3 Women Walk Into A Bar

by Linda Sands

  One nurse had prayed over me, telling me there must be something I was put on earth to do, because there was no way I should have survived. Had the shard penetrated a little deeper, it would have struck a major artery and I would have bled out. Had the metal entered my skin a millimeter to the left, it would have embedded itself in my spinal column and paralyzed me.

  Barbara never left my side. The nurses called her “Bulldog.” She was my Buffy after all. Even though she had a husband and a recently deceased daughter on her mind, I was still important to her. That meant a lot to me, even if I was in an induced coma and couldn’t tell her.

  Maybe when you think you’re dying you dream differently than when you know the whole world’s out there for you—just like it was there yesterday, and you assume it will be tomorrow. Maybe a part of your sick brain unlocks when that assumption’s taken away, when schedules, chores, and responsibility don’t exist.

  Maybe that was the reason I didn’t open my eyes right away. There’s a certain peace in nothingness.

  I could feel my body. Pain in most parts, heaviness in others. I heard someone crying, someone complaining about cafeteria choices, another asking for the truth, saying, “C’mon doc, don’t blue-sky me.”

  I thought about opening my eyes, about setting them all straight, telling them I was fine, really. But then something took me deeper, and I liked that floaty, uncomplicated feeling. I wasn’t ready to give it up. Lying there, I started to question everything I once thought was real and right, every judgment call I’d ever made. I could relate to schizophrenics, to people leading double lives—like the ghost I’d been chasing, James John Smith. Guy was one person up there in New Hampshire, living a hermit’s life in a cozy house full of knickknacks with a fully stocked, labeled freezer. But he was a totally different dude in Syracuse, living on a busy downtown street in a sterile apartment over an Irish pub. Something really bothered me about that.

  When I woke to the buzzing of the TV, it was dark and late according to the clock. Someone had left it on with the sound muted, but the picture was clear enough. It was one of the movies that had been playing in Smith’s mountain house, The Big Sleep. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  Jimmy Stewart had started his career as James Stewart, cast in his first movie, Murder Man, with a very minor role. That bit part was the start of his career. He played the nice guy, genuine, innocent, and vulnerable. Audiences loved him. Women wished their husbands were more like him: friendly, kind, outwardly generous, and likable.

  But the war interfered, and when Jimmy/James Stewart returned from his bomber pilot missions, he wasn’t a movie star anymore. No one wanted a nice guy. No one wanted a mushy-mouthed, vulnerable man. They wanted a tough guy. A savior. By the time the Big Sleep remake came around in 1978, Stewart was too old for leading man roles, but cast as the bad guy retired general, he was finally believable. He'd learned to adapt, how to be what was needed to get on in the world, and that got me thinking about another James. Our dead guy, James Smith.

  It was all so confusing. I was zoning in and out, partly from morphine and partly from all those memories bumping around. When the nurse came in to check on me, I thought I was Jimmy Stewart. Not the man, but the actor. I was Jimmy as George Bailey. And the nurse? She was my Mary. A movie camera rolled down the street in front of us, a director yelled through a megaphone, “Be happy.” The nurse stumbled and I grabbed her arm. I smiled and sang “Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight . . .” and she smiled back at me.

  The next thing I know, I’m me. The old me. Bill Tedesco, a boy with a future. I’m holding Buffy’s hand and swinging it between us, and we’re singing that song together, but when I look at her again, she’s turned into Michelle, my almost ex-wife, and she’s got her sad face on, like the dog ran away or I’ve let her down again.

  Michelle says, “I’ll tell you what I want. I want to be loved. I want someone who will love me and never leave. Is that too much to ask?” And I think she’s talking about a dog.

  But that can’t be right.

  I know I am missing something important, because Michelle morphs back into Barbara-as-Buffy. She’s wearing her cheerleading uniform and crying. She’s saying, “Bi-ill. You know what I need. Don’t leave me.” And when I step closer to her, she pushes the hood off her red parka and it’s the woman in the woods, pointing a gun in my face.

