by TJ Vargo
Sighing, he shook his head, rubbed his alcohol reddened eyes and swiveled on his stool, surveying the handful of drunks sharing the night's boredom with him. Red Eye's Bar was nothing more than a dingy rectangle of a room with a splintered bar, four wooden tables, and a television with a bent coat-hanger for an antenna. Jackson rubbed a hand on his pantleg, hating the dirty feel of the place - the way the farmers and shift workers from the factory looked at each other and at him, waiting for something to happen in their lives. He reached back and scratched the scars his old man had laced into his shoulder. These were stupid men, like his father. Every one of them, dumb as a box of rocks. Too stupid to wash the dirt off their face.
"Something wrong?"
Jackson looked up at the waitress. He carefully took the beer from her hand, smiling. "Yeah..." Bad dreams. My drunken father. My life. Shaking his head, he added, "But it's nothing for you to worry about."
She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she walked away and replied, "Well, we're closing in fifteen minutes. Drink up."
The beer washed down his throat in a rush.
Closing time meant time to go home.
Going home meant going to sleep where a man dressed all in black waited for him.
The thought that something was seriously wrong with him broke to the surface of his mind. The bad dreams. Drinking like a rumpot. He breathed in deeply, and then exhaled until he had nothing left. Enough of this shit. Get a grip before you do end up like your alky rattlesnake of a dad.
"Hey!" His voice carried in the near empty bar to the waitress, rinsing beer mugs at the far end of the bar under the neon sign that read, "Drink a Red Dog At Red Eye's".
She pulled a couple mugs from a sink of steaming gray water and looked up. Her hands moved unconsciously, drying the mugs.
Jackson walked over, straddling the bar stool in front of her. "What's your name?"
Concentrating on drying and polishing the mugs until they gleamed she said, "Tina. What's yours?"
"My name's Jackson."
She looked him over, a smile appearing. "I've seen you here the last couple weeks. You're Jackson Lewis, aren't you?" Seeing his nod, she added, "You graduated Bethel Senior about two years before I did." A little color rose in her cheeks. "You used to wear the same blue jean jacket all the time, didn't you? Same long hair and a same blue jean jacket you have now, right?"
He nodded, just watching.
"What are you doing in this place? Everybody always said you were so smart. Last thing you want to do is be a regular here. You'll end up like them."
He glanced over his shoulder. A cast of losers on their nightly binge, looking like they were on their last legs. Not a pretty sight. He wondered how he must look after the past couple weeks of nightmares and drinking like a fish. Not as bad as them, but probably not too good either.
Turning his attention on her, he said, "It's not too bad. You just have to be careful who you talk to."
She glanced up, her eyes bright. "I'm going to be closing it up pretty soon. You want another?"
He shook his head. "No, I think I've had enough," then went back to watching her washing and drying mugs. She used the towel slung over her shoulder to wipe up the water that had splashed around the sink.
Wringing the towel out in the sink, she slung it over her shoulder and looked at Jackson. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"
"What do you mean?"
She took the towel off her shoulder and hung it on the faucet. "Please, you look like someone took your candy."
"Do I?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Well it’s a hell of a thing. I guess I could tell you, if you have time after work..." He let the invitation hang in the air.
For a moment, just a small moment, she started to smile. Then she dropped her gaze.
"I don't think so," she said, slipping her hands into the dirty sink water - pulling the drain stopper. A hole swirled down through the grey water, making a gurgling sound.
"Hey, I had to try, right?" Jackson said, getting off his bar stool. Turning quickly on a boot heel, he walked toward the men's room. Outside the men's room door an old framed poster of a rodeo caught his attention. Staring at the poster, his mind drifted. Another night alone with the black man tromping through his head. Coming closer and closer to... to... something. Whatever that something was, it scared him. No words did it justice.
The glass in the frame showed a reflection of Tina. He could see her staring at him from behind the bar, and then her reflection disappeared. Jackson glanced back. He watched her toss her apron on the bar and yell a good-bye to someone in the kitchen. Her beautiful backside moved out the front door.
