by Mike Markel
My bladder is my best body part. I can sit here for three hours—which I often do—without having to get up. Tonight, I’d been sitting here about an hour when the first guy came over. With my back turned a little away from the main area, like I explained earlier, I didn’t see him or hear him come over to me. That’s a bad sign. It means I smelled him. I can’t tell one cologne from another. To me, there’s Cologne and No Cologne. I turned toward him just as he was saying “Mind?” and gesturing to the stool next to me. I’m pretty fast at deciding whether I mind. Not that I always make good decisions. I’ve made my share of mistakes, although to be honest I don’t talk with other women to compare statistics.
Most of the signals this guy was sending were okay. He was the right age: somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. He was a normal height and weight, so nothing wrong there. He dressed all right: an actual suit, some kind of poly blend, but a dark color, no hideous checks or anything. He had shaved today, a good sign. He wasn’t trying to look like some twenty-five-year-old jerkoff with three days’ growth. He was starting to go bald, with the hair in front jutting out like a peninsula that could end up an island in a couple years. But, seriously, I wouldn’t see him again in two hours. Why would I give a damn what he’s gonna look like in two years?
When he put his left hand on the bar, just as he was coming in for a landing on the stool, I checked out the ring finger. No ring, but I could make out the indentation and the pale skin circle. I don’t have a problem with him being married. In fact, I prefer it. But this guy wasn’t yet comfortable with his adultery. Taking off the ring like that—to me that means he wants me to think he’s single, a good guy, interested in some kind of half-assed relationship. Or he thinks that’s what I want. Like I care that he’ll be coming into town every few months for the sales meetings, and maybe we could get together. I’m not into that shit. If he shows up again in a few months and I’m sitting here and I don’t remember him from being too gross or pervy, that’s good enough. But let’s just be honest: I really have no interest in whether the windstorm fucked up your shingles, if you know what I mean.
“I’d rather be alone, thanks.” It seemed to catch him off guard, him having most of his ass on the stool. Turning away, I didn’t catch his expression. The whole thing took four seconds. My version of speed dating.
Wayne came over and refilled my glass. There’s none of this “Can I get you a refill?” with Wayne. I’ve never seen him look at my glass, but he always seems to know. Maybe there’s a system he uses, like if he sees no more than a quarter-inch left he just comes over and fills it up. He’s filled it up at least a thousand times, and I’ve had to call him over twice, three times, max. You’re wondering whether he’s ever started to fill it up when I didn’t want him to. Can’t recall an instance of that. That’s probably because if I don’t want any more it means I’m leaving, and, like all competent drinkers, I tilt my head way back and drain the glass. I don’t take ice, so I want to be sure to get every last drop of the JD. Another tipoff that I’m leaving? Probably I’m not alone.
For the next hour or so it was just me and Wayne. Pleasant enough. The sun had gone down, so when the door opened all I saw was dueling headlight cones in front of the purple sky. Much less disconcerting than the damn sunshine, which always wants to know why I’m not working or with my family or something. I never feel that pressure at night: it’s okay to be in a bar if there’s headlights.
People were starting to leave, so the background hum of conversation was way down. I could hear Kenny G or whoever. Some kind of clarinet, I think. I couldn’t make out a melody, but maybe that was me. Three or four hours on the stool at Callahan’s, I’d probably have trouble picking out the tune in “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I was at the point where the notes were colliding and the people were starting to get fuzzy edges around them, like in that kid’s game, Wooly Willy, where you use a magnet to move the metal filings around on the fat guy’s face.
I started to feel real bad for Kenny G. After all, he’s very talented. I mean, it sounds good to me. Still, everyone’s always crapping on him. Maybe his music is lousy. Or he’s too white, or goofy looking. I don’t know what it is. But he’s out there, he’s trying, he’s doing his best. I’m sure of that. And when they make cracks about him, he’s got to be aware of it. It’s got to hurt. He’s a damn musician. So what if he’s shitty? He’s a person. That should count for something.
I started to cry, which I do a lot these days, usually all of a sudden and for no good reason.
