by J. C. Geiger
“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You’re the guy who knocked Breanna on her ass. Nice work, friend. Come on in!”
The Float was cavernous; much bigger than it looked from outside. Wooden and dark. Lance skirted the pirate and scanned the mismatched tables. People stared back. Everyone at the roadhouse looked like they played on the same team. Their uniforms involved flannel and denim of a certain character. They probably had their own roadhouse customs and sacrificial rites involving wooden pirates and angry tabby cats and—
Shoelaces.
A black shoelace, dangling in front of his nose.
Lance looked up. The shoelace was attached to a black sneaker, hanging by its twisted lace around exposed wood. Shoes were everywhere. Tangled around rafters the way they sometimes draped from lonely telephone wires, but hundreds. White Keds, battered work boots, fluorescent sneakers, polished wing tips, thick-soled skater shoes, all types and sizes, strung up and swinging above his head.
The Shoe Gallows.
“Have a seat,” the bartender said.
Lance found a stool.
“Are you still serving food?” Lance asked.
“Yeah,” the bartender said. “But we lost our fry cook.”
“Oh.”
“Yup. You had his blood all over your hands about an hour ago.”
“The guy from the car?” Lance asked, checking his hands. “James?”
“Stone,” the bartender said. “His name’s Stone. James. Y’all hear that?” Down the bar, a few people laughed. James, James, they repeated, like a word they’d never heard before. “My name’s Mason.”
“I’m Lance.”
Mason’s paw swallowed Lance’s hand, pumping it firmly. Before he let go, he said: “Want to make a bet, Lance?”
“A bet?”
Mason tossed a glossy menu on the bar, then leaned on his elbows. “I’ll bet you ten bucks I can tell you where you got your shoes.” He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. Mason’s eyes, a hazel confusion of blue and green and brown. No real color at all.
“That’s okay,” Lance said. “I’m good.”
“Think about it,” Mason said, then turned away.
Lance glanced at his shoes, which he’d gotten in Bend at Gronski Family Shoe Shoppe. Mason couldn’t possibly know that. On the menu, a long column of burgers. His jaw ached. He was salivating. Close to actually drooling.
“Decide yet?”
“Yeah,” Lance said. “I’ll have the Black and Blue Burger—”
“About the bet,” Mason said, tapping his ten-dollar bill. “Really. I can tell you where you got your shoes.”
Mason’s stare was a wall between him and his cheeseburger.
“Okay, sure,” Lance said. “I’ll take the bet.”
“Let’s see that ten.”
The fold in his wallet was loose, still holding the gap where his fifty dollars had been. Now, another ten. He’d just been to an ATM in Seattle and was nearly out of cash. Mason took the bill, holding the money as if he already owned it.
“All right, gambler!” Mason said, lighting up. He wasn’t talking to Lance anymore. He was talking to the whole bar. “I can’t tell you where you bought your shoes. Target? Payless? How the hell would I know? But I can tell you where you got your shoes. You got your shoes on your feet, and you got your feet in my bar. The Float, mile marker one twenty-five in Baring, Washington. And that’s exactly where your ten dollars is going to stay!”
He pulled Lance’s ten-dollar bill taut so it made a popping sound.
“Woo!” shouted a guy at the end of the bar. He had floppy blond hair and a flannel shirt. A surfer, abandoned at birth and raised by rednecks.
“What’s your name again?” Mason asked.
“Lance.”
He took a marker from his pocket. Tongue twiddling out from the corner of his mouth, he etched giant bold letters onto the front of the bill. lance, it said. The N perfectly centered, slashing diagonals over Hamilton’s face. He walked down the bar to a wall-size American flag, strung up like window blinds. When Mason pulled a cord, the red and white stripes accordioned together, going up.
Behind the flag, a fortune of ten-dollar bills.
Bills four or five deep, hung with pushpins and tagged with blocky letters. andrew, melanie, steven, richard, dana, bradley. Mason stuck Lance’s up near the center. Hundreds of tens. Thousands of dollars.
“Wall of Shame!” said the floppy-haired guy. He clapped, dragging along some limp applause from others. Lance’s fingers clawed into the menu, bending it.
