by Savage, Kat
She dries under her eyes and sits up. “This is goodbye, isn’t it?”
I drop my head down. God, I hate this part. She knows and I know and fuck me, why am I like this? It’s for her own good, I tell myself. But really, this is about me. This has always been about me. My self-preservation. She’d hurt me eventually, and there’s no way in hell I would let that happen to me again.
I kiss her on her forehead and tell her I’ll see her around. Even though I won’t.
I get out to the sidewalk and check my phone, finding a text from my brother, Elliott. I’ve been trying to get together with him to have drinks for a while now, regardless of the potential for a brawl. If I’m being real, I don’t like my brother. I mean I love him, but we don’t exactly see eye to eye on most things. That coupled with the fact that he’s basically half the reason I’m so guarded and he really starts to contend for brother of the year. Maybe it’s because we’re only half-brothers. Or maybe the fact that his dad always treated me like shit had something to do with it. But my mother loved him, so I always just dealt with it.
My younger brother is a spoiled shit. I text him back, asking for a time and an address.
I get in my car and pull into traffic. I’m always so exhausted after something like this happens. Admittedly, this sort of ordeal has become a regular happening in my life. Once every few months or so. When the woman I’m seeing starts to want more.
Then I have to start all over again. It’s getting old. I’m getting old. When I first started faking the whole being married thing, I thought eventually I would stop and maybe want to get back into dating with the purpose of settling down. That just hadn’t happened though. I still have zero interest in putting myself out there to become a bug on some woman’s windshield. I heard my heart go splat once and once is enough. No thank you to that torture.
I pull up to my apartment building and peer down the street. This section of the city is older but is being remodeled pretty quickly. I love the nuances of this area in Lexington. The streetlights are vintage, most buildings have exposed brick, and the streets even have cobblestone intersections. When people think about Kentucky, I’m sure they envision farmland and horses and that’s totally true. But inside the city, you can’t. I had secured this place long before the city started to take notice and “re-invent” it as a happening place, which meant I got it for a steal.
I check my mail on the way up and fortunately it’s all junk. No real news is good news. I slide my key into the door and hear my neighbor’s door open. I take a deep breath in preparation for what’s to come.
“Hi, Lucas doll! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried. I tried to bring you some food over but you didn’t answer your door. I was wondering if you could help me water my plants again?” she says.
Stella is a seventy-six-year-old widower whose grown children live out of state. The little woman stands no more than five-foot tall and honestly to say I think she’s lonely would be a lie. I know she is. She’s basically taken me in as her surrogate child, which is fine by me because both my parents are dead and Elliott’s father is no father to me.
“Hi, Stella,” I say. “I just spent a few days away. I’m okay, though. I can come water your plants in just a little while, if you still want?”
Most of the time, I’d make more small talk with her, tell a few jokes, really brighten up her day. But today, I just don’t have it in me. She agrees and finally lets me shuffle into my apartment.
The inside is stale. When I went to stay with Chelsea for a few days, I told her it was because my wife was on a business trip. In reality, I cut off my central air, turned off all the lights, locked up my empty apartment, and drove over to her place. There is no one to come home to, no one to check in with, no one to ask where I’ve been. It’s just me. Me and the trash I forgot to take out three days ago before I left. It now permeates throughout my small apartment and seeps deep into my nostrils as I approach the kitchen.
If ever you could call a place a “bachelor pad”, mine would be a prime example. I bag up the garbage as I survey my kitchen counters. There is only an electric can opener and a toaster. I only have two magnets on my fridge and one is a bottle opener. I lift the bag out of the can and notice the dirty dishes on the coffee table. Disgusting. It seems I was sloppier than usual before I left. I look over at my vinyl collection. At least there is one thing in here to be proud of. I do take care of it. Not for myself really, but because my mother would have wanted it that way. Hell, I never have to bring a date back here so it isn’t exactly like I’m concerned about the mess. So what if I leave the toilet seat up? So what if I don’t do the dishes for five days? So what if I trim my beard over the sink? It’s my place and no one is here to bitch at me for it.
The choices I’ve made probably don’t sound great when spoken of, but they do allow a certain kind of freedom. Not to mention all the fun and none of the hassle. Let’s face it. Society doesn’t exactly set you up for a win. Humans aren’t naturally monogamous. Like most animals, we crave the newness. And biologically speaking, there is some science behind “spreading your seed”. I learned these lessons the hard way. One broken heart later, and I’m not on the sidelines watching people play the game anymore. I’m more of an all-star quarterback now. Not that I love my position. It’s just how I survive.
I take the trash out and throw the bag over the edge of the dumpster and walk back inside. I think about sneaking back into my apartment without alerting Stella, but I don’t want to stand her up. I need to get over to water her plants now since I won’t be here later. I don’t want to be late meeting Elliott. He texts me the address for a place I’ve never been to—apparently a favorite of his—and I know I’ll need extra time to get there.