Little while later, this guy came over, sat down on the stool next to me. I had gotten the crying under control. It wasn’t a big heaving cry, with my shoulders humping up and down and my face all twisted up. More of a trickle that I could brush away with my fingers. The guy didn’t ask permission. It was eleven o’clock, and he’d probably been scoping me out for a while, figured I was a regular.
He held up two fingers to Wayne, who came over and refilled us both. He turned to me, not saying anything. The light was too low for me to see his eyes. We drank for a while. “Do you want to go someplace?”
My kind of conversationalist. “Yeah,” I said.
“You know somewhere?”
Yes, I knew somewhere.
* * * *
The two of us drained our glasses fast and walked toward the door. Wayne gave me a small nod as I passed him.
“This way,” the guy said as he turned left and we started down Madison toward his car. The street lights were a little brighter than necessary. I looked past them to the gray clouds sweeping by in a hurry, flicking the stars on and off. Nights still got cold around here in May, down into the thirties, but coming out of Callahan’s with a good three-quarters of a buzz, I noticed it but it didn’t bother me. The cold was on the outside. Inside I was fine.
The guy stepped off the curb and clicked the remote control on his rental. I heard door locks pop up but couldn’t quite tell which car it was. I watched him walk over to open the driver’s door of a generic pale blue sedan. He hadn’t come over to hold the passenger door for me. This wasn’t a date.
I picked the rental papers off the passenger seat and tossed them onto the dash. Locking the seatbelt, I breathed in the cheap plastic fumes. The guy started the car, didn’t bother with his seatbelt. “Which way?”
“Go straight,” I said.
He drove four or five blocks, past the bagel place, the candle store, a lawyer’s office. “Pull over here, will ya?” It was a state liquor store. “Double park. Put your flashers on. I’ll just be a second.” I opened the door. “Jack Daniel’s okay?”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
I ran in. The clerk, a dipshit named Tom with a short-sleeve shirt buttoned at the neck, saw me and reached on the shelf behind him for the JD pint. As he rang it up, I put a ten and a five on the counter and grabbed it before he could slip it into the paper bag.
I directed my guy down a few more blocks, to the Driftwood Inn, a small independent place that didn’t even make an effort about the driftwood. Nothing hanging from the ceiling or the walls in the lobby—no fishing nets or stuffed fish or oars or buoys or anything. No driftwood. Nothing in any of the rooms, either, not even a cheapo print showing a beach, a boat, or a seagull. Still, I liked the Driftwood. There were a few hourly places ten bucks cheaper, but they weren’t real sticklers about health codes.
The guy parked outside the neon Office sign. “I got it,” he said as he shut the driver’s door. I saw him peel off a few bills and hand them to the bored woman behind the desk.
She pulled a plastic card from a drawer and slid it across to him. He was back in the car in twenty seconds.
I said, “No paperwork?”
“Gave her three twenties and asked her to do it for me.” He started the car and drove us seventy-five feet, parking outside room 115.
We walked inside. What I like best about the Driftwood is that the rooms never smell. No Lysol, no cigarettes, no BO. The carpet and the curtai
ns were old enough to not be putting out any chemicals but not so old they’d picked up that tangy funk of hard sex that slapped you when you opened the door at one of the hourly fuck joints out on 21.
The guy walked over to the TV, picked up the remote, and sat in what passed for a soft chair. “You want to use the bathroom?” he said. This was a good sign, him not pushing me up against the wall right away and grabbing at my pants.
“Thanks.” I carried my big shoulder bag into the bathroom and turned on the tap to make some noise while I peed. I did a quick cleanup, leaving the toothbrush and mouthwash for him on the glass shelf above the sink. Most guys don’t think of things like that. I placed a condom there, too, and came back out.
When he went into the bathroom, I turned off the TV and put my shoulder bag on the floor next to the right side of the bed, which I prefer. I’ve found keeping it nearby means I don’t need to buy so many new wallets.