“May I take your order, sir?” Mason asked, grinning.
“I’ll have the Black and Blue Burger with fries. Hey, do you have a phone charger I could use?”
“Nope,” Mason said without a beat. “But you can ask around.”
Lance turned to his right. Down the bar, the floppy-haired guy and someone else were staring at him. They gave him the chin-up. Lance gave it back a little too hard. Like giving himself an uppercut.
He smiled. They did not smile back.
Lance reached for his pocket, but had no phone to look at. No TV in the bar. Only liquor bottles. Dusty shelves. Bins of paper tickets labeled pull tabs.
He was sitting in an actual bar.
He wondered what Miriam was doing. He had not stolen a car. He had not defied expectations, nor done anything amazing. Turbulence in his chest. The swell and flutter he’d felt at Joe’s Place, and every day in Seattle. He grabbed a napkin from a metal dispenser, a pen from his pocket. Music was coming. He scratched out a rough stave, holding the napkin taut to keep it from tearing. Then notes. Right there in the bar. Eyes stinging. Pulling this thing down from the sky.
The server set down his plate with a CLINK.
The burger. A thing of beauty. Piled high with thick peppered bacon. Chunks of blue cheese. A nest of beer-battered fries. He dropped his pen and grabbed hold of the bun.
“Tasty burger?” asked Floppy Hair, suddenly beside him.
Lance stared, blinking him into focus.
“Hey,” another voice said. “Drop the burger. He asked you something.”
The guy beside Floppy Hair was carved from mahogany, wide eyes, goatee the size of a toothbrush head. Lance set down his burger and took a long, rattling breath.
“I’m Rocco,” the mahogany man said. “This is Meebs.” Rocco slapped Meebs on the back, flopping hair into his eyes. Odors of smoke clung to them in atmospheric layers, wafting up from their clothing: cigarettes, campfire, beef jerky.
“I’m Lance.”
“We already saw your name, Ace,” Rocco said. “On the wall.”
“You pushed our friend,” Meebs said. He was giddy. Happy to say it. Like he’d been keeping it a secret all week.
“What?”
“Breanna,” Rocco said. “The girl from the accident. You pushed her. You proud about that? You look proud about it.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“To push her, or look proud?”
“Push her.”
“Wow. How do you accidentally push someone, Meebs?”
“I don’t know. Weird,” Meebs said.
“Like that,” Rocco said, shoving Lance’s shoulder.
Lance teetered on the edge of his stool for a second, then slipped off and was standing.
“Was that an accident?” Rocco asked. He was not tall, but his muscle groups were scientifically identifiable beneath his T-shirt. Meebs had knobby joints and stretchy limbs and could probably tangle himself around an opponent like a spring-loaded spider monkey.
And Lance’s burger was right there. Steaming fries.
“More interested in this?” Rocco asked. He grabbed Lance’s plate and lifted his meal to eye level. With a twist of his wrist, he dumped Lance’s dinner on the floor. Fries on hardwood. The burger, mostly in its bun. Lance stared down and could not move.
“You could still eat that,” Rocco said. “This place is pretty clean.”
“Go ahead,” Meebs sai
d. “We won’t bother you anymore.”
They turned to leave.
Trembling, Lance lowered himself toward the floor. Rocco turned and stomped down. His boot heel cleaved through bread and meat. A gray smear. And suddenly Lance was up. His stool clattered on the ground. Welded to his palm was a butter knife. Lance held its rounded tip inches from Rocco’s nose.
“What are you going to do, wild man?” Rocco asked.
“I’m going to stab you in the face,” Lance hissed.
“It’s a butter knife,” Meebs observed.
“Go on, dickhead. Just try and break the skin.”
“Hey! What the hell is going on!” Mason’s voice boomed.
No one moved. A song on the jukebox was the only sound. Electronic, with high vocals. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it said. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
“Obviously, I’m being assaulted,” Rocco said.
“Jesus, kid. You’re a maniac,” Mason said.
“He won’t stop until we’re all dead,” Meebs whispered.
