to shit in a toilet yet?”

“Nah, he’s stubborn. Sometimes, he’ll look at me and say with his eyes “I’m going for the toilet’ and then shit in the floor. I think it’s game at this time. I’m not too worried. Hell, I shit in my pants til I was 10 probably. Not because I couldn’t, but because I hated to do it in public restrooms. So, I’d hold it in and hold it in. Eventually, you lose that battle.”

“Amen to that, Kid.”

“How’s business, Manny? Haven’t seen a lot of folks around this week?”

“Yeah, seems like the cold weather is forcing folks to stay away. Never a good thing. I hate the cold weather. Reminds me of 2012.”

He regretted saying it as soon as those digits came out of his mouth. He looked away, then down at his feet. Trying everything he could not to make eye contact.

“Don’t worry Manny,” I said. “She’s been gone almost two years now. If there’s one thing life taught me, it’s to not count on someone being around for the long haul. Whether it’s death or life, something’s going to convince them it’s time to go.”

“You saying shit like that? That’s like Paula Deen cooking without butter.”

“What can I say? Eventually, you move on. Even from the worst things.

“Time will take hold,” I finished off with, then commenced to finishing off my beer.

“Guess you’re right. Guess you’re right,” Manny said as he poured a double shot of Jameson. Tapping the bar, he walked away.

I stared at the shot glass for a good five minutes, Bob wailing away about shooting a sheriff and all, before I noticed that it was raining outside.

“The world’ll be cleaner in a minute,” I thought, taking the shot and downing it.

“See you in a few, Manny,” I said as I got up. He was talking to some blonde-haired floozy that had taken to hanging out the last couple of weeks. Manny really liked her. And I hoped she liked him too, not just the free drinks.

“Where you going, Kid? Ya just got here.”

“Got to do some writing. It’s been too damn long.”

“You a writer?” the blonde said, perking up a little too much for Manny’s liking.

“Nah, I just dabble in it,” I replied. “They pay me to sit behind a piece of bullet-proof glass and hand out cigarettes now.”

“But you said you had to do some writing?” she asked again, this time causing Manny to turn and flip a new CD in the player. Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak”. He knew that album caused me pain, so it was a message.

“Just because someone can write, doesn’t make them a writer,” I said with a tip of my cap.

“Manny, stay cool, I’m out of here,” I finished and pushed open the doors. It was pouring outside. I was going to get wet, very wet, on the walk home.

In the distance, a lightning bolt lit up the sky. I stood in the middle of the street admiring it for a moment. One that didn’t last. They never do, especially when you want them to.

hey, hey, my, my

I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.

She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.

My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.

Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.

Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.

I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.

I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.

Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.

A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.

“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.

“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.

“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.

“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.

She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.

“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.

“I didn’t tell you last night?”

“Nope.”

“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”

“That’s neat. What do you write?”

“Nothing right now.”


“Huh?”

“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”

“You’re going to write about me?”

“Most definitely.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“Too late.”

“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”

My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Just…um…”

“What?”

“You just said something.”

“What? … I’m so sorry.”

She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.

I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”

I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.

“Oh…OK.”

She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.

I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.

bar light

“Damn, you look good under these bar lights,” was all I could muster.

We spent an awful lot of time on barstools during our time together, maybe I’m just remembering those times? Or maybe those awful lights, that can make a blonde look like a redhead and visa versa do something for her? Better not say that out loud, she’ll think I mean she needs those lights, but not at all. She never needs anything. Certainly not makeup. She’s just got it. Whatever it is.

And somehow, she got away from me.

“Yes, I do,” she says smiling.

God, I love her smile. It fits perfectly with her big, brown eyes.

“So, what did you want? It’s been a long time.”

How am I supposed to answer that question? I’ve been thinking of a way to ask what I need to ask for two days now. And 14 beers yesterday and 8 tonight, so far, haven’t given me the answer.

“That can wait,” I mumble while ordering up a couple of drinks -- Abita Amber for me, “the usual” for her.

“You don’t remember my favorite drink, do you?” she said with a wry stare.

“The hell I don’t,” I say, hoping that the bar tender is picking up on this and delivers the beer just in time.

He doesn’t.

“You like Miller Lite,” stumbles out of my mouth.

She smiles.

Five seconds later, the barkeep brings over a cold-ass Abita Amber and…a Miller Lite.

“Good guess,” she says, tilting the bottle back slowly, then absorbing half of the beer in one long draw.

“Sometimes, I even amaze myself. But not too often.”

The tension broken, we start talking about this and that and nothing at all. Things always are like this when we get together. We talk. And we talk. And I don’t think either of us wants it to end, but we both know it has to. Every single time.

After a few beers, the conversation slows down. But not in a bad way. The anxiousness is gone for the most part. Until…

“So……um, why did you need to talk tonight,” she asks. It’s 1:04 a.m. on October 23rd, 2009.

I’m drunk by now. So my filter is gone. Before I know it, the words come out.

“You want to go see a movie tomorrow?”

Her eyes tell the tale. Disappointment. She knows that’s not why I’m sitting in this place, waiting for her to be there. We’re not 23 years old anymore. Hell, I’m almost 40.

“Fuck you, Randy,” she says, grabbing her purse and heading out the door.

I’m too ashamed to chase after her.

She looks back in the window of the bar after she gets outside. I’m still sitting in the exact same place. I grab my Abita and take a long draw.

She shakes her head and gives me the bird.

“You fucking deserved that one, bro,” the bartender says as he takes a dirty rag to the old, wooden bar.

“Yeah, I know,” I’m such a freaking bozo.

“You? A clown? Hell no. My brother, he’s a clown. You’re just a disaster in Sambas.”

“Fuck, man. Do you have to be so damn mean to me. I just got back into town tonight.”

“Yeah, I do. She’ll never do it.”

I ask for another beer. Johnny, the barkeep, he gives it to me. But not without slamming it down on the bar. Just enough to put a new, small dent in the wood -- and cause the bottle to spring into a geyser of foam.

“Bastard!” I yell while swilling down all of the bottle. “Can you play some Aquarium for me?”

He glances at me, then reaches under the bar for an old cardboard box marked “Randy”. He reaches in and grabs an unmarked CD. It’s still in the case I made the last time I was here in the bar that I wanted to buy, but never came up with the cash to do so. Johnny ended up buying it instead. He thinks I’m mad about it, I think. But I’m not. He just had his fucking life together at the right time. Me? I’m still hoping that this time I’m in that place.

He bends down and puts the disc in the bar’s CD player.

For just a second the sounds of some famous New Orleans musician disappears. And all one can hear is the conversations in the bar, which, of course, stop in the silence. J.T. would be proud.

Then the opening riffs of one of my favorite songs not by Mr. Thunders, Mr. Strummer or Mr. Nichols begins…

“She was tall and pale and the queen of her scene….”