by Luis Samways
Five
The Arrival
We arrive at the place collectively known as “The Dive.” It’s not a scuba diving shop, that’s for sure. There’s not a single snorkel in sight. We call it The Dive because it’s just that. The place sucks ass, and it’s full of old farts. They do serve us beer, though, so that’s why we are here. We park the car up the alleyway as usual. The place is full of black trash bags. It smells like rotten fish as I step out of the van. Nearly straight away the night starts out bad. As I get out of the van, my new Converses hit a puddle of mud. The splash from the puddle hits my jeans as I look down in frustration.
“Oh, goddamn it,” I spurt out as I try to wipe down the muddy water off my Levi’s.
I give up quickly, realizing that there’s no point. I look around the alley way and see the usual cesspool of garbage strewn all over the place. The neon lights from a number of back alley “nail salons” glow off the sleek ground. The rest of the group manage to pry themselves away from the van and join me in admiring the view. Seth taps me on the shoulder while looking up at the sky, as if he is searching for a particular star.
“You smell that, Frenchy?” asks Seth, who’s still looking up at the sky
“Yes, I do — it smells like shit.”
“No, you’re wrong, Toby. It smells like a good night!”
“How the hell do you work that one out? We’re in a back alley surrounded by trash.”
“You have to look beyond the trash, Toby. A night of wonder lies in front of us.”
I nod in agreement so as to not carry the conversation on. All I want to do is get to the bar and knock down some beers. Seth walks on in front with the boys as I linger behind, waiting for Elle. She finally gets out of the van. Her hair looks immaculate as I look on in awe. She spots me looking at her and gives me a sideways glance.
“What?” she asks me.
“Nothing, I’m just waiting for you.”
“I was just doing my hair. A girl’s got to look the part.” She smiles.
I nod as she brushes up against me. She walks on in front as I watch her catch up with the rest of the group. Her hair shines bright as the neon lights hit her head — a near-perfect shine akin to a shampoo ad. She turns around and gives me a seductive look. Her black hair bounces off her cheeks as she stares deep into my thoughts.
“Are you coming, then?” she asks as I stand still. My feet feel as if I’m glued to the ground.
“Yeah, wait up,” I manage to say.
I jog on over to her as she puts her arm around my shoulders. I look at her with loving eyes, and she grins back at me. I manage to pluck up the courage and put my arm around her waist as we walk off, embracing each other. We catch up to the guys, who haven’t really noticed anything; they continue to mumble on about whatever classless thing they are talking about. I, on the other hand, am completely happy. Maybe the girl of my dreams does want to be with me after all. Maybe she just wants to show a little sympathy to me. Either way, I’m going to hold on to this feeling for the rest of my life.
Six
The Bar
I walk into The Dive. I’m the first in, as usual. Unfortunately, Elle’s embrace stopped at the door. I walk up to the bar and have a look around. The place is practically empty. I eyeball the bartender. He nods at me. I walk back over to the heavy pine doors that lead to the outside. I knock on them twice. The rest of the group open it and walk on through. That’s the deal. The bartender is the one who came up with the idea. If he wants us to come in and drink, he gives me the nod. It’s sort of like a secret handshake, without the touching and sweaty palms. He decides when we leave as well. He’ll give me a glance and usually hand me a tab. We fish around in our pockets for the cash and split the bill between us. It’s been a ritual since high school. We have been drinking in this shithole for nearly three years. The bartender has only ever once kicked us out early, and that was because we got into a massive brawl with some hairy bikers. We actually won as well. That’s most likely because of the fact that there was eight of us that night, and two of them. Simple math, not to mention the barstools we were using to our advantage. After that night, the bartender said he was all right with us drinking here. Even though we’re underage, he likes the fact that we have “spunk,” in his own words. I suppose the only reason he lets us in the place is because he gets bored of his usual patrons.
