I stop fighting Brown Eyes’ grip on me. He is on the verge of throwing up his brains at the rate his body is attempting to get rid of the alcohol. Brown Eyes is slipping into a deep subconscious state that most hard drinkers reach.
“Gangsters?” The word burns at the tip of my lips.
“Gangsters,” Son restates. He narrows his eyes at Brown Eyes’ outfit. “Look at the necklace he has on his neck. It’s a diamond-encrusted Cross. He’s a Crist member.”
CHAPTER TWO
I have always been taught to help other my whole life, but allowing a super attractive male to throw up on me is not how the good Samaritan act often plays out in my mind. If there is a lesson to learn from this incident, it is the fact that the heroine does not choose the situation but it is the situation that makes the heroine. It is your fate working at a bar. You’re lucky it’s only vomit. My intuition is always looking for a fight with my better judgment.
Brown Eyes continues to heave into Tailor’s reliable alcohol bucket with one hand on my wrist. Son and Tailor do little to help me; they figure it is better for Brown Eyes to hold onto me as a crutch than to throw up on the bar’s floor. So I take one for the team, as the saying goes. During the last couple of seconds, I realize Brown Eyes is not just a pretty face; he has the distinctive presence and personality to match, including the indomitable strength. He is also a very sad soul who fills the heavy void with tangible pain and hard alcohol.
After Brown Eyes finishes with a throaty cough, Son and Tailor take him outside of The Trax. I try to convince them otherwise, but my co-workers refuse to hear my opinion.
“He’s too dangerous!” Son hisses.
I feel guilt raiding my body and consciousness when I watch them. I know that Brown Eyes is alone, and in his drunken state, I am not sure he can get home safe. I grab a spray bottle filled to the brink with bleach solution. I don’t know what else to do but to keep my hands busy. I am still in the midst of wiping down the bar when Son and Tailor return with identical sunken expressions. They appear shaken up, as though they had dealt with something dangerous and unworldly.
“What did you do with him?” I ask them. Why do you care so much? My intuition rolls her eyes.
“We took him outside,” Tailor replies quickly and disappears behind the bar.
“You left him in the cold?” I ask Son; he is spraying the counter with bleach solution now. Son is cleaning what I just cleaned.
“It doesn’t matter May. We had to get him out of here fast. He’s affiliated with Crist. I don’t want to make any phone calls that I’ll regret later.” Son’s voice is stressed and non-negotiable.
“I think you’re overreacting. Just because he’s a gangster doesn’t mean we just throw him out like that. He’s alone and unconscious. What if he gets killed?” An unsettling feeling permeates my body. I am cold and shaky for some reason.
Son stops cleaning the counter and shakes his head at me. “You don’t know anything about people like him, do you May? He is a member of a social section that we’re better off leaving out in the cold than in here with us. We don’t want any of his associates or affiliates coming in here, blaming us for purposely getting him drunk or trying to take advantage of him. Even worse, we don’t want any of his enemies to come in here and take advantage of him while he’s drunk. He’s a gangster May. They rob, cheat, steal, and kill. If we feel sorry for him, then who is going to feel sorry for us?”
Enough of a reason for you to leave this alone? My intuition throws a dark notion. Son is right. I don’t know anything about someone like Brown Eyes. All I know about gangsters is from Lina’s preconceived stories and notions, along with cinematic depictions of guys in baggy pants and bandanas as they tote guns. I have never come across gangsters like Brown Eyes who seem to be selected by their ridiculously good looks, impeccable personalities, and overwhelming strength. More specifically, hierarchical money-driven gangsters. There is nothing cheap about Brown Eyes from head-to-toe.
“Any more doubts about my decision?” Son lifts up an eyebrow. He is all assistant manager on me now.
“No,” I mumble and return to wiping the bar.
“Good,” Son replies shortly. He glances at me again, takes pity, and adds, “I’m doing this for the security of our jobs, May. I’m not being an ass for no reason. Stay far away from gangsters like him. It’s not a warning. It’s a life lesson.”
