Endurance

by Amy Daws

  “I do. I’ve been here before. I also know this isn’t a gay bar.” I rattle out the information I found online after deeply researching the establishment’s history. This club has mistakenly been labeled a gay bar all over London for years.

  His expression morphs from angry to impressed. “Oxford! You’ve put that education to good use, haven’t you? I feel like I’m supposed to hate you. But, when you say accurate, lovely things like that, you make it bloody hard!”

  I chuckle at the idea that such a simple research act could make this man’s opinion of me change so abruptly. “Want me to insult your clothes so you can go back to hating me?” I ask as my eyes trail down his red lumberjack plaid shirt and land on his canary yellow skinny jeans. His clothing isn’t a dead giveaway that he’s gay, but it certainly doesn’t help.

  His face falls. “What is it with you Americans?” he shouts. “I suppose your all-black grunge look is supposed to be chic?”

  I glance down at my choice of clothing for this interview. I dressed for the job I’m applying for. It is typical bartender attire—a black racerback tank, black skinny jeans, and black ankle boots. I slapped on a leather wrist cuff and bronze necklace, but other than that I wouldn’t call it “grunge.” When I washed my hair, I even curled my nearly black locks and left them loose and flowing down my back. It’s far better than the messy way I typically wear it.

  “Americans have absolutely no sense of style. Why the bloody hell do I always find…” He’s mumbling to himself as he moves down the bar and lifts the partition up to walk over to me. “I think I’m back to hating you already. Let’s get on with this shall we?”

  He extends his hand in a motion for me to walk out onto the wide-open dance floor. The dreary London daylight is pouring in through the industrial skylights. There are several white techy-looking dance pedestals stationed throughout. I’ve seen go-go dancers and drag queens perform on them the few times I’ve been here so I know they illuminate several different colors when they are turned on.

  “Since you’ve already got the job, I shall introduce myself,” he sighs heavily. “I am Frank McElroy. My mate Larry Liza Minnelli, or Lariza, as I often call him, is the owner of this fine establishment. I am currently managing it for him while he’s away on medical sabbatical.” He cups his hand and stage whispers, “Lipo!”

  I conceal a giggle as he continues. “As you already know, Club Taint is not the gay bar most stuck up west Londoners would like to believe it to be. It’s what we refer to as a Welcome Bar. We welcome all people and we do not tolerate any type of discrimination. We are diverse, and we appreciate and celebrate snarkiness, sarcasm, and bantering. Think you can handle that?” He winks at me playfully. “Also, we are not a fan of the word bullying. It’s turned into an overused, over-rated, sensitive-sally sensation of a word that exhausts the fuck out of me. We’re adults for Christ’s sake.”

  “Duly noted,” I reply, taking in his exasperated tone. “I’m a straight shooter and bluntly honest, so I think I should fit right in.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Oxford. Why don’t you tell me first what happens the other twenty-three hours of the day?” He gestures down to the pocket watch tattoo I have on the inside of my wrist.

  My hand instantly covers the offending design that’s connected to an entire sleeve of ink, which snakes up to my shoulder on my left arm. I’ve had this collage for two years now and it still doesn’t get any easier when people ask about the meaning behind everything. The truth is, the design came to me in a dream, so that’s weird, in and of itself. I clear my throat and reply with the canned generic answer that I give everyone.

  “Life,” I smile politely. It’s the only answer that isn’t a lie but doesn’t force me to dive into the truth.

  He nods and his eyes drift up the rest of my sleeve. “Yes, 4:03 does seem like a good time to rest on. Shall we continue?”

  We move through the club and into a long hallway on the far side with several red doors. Frank explains that Club Taint is a nightclub that has different hired acts perform on the pedestals each night. The performers vary from professional modern dancers, to street dancers, to drag queens. They even have one night a week for amateurs to perform. He’s extremely insistent on the fact that no one ever strips. I honestly wouldn’t have cared if they did.

  He shows me the hair and makeup rooms, the master control room for sound and lights, and Lariza’s office. At the end of the hall, he pushes through large metal double doors into a back alley.