The bar isn’t anything special, either. It’s rusted-looking, to say the least. The walls are covered in vintage pulp fiction–style pictures. The usual suspects — Al Capone, Harry “The Hat” Hopkins, and of course Marilyn Monroe — they are all propped up beautifully on a yellowish off-color wooden-style wall. The place sort of looks like a dirty cabin where fishermen drink ale and talk about the day’s big catch. The lights at the bar are bright; a few bulbs are near dim. It adds a bit of character, I think. The bar top is green, much like the felt surface of a cheap pool table. A crappy sixties-style jukebox sits in the corner of the bar next to all the tables and chairs. I swear the thing must be broken, seeing it’s stuck on the same damn song all the time. The group and I take our seats at the bar. Seth sits in the middle as usual. I sit at the end; I like the light fixture on the wall next to my usual spot. It echoes a nice beam onto my usually dark shot. I can see the bubbles form in the glass. It’s just a little observation I sometimes make. Often I do it out of sheer boredom, but tonight I highly doubt that’s going to happen, seeing that Elle is taking the spot on the stool to my right. Her beautiful legs cross as she glances at me. She starts to suck her thumb; God knows I know what she ought to be sucking. I try to ignore her and order my drink. The bartender comes over. He’s slightly overweight. He looks like one of those burger flippers in knock-off “McBurger towns.” He’s wearing a white vest stained with sweat. He waddles up to the end of the bar, his towel over his shoulder cocktail style. He looks at me as if to ask what I wanted, if it wasn’t already obvious.
“The usual,” I say, trying to remain calm and collected. This is the first time Elle has come out in a long time. I’m here to impress.
He looks at me blankly.
“And that would be…?” he asks sourly
“Jagerbomb.”
“That’s a bit fruity, isn’t it, kid?”
Elle lets out her sweet usual giggle, cupping her mouth as if she was about to howl out loud.
“Fine, give me a Budweiser.”
“That’s more like it. Was afraid you went all metro on me.”
I look on as the bartender gets a cold Bud out of the small fridge behind the bar. I feel stupid when I catch a glimpse of my hair in the slanted mirror behind him. I knew it was a bad idea to style it.
Seven
Six Shots Down
You know that place you reach on a certain night out drinking that blurs from the memory? You automatically assume it was a good night because you can’t remember drinking in that particular establishment. You also wonder and marvel at the consistent stories of how you were the center of everyone’s night. How you, Mr. Big, decided to make everyone happy with the stylings of an idiot. Well, not this night. This is a night that I wouldn’t mind forgetting in a hurry, seeing how the mood was grim.
I have no idea why the mood in the bar turned solemn. Hell, I didn’t cause it, so beats me. I know I was six shots down. I finally convinced the fat bartender to pull me some bombs. He obviously listened, and lined up the six shots on the table. I knocked them back like Nyquil when suffering from a cold. I had the beautiful Elle by my side. She watched as I manned up and knuckled down. I sort of made a pass at her after my ninth shot of the good stuff. I mean, damn, she can’t be wearing those awesome boots zipped on high all the way up her amazing legs and not expect me to want to court that, in Pride and Prejudice terms. I put my hand on her leg. Her skin felt so soft. I instantly wanted to run my tongue up her inner thigh — I know, right?! I think I drank some hormones or something, because I was in need of some seeing to. And come to think about it, I kind of get why
the group was being distant. It may have been the whole “inner thigh” thing. I may have blurted that out on the twelfth shot.
“You want to do what?” she abruptly says.
I continue to look at her with my usual puppy-dog eyes. It isn’t working this time, that’s for sure.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, tell me what you said. You might as well tell the whole group, while you’re at it. You’re being a drunken asshole, Toby.”
I sit there as the boys break their conversation and turn their attention to me. Seth walks on over from his bar stool at the far end of the bar. He looks around nervously at the rest of the patrons who are sitting in the scattered seating in the rusty-looking bar. They started to fill the bar when I was on my sixth shot. To be quite frank, I hadn’t really noticed that the place is half full by now. The fat bartender looks at us from a distance, his eyes telling us to keep it shut or get out. Seth taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, wide-eyed, trying not to laugh.