I picked up one of the two plastic cups from the desk, tore off the plastic wrapper, and placed it on the night table near my side of the bed. Pulled the JD from my bag, broke the seal, and filled the cup. I stripped, hanging my clothes over the back of the chair at the desk, pulled back the covers, and got into bed. The ceiling was that popcorn texture, which is supposed to be good at keeping the noise down. Right over my head, the popcorn was stained. I scanned the rest of the ceiling, noting four other places.
I took a couple long swallows of the JD, preparation being key for activities like this.
The guy came out of the bathroom and turned out the overhead light. I heard him strip and walk over to my side of the bed. I didn’t smell any toothpaste or mouthwash. Maybe a bad sign, but maybe he just wasn’t planning on getting anywhere near my face.
He pulled the blanket and sheet off of me and slapped my hip, a little harder than necessary to get me to slide over. I did it. He straddled me. He didn’t want to kiss me, which was fine. Didn’t want to have anything to do with my tits, either. Also fine.
My eyes were adjusting to the dim light coming into the room from around the edges of the white plastic window shade. His dick was average, thick enough but a little short. I could see he was hard, which was good because maybe he wouldn’t make me suck him. He unwrapped the condom and put it on. He was on task, a man on a mission.
He slapped the inside of my right thigh, and I spread my legs as he moved his knees between them. The juices don’t flow for me anymore, so I had lubed up. It didn’t hurt much when he entered me. Nothing he did felt good, of course, but, to tell the truth, I can’t remember the last time anything down there felt good. But I was officially getting laid. Which, if I had to guess, was the goal.
He pumped steady, like a machine. He had his palms on the mattress and his arms straight, so he wasn’t touching anything he didn’t have to to get the job done. I could feel his prick going a little soft after two or three minutes, but I calculated that he’d likely have enough left to come before he went limp. I hoped so, anyway. It didn’t make any difference from my perspective, naturally, since he could have been swirling a toilet brush around in a bowl for all I was feeling. But it’s better if the guy comes. It’s a pride thing. I’d rather see him strut around afterwards like a fuck god than get all surly and want to explain himself. You don’t come to the Driftwood to talk to strangers.
Eventually, he did come. He didn’t lie down on the bed or anything, just pushed hard one last time, and the mattress stopped rocking. He pulled out and got right off the bed and went into the bathroom.
I turned over on my side, lifted myself onto an elbow, and drained the cup of JD. I lay back down, my right hand reaching for the familiar leather of the strap on my bag. I drifted off or down or out. Didn’t know where I was, except that it wasn’t room 115 at the Driftwood.
Later, I heard the guy coming out of the bathroom, walking around. Then I felt the mattress shift, like he was getting into bed next to me. That happens. He’d paid his sixty bucks, he was going to use the room a little bit more. I let my mind drift back to wherever I was.
I felt the mattress shift again, and I smelled him as he started to straddle me. I started to turn over to look up at him, figure out what was happening. Guys like this, who had to work real hard to come once, they don’t tend to tee it up again ten minutes later.
I was on my back, starting to sit up, when I felt his left hand on my throat. He had all his weight on me, holding me down.
“The fuck are you doing?” I said, panic in my voice, before the pressure on my windpipe shut me up. His hand was gripping my throat hard, cutting off my breathing. He tightened the grip. I fought to break it with my hands, but he was too strong. With my left arm I hit him inside his elbow. His arm bent for a second, then locked back in, tighter than ever. I was starting to see red circles. That’s when his right hand came out of nowhere and smacked me across the jaw.
I lay back, stunned, tasting the blood warm in my mouth where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.
Then I felt the hot liquid on my stomach and my chest. He was pissing on me. “Whore,” he said, his voice low and steady. He repeated the word a few more times as I tried again to break his lock on my neck. But his grip was secure. I couldn’t breathe. My arms fell to my side and the room went black.
Sometime later I regained consciousness. I could breathe again, although my windpipe was still sore, and my jaw hurt like hell from where he slugged me. I reached down with my left hand to feel for my bag. It was still there. I unzipped the inside pocket and pulled out my pistol.
