Three-Fifths

by John Vercher

  “What? How?”

  “I had to pee. I came right back. You didn’t see them leave?”

  “Jesus, Izzy. That’s an eighty-dollar check.”

  “I know, I know. Can’t you just write it off or something?”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “It’s over half my tips, Pockets.”

  “I hear you, Izzy. But your station is your responsibility, and if I let you slide…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you have to do it for everyone. I’m not a fucking child, Pockets. Don’t lecture me like one.” Easing up on drinking made her more emotional, not less, the headaches more frequent and persistent. She knew Pockets had to answer to the owners, had his own job to worry about. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s fine. Whatever.” She counted out the amount in fives and ones and laughed at the pathetic amount in her hand, just a little more than the bank she’d brought to make change for the night.

  Pockets recounted, facing the bills all in the same direction. “I could probably give you a double tomorrow, if the snow doesn’t shut us down. Interested?”

  Isabel nodded yes, but to what, she didn’t know. She wasn’t listening. She remembered which nights Nico was on the bar at Lou’s.

  Her face numb from the chill outside, the familiar humid air smelled of beer and old fryer grease and warmed her cheeks when she opened the door. She winked at him and he returned the gesture.

  Thank God, he seemed to be in a good mood.

  The bar was mostly empty. All but the regulars had cleared out. Even on a weeknight, Lou’s had a decent crowd. It was just enough of a dive to be cool for the college kids, but tonight, the electronic dartboard was quiet. No pool balls clacked, no frat boys hovered around the MegaTouch to play the match game with the soft-core porno pictures. Just the few sad sacks who’d been there since the place opened, hunched over their beers in the unsteady glow of the television above the bar. Nico went on about something, pointing at the screen showing highlights of the O.J. trial on Sports Center. Isabel pulled up a stool to join her people and they gave her a head nod and a friendly grumble.

  “Its bullshit is all I’m saying,” Nico said. “That cop’s a witness, he ain’t on trial.”

  “That’s right,” said an old-timer with a loose neck. “On the force twenty-five years, didn’t none of these jag-off lawyers ever question me like they’re doing this Fuhrman fella.” More grumbles of support from the other regulars. Their heads bobbed like pigeons in agreement.

  “Damn straight,” Nico said. “Who gives a shit if he said nigger or not?”

  “Easy, Nico,” Isabel said. “Simmer.”

  “Hey, I’m saying it’s a bad look, making the cop seem like the bad guy. They got it rough enough after that Rodney King nonsense. Suddenly all police are boogeymen because they beat down a junkie? Come off it.”

  “Exactly,” the old-timer said. “My boy is on the force now, and he’s wearing a vest on his beat. These gang punks are shooting at cops.”

  “It’s shameful,” Nico said. “The only reason they can even get away with it is because O.J.’s got enough dough for his Super Jew lawyer. Everyone knows he fucking did it.”

  “You know, fellas,” Isabel said, “the only way Nico can see over that bar is when he’s standing on his soapbox like that.” The barflies chuckled and Nico mugged at her.

  “See, boys,” he said. “This type of common sense discussion is lost on Miss ACLU here.” Isabel smirked and gave him the finger. “How’d you make out tonight, beautiful?” he asked, laughing.

  Isabel’s smiled faded. Her eyes stung and her cheeks went hot as she shook her head. Nico’s shoulders dropped.

  “What happened?”

  “Buy a girl a drink?”

  “My soapbox isn’t tall enough to reach the vodka. Besides, ain’t you supposed to be on the wagon? What’s it been? A day?”

  Isabel knew he was only trying to make her laugh, but her head throbbed, worse than before. She shouldn’t be here. She’d promised Bobby. I can do anything for a month, she’d said. Yet here she was. Just one, she thought. She knew that one drink would lead to another, that she’d spend money they didn’t have, and where would that get her? Get them? Yes, she could pick up more shifts, and so could Bobby. They’d come close to missing rent before and they’d always made it, though more often than not, Bobby did the heavy lifting. Good looking kid, better restaurant, better tips. But each time he picked up another shift, each time he gave up a precious day off, he got that look. That well-rehearsed, resigned disappointment that broke Isabel’s heart more and more each time, that made her make the same empty promises to herself that this was the last time she’d ask him to do that. The idea of seeing that look again tonight made her anxious. Being anxious made her want to drink again, and wanting to drink again made her angry. She pushed away from the bar and stood to leave.