  “This is where you will take your breaks, smoke, whine about your drama, maybe finish designing your other sleeve.”

  “Um, no actually. This side is done.” I touch my collarbone on my right side where I have only three black roses and cursive text that says “We All Die Young” woven intricately inside.

  He nods his head approvingly. “It’s stunning.”

  “Are you being nice to me, Frank?”

  “Christ no! I’m just still smarting about that lawsuit drivel.”

  I laugh and we head back inside to Lariza’s office. He sits me behind the desk and dumps a bunch of paperwork on my lap. “I’ll be at the bar. Come out when you’ve finished.”

  When the door closes behind him, I bite my lip to restrain the triumphant scream I want to shout. Damn, I need this job. I can’t keep sponging off of my mother, even though I know she’d give me money no matter what. This job is hopefully a means to an escape for me, a way for me to gain a little financial independence and try to forget about how crazy my life has become.

  Just as quickly as the excitement comes, a pang of disappointment slides in its place, snuffing out my moment of celebration. I’m twenty-eight-years-old and cheering over a bartending job at a place named after a piece of skin within human anatomy. In fact, the name of the place is rather fitting considering I taint nearly everything I touch. How the hell did I let my life take such a dismal turn?

  “Guys, guys, guys! Our second semester schedules are posted! Our schedules are posted! Gosh, let’s hope we got our independent study request approved!” Marisa squeals as she launches herself up from the futon, clutching her cell phone excitedly. She yanks my Macbook out of my hands and drops to the floor to begin frantically checking the Oxford email system. “It’s our last semester here. Our whole future depends on this.”

  I’m draped lazily on my twin student-housing dorm bed and Marisa’s boyfriend, Liam, is left stranded on the futon by himself. It’s our final year for our masters program at Oxford and we requested an independent study to help us complete our bridal industry thesis. We have hopes of opening our own high-end bridal boutique in London when we graduate. Liam somehow got sucked into our business plan vortex.

  I glance to Liam and he presses his full lips together to conceal his smirk as Marisa screams at the computer for being slow. His honey brown gaze drifts from her to me and we lock eyes knowingly, both wanting to burst out laughing at the tantrum Marisa is throwing.

  Liam and Marisa started dating a few months ago. They met randomly at a Subway. Apparently, they were both standing in line and the sandwich-maker thought they were a couple. A few awkward shakes of the head and nervous giggles later, the two were splitting a twelve-inch and basking in each other’s beauty.

  And damn if they aren’t beautiful.

  Liam’s tall and God-like in stature. Lean, roped muscles and an incredibly sexy, yet graceful swagger to his walk. His slicked over golden blond hair is handsome in that boarding school boy type of way.

  Then you have stunning blonde and perfect Marisa. We looked like a pitbull and a poodle next to each other. But somehow our friendship worked.

  “I can’t bloody believe it. It didn’t go through! This has to be a mistake. This can’t be right!” She stands up and rakes her hands through her long, straight hair.

  “Don’t worry about it, Marisa. This is grad school. We’re grownups, we’ll be fine.”

  “No, Rey. No!” She jumps onto my bed and grabs my cheeks
, squeezing them together until my lips form an elongated O. Her brown eyes pierce stormily into my gray. “Do not settle for the system. You are ma lady, you must know this! The system does not rule us. We are not bound by society’s standards of acceptance. Who are they to tell us how to live our life? Who are they to tell us what is right and just? Normalcy is complacency. And I refuse to be normal or complacent. I want to shine for what we believe! I refuse to sit back and allow life to happen around us. I will go to the chancellor’s office, grab him by his willy and we will have victory! And you will love it. You mark my words. I will make this right.” In one bounding blonde flash, she darts out our door. Liam and I both look at each other and burst into belly-aching laughs.

  “Her exuberance is astounding. How can you not love her?” I say, wiping tears from my eyes.

  “I have no idea,” Liam replies looking at me seriously for a moment. His intense expression causes the laughter to die on my lips. His mouth is pursed in a way that ignites something deep inside me. “Why don’t I ever see a man in your life, Rey?” His eyes turn grave and pensive and they kill off the last few remaining giggles in my throat.

