Jersey Girl

by J A Heron

  With all her special ways, she still has a heart of gold and gets hurt easily, especially when she builds her hopes up and all that hope comes crashing down around her. All I can do is be her friend, her best friend, and provide my shoulder for her to cry on. She got excited, saying things like, ‘this could be it’, or ‘he could be the one’. But as an outsider looking in, I could see that it was going nowhere. I kept my lips sealed on both occasions, not wanting to be the one to cause her unnecessary upset. I wouldn’t have done myself any favours if I’d opened my big mouth, spouting my crappy opinion.

  Benny and I spend an obscene amount of time getting ready to hit Grumpy’s bar. Its nineties night and the DJ will be spinning all my favourite tracks from that era. I give my lashes another coat of mascara, fluff my long black hair with my fingers, and I’m almost ready to go. I’ve decided to wear black jeans with a white polo shirt under a purple jumper. The collar of my shirt is up, and although my fashion choices are a little dated, I feel comfortable and ready to party. I just can’t decide what to wear on my feet. I have my old, scruffy Converse, black knee-high boots with scuffed heels, or purple three-inch heels.

  “Stop staring at those shoes, trying to decide which ones to wear,” Benny shouts from the lounge. How did she know? “We both know you’ll end up wearing those bloody old chucks!” She’s right; I don’t know why I’m even bothering to contemplate the others. I tie up the laces then sit back on my bed and look out the window. The night is dark, cold, and gloomy, but it is young, and I’m keen to get out. I spot my jewellery box, and although I own very little jewellery, I know what it contains. Something extremely precious is held within that walnut box with ornate carved swirly patterns. It’s the only thing I have left, the thing that means the most to me, and I can’t help taking a peek before I leave for our night out.

  I lift the lid and the string of real pearls looks back at me. They still look brand new, but that’s because I can’t bring myself to wear them in case they get damaged in some way.

  A few hours later…

  “Jesus Christ! Who keeps moving the world?” I’m so drunk. I’m yelling at anyone who will listen, but all the people surrounding me just ignore me. The bar isn’t really that busy tonight, but the music is loud. The song is one of my favourites, which causes me to start singing at the top of my voice. I’m pretty sure that my drunken, out of tune melody falls on deaf ears. I’ve had one too many rum and Cokes and I’m feeling the effects of all the alcohol swimming through my veins; the warming sensation is just what I wanted. It’s familiar, like receiving a heartfelt hug from someone you love dearly. I miss those hugs. That memory is restored back to its resting place, before further memories crush me. I’m not prepared to have a breakdown in a public place. I save those for private time only.

  I shake it off, plaster a smile on my face, and feel the groove. The music is uplifting. I’m dead certain I look a hot mess, but at this moment in time, I think I look like a sexy goddess. Everyone thinks like that when they’re drunk, don’t they? I’m certain that, when I look in the mirror in the morning, I will be horrified by the sight before me. I can see my shiny black hair looking dull, and probably matted from all the drool that escaped due to my inebriated coma. I can also see my normally bright green eyes looking like sludge pools.

  I feel a tug on my arm. I’m pulled so hard I nearly end up on my arse.

  “Move your ass, Kat,” Benny shouts. I’m tugged in the direction of the dance floor, and with the genre of music that’s being played in here tonight; I don’t want to disappoint her. It’s time for a drunken strut on the dance floor. My inhibitions decided not to make an appearance tonight; I am extremely thankful for that fact. I shake my hips sexily, but I’m positive I look like I’m wrestling with a kangaroo.

  “You’re my bestie. I love you,” Benny slurs in my ear after throwing her arms around my neck. She’s just as drunk as I am. “I don’t care that you’re single, no hope of a decent job, and living hand to mouth every day.” The smell of alcohol on her breath has the potential to wipe out everyone in this bar. I blow into my palm then sniff, wondering if mine’s just as bad. Who cares?

  She has this uncanny knack, does my friend Benny. She has this ability to make you feel like shit, without even realising she’s doing it. Most people would slap her across the face, but me, I’m used to my friend with her foul and unforgiving mouth. She doesn’t mean the things she says, it just happens to be verbalised wrong.