  “Hey, where you going?” Nico asked. “Come on, I’m messing. Sit down.”

  She paused.

  Just one.

  She sat.

  “It wasn’t even my fault this time, Nico. I swear.”

  “Fucking Pockets,” he said. “Probably would have let you off the hook if you’d a thrown him a mercy bang.”

  “Don’t be gross.” Nico reached to the shelf behind him and grabbed a bottle of Absolut. “You know I can’t afford that,” Isabel said. “Especially not now.”

  “Shut up.” He smiled and topped the filled Collin’s glass with a splash of tonic. She took a long sip from the straw and felt the panic fade. How she missed that taste, the effervescence of the carbonation on her tongue, the tingle on the inside of her cheeks. No kerosene in this glass, not like the cheap shit that used to sit in a plastic bottle in the freezer at home. A nice, smooth burn with just enough sweet from the tonic. “So what, he suspended you again?”

  She closed her eyes and took another long pull on the straw and emptied the glass. The stuttered sucking sound surprised her and she opened her eyes to see Nico, his arms folded and smirking.

  “Jesus, you got canned?”

  HER FACE WENT flush again. She hadn’t eaten much and the vodka settled home quickly. “No,” she said, pouty. “But I might as well have. Got dine and dashed.”

  “Ah, shit,” he said. “And you had to eat it?”

  She nodded. “He did offer me a split shift tomorrow, so I might make some of it back.

  Except for this freaking snow.”

  Nico refilled her drink but she waved her hands in protest. “Stop,” he said. “On the house tonight.”

  Isabel raised her glass to him and took a smaller sip.

  Finish this one slow and go home. Back on the wagon tomorrow.

  It was difficult, though, slowing down. Nico made a damn fine drink and it took all she had not to suck this one down, too.

  “Nursing it, huh?” he asked.

  “I don’t and you’ll need to drive me home.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  Nico was cute in his way, a bit of a mook, but a good Sicilian boy. He was definitely too short and kind of doughy around the middle. He wore his shirts too tight, but he had nice arms. His jokes were corny, and the cologne was always a bit much, but he had a swagger that Isabel found adorable and he made her laugh. But he liked her too much. She wanted to keep it casual, and he’d said the “m” word more than once in the sweaty warmth of a post-romp glow. Not to mention he wasn’t very good about keeping her from her predilections. Bobby knew it, too, and didn’t like her spending time with Nico, so the nights he convinced her to spend with him were almost always at his place. She knew all the reasons Nico was wrong for her, but he was comfortable. Safe, though not really. She needed to finish her drink and go.

  Isabel took short sips and let the ice water down her drink while Nico and his cronies went on about the trial, how all the politically correct bullshit after the L.A. riots made it so he was going to get away with it all, and how “Slick Willy” Clinton was going to put every one o
f them in the poor house. Isabel rolled her eyes. Had she missed how full of shit they all were because she had been too drunk to notice? She took her last diluted sip and pushed the glass away. Nico went to refill it and she placed a cocktail napkin on top.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  “Come on. I’m going to give last call soon on account of this snow. One more and walk out with me.”

  Isabel knew that look. It had been a while and considering the night she had, Nico lying next to her didn’t sound so bad. She dreaded the thought of another conversation about why she didn’t want to settle down, but she didn’t want to go home and face Bobby’s disappointment. She’d stay the night with Nico and get that double to make up for the lost cash. She smiled at him but kept her hand over the glass.

  “Hurry up,” she said.

  Nico cleaned his draft glasses with renewed vigor when the front door opened and sucked in cold air. A tall black man brushed snow from his shoulders and sat a few stools down from Isabel. The regulars stopped their conversations short and stared into their beers.

