Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  Jackson sees us park it at a table up front. My raising two fingers and him shooting me a nod tells that soon Sable will arrive with two Cuba Libres. Thank God for bartenders like him. Often, when Kyle is pre-occupied by trying to figure out if Mercedes is one of those girls who will let him give her money for something other than a lap dance, Jackson makes me feel less like a bored freak by shooting bull with me.

  He also made it abundantly clear that Mercedes being one of those girls is against company policy. However, her “twin” sister, Lotus, has been known to dabble in that department. All anyone has to do is ask for Lotus’s number. I learned this five visits ago. Since Kyle kept chickening out on making his own arrangements, I’ve sealed the deal for tonight, hence the wad of cash I gave to the bouncer.

  We’ve scarcely sat when Mercedes pops in and confirms she got the money by wiggling her assets in Kyle’s face. Dear God, those pillows of heaven. Anyone would have to be dead not to notice their perfection. All of the women here are like that—surgically enhanced, waxed down to the arm hair, and oiled to a polish. If you didn’t look at her face, the only way to tell her apart from the others would be by the birthmark on her shoulder, but even that looks painted on.

  Warm flashes of my past enrobe me. Abby had the oddest birthmark on her shoulder—a smooth, dark splotch shaped like Maine. Her embarrassment over that thing kept her from wearing anything strapless. Once she even tried to bury it under makeup.

  My snicker does the double duty of remembering happiness and fighting back longing. Some of my fondest memories include that mark—teasing she missed with the sunscreen, getting playfully punched when I kissed it while she was changing, and most of all, staring at it, night after night, as she slept spooned in my arms. That little blotch of imperfection was a captivating aurora.

  The weight of tragedy pushes into my temples, distorting my vision. I gulp down my drink and let my eyes stay unfocused as I head for the buffet—not wanting to absorb the surroundings for fear of what memories may lurk in the shadows.

  An hour later, my second glass is nearing dry, Kyle is off with Lotus, and I’ve choked down as much roast beef and mashed potatoes as my gut can muster. Although just a few feet away a luscious lady is wrapping herself around a pole, something more intriguing grabs my attention.

  Across the room, pink and amber lights bounce off of mirrors and illuminate bottles behind the bar as if they are trophies. Dry ice from the stage travels through the air, smothering the lights and coating the path to the bar in a glowing haze smelling vaguely of Eucalyptus, yet one thing stands out as if Moses asked the fog to part. I pop up and make my way towards Fedora Guy. Of course I am not the least bit surprised that the closer I get, the more transparent he becomes. When I reach the bar, if it were not for the lagging smell of lime and musk, it would be as if he were never here in the first place. Seriously, who the hell is he and why does this guy only seem to track me into bars?

  Thump.

  A double shot is plopped in front of me. My head jerks up to see Jackson holding a bottle of Bulleit. I chuckle at how he knows my usual for this part of the night where kissing up to my client has become old hat. And speaking of old hat, why won’t Fedora Guy ever stick around? “I feel like and old dog in need of a new trick,” I say with a chuckle. “I’m that predictable, huh?”

  With the swipe of a rag, Jackson leans his burly frame on the bar. I need to see this guy in the daylight sometime. His hair looks to be an unnatural red, leaving me to question reality. Sometimes, the lighting in these places makes the most mundane things seem otherworldly. “Yep,” he says. “Predictable, bored, and dying to get home so you can have whatever you normally drink with your friends, not the stuff your client wants you to like so you can live up to whatever twisted expectations he has.”

  “Oh man.” My head drops. He’s nailed me like a coffin. “You are way too good at this.”

  “A wise man, who looks suspiciously like you, once told me, ‘Banking a deal makes you a good salesman; uncovering what your client really wants fills your bank account’. So in turn, mixing a solid drink makes you a good bartender; pegging the stress of the clientele rakes in the tips. It’s the same damn thing.” He double knocks on the bar before pouring a shot for himself. “Last we left off, you had twenty on a bowling match back home. Did you score?”