  “You never should have left me, Jimbo.”

  I see her finger tighten on the trigger, I watch the bullet discharge like I am some sort of superhero with really great vision, except I must be a stupid superhero because I don’t duck or do a Matrix backbend. I don’t even hold up a Superman hand to stop it. I just stand there like an idiot, thinking, What do you want? What do you need?

  Chapter 41

  ANSWERS FROM THE GHOST OF JIMBO PAST

  Out of all of them, Chamonix should have figured it out. She was the most like him, after all. She was the kind of girl who had the answers, even if you didn’t ask the questions—but on that day, the day she died, it was as if she’d been left holding the game show buzzer while chubby Tracie from Tallahassee squeaked, “What is Athena?” and took home the ten-thousand-dollar prize Chamonix had already spent.

  And now the only question left was: Why did he do it?

  Jimbo had no answer. He just got to a place where he couldn’t turn back. A male Thelma and Louise moment. He was sorry now that it had come to that, because he’d never really thought of himself as a killer, not the original Jimbo. But this new guy? Yep. That guy could have done all those horrible things and then some.

  He supposed the first time he knew his alter ego was a bad man was right before he pushed the original dude off the cliff in New Hampshire, not long after the sad shmuck had experienced his first truly pleasurable and consensual sexual act.

  Unlike some of the girls Jimbo had been with, James slipped into place eagerly. It was like training a puppy to follow you—you simply had to be a more interesting option than sleeping or eating. Jimbo was. They watched movies that Jimbo chose and listened to his music. They read books and took long walks at the edge of the woods.

  James never knew what hit him.

  Jimbo had learned the art of manipulation at an early age. Thanks, Mom.

  During his formative years he had read self-help books, watched late-night makeover programs, and dated self-evolved chicks—all things that helped him become a better crazy person. His likability and charm were eclipsed only by his good looks, which gave him an instant “in” with both genders. His extensive knowledge of popular song lyrics, added to well-rehearsed lines from romantic comedies and famous poems, didn’t hurt. He could appear exceptionally vulnerable and in touch with his feelings, while never speaking an honest word. It was a talent. The kind of talent that usually led to a life in prison.

  If Jimbo had spent any time on the therapist’s couch he would have been diagnosed a borderline sociopath with checkmarks next to every symptom on the list—and for some, he’d be given stars.

  He learned to admit up front that he wasn’t perfect. Hook. That he was working through some issues. Line. That he might need a bit of fixing. Most women bought it, especially when his eyes welled up. Then he’d say the one thing they all wanted to hear: You make me want to be a better man. Sinker.

  You can pull a pig out of a mud hole, you can wash him off and even spray cologne on his hairy little pink body, but in the end? He will always find his way back to the mud hole.

  So even though for the last five years Jimbo had been trying to be good, had been living the life of a pretty loyal married man in the suburbs who went to work every day and came home every night and basically did all the things a good man was supposed to, he had only been burying the old Jimbo. Hiding him from prying eyes.

  He’d been lying to himself. Reinvented as the new James John Smith, bar owner, Syracuse resident, Jimbo was finally able to release that part of him. He could be the man he’d been destined to become. A man made complete by the
three women who had walked into his bar and chosen him.

  Or so he thought. Until each one rejected him, leaving him with nothing.

  He’d gone to Cress first, thinking a woman who’d reinvented herself would be the perfect match for him. He’d just forgotten her polyamorous tendencies. He had pulled her onto his lap, painting a picture of their future: moonlight strolls, dinners served picnic-style in front of a roaring fire, neighborhood gatherings, Saturdays at the theater. He continued by talking about the perfect baby, who slept through the night, and family vacations to amusement parks where they’d breakfast with cartoon characters. He spoke of a wedding in a castle, a honeymoon in the South of France. They would keep each other beautiful. Money would never be a concern.

  “Oh, baby,” she’d said, cradling his face in her hands. “I can’t. I promised the other boys they were first. Which makes you fourth. I have be to true to the system. Otherwise, what do I have?”

