Black Blade Blues

by J. A. Pitts

  As I backed out, I saw Homeless Joe over by the Dumpster holding a catering tray with lunch meat and cheese. He watched me, training his one good eye on my progress, munching something as I passed. He mouthed a word, crushed cheese falling from his lips.

  The word was “dragon.”

  Thirty-five

  I THINK I WAS NUMB. WHEN I SAW THE SIGNS FOR THIS COWboy bar where Julie went dancing, I pulled in and parked. The sound of the engine cooling, the pinging of metal, sang a song to me—a song of sadness.

  It was early, about seven forty-five, so the lot was half full. When I bellied up to the bar and began a tab of tequila shooters, the bartender didn’t ask, just dropped a bowl of limes and a shaker of salt beside me. The first three went down rough, like swallowing fire. After that, things began to blur a little.

  The fifth shot finally broke through the barrier. I got up from the bar and moved to the dance floor. No one was dancing, but I needed to move. There was something inside me, something that needed to spin and twirl, thrust and jab. I needed a battle, something to vent my anger, some outlet for my rage.

  Only there were no battles, so I danced, let the redneck, boot-stomping twang roll over me, ride along my nerves and direct my body into a frenzy of motion. I wanted to be out of control.

  I never liked how I danced, but at that moment I was grooving. Then, when the sweat ran down my back, and the fire ran through my belly, I blinked and shifted. It may have been the alcohol, but one minute I was gyrating on the dance floor to the wolf whistles of a couple of cowboys, and the next I was sitting at the bar, one hand on the bottle, the other on my calf. Only I was still on the dance floor. If not for the stereo vision, I’d have chalked it up to being so drunk, but I was as lucid as I’d ever been. Something was happening here that I didn’t understand. I didn’t have long to think about it, though. Events got out of control too quickly.

  One of the cowboys got up to dance with me and I swung into it with abandon. Soon a second was on the floor, and things got crazy. If I could’ve figured how I was sitting at the bar, watching myself being pawed by those two cowboys, I would’ve stopped it.

  As it was, I recognized them. They were the hands from the Circle Q. The dancing got dirtier, and their hands were touching me in ways that both excited and mortified me. Apparently I was enjoying myself with them enough that when the bartender came out and asked us to leave, I went with them willingly.

  This out-of-body experience was a bit too trippy for me, and since I was leaving with the guys, I thought I’d better try and follow.

  When you don’t have a body, or are no longer connected with it, you forget how important gravity, and physics in general, are in helping with movement. I sort of hovered there a bit, in a way that made me think of astronauts, and I panicked. Luckily, when I lost sight of myself, it triggered a survival instinct that propelled me out of the bar, through the wall, and across the parking lot.

  What I saw there was worse than on the dance floor.

  If I could have died of shame at that moment, I would have. I think my spirit form, or astral projection, or whatever the hell I was at this moment, was significantly more sober than my physical self. As I watched, horrified, I shimmied out of my jeans, wadded them up, and tossed them into the back of the pickup truck we all stood behind. Then I was back at it, making out with first one guy, then the next. Dancing in my Skivvies and my T-shirt.

  “She’s a real firecracker,” Steve Wilding said.

  Jack Marlowe didn’t say anything, just pulled my shirt over my head, undid my bra, and whooped like he was at a rodeo.

  Why I didn’t stop them, I just can’t figure. I was mad at Katie, and Carl, and damn near the whole world. I was also very, very drunk.

  But I didn’t want to have sex with these men. It had nothing to do with sex, or love. It was about power, and powerlessness.

  So, I let them feel me up. Felt their hands and mouths on my body in ways that hadn’t happened with anyone but Katie. I watched, horrified at the expression on my face, and if I could have cried, I would have.

  “We gonna take her back to our place to party for real,” Steve said, raising his head from my left breast.

  Marlowe laughed from the foot of the truck. “You know who this is, don’tcha, Wilding?”

  Steve looked closer, but didn’t recognize me in my mostly naked and drunken state.