  Laughter slips out. This guy must meet hundreds of people each week. How is it he remembers squat about me? “Yep, my sorry sack friends with no lives are still out there doing the mundane.”

  “While you miss the hell out of them.” He taps his glass to mine and downs the shot.

  “Damn right I do.”

  A pale arm engulfs my waist. The Fuchsia nail polish and the whiff of flowers and spice floating up my nose tell me Sable is dropping by. Despite the environment, Sable gives me the feeling of a sassy, maternal waitress in a fifties diner. That might have something to do with how her blonde hair is tied up, making it seem poufy. However, her black bow tie, boots, and hot pink corset with matching boyshorts shatter that image. “Seahawks twenty-seven, Rams ten. How much did you lose on Sunday?” she asks.

  A groan slips out of me due to the jab I just took in the gut. At least The Kings are doing well—this week. “Thank God I never risk more than I would tip the greatest server in all of Saskatoon.”

  Sable smirks. “Lucky girl. I knew you were saving the big bucks for someone.” She smacks me on the arm. “You can’t win with me, can you?”

  “I can’t win with my teams either. Fortunately for me, the tiny bit I tend to win, which real gamblers consider wussy, makes for a decent tip for you, despite the lip service. I swear, it’s too bad the clientele pays more attention to the floor show than the side show at the bar.” I return her semi-hug and plant a kiss on her forehead.

  “I went to that new place you were talking about. You know, the one with the swanky, old-people music.” She winks.

  Those are risky words considering she is probably only in her late twenties yet looks like she is ready to cross the threshold into forty with me—though I would never tell her that. Instead, my hand flies to my heart. “Ouch! You mean Second Hand Rose’s, the jazz club over on fifth?”

  Her smile accentuates the little crinkles around her eyes. It’s actually kind of cute. “Yeah, that one …”

  “I take it you have been places you liked more.” Which is a damn shame to someone like me. I’d do just about anything to spend night after night at a place like that.

  “Truthfully, the music wasn’t my thing, but I loved the club.” She flicks my tie. “I totally get why you wear all these classy old ties now. The ambiance was a vast contrast to this place. And the clothes! My God, I want to work there so I can dress like that.” She leans in and whispers, “I put in an application. Think I have a shot?”

  “If they don’t hire you, they are fools.” They truly would be. Sable, or as her family calls her, Ester, is the cream of the crop. I slip her my card with my number. “Client reference.” She’s quick to plant one on my cheek in thanks.

  With a double knock on the bar, Jackson nods to behind me. “Looks like the thorn in your side is about to get removed. Your guy is waltzing back with a smile so bold an army couldn’t shoot it off. Your mission may have finally ended.”

  I glance to the mirror behind the bar, and sure enough, Kyle is strolling my way with his head back, hands in his pocket, and a grin so self-satisfied I’m pretty sure he’s showing off. I’m even betting if he wouldn’t get busted for screaming about his conquest, the whole place would have already heard about it. “Another round for my friend and I,” I tell Jackson. “Might as well top off his night.”

  “No need,” Kyle says. He leans against the bar, then surprises me by asking something no one ever has in a situation like this. “Got that contract handy?”

  Of course I do. I’m the last Boy Scout—always prepared.

  I hand him my pen without uttering a word, insuring I can’t possibly say anything that wil
l allow hesitation or invite interruption. Kyle inks the dotted line—big, confident swishes of blue, right where I need them. It damn near puts a horn section in my soul.

  Kyle takes a long look at the pen he holds—my pen—like it knows the secrets of the universe. With a smirk he pockets it as a souvenir, then slaps the top of the bar. “Time to get home to the little woman. Let’s go.” And he is off, never once acknowledging his bartender of countless nights, let alone the server who always made sure his glass was cold and full. The tune in my heart fades.