  I roll onto my belly and tuck my hands under my pillow, looking at him cautiously. I hate when he looks at me like that. Like he can see right through me. Attempting to deflect with sarcasm, I reply, “I’m not made for loving, Liam. I’m made for being a loner.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” He lays down on the futon, mirroring my relaxed position, but never takes his eyes off of mine. “Tell me about your parents. What do they say about your loner tendencies?”

  I sigh heavily. Something about Liam always makes me feel open. Vulnerable. And what’s worse…I like it. I’m a painfully honest person about everyday things, but I keep the feelings I have about myself quiet. I’ve opened up to Marisa about some things, but Liam seems to reach me at a different place. And it scares me.

  “Well, my dad croaked when I was five, so I don’t really remember much. He dropped dead in the shower in our bathroom back in Indiana.” I pause and release a shaky breath, avoiding Liam’s severe expression. This is what I do when people push me; I get real to make them uncomfortable, hoping they’ll stop.

  “Fuck, Rey. What happened?” Liam asks, his voice deep and wary.

  Liam never stops.

  Rolling my eyes, I reply, “My mom found him unresponsive in the shower. She screamed at me to dial 911, but I was only five. I couldn’t get past the fact that I was staring at my father, naked on the floor. She was draped over his body administering CPR and I just stood there, watching. I can’t imagine dying that way. So exposed.” Tears slip down the side of my face and I tuck my cheek against the pillow to hide them.

  “Christ, you were just a child,” he says, shaking his head.

  I silently push away his sympathy. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. That day and that scene are mine and mine alone. “Anyway, it turned out to be heart failure. My mom was hysterical. It’s the only time in my life I can remember her showing any kind of emotion like that. Like, real love. Seeing that kind of heartbreak sure messes with your urge to ever want to find love.”

  “It’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes,” Liam says, cutting into my horrifyingly painful memory. I look over and he stares back at me with an intensity that winds me. He purses his lips like he wants to say so much more but is holding back. “It’s okay to let people in. Let them care about you.”

  “I have trouble letting people see me,” I whisper.

  He nods knowingly. “I see you.”

  Three years ago, I was preparing to graduate with my masters from Oxford in business management alongside my best friend, Marisa, and her boyfriend, Liam. The three of us had big plans to open our own one-stop bridal boutique in London. Marisa was going to do sales. I was going to do marketing and promotions, and Liam was going to do accounting. We had a business plan, financial backing, everything lined up and ready to go. The final thing we needed to organize was a commercial property.

  Now I’m sitting at a nightclub and writing down bank account info for my paycheck deposits from a bartending gig. Memories start to creep unwelcome into my mind’s eye. If I could take back one day, where would I be sitting now instead?

  I shake off my walk down nightmare lane and finish up all the paperwork, shuffling it neatly back together. Heading down the long hallway and back toward the bar, I hear voices drifting through the empty club. As I round the corner, I see Frank standing behind the bar, talking quietly to a guy across from him. My eyes swerve to the guest and drink in his notable backside. Broad, chiseled shoulders are on display in a black, long sleeve shirt. The snug fit is showcasing his impressive triceps nicely. I continue my decent down to the sexiest pair of men’s jeans that I have ever seen. They’re a dark wash and they curve up against his sculpted behind in a way that makes you know he’s packing more than just a hot ass.

  Frank clears his throat loudly and my gaze shoots up to see him staring at me while I ogle this stranger’s ass. My face flames and I smile sheepishly until I lock eyes with…

  “Oxford, this is—”

  “Liam,” I finish, interrupting Frank. My face has to be the picture of disbelief right now.

  “Reyna? What are you doing here?” The choked tone of Liam’s voice matches my insides perfectly. His face reads like he thinks I’m here for him. My face reads like I’m going to be sick.

  “I just gave Reyna a bartending job. How do you two know each other?” Frank asks as the tension grows uncomfortable.