  “Oh, shit! I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” she says with a sorrowful look. She knows her mouth is one day going to get her into some serious trouble; I’ve told her enough times. I nod. “I’m sorry, Kat. You know I don’t mean it. Not the way that stuff comes out of my mouth, anyway.” I nod again. Over the years, I’ve come to realise that my friend suffers from verbal diarrhoea - often.

  We dance for a couple more songs, and then decide it’s time for another drink. Mr Grumpy has other ideas. “You two, go home,” he says as we reach the bar. “I’m not serving any more booze to either of you. You’ve had enough.”

  Mr Grumpy is my boss. When I’m not working, I’m in here spending the money I’ve earned. It’s a catch twenty-two situation. I like working here, I like drinking in here, so this is the roundabout I find myself twirling on most days.

  “Okay, Mr Grumpy. Keep your hair on.” I scowl at him; he’s not my father, although he likes to act like it.

  Benny pulls out her phone. I make a feeble attempt at trying to grab it out of her hand. “What are you doing?”

  She manages to pull her arm away before I can make contact. “Shh,” she whispers, with her finger against her lips. I notice the sly look on her face. That look tells me she’s up to no good. “Watch,” she says, pointing discretely towards Mr Grumpy.

  He walks away towards the phone that hangs on the wall near the kitchen door. She hands me her phone, and when I look at the display, I notice she’s called the bar. “Take it, talk to him, but you have to be someone else. Distract him.”

  I do as she says and watch as she darts behind the bar. She pours two shots of tequila and runs back in my direction, totally un-noticed. She can be a sneaky minx. All the while, I’m putting on my best Irish accent, asking Mr Grumpy for directions to his bar. He can hear me, but not well enough over the music. He keeps asking me to repeat myself. I can’t help the little giggles that escape when he says ‘what?’ for the hundredth time.

  We throw back our shots and burst out laughing as we slam the glasses down on the bar.

  Mr Grumpy spins around. “You two will pay for those drinks. I mean it. No more!” he shouts, replacing the receiver.

  We watch as he starts to serve customers; those who are willing to pay for their approved drinks. He’s scowling in our direction. Boss man seems to be even grumpier now. Benny and I giggle once more, knowing we’ll be in even more trouble with him.

  “Wow. You two must be the ‘Booze Bandits’,” I hear a voice say. It’s a deep voice; masculine and sexy. I turn around so fast that my long black hair whips Benny across her face. That will serve her right for the comments she made earlier. I giggle at my own thoughts.

  I’m struck dumb by the sight before me. He’s tall, bald, has blue eyes, and tattoos cover his arms. There is a faint darkening of stubble lining his jaw line, making his face look sharp and defined. I wonder what that would feel like against my tongue, or other places. He looks like a cross between Bruce Willis and Vin Diesel, but younger. His voice is deep like Mr Diesel’s, but his accent is sharper. If melted chocolate could talk, that’s what it would sound like. I stare, open-mouthed, at all the ink on his arms; my eyes follow the path up to his neck. I’m pretty sure the ink goes further, but it’s covered up by his black cotton shirt. My eyes run down his arms again. For some reason, they need to feast on the sight of that artwork once more. His long shirt sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbow. Long, strong, rippling forearms greet me once more and I find myself staring at them again.

>   “Mind your own business, baldy,” Benny says. Her tone has an icy edge. I’m wrenched out of my trance-like state.

  “No need to be rude, shorty,” he says with a chuckle. He’s mocking her. It reminds me of the hell I suffered as a child. The constant teasing from Jack Howard. Benny is the same height as me.

  “Shorty! Humph, I’m five-five. Not short, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, I’m six three, so to me, you’re short.” He looks at me as he says this. I listen to the hot stranger and my BFF exchange good-natured banter. All the while, I’m still eyeing up the giant, tattooed guy in front of me. I venture a look at his face. He really is gorgeous. I want to engage in conversation, but I’m scared he’ll think I’m stupid. I’m bound to say something I’ll regret, so I keep quiet for now. I’m willing to bet he feels it too. He’s still bickering with my friend, yet he steals glances at me more than Benny. I can feel his eyes; they’re searching my face like he’s weighing me up, like he’s searching my soul. Nah. It’s that last shot that’s done it. It’s screwed with my head. I’m so wasted. I think it’s time to go home.