I frown at Son’s wise advice. I try not to laugh, but the corners of my mouth simply lift into a smile. Son ends up letting out a chuckle too. We have been working together for six months now, so Son knows that I take his comments with a grain of salt. We have been able to build one of those working relationships where he lectures and I laugh. Today is no different, although the undertone is completely different from the usual.
It takes us another ten minutes to wipe down the bar and sanitize the entire area. Son is in charge of closing the entire venue down, so he dismisses me to go home first. When it comes down to it, Son often takes on the brunt of the work. He prefers it that way.
I head for the bathroom to clean myself up. I am looking forward to some peace and quiet, but that is not happening when Joolie comes stalking into the bathroom. She is fresh off the gossip train and wants to talk.
“I cannot believe Super-Gorgeous-Sexy is a Crist member! I knew there was more to him than just a handsome face!”
I lean over the white porcelain sink to splash a pool of cool water over my face. The water trickles down the sides of my arms and eventually end at my elbows. I gather the courage to lift my head up and look in the bathroom mirror. The glaring fluorescent lighting highlights the tired lines and dark spots on my face. I look beyond dead tired and feel it to the hilt.
Joolie is still in the background going on about the unbelievably beautiful gangster. Joolie’s pining over the fact that she missed all the action.
Joolie is a co-worker completely immersed in her job. Joolie is the first one to formulate opinions and churn out rapid suggestions about everything and anything that happens in and around The Trax. Joolie grew up very poor with only a single father and five siblings. Her mother died when she was young, so Joolie has been self-sufficient for most of her life. Joolie holds down two jobs with only a high school diploma. Despite her credentials, Joolie is actually very intelligent and calculating. Her grand goal in life is to own venues like The Trax. Essentially, Joolie’s motivation for knowledge derives from sound reasons. It’s Joolie’s way of going about it that makes it difficult to empathize with.
“Are you listening, May?” Joolie often questions my attention span to her ramblings. Tonight is no different. She is standing a sink away from me, tying her hair into a large mound at the top of her head. She repeats again with, “God, he’s so beautiful . . . he’s like a tragic, beautiful soul.”
“Yes,” I agree absentmindedly to her comment.
“I wonder why he picked The Trax of all spots.” Joolie has a faraway look on her face. “He looks like he could go to the classier places like the Prosper Room or Ekco. Maybe he likes our cheap drinks. He can’t be here for the girls. God no. You and I are probably the most attractive girls here. Oh! Maybe he came back here for one of us! I did notice him sitting in the reserved section earlier.”
Joolie has such an elaborate imagination. Dreams can feed off her for life. “Umm hmm,” I mumble again. I grab some towels from the dispenser to run under the sink. When they are wet enough, I lift my right leg and wipe my shoes clean of Brown Eyes’ vomit.
“But I can’t believe he’s a Crist member.” Joolie stops fixing her hair and lowers her voice. A look of secrecy and fixation crosses her face. Joolie leans against the sink and watches me clean my shoes. “A Crist member. Have you heard of them?”
“No,” I answer shortly. I continue running my hands up and down the soles of my shoes. “What does it matter, anyway?” Son and Joolie have the same look in their eyes when they talk about Crist members.
“Hah!” Joolie lets out a scof
f as though she can’t believe my ignorance. “A Crist member visited The Trax, May. Even if you don’t know, you should at least understand that we are going to be getting a little more popular. Think of it as a celebrity going to eat at an unknown restaurant. Pretty soon, everyone will want to eat at that restaurant too!”
I stop wiping my shoes to look at Joolie. I am not oblivious to the world around me, but brushing up with a gang member sounds like bad news. Joolie sees it from a publicity perspective while I regard it as a bad omen. “Son kicked him out. It’s a bad omen to have him here.”
“What the hell does Son know?” Joolie snaps adamantly. “You can’t keep a Crist member from going anywhere he wants! No. Super-Gorgeous-Sexy has his reasons for coming here twice in two weeks. He’s planning something.”