  Liam starts, “Reyna and I went—”

  “We have mutual friends,” I finish quickly, trying like hell to hide the insane emotional turmoil boiling over inside of me. I have no interest in reliving our time together at Oxford. My protective barrier is nowhere to be found. I need to get out of here before shit hits the fan.

  Liam’s shocked expression over seeing me again after so long now morphs into indignation as I minimize our previous connection. He huffs loudly and I find I have to turn away from his hurt expression. I can’t let it affect me. I do not want to go there. Simply the sight of his golden, messily swept over hair and wide, worrying eyes causes a flash of a most unwelcome memory.

  Avoiding his penetrating eyes, I begin to feel his gaze drift slowly down my body…like he’s got to see every part of me to refresh his memory bank. I’m sure I look a great deal different than the last time he saw me. At the very least, I have a hell of a lot more ink now. Despite myself, I want to know how he’s reacting. I glance back over to him as he finishes his perusal. His eyes shift nervously between my eyes and my mouth. The look on his face is so familiar I could cry.

  I bite the insides of my cheeks, feeling this strange push-pull motion warring inside of me. It’s been three years since I last saw Liam. Now here he is, standing before me as if no time has passed, reminding me of a day in my life that I was trying desperately to forget. A familiar squeezing ache spreads painfully over my chest

  “Do you need anything else, Frank?” I ask. My mouth feels like cotton and it is doing nothing to conceal my emotional state. I’m desperate to leave. My heart feels like it’s about to rip out of the top of my shoulders and I can feel Liam’s eyes boring into me.

  “We didn’t discuss when you can start,” Frank says, the mirror S’s returning to the center of his red eyebrows as he stares at me in confusion.

  On shaky legs I lay my paperwork down on the bar, hastily trying to hide the tremble in my hands. “Yesterday. I can start yesterday.”

  “Brilliant. Be here tomorrow night at seven. We’ll show you the ropes before we open at nine.”

  “Cheers.” Offering a weak smile to Frank, I turn on my heel to leave. Blasting straight past Liam, I catch a whiff of his agonizingly familiar scent of cinnamon gum. It’s almost more than I can take.

  “Rey,” he utters softly as if he has a direct line to my thoughts.

  As I reach the door, I make the horrible, awful, stupid mistake of glancing
back. The expression in Liam’s eyes turns my burning ducts to actual tears. The painful remorse in his gaze slices through my heart. It’s a look that I always seem to be on the damn receiving end of.

  It’s the look you get when you’re completely shrouded in loss.

  I walk up the ramp out of the Pimlico Tube stop dabbing at the skin beneath my eyes. Luckily the Underground in late spring feels like a moist hot box, so my tears blend with the light sheen of sweat the other patrons are all rocking.

  Running into Liam and having memories that I’ve locked up tight only to be released to the forefront took me by complete surprise. It immediately catapulted me back to the most miserable time of my life. I wonder how he knows Frank? I wonder what his involvement is at Club Taint? What if he works there? Could I handle that?

  After crossing the street, I growl at myself for running off like a weak fool. If I would have stuck around I could have gotten answers and would know if this was a job I can keep or not. Working with Liam is not a possibility I will ever entertain.

  Glancing through the lattice windows of the White Swan Pub, I throw a quick wave to Alistair. He holds up a finger for me to wait so I begrudgingly stop, but all I want is a drink and my bed. Who cares if it’s only three o’ clock in the afternoon.

  But I’ll wait. Alistair is in his mid fifties and the owner of the pub located a stone’s throw from my flat. I met him when I first moved to this part of London three years ago. I ended up drinking so heavily the first night here that I passed out in a booth. He covered me with my coat and stayed at the pub all night until I woke up. He fixed me a full English breakfast and we talked for hours over tea about the difference between Americans and Brits. I’m pretty sure I was still drunk but I remember every ridiculous word of our conversation.

  Ever since then, Al has been a staple in my life. I see him regularly and his presence is a comfort. His bald head gleams beneath the hanging lantern above the canopy entrance as he comes to stand eye to eye with me. At 5’ 5” he’s only an inch taller than me when I’m in flats.