I got out of bed, still naked, full of sticky half-dry piss, and cleared the bathroom. I came back into the main room and checked for my wallet. For some reason, he hadn’t taken it. I saw the plastic room key on the desk as I went over to the door and locked it.
I showered and got dressed. Wobbly, I walked back toward my own car, which I had parked a few blocks from Callahan’s. I brushed the parking meters with my jacket sleeve, staying as far as I could from the dark alleys between the old brick and stone buildings on Madison. I didn’t think the guy’s idea of a full evening’s fun included Jump the Whore, but I hadn’t expecting to get pissed on and beat up, either. The Colt tucked into my waist, hidden by my nylon jacket, felt good.
It was about one o’clock. Outside the bar, a couple of regulars were saying goodnight to each other, full of eighty-proof affection, giving back-slaps and hugs, like they were heading off to war and might not see each other again. Most likely, they’d meet up again at ten am, right here, when the bar re-opened, and salute each other with a boozy greeting after having endured eight hours apart.
That’s the thing about drunks: they get into patterns that are probably going to kill them, and they don’t even realize it.
I made it home, threw my bag on the coffee table, and walked into the bathroom. There were red spots around my neck, where he’d busted some blood vessels, and my left cheek had a girlish pink glow from where he’d slugged me. I looked in the mirror. I really didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like it one damn bit.
Chapter 2
“Hi, my name is Karen.” My last name is Seagate, but you’re not supposed to use last names here. It’s 3:40 pm, and I’m in the basement of the Senior Center, what they call the activity room. The walls, cement block painted robin’s egg blue, are covered with shiny posters showing old people smiling toothy smiles and acting all alive. Pushing the grandkid on a swing, helping a little girl roll out the dough on the counter, doing the wave at the stadium. Looks fulfilling. To be honest, though, most of the time I see Granny and Gramps, they’re not living the full life. But I know what posters are for: to point you in a direction, give you hope. You won’t see any pics of blurry oldsters cutting their blood-pressure meds so they can afford some mac and cheese before the next payment arrives.
On the question of honesty, let me be frank. I lie. A lot. Not just your basic “I’m fine, thanks” lies. After all, when some guy at work is walking past you in the hall and asks how you’re doi
ng, does he really need to hear that there’s a huge fucking black hole in the center of your universe and you can’t wait to get sucked in so your soul will stop hurting? I don’t think he needs that.
No, I also lie when people ask me real questions, even when there’s no need to lie. What kind of car do I drive? It’s a Ford. With Honda written all over it. Am I married? Absolutely. Before the divorce. What do I do? I’m a police detective in Rawlings, Montana. Actually, was. You want to just back off, please? If I want you to know something about me, I’ll tell you. But don’t hold your breath.
Okay, maybe part of it is that my answers are kind of depressing. I don’t mind depressing other people, of course, but I see no reason to depress myself more than necessary. After all, I’ve got some shit to be depressed about. I’m forty-two, out of work, out of luck, out of ideas, out of hope. Out of just about anything that could do me some good. Wait, let me try that again: I’m fine, thanks. You?
A dozen people were sitting in cheap plastic stacking chairs arranged in a circle. They were all between twenty and seventy, and every one of them was looking at me. There was a lot of denim, scuffed shoes, t-shirts, maybe a little more ink than you’d get with a random dozen, but not that much more than you see every day here in town. They were all reacting to “Hi, my name is Karen.” To be more specific, they were reacting to what I didn’t say after that.
The younger ones looked the most hostile. One guy, twenty-eight or thirty, looked like a typical Breaking & Entering. Some Chinese characters on the insides of both his arms. The tattoo guy probably told him it says courage or freedom or some horseshit like that. More likely, it says asshole. Grungy jeans and running shoes, untied, no socks. Greasy hair down to the faded Marlboro t-t-shirtshirt that he got free for a carton’s worth of coupons. Five packs is enough to hook you, then five more, just to be safe. For a four-dollar t-shirt carrying an ad for the product there’s a pretty good chance is going to kill you. In other words, he was a real brainiac. His expression was hardass, based on all his life wisdom. Just because I didn’t say those four damn words.