  “It’s that dyke that works for Julie.”

  Steve shook his head.

  “The blacksmith,” Jack said, standing beside Steve and trailing his hand where Steve’s mouth had just been. “We could take her back and do her a few times, see if we can break her from munching carpet.”

  Stop it! I screamed in my head. Don’t do this, make this end.

  “She’s pretty drunk,” Steve said. He leaned me against the truck and looked into my face.

  “Her eyes don’t look so good, Jack. Maybe we should . . .”

  He didn’t finish that statement because two things happened. I snapped back into my body, felt the world crash into pain and humiliation.

  And I hit him.

  He was off balance and not expecting it, but when my fist connected to the side of his head, I stepped into him, punching him over and over, face, chest, arms, anything I could reach. The final cross took his feet out from under him and he landed with a thud.

  Jack hollered something I didn’t make out and lunged at me. I felt the bile rise in my throat as I realized everything that had occurred had been condoned by me on some cellular level, and I lost it. Felt the anger and the hatred swell up in me, burning the alcohol, filling me with a rage I’d been nursing and walling off for days now.

  I stepped forward, blocking Jack’s first feeble punch. Those years of martial arts I’d studied as a kid came to me and I followed his awkward stutter step and hit him with a haymaker that rattled my teeth. He got one arm up and absorbed part of the blow, but I dazed him.

  I caught him in the breadbasket with my left, and he went down to his knees.

  My roundhouse kick caught him in the chest and all the air rushed out of his lungs.

  He flopped back, gasping for air. I was just about to stomp my heel into his throat when Steve tackled me from behind.

  We both went down on the gravel, but I was on the bottom. Rocks, beer caps, and assorted broken bottles broke my fall. He rolled off me, climbed to his feet, and staggered over to help Jack up.

  I rolled over, ready to defend myself, but the cowards ran.

  They climbed into Jack’s pickup and tore out of the parking lot, showering me with gravel. The fire that burned inside drove me to try and stand, but the flame guttered and thankfully I blacked out.

  Thirty-six

  THE NEXT VOICES I HEARD WERE DEEP, VERY DEEP, AND sounded like rocks grinding against one another. I cracked open one eye, and saw a huge man with hands like catcher mitts, leaning over me. I moved my arm to cover my breasts, but found that he’d already covered me with a jacket.

  “Hang on there, little miss,” he said. His voice was not unkind.

  “Eh, Ernie. She alive?”

  “Aye, Bert,” he called over his shoulder. “She’s awake.”

  “Good,” Bert called back. “See if you can bring her this way. The boss would like a word with her.”

  “Can you stand?” the first man asked.

  “We’ll see,” I said, attempting to sit up. I could feel blood encrusted over several parts of me, and I hurt all over.

  He stood back while I stood, but put a steadying hand on my shoulder when I swayed. “I found this shirt,” he said, holding out my top. “And these boots, but I can’t find any pants.”

  I pulled the shirt over my head, no bra for me. Then I stepped into the boots. “Mind if I keep this?” I asked, gesturing to the jacket.

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  I wrapped the jacket around my waist and followed him across the lot.

  As we neared the limousine I thought the world might just tilt right
off its axis, so I staggered over to my car and leaned against the hood. “Sorry guys. This is as far as I can go.”

  Bert leaned down to the window of the limo and spoke with whomever was inside.

  Ernie stood beside me and made sure I didn’t fall down again.

  “The boss wants to know where the sword is.”

  I didn’t flinch, even though I knew it was inside my car. Hell, I could see the case through the hatchback, if I looked. “Go to hell,” I said, my voice weak in my own ears.

  “Be polite,” Ernie said, sternly.

  Bert cocked his head at the limo and nodded.

  “He says you have twenty-four hours to come up with the sword, or things will get ugly.”

  “Yes, bad,” I said with a nod. “You have no idea how ugly my life is right now.”