“This guy stepped on my cheeseburger!” Lance said. His final word reverberated, an octave too high. Cheeseburger. A word that tended to resist seriousness. Like a butter knife.
Mason flopped his meaty arms onto the counter. “Siddown. Both of you.”
“No way! Rocco’s gonna hand him his ass!” Meebs prattled, shaking like a nervous dog. “He’s gonna—” Mason grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins and flung them in Meebs’s face. A white explosion, fluttering all around him.
“Move your ass, Meebs,” Mason said.
Meebs shuffled down the bar, sat.
“Gentlemen,” Mason said. “Can you sit?”
“I prefer to stand,” Rocco said.
“Me too,” Lance said, right leg jackrabbiting on the ground.
“What happened?” Mason asked.
“He pushed Breanna,” Rocco said.
“Punched her!” Meebs called out.
“So what?” Mason said. “Breanna’s an idiot. She cost me my fry cook. And then she runs here. Is she trying to shut me down? Answer me, Rocco.”
“How do I know?”
“You’re her keeper, right?” Mason said. “That’s why you’re here pushing strangers and throwing my food around. Right?”
“You don’t push girls,” Rocco said.
“Oh. Now Breanna’s a girl,” Mason said. “She’s a wildebeest. She tried to lock herself in my walk-in. That was some werewolf-movie bullshit, back there. Lock me in! I don’t know what I’ll do! They’ll take me to jail! Please! Heeeelp meeeee! She had fangs and shit. I do not lie.” Rocco laughed.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Lance, right? Lance is going to put down his cutlery before he gives someone an abrasion.”
Lance set the knife down.
“Good. I’m gonna comp you another burger. You can have Stone’s shift meal. And Rocco’s gonna clean up his food mess.”
“Bullshit,” Rocco hissed.
“Easy, killer,” Mason said. “I’ll pour us a shot. We’ll drink to Stone. Guy barely has a pulse to begin with. It’s a miracle they brought him back.”
Mason ran his finger along several bottles, stopping at one called Teacher’s. He sloshed whisky into three shot glasses. It smelled like disinfectant and burning leaves.
“I’m just gonna need some proof you’re twenty-one,” Mason said to Lance.
Lance patted his pockets, as if searching for something that existed.
“Dude. Kidding,” Mason said. “Loosen up.”
“Yo! Can I get in on that shot?” Meebs called from down the bar.
“No, Meebs,” Mason said. “Go eat your grilled cheese, you vegetarian fucker.”
Rocco, Mason, and Lance touched their glasses together. “To a fresh start,” Mason said. The liquid went down with a burning gulp and left ashes on his tongue. It tasted like something he might enjoy someday. Like when he was fifty.
“First Scotch?” Mason asked, refilling his own glass.
“It’s good,” Lance whispered. It had also chewed away part of his throat.
Mason laughed.
“Yeah. Well, thanks for saving Stone’s ass,” Rocco said. “Enjoy that burger.” He grabbed Lance’s upper arm and squeezed. Lance was glad they hadn’t fought.
Ten minutes later, the universe narrowed to the miracle of a cheeseburger and fries on his plate. Everything was hot and delicious. The meal hit him like a calming wave. Good food, stilling his hands, quieting his brain, bite after bite until he was drifting through the soft haze of a food coma. A new state of existence.
After red meat and whisky, the night had a whole different flavor. The loose, freewheeling feeling of a true adventure. You saved someone’s life. You drank Scotch in public. You pulled a knife in a bar fight. In a roadhouse bar fight.
What a list! He smiled, playing it over. But he could already hear his friends back home: Lancelot did what? The stories seemed too wild to belong to him. He grabbed hold of his memories, replaying the facts, kneading them into his brain.
This happened, he told himself on the way to the bathroom. This is happening.
Condom machines bookended the urinals. Lance took the one farthest from the door and stared straight ahead at a crack in the wall someone had decorated with blue pen to look like a vagina. He thought of Miriam and it disturbed him, having this thought. Someone banged through the door behind him.
Rocco.