I stand in front of Stella’s door for a full six minutes before I take a deep breath and knock. I know if I’m lucky, I’ll be in and out of her place in about thirty minutes. The lady has a jungle’s worth of plants, but what could really hold me up is her incessant need to worry about me settling down with the right woman. A nice woman. She’ll ask me at least twice if I want kids and at least three times when I’m going to bring back a nice woman for her to meet. She’ll even offer—for the hundredth time—to set me up with her single granddaughter who “has a nice personality”, which I will politely reject again. She has never even shown me a photo, and that’s really all I need to know. If that labels me an asshole, then so be it.
It’s exhausting, dodging all these questions. It’s exhausting not having any new answers for her. Hell, I don’t tell Stella how I operate. I don’t tell most people how I operate. Maybe one or two people know and that is enough. The truth is, I’m not changing my ways any time soon. Probably ever. So I’ll just keep dealing with the questions and offers.
I check my phone while I wait for Stella to answer the door. I can hear her shuffling around inside. There is a text on my front screen from Chelsea. “I miss you already.” I don’t even open it. Not responding is the best course of action now. It sucks, but ghosting is necessary.
I’m an asshole. I know it.
3
Dani
To be fair, I understand why my manager is always so pissed off when I arrive five minutes late for nearly every shift I’m scheduled to work. I live almost right above the bar (only one set of stairs over and up). In my mind, I can just walk out of my apartment at the exact time I should be at work but I always forget the amount of time it will take me to lock up, get down the stairs, and walk the one hundred feet to the little bar.
“You’re late again, Dani,” he says.
Calvin is a decent boss being that he is mostly good and mostly fair. I have no complaints and while I hate disappointing him, that disappointment lasts all of ten seconds each time and then I’m over it.
“I know, and as always I’m sorry but you love me and you forgive me and oh look there’s a customer in need! Gotta go.” I slip past him in the narrow kitchen hall and in behind the bar.
If
I have learned one thing, I know Calvin will never chastise his employees in front of our patrons and we all take advantage of it. Sometimes I feel bad for him. Calvin managed to get us above-average wages, never has issues giving us time off, and even covers our shifts when no one else can. Someday I would make up for all my tardiness but today isn’t that day.
“You’re late again,” Quinn says.
I turn to Flannigan’s second-best bartender and study her perfect face. When I moved to this side of Lexington and started working here three years ago, Quinn was the first and only person I befriended. I couldn’t say what it was about her that I attached myself to. We are polar opposites in so many ways. Perhaps she keeps me closer to level than I would be on my own.
“Shut up,” I say. I tie my small black apron around my hips and start wiping down a messy area on the bar.
“Can you check my hair for me real quick? I feel like I’m getting a weird ripple right here,” Quinn says, pointing to a section of the front of her perfectly straight hair.
If there was a ripple, it was imaginary. I pretend to take the matter seriously and stare at her hair for a second. “I think it looks fine.” I smile.
“Are you sure? Maybe I should put it up,” she says, stroking the supposedly rippled section of her hair over and over again. She studies her face in the mirror behind the rows of liquor behind us.
“I promise it’s fine. We have a long night ahead of us, so if you could stop with your hair, that would be peachy.” I roll my eyes at her in the most loving way.
“Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m done,” she says, still stroking her hair down.
Quinn is the epitome of perfection. No, I don’t mean she is actually perfect. No person is. I mean she strives for it, craves it. She is a perfectionist in her marrow. But not in an annoying or vain way. Somehow, it is endearing and adorable. I think it’s because you can sense the goodness in her, the kindness. She is always cheery, always polite. After all, perfection isn’t about actually being perfect, it’s about the act of perfecting.
I watch her for a few more moments. She’s patting herself down as if she were a small bird attempting to unruffle her feathers. I nicknamed her “bluebird” a very long time ago, and am frequently reminded why.
I’ll be here until close so I know I might as well settle in. That’s a long nine hours from now. It’s time to put my smile on and remind Quinn why I call her the second-best bartender here. Truth be told, I’m sort of an asshole, but I’m flirty. I like flirting and the men like me flirting. Many of the customers that frequent here are “happily” married men stopping by for some alcohol on their way home from work. Some come for their weekly “guys’ night” while others are the type that don’t even give their wives the decency of a text message letting them know they’ll be late. Whatever their reason for being here, my job is to make sure they have a good time. I hate people for the most part, but I don’t mind flirting my way to better tips. And besides, every married man who turns to putty in my hands at the bar is just another reminder as to why I’ll never get married myself.
The dinner rush is slow and steady. We serve pretty good bar grub here. So while most are busy eating, it slows enough for me to leave Quinn for a moment and I step outside for a break. I use the alley in the back instead of out front because too many people know me and the last thing I want on my break is to spend it chatting with a customer.
I slide my cell out of my pocket and check my messages.
Mark: I’m seeing you later, right? I’ll stop by your work and we can go back to my place?
Mark: Hello?
Mark: Dani??
God, he’s needy. I can’t imagine this Mark thing lasting much longer. I get the impression I’m a little more of a free spirit than he wants. He needs someone compliant, someone submissive. He needs someone who doesn’t take up too much space and I make it my prerogative to take up a shit ton of space in any situation.
Me: Yeah, sounds good. See you later.