  Oh, hell. Who came in here in the middle of the night, hit me over the head with a sledgehammer, then left? My head feels like it’s going to explode.

  “Come on. Get up, sleepyhead!” Benny shouts from the kitchen. “I’ve made breakfast.”

  She always, always drinks the same amount as me, yet she’s the one who wakes up the morning after as fresh as a daisy. As if not one drop of alcohol passed her lips. I hate that.

  My hair is matted against my face, my mouth feels like I had a midnight feast of sandpaper, and my head is banging. I need to pull my shit together. I have work this afternoon.

  “Eat this. You’ll feel better. And then you’ll thank me for being the best friend a girl could ever have.” She giggles.

  She slides a cup of tea and two slices of toast with a perfectly cooked poached egg in my direction. I know she’s right, and I’ve never wanted to seem ungrateful, so I take a seat at the table and tuck in. The feeling of a mouthful of toast hitting my stomach, swirled with a swig of tea, causes my tummy to flip. I manage to keep it down, but only just.

  She takes a seat opposite me and starts to eat like she’s been starved for a hundred years. “What do you have planned for today?” I ask her.

  “I fancy some retail therapy,” she replies, like a small child. She always gets a little giddy when it comes to shopping. She treats shopping like it’s an Olympic event. She would be world champion if it was as sport. “I have my eye on something new. I just need to try them on.”

  “I dread to think what you’ll come home with.” I giggle, remembering some of her other fashion disasters. Her wardrobe is packed to bursting, mainly with the most exquisite clothes a girl could ask for, but a fair few items were purchased with the hope of starting a new trend. Benny has always had unique tastes, but some of her garish outfits never caught on, so they got flung to the back of her wardrobe with no hope of seeing the light of day ever again.

  “I’ll make sensible purchases,” she promises with a smile. “I plan on coming by Grumpy’s later. We’ll walk home together.” I’m working the afternoon shift today, and it’s better than the late shift because it means someone else will have to close up, which always takes the longest time.

  “Sounds great.”

  We finish off breakfast, and feeling a little better, I start to get ready for work, while Benny grabs her coat and goes on her adventure.

  “I want those glasses spotless,” Mr Grumpy shouts. “Polish those with the glass cloth to a high shine then put them on the shelves.” I’m already doing as he says. I think I know how to do my job by now. I’m pretty sure he has a touch of OCD as he insists on telling me this every shift I work, and if there is the slightest sign of a water mark, he gets even grumpier. He already explained to me what he expects of me the first day I started here. I’m not a goldfish; I’ve not forgotten how he likes things done. Albeit, some days I can hardly remember my own name after a session of heavy drinking, but nonetheless, I can remember how to do this mundane job. He didn’t get his nickname by chance; he earned it.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I whisper under my breath.

  “What was that?” He’s scowling at me over the top of his spectacles that are too big for his face. The fifty-something man has run this bar since dinosaurs roamed the earth. The stress of running his own business has caused premature balding and greying hair. As far as I can remember, his appearance hasn’t changed in all the time I’ve known him. He has a beer belly, and I’m sure that’s from his ‘tasting the beer to make sure it’s not off’ mentality.

  “Yeah, boss,” I say as enthusiastically as I can.

  Nothing exciting ever happens in here. During the week, I don’t see many customers, but at weekends, the place really livens up. Today is a week day, and it’s just as boring as any other. It’s cold outside; there was a frost this morning, and my badly-behaved neighbour was singing along to something tasteless in her car. I have no idea why she’s so happy first thing in a morning when it’s cold, dark, and miserable outside. The song and her singing made my ears bleed. I could’ve throat punched her. Anything to get her to shut up. The last thing I need, though, is time off work, or being sacked because of a night in the cells, charged with assault. A criminal conviction wouldn’t bode well for me, even if my hypothetical plans ever turn into something. Having a black mark against my name would certainly drive me into a never-ending pit of despair, with no hope of resurfacing.