“What’s going on, Toby?” he asks. That condescending prick only ever calls me Toby when he is being serious.
“None of your business, Seth,” I hiss at him
He puts his hand on Elle’s leg. I bet he knows that will get me angry, seeing that I hock my shot back and casually get up. I straighten myself up and survey Seth’s calm and casual eyes, which are squarely locked on to me. I clench my fist and hit that asshole in the face. He collapses flat on the floor, holding his nose. I guess it’s bleeding, because everyone looks at me as if I’m a barbarian. I smile and sit back down. I signal the bartender and ask him to pour me a drink. He does so. As he pours from the bottle, I look down at my feet. I observe my shoelaces, both tied up pretty tight. I laugh a little; when you’re drunk, stupid things make you laugh. I turn my head over to the now-vertical Seth who gingerly sits on the far bottom of the bar, holding a napkin to his face. He looks at me in the distance; his eyes are saying one thing while his actions are saying another. I can’t quite work out what he is trying to say; I don’t really care, either. I stop looking at him and focus my attention on Elle, who by now is looking directly at me. I smile at her and notice how different a look she is giving me. I have never seen a women give me this sort of look before. I pluck up the courage to say something. By now the alcohol is coursing through my veins, replacing the more reliable and healthy blood that once flowed a mere three hours ago. I’m half gone by now, and I don’t want to end this night on a sour note with her. After all, the only reason she is here is because I invited her earlier while I was on that game I told you about. I finally adjust to the correct mind frame. I breathe in deeply and give her another smile, this time a more sincere “let’s be friends,” not “I want to screw the crap out of you” look that most men give when faced with these kind of odds.
“I’m sorry, Elle,” I say as I look into her eyes — her amazing brown eyes.
She looks at me sort of sideways, as if she doesn’t quite understand where I’m coming from.
“Well, you should be,” she says plainly.
“Well, it’s true, you know…”
“What’s true?”
“What I said.”
“Well, Toby, if it is true, then do something about it.”
“Like what?”
She stops talking and gets up. Her legs stand tall and firm as she stands idle for a few seconds. She gives me that look again. Still confused, I look up at her with pleading eyes. She turns around and walks off over to the bathroom. She even has a brand-new walk to accompany that never-before-seen look. I think to myself as I sit alone in the corner of the bar, propped up on the bar stool, admiring the view of her as she disappears into the ladies’ room. Am I going crazy here? I glance over at the boys, who are doing their usual routine of drinking games. Everyone but Seth is having a good time. I get up from my stool and walk on over to him. The alcohol is really affecting my balance as I tap him on the shoulder when I reach him. He turns around. His face changes from placid-looking to uneasy.
“I’m sorry for punching you in the face, Seth,” I say as I try to work out why I did it.
“Don’t worry about it. It happens — let’s just get on with it and have a good night.”
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise. I was out of line.”
Seth nods his head bashfully. He pats my forearm and turns back around, immediately shouting at the top of his lungs, returning to his old form before I whacked him one. I start to sober up and turn back on the reality switch. Suddenly something dawns on me as I pace back to my stool. I look around at the bar as everyone is going on with their business, drinking and smoking, some even playing pool, everything seems on point and not extraordinary…everything but Elle. She went to the toilet a good five minutes ago, and, to be honest, she doesn’t seem like the type of girl to take a dump in a rundown biker bar. I rewind my memory a bit to try to decipher the last conversation we had. Then it clicks. I rush off my stool and walk over to the ladies’ bathroom. I turn my head slightly, making sure no one sees me. No one is looking in my direction, so I swiftly open the heavy door. I rush in and shut the door behind me. I must have come in pretty quickly, because I hadn’t taken notice of what was in front of me. I hit the bolt lock shut and take a deep breath in, I look up. Elle is standing a few feet in front of me. She is in her bra and panties. Her body is looking immaculate as ever. The dim bathroom light is shining off her olive skin. The bumps and curves that her body follow look like mountains in heaven as I swallow hard. She undoes her left bra strap and then her right. She pulls down on her bra, releasing her alluring breasts. I walk on toward her and grab her tight. Her chest presses against mine, and I swoop in for a kiss.