He swept his eyes over the bar. One of the two remaining drunks eyed him with the meanness only found in the bottom of a bottle.
"What you looking at? You think you're better than me?"
The sound of the drunk's voice, full of small, beady-eyed ignorance, made Jackson shake his head. He gave the man a "screw you" stare and pushed through the men's room door. Closing his eyes while he relieved himself, he rested his head against the cool tiles above the urinal, then pushed down on the flusher, letting the sound of running water fill his head.
The bathroom door squeaked open behind him, followed by a gruff voice. "Almost locked you in here buddy. You better get moving. We're closing up."
With a quick nod, Jackson zipped up and walked through the now empty bar. Outside, he walked around the side of the bar toward his motorcycle. Went to button up his coat, then thought better of it. More cool than cold tonight. Spring was coming. His shadow led the way around the building, following a sliver of light from the front parking lot. He stopped. The last car pulled away from the front of the bar. He hissed a silent curse. Damn if two people weren't fighting back by his motorcycle, and now he was the last person left in this God-forsaken hell hole. Taking a deep breath to clear his head, he stepped forward into the shadows, trying to make out the forms of the two people struggling. If they knocked his bike over they'd both be sorry. The sound of a woman's voice came out of the struggle. He started to run and grabbed the first body. Spun it around.
"What the hell? Let go of me!"
It was the drunk from inside the bar. Jackson tightened his grip. A kick of the drunk's bootheel into his shin made him clench his teeth. He pushed the man hard and watched him fall backward to the ground.
"He was trying to pull me behind the building with him."
Turning toward the sound of the woman's voice, Jackson tried to make out her face. She was breathing hard, looking a little disheveled, but seemed to be okay. It was Tina. Knowing this drunk was trying to pull her into the darkness behind the bar for God knew what pissed him off. He turned his attention back to the drunk who had gotten to his feet.
"You think you're better than me?" The drunk weaved on his feet in front of Jackson. He moved his face to within an eyelash of Jackson's face. "You think you're tough, you ain't nothing. You want to see tough? I'm tough. You think about it."
Heat and sweat and anger flashed through Jackson's body. For the barest of moments, Jackson thought he saw something change in the man. A slip in the shape of the man's face. The man of his dreams. A huge shadow of a man in a wide-brimmed hat. He stepped back, suddenly scared.
"I'll kill you. Remember that. I'm tough."
It couldn't be. The man in front of him was nothing but a drunk. Jackson blinked hard. He looked over the man again. Nothing but a drunk. Gray stubbled chin jutting out, eyes red with drink - had his beer muscles on good and proper, but still, he was nothing but a pathetic drunk. Stepping forward, Jackson pushed the man and said, "I'll give you one chance to leave. Then, whatever happens...," he shrugged, "happens."
The drunk stumbled and caught his balance, face pinching tight as he glared at Jackson. Jackson clenched his fists. The drunk rushed back toward him. All six foot, two hundred something pounds of Jackson pushed through the punch that mashed into the drunk's jaw, toppling th
e drunk against the building. Jackson watched him crumple, his head hitting the building's brick wall as he fell. The man moved once. Groaned. Then lay face down in the filth, letting out a moan with each breath. Jackson rubbed his fist where his knuckles throbbed. Too bad the bum was still breathing.
"Is he okay?" asked Tina.
Jackson watched the drunk for a moment, rubbing his hand. No devil. Not even a hat. He shook his head. The drunk was just a man. Nothing more.
Turning his attention to Tina, he saw a black smudge of fingerprints across her neck and jaw. He reached over, wiping the marks off, then rubbed his hand on his pants.
"We should get out of here before he gets back up," he said, then added, "Do you need a ride?" His heart beat a little faster as she smiled, then looked at the man on the ground.
"You've got a hell of a punch."
On his motorcycle he felt her body press against him from behind and her arms encircle his chest. She whispered against his neck.
"I usually walk over to the Dairy Q and call my roommate to pick me up."