  With heartfelt thanks, I shake Jackson’s hand and give Sable a hug—not just a quick embrace or a pat on the back, but one saying, You mean something to me, and I will think of you fondly. Their faces linger in my mind as I get into the waiting Town Car. By the time I am on my flight the following day, I’ve forced their images to fade, making way for the ones in Toronto. It’s hard enough when the faces from back home come haunting, but if I let all the good people I meet stay with me, I’ll never stop feeling lost.

  Try as I might to push it away though, one face will always haunt me.

  “Abby, honey, your face, your birthmark—everything about you—will always be a curse.”

  Minnie The Moocher

  BAILEY

  Given my near inability to process which key opens my front door, cooking dinner seems impossible. How actors survive fifteen-hour days while alternating between boring setups and exerting themselves during some of the physical stuff they do amazes me. It must be even more draining for the stunt men. I’m so wiped that plopping into bed with a bowl of popcorn and watching a mindless, no-frills, no-special effects fairy tale sounds perfect. Nothing destroys the illusions of film and television more than working on a set.

  Inside my apartment, I’m greeted by the smell of burnt coffee. Stepping into the kitchen deepens my fatigue. This place was spotless when I left. Now there are crumbs on the counter, a pan with dried egg residue on the stove, and dishes next to the sink—despite how I corrected the indicator on the dishwasher when I emptied it at four this morning. I swear, Carlos has regressed to being a self-righteous teenager.

  My first inclination is to clean before the stench worsens, but my bed is calling so loudly I head off to it with a bag of potato chips.

  Two steps in, I backpedal and toss down the chips. I need to tackle this mess before I can sleep.

  I also need music—something that swings into my core and clears my head—else I will stay riled all night.

  With the press of a button, a flood of Auto-Tune reminds me the differences between Carlos and I are vast. His hip hop bounces the rafters while my jazz sways like a breeze. I used to enjoy our little contrasts, but lately it has been hard to appreciate anything about him.

  Why did I latch on to someone who doesn’t even try to appreciate the things I love? How many times have I sat through synthesized music at cheesy nightclubs with drunken, former frat boys trying to relive their glory days instead of making new ones? Not to mention sitting with trampy girls whose nipples nearly pop out of dresses that cling like second skins. Some think not whipping out my boobs makes me old and stuffy; I say it makes me a dying breed.

  The damn eggs won’t come off of the frying pan, and I have to resort to using a scraper. I should save the effort and use the thing to conk Carlos over the head, then bury the murder weapon.

  The freaking skillet gets dumped into soapy water and left to soak. Carlos’s bull makes me want to never trust a man again, but I refuse to believe one bad apple spoils the whole bunch. Dad is awesome. Darla’s boyfriend is awesome. Carlos was a stupid decision—which is again driven home when I enter the bedroom and find he also didn’t make the bed. Seriously, the guy is a waste of skin.

  When I whip the covers back, an iPad flies off and thunks onto the floor. Whose is …

  Oh, you piece of scum! You had a girl here!

  I rip at the sheets in search of crusty evidence of an affair and come up empty.

  The iPad’s case has the same blue leather as the ones on Carlos’s phone and laptop. If this is his, and I don’t know about it, it must hold some pretty interesting stuff.

  Not surprising, the screen is locked. On a whim, I enter the code we use for the ATM card. It fails.

  Okay, this is Carlos, the man who can’t remember numbers for squat. It has to be something simple. I try again, but with the code in reverse. Boom, I’m in.

  I’m less than shocked to see the email account is filled with letters addressed to Barry Grey—letters filled with naked pictures and—

  Oh, gross!

  My nerves turn numb. It’s not the trim figure, or the lack of clothing other than red knee socks creeping me out, it’s the pigtails and how she sucks on a lollipop. This isn’t just a younger woman; this one is fully shaved and—

  Oh good God! She looks like she is nine and got into mommy’s makeup! Is she legal? What kind of messed up person am I involved with?

  My freak out compels me to read her note.

  I’m all ready to be licked up. When are you whisking me off again?

  Whisking her off? Again? With what money?

  That bastard!