  Jimbo acted on his connection to Roxie, the feeling that it was more than physical, that it might possibly touch his heart, if he wanted to admit he had a heart. He admired her vitality, her crooked sense of humor, the way she used both of those to hide her pain and loss. He understood her confusion in starting over after the death of Daniel, after uprooting and moving across country from Paradise to Not-So-Much.

  He knew people that filled broken, empty, sad parts of themselves with the kindness and generosity of strangers, surrounding themselves with the kind of big-eyed people who always look startled, like life just threw them a curve ball and they weren’t sure whether they should swing or duck. Roxie wasn’t like that. She was smart and good. She was better than that.

  He found her in the stockroom on a slow afternoon and stepped in close, smelling her soap-and-water freshness. Roxie was a cottage by the shore. She was puppies and suckling infants. She was church groups and minivans. She was the hand on his shoulder, calming his anger. She was the warm back he spooned into at night. He saw it all so clearly.

  But when he dropped his walls and told her he was falling for her, she laughed, slapped his arm and said, “James, you crack me up!” She had walked away, laughing.

  Chamonix came to him. She knew he was hurting. She was attuned to his pain. His desires. His need. Jimbo enjoyed their secret connection. He spoke to her differently than the others, played her little games—both the mental and physical ones. He enjoyed being with her, was constantly entertained. She was the most interesting woman he had ever known. Exciting and scary at the same time. She was a roller coaster at midnight. She was a tattoo on a tender spot, a bruise you didn’t remembering getting. She was screaming heavy metal concerts and shots of whiskey. Hate her. Love her. She didn’t care. She had no filter, no soft spots. She was one big hard edge. She was city living and three-day parties. She was a trip to Burning Man. A hike in a rain forest without bug spray. She was a soul mate who scared the shit out of him. He loved those parts of her, but hesitated at the idea that she might prove to be more evil, more conniving, perhaps even smarter than he was, which might make him feel stupid. He could never abide that. No one did Jimbo that way.

  It might have been that combination of emotions coursing thorough his blood—love, loss, dismissal, abandonment, anger, despair, misery, ruin, finality—added to the effects of booze and Blue Cali weed that made Jimbo-James load the gun, leave his apartment, and go into the bar.

  Chapter 42

  TEDESCO HEARS ALL ABOUT WHEN THOSE FAKE MOVIE CLIFF-SIDE BRANCHES ARE REAL AND FUCKING SAVE YOUR BONY ASS

  For the three women who had walked into that bar, peace would be theirs now. Captain Seton and his men had picked up where we left off.

  I wish I’d seen it. I really wish someone had videotaped the whole thing from some treetop locale, because that was probably the most fucked-up thing ever. I mean, even days later, as the story broke and people in Syracuse were talking about it, it still seemed like a publicity stunt or something from that TV show where all the guys get their balls wrecked in extreme sports—except for guys like Tommy, whose only extreme sport was cooking in the nude, which could be dangerous if you were using a lot of hot oil.

  Then again, I’m not sure how much fun a video would be, since I would have been well on my way out by the time Tommy realized the squirrelly situation he was in.

  Barbara told me later that the kidnapper lady hadn’t been so bad. She went by the name Angel, short for Kara Angelina Di Sarranno Smith, and had opened up enough to Barbara out there in the woods that she had actually started feeling compassion for the crazy broad. My Buffy had always suffered from a large heart.

  While all that was happening, Tommy and I were dashing through the woods, only we didn’t have a sleigh. And instead of going to grandmother’s house, Tommy tackled the Puffy Coat Lady and I ended up getting to play hero by rescuing my ex-sweetie. Which lasted all of like, oh, a minute, because Puffy Coat tossed Tommy off the cliff and then turned her gun on me.

  She might have killed me.

  If she hadn’t tripped and hit that tree with the sign first. It was a weird combination of timing and circumstance, cheap bullets and bad aim. Still, it scared the hell out of Barbara and put me out of commission for a good long while.