He shrugged, "The Dairy Q - no problem." The feel of her breath on the back of his neck sent a tingle through him.
"But she won't mind if I'm late. She does it to me all the time."
He roared down the road, smiling as she held on with her thighs snugged up tight against him. The night air rushed over his face, mailboxes flying by like pickets on a fence.
It was a cold night and Jackson debated about whether they should go to the house or the barn. He stopped and looked at the house, wondering if his father was still awake. Tina's hand tightened on his as the porch light went on.
"Let's go to the barn," he said in a hush.
She nodded, looking back at the porch. Jackson took his coat off - a denim coat with a sheepskin collar and lining - and wrapped it over her shoulders, whispering, "Don't worry, he won't bother us."
"Your dad's Sam Lewis, isn't he?" she asked, burrowing into his coat while looking back at the house. Without waiting for a reply she added, "He's weird. He's been saying things about you all over town. Weird stuff."
Tina's gaze moved away from the house and back to Jackson. He couldn't even think of what to say, just nodded, seeing the questioning look in her eyes. It was a look that said, "Your father's a scary one."
His eyebrows drew together. What the hell was the old man saying about him? A blast of cold air whipped through his sweatshirt. He tightened his arm around Tina's shoulder and ducked his head into the wind. His boots sucked into the soft mud surrounding the front of the barn. The barn creaked, protesting the powerful wind. He led her around an old tractor parked at the side of the barn. An old Stratton tractor. He ran a hand over one of its huge back tires. Damn thing almost tipped over on him and crushed him more times than he could count. Dangerous and old. Like everything at this farm.
"Here we are," he said, sliding a key into the side door. Letting her go in ahead of him, he took a last look around. From around the corner of the barn he could see the halo of light still coming from the front porch. The old man must be up. He pulled the door shut.
Tina's voice hissed in the darkness, "I can't see."
A flash of light from a match and then a lantern's soft glow bloomed through the barn's interior. Jackson blew out the match and held the lantern up, looking over the empty barn. He gestured upward with the light. "The loft's pretty nice," he said, leading the way with the lantern. "We built it out for a field hand a couple years back." He stopped at the ladder leading to the loft. "You first," he said, helping Tina get a hand on the ladder. He watched her move up the ladder for a moment before following. He followed her backside up the ladder and his pulse quickened with each rung he climbed. Such a pretty picture.
Cresting the top of the ladder, Jackson playfully pushed her backside. She shot him a look of anger that was all bluff, making him grin. Hanging the lantern on a nail in an overhead beam, he spread out his arms. "This is it. What do you think?" She rolled her eyes. The loft was as he remembered it, rustic but nice. A little dusty from disuse, but the cot had clean sheets on it, the clock on the nightstand was still keeping time, and the small wash sink had a drip going that proved it still ran water. He stepped over toward the cot where Tina had already taken a seat. She bounced on the cot, a thin cloud of dust erupting from it. Looking down at her, he imagined an angel could look no better. She giggled, her face radiant in the soft glow of lantern light.
"C'mon sit down," she said, patting the cot.
He glanced behind her. It was hard to see through the dusty window, but he thought he saw something move out on the porch. Looking a little harder, he caught the movement of another shadow.
"What's wrong Jackson?"
"Nothing." He grinned and sat next to her. "The wind's blowing pretty good. Some shadows from the trees moving around out there. I thought it might be my dad." The way she smiled at him made him forget. Forget about the old man. Forget about dreams. This was real. He looked at her and put his hands behind his head, slowly reclining to his back. Once down, he reached for her, pulling her down next to him.
"Wait a second," she whispered. Taking off the coat he had given her, she laid down next to him and pulled the coat over them like a blanket. With her head on his arm, Jackson watched little shots of dragon's smoke rise in the air over them - first from her mouth then his. It was cold. She snuggled in closer, one of her breasts pushing softly against his ribs, and looked out the window behind them, watching the full moon slide in and out of clouds.
"You know, everyone's been talking about what your father's saying about you," she whispered.