Hmm. Is Joolie onto something? “I think he just came back tonight to have a drink. He seemed upset over something. He probably got drunk to forget what he really needs to deal with,” I reply with what I believe is an insightful comment.
“Uh huh.” Joolie nods her head for a moment, but then changes her mind as she shakes her head in the opposite direction. “Nah. He has an ulterior motive for coming here. Probably wants protection money from the club.”
“Well, whatever he is here for has nothing to do with you or me.” I throw the dirty towels in the trash can and wash my hands again.
Joolie’s cell phone lights up in her bag at the same moment, playing an upbeat electronic dance music anthem. Joolie gives me a playful push as she heads out the bathroom with her cell phone in hand. “You might think I’m crazy, but there’s a reason why he was here last week and again tonight. Good night May. Sweet Dreams. Don’t let the gangster bite!”
Before she exits, Joolie marks her right hand across her upper body to create the symbol of a Cross.
Did she really just do that? “Good night Joolie.” I feel incredulous from her exit display. Joolie knows how to rile things up.
I do my best to ban my thoughts about the night and Brown Eyes. I spend another five minutes in the bathroom cleaning myself up. When I finally decide there is nothing more I can do, I head straight to the employee’s room. I change into my regular clothes. I end up wrapping my work uniform in a plastic bag. Ever the light traveler, I tie the plastic bag around the strap of my worn-out tote bag.
Most of my co-workers are already gone when I head out of the front door. There is only one way in and one way out for Trax employees and customers. It is some sort of policy implemented for this kind of establishment. Son told me once that it is easier for police to keep track of people coming in and out with only one front door. Again, this is just one of the stringent staples that comes with working at a place like The Trax.
“Good night May!”
“Get home safe!”
“Good night!” I wave to a couple of co-workers who are still lingering around.
The cool summer air greets me as soon as I exit The Trax. The Trax is at basement level; grand steps lead up to street level. These steps are usually not a problem, but after tonight, my legs threaten to give in with every step I take.
I take in a deep breath and inhale sweet, fresh air once I reach street level. I pull the strap of my tote bag higher on my shoulders and begin my trek towards the nearest bus stop. I am off-work mode, daydreaming about my warm bed and maybe a glass of milk before sleep. Coffee is a long, lost dream at this point.
I am barely three feet away from The Trax when I stop in my tracks.
“Suni . . . ,” a soft, distinctive voice calls out to me.
Although I have no recollection or familiarity with the name, I follow the voice emanating from the darkness. A distill sense of silence clouds my judgment for a second. Streetlights are rare around this area of The Trax; the dim lighting from the street rarely marks its presence here. People do not usually linger around these shadows. Whether they are tourists or locals, people typically disappear quickly into the accompanying shops or bars when they enter this part of town. I am the only one who is lingering for a stranger.
“Hello?” I muster enough courage to call out. Don’t get yourself killed, my conscience taunts.
“Suni . . . ,” the voice calls again.
Almost instantly, from the rise and fall of his voice and the repetition, I know it is Brown Eyes. My mind immediately calculates the time frame. He was kicked out of The Trax forty-five minutes ago. He’s still here? I was right. He has no one to take him home.
Strings tug at my heart. Against my better judgment and Son’s warning, I follow the sound of Brown Eyes’ voice with caution. The dark shadows looming over the side of the large building are the perfect hiding spots for Brown Eyes. His silhouette attaches to the gloom created by the orange moon and black sky. Brown Eyes sticks out like a sore thumb against the background of the area. He does not belong here. Broken sorrow looks like this.
“Suni . . . ,” he calls wistfully.
“Hey, are you okay?” I inch closer.
“Suni . . . ,” he whispers the same hauntingly sad name.
I realize the closer I move to him, the more I am reducing my chances of walking away. As a matter of fact, I am involved the moment I decide not to go home and find out what is wrong with him. But I cannot leave him. My conscience doesn’t let me. She’s got a tissue box out already.
Brown Eyes looks pitiful as he sprawls against the side of the building with the residue of vomit drying on the front of his shirt. He is someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend, someone’s lover, someone’s everything. And yet, at his saddest moment, Brown Eyes is alone and miserable.