  “Already gave last call, bro,” Nico said.

  Isabel hated when Nico did that; the condescending pseudo-street talk anytime a black man came into the bar. She shot him a hard look. Nico scrunched up his mouth at her, then held up his index finger to the man to indicate he’d allow for one drink. The man caught the gesture from Isabel and lifted his chin towards her.

  “Thanks for that,” he said.

  Isabel jerked her chin back at him.

  That voice. How did she know that voice?

  Nico poured his drink and Isabel stared and tried not to look like she was staring. He gave her a second, then a third glance, with a look like he knew he knew her, but he couldn’t figure out how. Embarrassed to be caught watching, Isabel tipped back her nearly empty glass. The ice that stuck to the bottom smacked off her teeth and water ran down her chin. Nico offered her a cocktail napkin and she snatched it. She did her best to wipe her face, tried not to look like another sloppy drunk, and wondered why she all of a sudden gave a damn what this guy thought.

  “Buy you one more for last call?” the man asked. “Since you got him to give me one.”

  The voice registered this time, and adrenaline dumped into Isabel’s bloodstream. The smells of fried bar food suddenly overpowering and repugnant. The ice cubes in her glass split as they melted, like the crack before an avalanche. She turned the glass in circles in the pool of water at the bottom of it and ran her thumbs up and down the sweating edges. The man watched her. Nico watched her. Everyone goddamn watched her. Her throat felt swollen and incapable of speech. She nodded at the man with a tight smile. The man cocked his head at her non-answer and Nico intervened.

  “She’s good,” Nico said. “Fifteen minutes and we’re closing up.”

  The man sipped his scotch, bared his teeth and let out a hiss. God, it was him. Old habits died hard. Anger built. This was her bar. Her spot. What was he doing here? She wanted to hate him just because she remembered the way he always did that when he drank scotch. To hate him for the fact that it was still endearing, because who drank scotch as a college student? She wanted to hate him for still being so goddamn handsome, for the fact that more than two decades had done little to age him.

  A little softer around the jaw, maybe, the hairline back a little further. Still a stunner. Yet for all that hate she tried to drum up, she felt something else. Something other than anger that she didn’t still know existed for him, something she told herself she’d never feel for him again. Yet here he was and she realized that all those self-reassurances had been bullshit.

  Then she laughed. Just a little bark to herself. No time for dinner coupled with Nico’s heavy pours left her a little buzzed.

  No way it’s him.

  “Something funny?” he asked.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “I thought you laughed?”

  She shook her head, tight lipped. If it wasn’t him, why couldn’t she talk? Why could she barely look at him? Nico hovered between two of them, incessantly polishing the same draft glass. His eyes ricocheted back and forth between the two of them.

  “Well, anyway, thanks again,” he said to Isabel. “I needed that.” He reached into his back pocket and pointing at her empty glass. “That one’s on me.”

  He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath as his hand came back from his pocket empty.

  “Come on, Bro,” Nico said.

  “I swear to God,” he said, “it’s back in my locker at the hospital. I’m a doctor. I’ve got cash and credit. It’ll take me ten minutes to walk over and get it, tops.”

  “And ten to walk back,” Nico said. He gestured towards Isabel. “We’re trying to get out of here before this storm gets out of hand.” Isabel gave Nico another dirty look. He returned a confused one.

  The man searched the counter and then pulled a matchbook from a draft glass full of them on the bar. He scrawled something on it and handed it to Nico.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow night with double what I owe,” the man said. “Call me at this number if I’m not. I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’ll hold my breath,” Nico said.

  The man apologized to them both again and walked out the door. When he was gone, Nico looked down at the matchbook and laughed.

  “Doctor, my ass,” he said. “Probably some fucking orderly. And what’s with you, anyway? You know him or something? You looked like you were going to puke.”

  Isabel’s throat unclenched. “I saw a ghost.”