He turned his head as she said this and felt her lips brushing his cheek. Her breath was warm, a little beery smelling, but it made him ache.
"He's crazy, mean, and he's a drunk. Best thing to do is ignore him. If you're lucky he'll leave you alone."
She turned, her lips almost touching his. "It's weird Jackson. Real weird."
He went to kiss her, but she moved away. He sighed. "Okay, I give. What's he saying? What's so weird?"
"He says you're not his. He says that the night your mom died in childbirth, the baby died too. According to him, you just showed up on his porch that night. And..."
Jackson watched her struggle to finish her thought, finally prodding her. "And what?"
"And he says you were put there by the Devil." She hesitated, then added, "He says that the man in black will be coming to gather you up soon and take you back to hell. I swear to God, that's what he's saying."
In the twitch of a heartbeat, his mouth went dry. Man in black? He searched his mind, wondering if he had said something about his dreams at Red Eye's when he was drunk. Looking at her, he noticed her eyes tighten.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He turned his head, looking at the rafters. "You're right. That is weird. But he's been saying things like that to me for years. He was a drunk before my mom died. Now he's a Bible-thumping drunk that blames me for her death." He shook his head and laughed. "He said a lot worse things when I was a kid."
Her voice was soft. "Tell me."
He stared at the rafters of the barn and focused on an old swallow nest up there, a brown cone of mud with a hole in the middle. What the hell, why not? "When I was little he told me these stories. Used to scare me before I went to bed. Every night, ‘Better be good and say your prayers Jackson, or the Devil will come and git ya.’ Jackson's voice took on the slurred hillbilly accent of his father. Actually, he remembered what the old man had really said. He stared into the hole of darkness leading into the swallow's nest. There's a demon looking for you boy. The one that brought you here. Waiting for a dark night to come take you back so he can turn you into one of his own. And then even God Almighty can't help you.
Tina giggled at the hillbilly accent he put on.
"It might sound funny now, but tell that to a little kid before he's going to bed and let me tell you, there's a good chance he'll pee that bed before he goes to sleep.
"
She was really laughing now, and one of her hands slipped up to his face, caressing it. "So was he right? Did the Devil ever come to get you?" she asked.
That tightened up his throat up a notch. Maybe not then darling, but one's been hanging around my dreams lately. He stared into the rafters, trying to still his pounding heart. His hand wandered to the small of her back where he ran his fingers in the hollow between the two cords of muscle on either side of her spine. She slid a leg up over his hip.
"No, nothing ever got me when I was a kid. Except my dad."
He placed his hand on her leg, rubbing it, talking low.
"Funny thing was that I had this little girl that was always in my dreams. She was my own personal guardian angel." Now that was something he never told anyone about. The little girl in his dreams. He became silent, biting his lip. Why did he bring her up?
"That's cute. So she protected you from the devils?"
Her voice purred, a mixture of curiousness and sensuality that gripped him. Made him want her. He opened his mouth at the touch of her fingers on his lips. Held the knuckle of one of her fingers between his teeth and then released it. "I don't know about that, but I liked her. I liked having her in my dreams." His voice was soft, rumbling in his throat. "It was just something a scared kid makes up in his head, I guess. When I got older she just kind of disappeared."
Tina's body pressed against him, making his groin hum, but he couldn't help the image that came into his head. It was the little girl, her hair long and black, her black eyes, her skin olive colored like his own - all of it held together in his head in a trembly shimmer. He knew what she was, and why she looked like him. It was a random act of his mind; synaptic impulses in his brain looking for a way to construct a make-believe big brother. A protector that could save him from the devils his father tried to set loose on him every night. The troubling part was the black man with the hat currently visiting his dreams. What was that guy supposed to be, in psychological terms? It made no sense and he almost said something to Tina about the man in the hat. But he stopped himself. Stopped his lips from moving good and proper and then sewed them shut. Talking about those kinds of things were what got people a nice comfortable ride to Forrest Glens, the white plantation-style hospital up past town, where people wore white all the time, shuffling around the grounds with their eyes as big and vacant as empty pie tins.