  “I guarantee it can be worse,” Ernie said.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “You got guts,” Ernie said, stepping away from me. “But the boss don’t play. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  I pushed myself to standing. “Tell your boss, the coward, that if he can’t drag his sorry ass out of the car to ask me himself, he can take his offer and shove it where the sun don’t shine . . . then rotate.”

  Ernie looked over at Bert, who just shrugged.

  “I’ll tell him myself,” I said, stepping toward the limo. “Sawyer, you coward. Sending thugs to do your dirty work?”

  Ernie looked at Bert again, confused.

  “Tell you what, Frederick. You can just kiss my lily-white ass.”

  Bert chuckled and shrugged. Ernie stepped around me and opened the front door of the limo. “Even Frederick Sawyer may be disinclined to take that invitation,” he said. “Twenty-four hours. We’ll be in touch.”

  I tried to push past him, to get to the rear door of the limo, but he blocked me. “Come out of there, you coward,” I yelled, struggling to get past the huge man.

  “Step back,” Ernie said, pushing me.

  I stumbled then tried to go around him again. He backhanded me. As I spun away from him, falling awkwardly, I was glad he hadn’t closed his fist. The world spun and I felt the crunch of gravel against my back again.

  My body gave out then, succumbed to the abuse, and faded.

  Then the sirens came from the distance, and folks were streaming out of the bar. Better late than never.

  Thirty-seven

  MELANIE RUSHED TO THE NEXT ROOM, ANXIOUS AND DREADing the new patient. All she knew was they had a female drunk who fought the EMTs and, given the lack of pants, had most likely been raped. Another wild one to round out her perfect shift.

  Only, when she pushed through the curtain to help the two nurses, who were obviously struggling, she saw it was Sarah.

  “Jesus, Sarah,” she said, stepping up to grab a flailing leg.

  “She’s out of control,” Nurse Alana said.

  “If we can hold her legs, I can get this strap over her,” Nurse Carol said.

  Melanie did the only thing she could do. She lay over Sarah’s legs, pinning them to the bed and allowing Carol an opportunity to get the strap over her left arm. Then it became a battle of attrition, one limb at a time.

  Once Sarah was tied down, Melanie got an IV in her and got her sedated.

  “Her blood pressure is out of control,” Alana said. “Heart rate is one ninety and not slowing.”

  “Get a blood draw. Let’s see what she’s on.”

  “My vote’s PCP,” Carol said, walking past the curtain.

  The nurses did their job with efficiency. Melanie examined her. While there was no evidence of intercourse, there were bites and bruises on her that told her Sarah had been in a very bad situation.

  Elevated alcohol numbers and an exceedingly high testosterone level surprised her. This was not like Sarah.

  Sarah’s heart rate was not slowing, but at least they got her sedated enough to prevent injury. Melanie had never seen anything like it. Her breathing was deep and quick, like a marathon runner. Totally weird for someone asleep. Melanie stepped out to call Katie.

  It was three in the morning by this point, and Katie answered just as Melanie was about to hang up.

  “It’s Sarah,” she said. “We have her in the ER. She’s been assaulted. Lots of cuts and bruises, but nothing too damaging.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Katie said. The shock was obvious in her voice.

  Melanie tended to the other patients that came in, but checked in on Sarah often. When Katie arrived, she let her in as family.

  “Nothing permanent,” Melanie assured her, but she wasn’t sure Katie heard her. “We just can’t account for the elevated heart rate and the breathing.”

  “Sounds like she’s fighting,” Katie said, watching her tied to the bed. “She’s breathing like she does when she’s sparring.”

  Katie sat by Sarah’s bed and held her hand while Melanie finished her shift. Sarah didn’t wake up, but after another hour, her body began to slow.

  Thirty-eight

  I CAUGHT THE SOUNDS OF A HEART MONITOR AND THE SMELL suddenly made perfect sense. I opened my eyes, saw the industrial beige of the walls around me, and turned my head slowly. No giants. No cowboys, no battles, and definitely no dragons.

  An IV stand hove into view, then I noticed Katie nodding asleep in a black plastic chair. Damn.