  “You mean a spook,” Nico said. The barflies laughed. Nico slung his dishrag over his shoulder and affectionately berated them to go home. He tossed the matchbook on the bar. Isabel stood and slunk her way down the bar to read it. Nico’s wet fingers streaked the ink, but the name was clear.

  Robert Winston.

  Bobby’s father.

  Isabel braced herself on the bar. Her pulse thrummed in her ears and her skin felt pinpricked. She bolted for the door. Outside, she looked up and down the street, looking for the phantom memory of a man who’d come and gone like he’d done so well in the past. She saw a silhouette of a figure through a curtain of snowflakes, then take the corner and disappear. She put her hands on her knees and dry-heaved. Nico ran up behind her and grasped her shoulders.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. She forced a smile. “Guess I turned into a lightweight.” Nico guided her back to the door but she pulled away and patted his cheek. “I’m going to call it a night, okay? I’ll call you?”

  “What? You sure?”

  “I’m good, Hon.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Nico said. He put his hands in his pockets and went back inside.

  ISABEL PULLED INTO a space in front of the apartment. The bare tires slid in the snow and the right front one went up on the curb. She opened her door, then stopped, pulling it shut again. The snow fell heavier, her windshield a television gone off the air until morning. She chewed at the inside of her cheek. No way to explain this to Bobby to make him understand.

  The lost money, the vodka on her breath. His father, supposed to be dead all these years, at a bar she said she’d stay away from. Her hands gripped the steering wheel. She tasted blood from the ruined skin in her cheek and tongued the wound.

  No light through the window of their basement apartment. Still at work or asleep. Either way, a temporary reprieve.

  The hallway held no more warmth than outside. Isabel stomped snow out of her waffle-soled shoes and water soaked into the filthy carpeting. A Columbo rerun blasted at full volume from the next apartment. As she unlocked the door, her keys jangled from the collection of novelty key chains with her name on them. Cartoon characters whose decorative paint had worn away. Childhood gifts from Bobby. Though they bulged in her pocket, she had never once thought of throwing them away.

  Isabel gently shouldered the door open, taking care not to let it catch on the shag carpeting. She whispered
for Bobby while her eyes adjusted to the dark.

  Silence. No breathing, no snoring.

  A car’s headlights swept through the window. Bobby’s sheet and blanket sat folded in a perfect square atop his pillow on the couch. She breathed out and walked her hands along the wall through the dark hallway to her bedroom. She turned on the light, tossed her keys on the dresser with a clunk and fell backwards onto her mattress. The bare light bulb faintly buzzed. She stared at the water stains on the ceiling. Nights Bobby couldn’t sleep they’d lay together and pretend they were on different continents, fantasy lands from his books, except there they’d rule as queen and prince, kind but not to be trifled with. She’d ask him to list the names of his dragons and all the warriors in their armies until he’d drift back to sleep.

  She repeated the names she remembered to herself and her eyelids weighed heavy, exhausted by the emotion of the last few hours. She blinked them open and sat up. She’d rushed home not just to beat Bobby there, but because of something she wanted to see in secret.

  Over in the closet, she retrieved a box of photos from the back shelf. She rifled through Polaroids and photo booth strips, senior portraits, baby pictures and family shots.

  Where was it? Had she gotten rid of it?

  She tossed them all to the side, then stopped. She found one she wasn’t looking for but couldn’t help but look at again.

  Bobby’s kindergarten graduation. He was so handsome. They had these adorable caps and gowns. Little men and women with fingers up their noses dancing like they had to pee. Not Bobby. His beautiful black hair stuck out from the sides of his cap like wings. Isabel told him once that she couldn’t let him outside in the wind or he would take off and fly away and leave her all alone. Then she whooshed him up into the air and he giggled that little laugh and stuck out his arms like a plane. He had the tiniest little gaps between his Chiclet-sized teeth, almost too big for his mouth, his smile so perfect in its imperfection. Things were much simpler then, if only for a time. He had smiled so much more. They both did. She set that photo aside and kept looking. Then she found it at the bottom of the pile.