  I know. Things could have been worse. Much worse.

  As it was, I had to hear the rest of the story second- and third-hand, because if there was one thing I’d gotten good at as I grew older, it was passing out.

  Tommy said when he went over the cliff he thought he was a goner. He did all the things they say to do when you think your time is up. He offered up frantic prayers of forgiveness, brought a few happy images to mind, and instantly regretted the things he had not had time to do in his short life. And then he realized he wasn’t falling anymore, had all his body parts, and actually felt fine. Even though he’d tumbled down a snowy cliff before landing with a dull thud on a very well-padded and somewhat brightly dressed corpse.

  “I tell you, Tedesco. It makes you wonder,” Tommy said weeks later in the hospital.

  He was wearing a pinstriped suit with a purple shirt and a geometric tie. His hair looked more normal than it ever had, groomed like a TV anchorman.

  “Are you wearing eyeliner?” I asked.

  “In the business, we call it guy liner.”

  “And what business would that be?”

  “You know, show business. Entertainment. The social media network.”

  I looked across the room to Barbara for some help. “How long have I been asleep, again?”

  She laughed. “Tommy is quite the wanted property now, Bill. Ever since the shooting, he’s had major television appearances, been asked to consult for some news networks and—”

  Tommy jumped in. “Appear in a famous boy-band music video!”

  I raised a brow.

  “I know. It’s amazing, right?” he said.

  “Oh. It’s amazing, all right,” I said.

  Tommy’s pocket vibrated and he slipped out a shiny new cell phone. He slid and tapped his fingers while grinning. “I’d better take this,” he said. “It’s Ellen’s assistant to her assistant.”

  As the door closed behind Tommy, I caught Barbara’s eye. She sat on a corner of the bed, reaching for my hand. “He’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s just his fifteen minutes.”

  “I guess so. But you know Tommy once he latches onto something. It’s going to be hard to let it go.”

  “And you know Tommy,” she said. “He is bright enough to get out before the bottom drops out, and he knows better than anyone how fickle the universe can be.”

  “Fickle. I like that,” I said, smiling, trailing my fingers across my bandaged wound and then to her hand and up her arm.

  “Better than ‘fucked-up’?”

  “Why, Barbara Leonard!” I said. “The words coming out of your mouth!”

  “I’m only quoting you, Bill Tedesco.”

  “Me? When did I say that?”

  “Only about a hundred times since you’ve been l
aying in this bed. Don’t you remember that?”

  “No. What else did I say?”

  “You don’t remember anything?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Lots of doctor babble, people poking me, but nothing else, really.”

  She slid her hand from under mine and turned away, but not before I saw the tears. “It’s not important.”

  Which made me think it probably was. And got me curious about what the hell else I’d said before waking from my fairy-tale sleep. I was about to ask her to refresh my memory when Tommy pushed his way back in the room—and the conversation.

  “So,” he said. “Things have been a little crazy around here.”

  “I can only imagine,” I said, looking to Barbara for help. She was digging in her purse. I was on my own.

  Tommy shifted his weight like a toddler who had to pee. I let him suffer a few seconds, then gave him the opening. “So, what did I miss? The last time I saw you, you came screaming out of the woods and made a running dive onto a broad in a puffy coat.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Messed up, right? But here’s the thing. I know that jacket, used to have one. Once you’re zipped in, there’s no way you can do anything fast, including raise your arms. Thank God for retail training.”

  He crossed himself—backward and with the wrong hand, but the altar boy in me still felt his sincerity.

  “Right. So then what?” I asked.

  “All right.” Tommy took off his suit coat, laid it across the back of the chair, rolled up his sleeves, and cleared his throat. “Here’s how it went down. She was a fighter, our kidnapping Angel. She slapped, kicked, punched, and somehow hit me in the head with the gun. But not the business end, mind you.” He added a wink and finger guns before continuing. “Though it was enough to make me stumble backward. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but the villain did not throw me off the cliff.” Big pause and sincere eyes. “I simply lost my footing and fell.”