I don’t even wait for a reply. I put my phone back in my pocket and rub my neck. Standing all day sure makes more than just your feet ache. I close my eyes and twist my head back and forth. I would take advantage of the jet sprayer in Mark’s shower later. I feel my phone buzz inside my pocket and decide not to pull it back out. I don’t have the energy for live texting at the moment. I will respond later, on my next break.
I go back in to relieve Quinn for her break and start welcoming in the after-dinner crowd. They are usually livelier, so we try to get our first breaks in before they’re in deep. I am welcomed in by the familiar scent of Dan—a regular that wears his cologne too thick and his toupee too crooked.
“Hello, love,” I say.
“How are you today, my darling?” he asks.
Dan is a kind man and as his bartender, I know all his stories. Dan was in the war. That’s all he would say about it. I assumed he meant Vietnam. It’s the only war that made sense. After that, he got a small place and married a pretty woman named Norma and they were together for nearly sixty years before she passed away. They didn’t have any children. Norma couldn’t. So they traveled a lot and saw the world together.
Now, Dan is pretty lonely. For his age though, he’s in impeccable shape. He certainly isn’t your average little old man.
“Oh, I’m fine, hun. Say, when are you going to let me fix you up with a good woman? Come on, Danny boy,” I tease.
“Oh no, my darling. You know I only have eyes for you. Besides, everything is broken, no point in it now,” he teases back.
I shake my head at him and get him another beer. He’s the only man I know who was truly in love with his wife. He didn’t even want another long after she was gone.
I wipe down the bar and refill drinks, and then I just listen. Listening is my favorite part of this job. As an avid observer, there is nothing like perking an ear up. The couple in the corner is fighting. Apparently, he’s been making “fuck me” eyes at someone named Denise and he doesn’t think his girlfriend notices. There are two men to the left of the couple who are gay but trying hard not to show off this fact, which I find kind of sad. Say it loud, sisters. Another drink or two in and the PDA would be abundant. There is a group of men toward the middle of the bar. They’re partially blocking the service station where people sitting away from the bar come up and order. This is the most annoying type of customer. No regard for others. Maybe they’re coworkers or old frat brothers. Who knows? A few had wedding bands and a few more had skillfully removed their wedding bands but you could still see the indentation and tan lines on their chubby little sausage fingers. No doubt there were two or three wives at home probably pregnant or taking care of a baby or multiple children.
The idea of being one of those women one day repulses me. I had seen too much, been a part of too much. I could blame my mother, but for what? Exposing the truth?
There is a middle-aged woman alone in the other corner of the bar. She’s wearing a lot of gold jewelry and her lipstick is smeared. Her leopard pants coupled with her purple faux fur coat are a cry for attention. She shifts in her seat every few seconds and scans the room. She’s on the hunt. I don’t know her real name, but she looks like a Barbara. Barbara the cougar. Just then a man strolls up to Barbara and her eyes light up. Go, Barbara.
“How’s it going?” Quinn asks as she steps in from her break.
“Same people, different day,” I say.
“So, are you going to let me fix you up yet?” Quinn asks.
She’d been trying to set me up with her cousin almost the entire time I’d known her.
“Seriously? Again with this? You already know my answer,” I say.
“Oh, come on, he’s a really sweet guy,” Quinn says.
“What kind of really sweet guy is single for three years then, huh?” I ask.
“Well, what kind of nice woman is single for three years?” Quinn sasses.
“That’s your first mistake,” I say.
“What?” she asks
.
“Classifying me as nice when I’m anything but.”
“I’m just saying…”
“And I’m just saying. I’ve designed my life, okay? It’s this way for a reason. Thanks, but no thanks on the really nice guy,” I say firmly.
“Fine,” she says. Quinn holds her hands up in defeat.
She knows she lost. And she’ll probably wait about three weeks before bringing it up again. I hate the notion that in order for a woman to be truly happy, she has to be with someone. My happiness hasn’t been dependent upon another person since I was a child. And even then, it was never a man. My mother had been the only person in my life to have that kind of influence.
I float away from the bar for a moment, lost in my thoughts. My hands are there pouring drinks, but everyone’s voices turn fuzzy.
I am about seven years old. My mother is leading me down the hallway again to my bedroom closet. I’m older now so I ask why.
“Oh, princess, the world is a dark place and sometimes you must hide inside your castle until it’s bright again,” she says softly. She runs her fingers through my hair and tucks it behind my ear.
I can smell her perfume. I can see her silhouette through her silk robe. I know this is when one of the men will come. One of the men who laughs so loudly I can hear it through the walls of my castle. One of the men who makes other noises. Who makes my mother make noises I don’t understand yet.
“Okay, Mommy,” I say, stooping down into the closet.
She hands me my small pink flashlight and my blanket from the end of my bed. I curl up with my book and flick the light on.
“Stay here until I come and get you, my princess,” she says.
I nod as I always do and watch her disappear as the door closes, with a smile on her face and a look in her eyes I could never quite place. I know when she returns for me she won’t smell the same and something about her smile will be off.
“Hello,” an unfamiliar voice says, snapping me back to the present.