Eight
Tell Me It Isn’t So
We are against the bathroom stool. I thrust hard as she grabs the top of the cubicle. It’s over as we both moan in ecstasy. I look at her as she stares into my eyes. I kiss her once again. This time the kiss is different. It feels different as I run my hands through her hair. I pull away and start to get dressed. She does the same as I watch her put her bra and panties back on. It’s a shame that it happened in the bathroom of a crappy bar. I see her thinking the same thing as I finally get my clothes back on.
“So…” I say as I mull over the situation in my mind.
“Indeed,” she follows up
She walks out of the cubicle and walks up to the large mirror near the sinks. The toilets in here look nearly unused. I gather that’s the reason we were not disturbed during our little escapade. I try to break the atmosphere.
“Good thing we didn’t get caught, huh?”
She nods once more as she takes out her makeup bag and starts dowsing her face in blusher.
“I think so, too,” she adds.
“These toilets sure beat the crappers that the boys have to use. You wouldn’t believe the state they’re in.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
She carries on putting her makeup on. Her hair is frazzled as I look at her distant gaze in the mirror.
“Is there something wrong, Elle?” I ask as I fiddle around in my pockets, trying to find my phone to look at the time.
“No, why should there be?”
“It’s just that you seem distant.”
“Maybe because I just had sex with you in a public place.”
“I know I enjoyed it.”
She shakes her head as she puts her makeup back into her small bag. She slings it over her arm and makes her way to the door. She hesitates, then turns back toward me. She gives me another new look that I am not accustomed to.
“The least you could do is to be honest with me, Toby. I know you’re holding back.”
“Holding back what?”
“The way you feel,” she says, while still giving me that new horrible look.
“I think I made that pretty clear — you were here, weren’t you?”
“To have sex with me is one thing, but not telling me why you did it is another.”
She turns back to the door and walks out. The door swings shut, leaving me a little dazed and confused.
Nine
Okay…Tell Me What I Did
I’m sitting down in the same bar stool I’ve occupied the whole night. Everything is going as planned. The boys are half cut on beer and coke. An assortment of women are poking around Seth’s area, chatting and flirting to the man of the hour, or the so-called man of the hour, I should say. Everything is just dandy. Well, except one thing. Elle is over there with the girls, talking and flirting with, yep, you guessed it, Seth. I am on my twentieth shot; I’m fully loaded and ready to smack that asshole again. The thing is I can’t, because while I sit here on my lonesome, I notice Seth eyeing me with apologetic eyes. He notices what Elle’s game is. And so do I, because not only is it obvious that she is trying to make me jealous, I so happened to text Seth when I was in the bathroom, explaining what happened, that yours truly had intercourse for the first time ever, with the girl he had been in love with since kindergarten. He knows how hurt I am that she is blatantly trying to make me mad. He hasn’t even given her as much as a look since she landed in his area.
I carry on being grumpy and ill-mannered as the fat bartender tries to make conversation with me.
“Another drink?” he asks me as I look down at my now-untied shoelaces.
I raise my glass. Words don’t come out, so I just grunt in the direction of the bottle in his hands. He smiles and pours me another while I’m still holding the glass. The bartender is talented, because I’m all over the place. I remember thinking that he had a steady hand, not one drop spilled, even with my unsteady drunken tremor.
“What seems to be the problem, kid?” he asks me as he pours one for himself. His big burly fingers lock around the glass bottle as he screws the cap back on. He leans in and takes a sip, resting his huge weight on his formidable forearm.
“What are you, some sort of marriage counselor?” I hiccup.
He chuckles a rueful belly laugh.