Lance froze and Rocco sidled up beside him. He looked Lance straight in the eye, smiled, then blasted the porcelain with a confident stream. Lance couldn’t go. He felt it retreating, crawling up toward his stomach. He went back to his mantras, seeking courage. Sometimes this helped.
You are valedictorian.
You are the first-chair trumpet player.
You have a full-ride scholarship.
Miriam Seavers is in love with you.
Nothing. Lance pretended to shake off, then zipped, flushed, and walked to the sink. Rocco was still there.
“Hey,” Rocco said. “You didn’t go.”
“What?”
“You didn’t pee.”
Lance stared at him. He’d never see this guy again.
“Yeah. I didn’t pee. So what?”
“No shame in it,” Rocco said. “Good instinct. That’s what keeps animals from getting eaten. I won’t tell anyone. Male code.” He put a finger to his lips, then left without washing his hands.
Lance stood in the bathroom for a minute. He still couldn’t go. Back in the bar, Meebs and Rocco were standing beside the giant wooden pirate along with someone else. The girl from the parking lot. Dark hair, jeans, a T-shirt. Watching.
That girl.
He wanted to spin and run back to the bathroom, but they’d already seen him. The three of them somehow together, like everyone at The Float was a cast member in the same small movie.
“Dakota says you’re staying at the Trainsong,” Rocco said.
Dakota.
“So? Are you?” Rocco said.
“What?” Lance said.
“Staying at the Trainsong?”
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
“C’mon,” Meebs said. Lance understood he was supposed to leave with them. Outside, the air had cooled and had a wormy after-the-rain smell. The group huddled by the rear bumper of a green station wagon.
“This piece of shit,” Rocco said, kicking the tire.
“This piece of shit will leave you in the parking lot.” Meebs turned to Lance. “Hey. What do you drive?”
“A Buick. It’s in the shop though.”
“With a mechanic out here? Good luck,” Rocco said. “You might have to walk home. Don’t lose your shoes.”
“Lose my shoes?”
“Inside,” Rocco said, pointing to The Float. “The prize wheel is rigged.”
“It’s not. That couple in the Chevy Malibu won a thousand—”
“Meebs, motherfucker.”
“Guys,” Dakota said. “We have company.”
> “You all live here?” Lance asked.
“We do,” Dakota said. She tucked her chin while she talked, hiding behind a dark curtain of hair. “We used to be just like you, Lance. On the way to better places. But our cars broke down. On a night just…like…this.” Her voice had a soft, steady quality, like a hypnotist counting down from ten.
“Yep,” Rocco said. “It’s true.”
“My car still drives,” Meebs said, patting the wagon’s rear window. “This sweet baby.”
“Your parents’ sweet baby,” Dakota said.
“It’s half mine,” Meebs said.
“You’re half full of shit,” Dakota said.
“So what brought you out here?” Rocco asked Lance.
“I had an audition in Seattle.”
“You an actor?” Rocco asked.
“Musician,” Dakota said.
“Cool,” Meebs said, bouncing from foot to foot, flipping back his hair. “So are you in a band?”
Lance froze. The word band had been loaded. Meebs didn’t mean marching band, or honor band, or any other school-based embarrassment. He meant a real band. With gigs and fans and between-song banter. Just last week, Jonathan and Miriam had said they couldn’t imagine Lance in a real rock band. Jonathan had done an impression of Frontman Lance Hendricks:
C’mon, Mick, we can’t fade the song out! That’s not rock and roll! Can we try this with a different time signature, mate?
Now that Meebs was asking The Band Question, Lance felt a door opening. Like he could reach into a closet of new identities, try on what he wanted, and keep what fit. And Meebs was staring, because Lance still hadn’t answered the question.
“No,” Lance said. “I mean, not now. I’m busy getting ready to graduate.”
“College?” Dakota asked.
Lance hesitated. “High school.” A collective oooooooh.
“Just a pup,” Rocco said.
“Told you,” Meebs said to Dakota.
“Well, congrats,” Rocco said.
“On what?”
“Graduating,” Rocco said.
“You made it, dude!” Meebs said, slapping his back.
“They gonna let you walk?” Rocco asked.