“I’m going to turn you over on your side ok?” I grab his shoulders and move him to the side so I can reach into his pockets for his wallet. He doesn’t attempt to fight me. In fact, even in his drunken state, Brown Eyes is staring at me with an unreadable expression. God, he’s so beautiful . . . he’s like a tragic, beautiful soul. Joolie’s voice swims in my mind.
I break eye contact with him and try not to let my personal opinion influence what needs to be done. When I finally find Brown Eyes’ wallet, I open it eagerly and peer in. A flood of information, I am sure, is waiting for me in every single pocket.
I am sorely disappointed. There is nothing of record inside his leather wallet. No ID. No money. No credit card. But, there is a small picture of a smiling couple. It is too dark for me to make any sense of it. I place everything back into his pocket, and then ask Brown Eyes in clear syllables, “Do. You. Have. A. Cell phone?”
Brown Eyes doesn’t respond as he slips below consciousness.
“Hey, try to stay awake. Do you have a cell phone? Someone I can call to help you?” I ask him again.
When Brown Eyes doesn’t answer, I place a hand around his chin and lift his head up. I realize his temperature is abnormal. I press my right palm against his forehead and my left palm on my own forehead. His temperature must be a few points beyond the healthy ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. I drop both hands and grab his right wrist. With two right fingers, I press them against the vein on his right hand. Brown Eyes’ heart rate is rapid, indicating an irregular body rhythm due to alcohol or illness.
“What am I going to do with you?” I whisper to the darkness.
I let go of Brown Eyes’ hand and slump back against the side of the building with him. A million thoughts run through my mind. I can call the police to help, but they will probably cite Brown Eyes for violating public intoxication laws. He could end up in even more trouble than if he sleeps off the alcohol somewhere else. I can’t bring him back inside The Trax nor rent out a room in a motel for him. I don’t have that kind of money to spare.
He’s a gangster. Joolie’s voice reverberates in my mind as I think about the police again. Look at the necklace he has on his neck. It’s a diamond-encrusted Cross. He’s a Crist member. Son’s voice raids my mind next. He’s a gangster . . . they rob, cheat, steal, and kill.
Without thinking, I turn to Brown Eyes and look down
at his shirt. The diamond necklace is between the right flap of his white collar and his black blazer. Even under the poor night lighting, it is still clear that the diamonds are comprised of carats beyond my mathematical concepts. There is no mistaking the sign of the Cross. A chill wracks my body. Gangsters. What do I know about gangsters?
“Hold on a second.” An idea strikes my mind. I reach inside my tote bag for my cell phone.
On the home screen of my cell phone, I have missed two calls from my stepmother and a text message from Lina. Usually after work at The Trax, I check in with my mother and Lina to let them know I am off work.
I will text them back later. I exit the message screen and press down on the camera function until it turns on. Then, I angle the camera away from Brown Eyes’ face and press for the picture. The flash lights up and in less than a second, it is all done. He is committed to memory with the aid of a device.
Brown Eyes doesn’t even move an inch.
“Come on.” I reach for his left arm to wrap around my neck.
“Suni?” Brown Eyes opens his eyes half-heartedly. He repeats the endearing name again.
“Suni.” I nod my head. “We’re going to go find Suni for you.”
It is bad to lie and make promises to a drunken person, but I am willing to do whatever it takes to get Brown Eyes up. Slowly and carefully, I help him balance on my side. Brown Eyes must be extremely motivated to find this Suni of his because he musters up some gross motor control to walk. But Brown Eyes remains a challenge to hold up. Because he is taller than me, Brown Eyes’ chin continues to collide with my head. Ow. Ouch. Ow. I wince with every step we take.
Brown Eyes and I begin our walk down the street. The bright lights of the city fade into the background. Looming dark buildings, combined with ribbons and streaks of color, follow us all the way out to the main street. There is still a decent amount of traffic on the road. Cars hum and zoom by at a steady speed. The last bus has left for the night. My only resort now is a taxi.
April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions Page 4