  I really need to get a grip. There are people in this world who have absolutely nothing or no-one. I should count my blessings.

  “Another pint, Fred?” I ask the eighty-something pensioner who waddles up to the bar. He nods, and I begin to pour his ale. He’s in here most days, especially when it’s pension day. He sits nursing a pint for two hours, and then has four more. He sits in the corner sipping his beer, reading a newspaper, and occasionally flicks his eyes to the TV. He doesn’t speak to anyone, except the bar staff when ordering his beverage. I’ve never seen him smile either. The staff that work here have tried to start a conversation with him, but he just walks away, sits down at his usual table, and carries on reading the daily paper. We’ve just learned to accept him and let him do his thing until he leaves around ten p.m.

  BBC news is on the TV; the same news is repeated continuously throughout the day. Mr Grumpy likes to watch the news; he says that it’s important to keep abreast of current affairs. He’s got Sky, yet he watches terrestrial TV.

  “Please let me put MTV on.” I’m begging. It’s dead in here. Fred is the only customer. I just served him a pint, so I have another two hours to wait until he needs a refill – I’m bored rigid.

  “I’m watching the news,” Grumpy says sternly. He points at the screen for good measure. Knowing him, he’s just perving over the sexy blonde woman reading the stories from around the world on a continuous fifteen-minute loop.

  I’m losing my mind.

  There’s only so much cleaning you can do. I start to polish all the bottles of spirits – again. Anything to alleviate the boredom. Plus, it means I will earn extra brownie points with the Grumpster. The bottles are gleaming. In fact, this whole bar is cleaner than my apartment.

  “Bottle of water, please,” I hear a deep, velvety voice say.

  That’s funny; I didn’t hear anyone else come in. In a fraction of a second, the hairs on my neck stand up, my body is covered in goose bumps, and my mind conjures up the visions of Mr Vin Willis. I giggle to myself. I turn around, and there he is. I stare at him – still smiling – as he removes his jacket, scarf, and gloves. The tattoos are as vivid as ever. I can see a few more today because he’s wearing a grey marl T-shirt. The lights over the bar are reflecting the shine on his bald head, and his blue eyes look darker as he stands under the artificial bulbs of light. I walk to the back of the horseshoe shaped bar and pull out a bottle of water from the fridge, then pull down a small highba
ll glass.

  “Ice?” I ask him with a sweet tone.

  “Just the bottle. No glass, thanks,” he says politely. His manners are impeccable; a key sign he’s had a good upbringing. Most of the customers that come in here forget that we live in a civilised society. It’s just good conduct to remember your manners - it makes me mad when customers are rude.

  As I stand in front of him with just the thick mahogany separating us, I place the bottle on the bar and my eyes gravitate towards his once more. He’s just as handsome as I remember from last night, even though I was drunk. His eyes stare at mine, and there’s a small hint of a grin. His lips curl up somewhat, flashing me with a little glimpse of his teeth - they’re white and straight. He hands me the money then turns to walk away. I put the money in the till and turn back around. It’s like my alter ego wants to feast her eyes on him some more; I don’t have a choice. I’m shocked when he takes a seat next to Fred. Fred actually smiles; they both do.

  I discretely watch as they interact with each other. The mystery guy’s body language is open. He’s sitting in a welcoming position and I realise he’s probably related to Fred - nephew or grandson, perhaps. I’ve never seen him around here before. I’d certainly recognise him.

  Fred and the mystery hottie are in deep conversation; it looks intense. I keep staring at him, unable to stop myself from drinking him in. He has this conscious ability to summon my eyes towards him, to devour him. It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt any of these emotions. They’re hard to ignore, and they’re even harder to eradicate.

  They both stand up and embrace lovingly. Fred returns to his seat and his beer, but the tatted piece of hotness walks towards me. I can see him in my peripheral vision, walking in my direction; he even walks sexily. I don’t want him to know I’ve been lusting after him for the last half an hour, so I keep my eyes on the glass that I’m cleaning to a high standard. It’s already spotless, enough so that it would pass any cleanliness test, but still, I twist the cloth in my hands, keeping my eyes focused on the inanimate object.