  After zipping through all of his current emails, I go into his trash. The volume of notes from women wanting to hook up puts my stomach on a Ferris wheel. I’ve had about enough when the subject “Offer Letter from Sinextech”, dated nearly two months ago, grabs my attention.

  Dear Mr. Rojas,

  Attached, please find our offer for the position of Quality Assurance Lead.

  My eyes dart straight to the salary.

  “One hundred twenty thousand dollars!” I’m so pissed I actually yell it. “He turned down one hundred twenty thousand dollars a year!” Granted, he was making one hundred and thirty at his last job, but why did he turn down something with such a low margin of salary difference when we are barely keeping afloat? I don’t know which surprises me more; his refusing a solid offer or him actually looking in the first place.

  Sitting in his deleted emails is yet another offer from three months ago. I can’t bring myself to open it for fear the contents will drive me to commit murder. Regardless, I continue exploring the rest of the iPad and find an app for Royal Bank of Canada.

  I knew it! Deep inside I knew it! That creep has a private account!

  I dig through drawers, under the mattress, and behind his clothes in the closet while looking for an account number scribbled on anything. I find zip.

  Duh. He’d want the number handy so he could copy and paste it.

  When I open the notepad app, I find an entry called “partytime”, containing what looks like a bank account number. That, along with the four-digit password that unlocked the iPad, gives me an error message.

  Damn!

  Okay, Carlos is a simpleton, so he went for something easy. I try “partytime” as a password. It fails. What trick would a computer guy who can’t remember anything use?

  Carlos once advised me to pick a word that was easy to remember, then substitute numbers and characters for the vowels. I give p@rtyt1m3 a shot and …

  Score! Data loads.

  This checking account has only five hundred dollars. Why would he hide that from me? Then again, GranGran always taught us to have private funds, because you never know when life will turn on you. That considered, I can’t fault Carlos. However, GranGran also raised me to look beyond the façade, so let’s cut to the chase and go back to when he lost his job.

  Holy crap! He deposited twenty-five grand in here! That prick lied about not getting any severance! He’s blown through over twenty-four thousand dollars without contributing a dime to our household!

  And of course, here are the monthly deductions for that dating service and payments for the credit card he claimed he destroyed!

  Holy crap! There are charges for HookUp Masters! Oh, no wonder why he has always wanted to use a condom in addition to birth control! And thank God for it!

  The front door opens, and I am more than ready
to march over and let that creep have it. “Hey, baby,” Carlos says.

  I stick an email from one of the bimbos in his face. “Don’t even try to explain. Get out, now!”

  He pushes the iPad aside and doesn’t miss a beat. “Thank God! I was hoping you would find that. I didn’t know how to tell you the crazy bitch won’t leave me alone.”

  “What! You mean the women who sent thank you notes for weekend getaways? If you expect me to believe that, you think I am the crazy one! Grab your crap and get out!”

  He has the nerve to step towards me. I step back while noting how close I am to the knife drawer. “Now baby, let me—”

  “Get out, or I am calling the cops and having you hauled off. While you are gone, I will change the locks and you will never get your stuff back.”

  He laughs at me—full on laughs—and strolls to the bathroom. “Call them,” he says as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “I’m on the lease and haven’t laid a finger on you.”

  Dammit, I was hoping he forgot. Instead of putting him on the lease as required, I never should have let him move in to begin with. “It’s my apartment! I moved in long before I met you! Get out!”

  “Our apartment.” He closes the bathroom door as casually as can be.

  I stomp over and scream into the door. “Fine! I’ll leave! You can have the place!” I pull a suitcase out of the closet, load up on clothes, and grab my jewelry before heading for the door. Let him keep everything else and sell it. Let him stay and renege on the rent only to stick me with the bill. I can think of worse.

  As I turn the knob, he runs out to stop me.

  “Baby, please, don’t go.” He pours on every bit of masculine charm he has, including caressing my cheek with the gentlest of touches. That touch always made me melt; now it makes my skin crawl. “You know I need you.”

  “Hah!”

  Wait a second. That sounded convincing, even for Carlos. What am I missing?