  The events of the night came crashing back. The out-of-body experience didn’t allow for a nice hazy memory. Everything was crystal clear. I turned away from Katie and vomited.

  Which woke her up, caused her to scream for the nurses and make a general fuss. The nurse on duty came in and made sure I wasn’t going to drown in my own sick. An orderly sauntered in and added the special odor of stale mop to an already odiferous situation.

  “Oh God, Sarah,” Katie said, holding on to my hand and pressing her forehead to my shoulder. “Jesus.”

  “You left out the Holy Spirit,” I offered.

  She raised her head and stared at me. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. “Not funny, Beauhall,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess not.”

  We just sat there and absorbed each other’s company. Actually, I lay there, and she stood, but you get the meaning. Neither of us said anything else, and when the orderly left with his magic mop, I let my shoulders relax. I was on edge, ready to fight or fly. Katie could feel it, I guess, because she held on to me with both hands.

  After a few minutes, Melanie came in with a police officer.

  “Sarah,” she said, glancing at Katie, who stepped back to the wall. “This is Officer Simpson. I explained that you were sexually assaulted, but that you fought back. She’s here to take a statement.”

  Katie squeezed my hand tighter. I couldn’t look at her, so instead I looked at Melanie. Melanie who I measured myself against, who had never said a cross word to me, and who loved Katie unconditionally.

  I don’t think I could have hated her any more if I tried. I’d be damned if I’d let her see me helpless and weak. “I wasn’t assaulted.”

  “What?” Katie and Melanie said at the same time.

  “I saw the trauma,” Melanie said. “The cuts and bruises are obviously from a struggle.”

  I stuck the arm without the IV behind my head and looked at the officer. “I was very drunk.”

  She began jotting down notes.

  “I was dancing and being all wild when these two guys came onto the dance floor . . .”

  And so it went. I gave them every detail. From the dirty dancing to the parking-lot teenage groping. I explained how it got rough, and how it had ended.

  But I didn’t mention the sword, or Frederick. And I definitely did not mention the astral projection. Drunk is one thing, certifi-ably crazy is another.

  Katie, bless her, stayed through the whole thing. She listened to every word that I said, and then left. She didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything to Melanie, just picked up her sweater and walked through the curtain.

  The officer turned to
Melanie and closed her notebook. “Sorry, Doctor. Doesn’t sound like assault to me.” Her face was pinched. “Just sounds like a night of drunken stupidity coupled with a need to hurt someone who cared for her.”

  Melanie stood with her mouth open, uncomprehending.

  Officer Simpson exhaled loudly. “What a waste. I’m out of here.” She turned to leave and stopped, turning back. “Oh, and I’d get some counseling,” she said. She looked at me for a moment, anger and disgust on her face, before turning and pushing through the emergency room curtain.

  “Sarah,” Melanie said, barely at a whisper. “Why?”

  I realized the nurses had heard, as had anyone else within hearing.

  I didn’t hate Melanie, I realized. I hated myself.

  “Can I get out of here?” I asked.

  Melanie looked at me, checked my charts, the monitors, and my blood pressure. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was very neutral but I could see the strain on her face. “Why don’t you let me get you a pair of scrubs.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she left, I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed. I was in a hospital gown and had several wires taped to my body. I could remove those, but I was not comfortable pulling the IV.

  Of course, Melanie had thought of that. A nurse, Stephanie, came in, tsked at me until I lay back down, then removed the IV, turned off the monitors, and removed all the stickies.

  By that point, Melanie had returned. She handed me a set of scrubs, tops and bottoms, and a plastic bag with my shirt and the oversized jacket I’d been wrapped in when they found me. Oh, and my boots. I loved those boots, damn it.

  She stepped out of the curtain and let me get dressed.

  When I opened the curtain, she was standing there with a clipboard. I signed several pages and she handed it to the discharge nurse. “Come on,” she said, turning and walking toward the exit sign.

  “What?” I asked, hobbling after her. “Where are we going?”

  “I assume to get your car, and possibly your pants,” she said, not looking back.