Strange Tales for Cozy Nights 1
Page 5
***
More than once as I roar along North I-75, I’m tempted to swerve into an overpass abutment. I imagine the brief, violent event, then peaceful eternity.
Keep perspective! an inner voice cautions. It’s not the end of the world.
Only it feels like the end of the world. I’m 37 and starting over. My whole life has been a gigantic waste! Self pity is choking me.
At least my personal bogey man isn’t along for the trip. He’s been replaced by other phantoms arising from my memory like toxic vapors. Every bitter experience I’ve ever had is riding with me in the BMW, blown up to monster proportions. The humiliating episode of this morning keeps playing through my mind like a bad movie. Why wasn’t I more forceful? Why didn’t I slug one of those self-righteous jerks?
I get to the little town about 8:45. I haven’t phoned Jodie to say I’m coming, as I’m still not sure if I’m coming or not. Maybe I’ll turn around and head back home, or go someplace else. Or go die. Anxiety and longing struggle in my mind. On one hand, I desperately want comfort from my wife, on the other, I dread what her reaction might be.
A beer can help me decide, or at least help stall for time. I head to the Pine Knot bar and park amid the rows of battered pickup trucks. As I walk through the door, it occurs to me that I’m nursing a lot of pain these days with alcohol.
It’s a country type place with twangy music blaring through wall speakers. In the far corner is a band set up. I’m grateful that Rex isn’t here as it would be exhausting to meet him. Carla, who is working behind the bar, is the only person I recognize. I’m grateful to see a friendly face, and the belt of tension around my head lessens a tiny bit.
A few customers are drinking long-necked beers which she serves from a little refrigerator near the lottery game console. I take a stool at the empty end of the bar.
“What time does the band start?” I call over to her.
She looks up, and her face brightens. She starts walking toward me.
“Oh, hi ... ”
“Ben,” I say.
As she gets close, her smile fades. I know what she’s thinking but is too polite to state:
“Man, you look like crap!”
She quickly recovers, and the smile returns.
“Hi, Ben,” she says. “You’ve found me at my ‘second career.’”
I’m surprised to hear myself chuckle. I thought I’d forgotten how.
“Well, it pays to keep busy,” I say.
“The band starts at 9:30,” she says. “You going to stick around for it?”
I glance at my watch. “Oh ... probably not. I just came in for a quick one.”
“What’ll you have?” she asks.
“Beer.”
“We’ve got - ”
“Tell you what,” I say, “just put your hand into that fridge, and whatever you touch first, that’s what I’m drinking.”
Carla laughs. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
She saunters back toward the fridge. She is an eyeful, no question about that. The locals at the other end of the bar express their appreciation.
“Ain’t you a little young to be working here?” one asks.
“What time you get off, Beautiful?” another one says.
Carla handles the situation artfully; she’s had a lot of practice, no doubt. She comes back with my beer.
“I’m 24,” she says.
“Really?”
She nods toward the guys at the other end of the bar.
“Everybody says I look younger than that. Don’t I wish!”
“I thought you were fresh out of high school,” I say.
“No, I’ve been through it all,” Carla says. “Married, divorced ... working at the Pine Knot.”
“Kids?”
She shakes her head.
“Some day. I’m glad I didn’t have any with my ex, though.”
“Are you from around here?”
I feel better asking these mundane questions. It’s true that focusing on others can divert you from your own catastrophes.
“No,” Carla says. “My ex was a local, until he took off. Who knows where he is now?”
She glances around the Pine Knot; she seems to be suppressing a shudder.
“I got to keep the trailer, so here I am.”
She turns toward me and fixes her eyes directly into mine. I feel an almost physical contact.
“So, tell me about yourself, Ben,” she says.
I detect a lot behind this simple statement – curiosity, interest, concern for somebody who ‘looks like crap.’
“Well, I ... ”
But before I can pour out my tale of woe, customers at one of the tables require attention, and Carla has to go take care of them. I’m grateful for the interruption. Who knows what kind of bore I’d turn into if I started blabbing?
I take a swig from my beer. It’s ok, whatever brand it is. I’m beginning to feel more like a human being and less like a discarded automobile battery.
Carla is sending our her vibe again, and what male wouldn’t be pleased with that? But it’s a slippery slope; being human, one thing can easily lead to another. I decide to call it a night. I down the rest of the beer and leave some cash next to the empty bottle. Carla is still busy with the customers and doesn’t notice me leave.