Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  All the lady saw was an ungrateful layabout, dragging his heels.

  “Twice,” she would insist, terse between sips of lemongrass tea. “I need those rollers up, down, twice. Two coats in one. I’m not going to have you tell me we need to let the whole thing dry, then go at it again. Three days. That’s what Carl and Grace told me it took you with their place. And they’ve got significantly more square footage than I do. Never mind what they pay for it. I’m not about to give it away just because it’s a new day, or a new century, or whatever excuses you give me for why we’re all still caught up in the same capitalist hypocrisy. Twice. Twice, just do it.”

  We managed to get a lunch break on the condition she dock us both for the time.

  Rather than search for food, Philip and I shuffled south, silent and dazed in an afternoon haze.

  Turned the corner at Canal Street and ducked into a pop-up.

  Browsed wire baskets filled with cheap product, stuffed animals, keychains, flashlights, sunglasses.

  Settled on a collection of bookbags, and he paid cash at the register.

  “What’s with the book bag?” I asked.

  “Going to feel better, real soon,” he said. “I’m so sick of it.”

  I agreed. With all of it.

  Whether or not I understood was up for debate, so I made something up and followed him back to the worksite.

  ***

  Quitting time.

  I escorted him to the NR .

  Kept him from folding, once and a few times after that.

  His bookbag had him off balance, and each time, he shook me off.

  “Take the day off, tomorrow,” I told him.

  “Not a problem,” he murmured. His lips were working in opposite directions. Over and under, mashing his tongue, making split-pea of his words. Breath sour against my face as he bounced off my shoulder and suddenly managed to stand upright. Face a soggy Halloween mask, smile shining through for whatever reason. One last bump. Finding the strength to say, “I took what was mine.”

  And he wove his way down the steps with surprising style.

  An exit worth remembering if it wasn’t for a dried paint chip that made its way into my eye.

  Blurring my vision, and flooding the world with laconic tears.

  ***

  The phone was ringing when I got back to the apartment.

  Picked it up, and had to pause when faced with my first introduction.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Sheryl,” the voice spat into my ear. “And you stole from me! You stole!”

  First time hearing her name, but the venom was right out of a lineup. “Say again?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know. And if you don’t then you tell me where your friend is, you tell me right now.”

  I lit a cigarette and reached for an open bottle of Gato Negro. “Well…” I had a few power tugs, watched the air make its way from the neck up towards the base of backwater Cabernet. “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.”

  “That music box was an antique! Where is it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because one of you stole it.”

  I helped myself to the wine, putting the pieces together. “You’re repainting your home. That’s going to be hard to prove.”

  “Oh, I am on to BOTH of you.”

  “Could you describe it for me? What’s it look like?”

  “It’s priceless, that’s what it looks like!”

  “So it sounds like it looks like it’s got to be worth something, so…”

  Radio silence. For a moment, I was sure she had hung up. “You’re not that stupid. So I know it was your friend. Get it back, give me some way to bring in the authorities, and I will pay you… I will pay you five hundred.”

  “Yen? Drachmas?”

  “I will pay you one thousand dollars.”

  “Say that again?”

  “I will pay you two thousand. Plus the money for the job.”

  “If I go with you to the authorities.”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. Drank what was left. “Question.”

  “Yes?”

  “No. Question.”

  “What?”

  “Question,” I repeated.

  “Question what?”

  “Authority, flower child. Peace.”

  It wasn’t the best, but it was enough of an empty victory to put the phone to cradle.

  Unplugged the jack and wandered into my bedroom.

  Opened another bottle.

  Gazed out the window and watched that one thread pull the whole world apart.

  I thought about Sheryl, and her beautiful Soho loft. Crystals, framed photographs of Che Guevara, Castro and Gloria Steinem hanging over all those fabulous antiques. I thought about those walls, her unfinished mission to paint over the cracks of her sprawling, majestic throne room.

  That woman standing in the middle of it all, wondering who would come along and do her work for her.

  I took a pull of wine.

  Stripped naked and stared at the ceiling.

  Flat on my back, wondering if one music box would be enough for Philip. Enough to at least visit a doctor. Enough to have his body looked at, checked out. No more mysteries, even if the solutions were forever held beyond our grasp.

  An answer to whatever it was that was making us all so sick.

  The Stinson.

  How good were things for a while, there?

  Good enough to break a promise that had me back in Los Angeles, some six or seven years after the trigger was pulled. Thirty K in the bank, two hundred dollar per diem, all courtesy of HBO. Two straight weeks, paid to run wild among the best and the worst the apocalyptic metropolis had to offer. Boots on the ground. Countermanding the boulevards, alleyways and hidden storefronts of that sprawling warehouse. Coroners, executives, sheriffs, bus drivers, priests, undocumented aliens, parolees, Pentecostals, ID runners, drunks and gangsters of Echo Park.

  My last night in town had me stranded at a community theater, a repurposed mini-mansion, once home to Spanish aristocracy. I sat in the nosebleeds and watched the rehearsal. A balls-out play about the life of Subcomandante Marcos. Prop guns fired, smoke clearing, the actor/director and all around bearded man proclaiming Es preferible morir con honor que vivir con la verguenza de un tirano dictando nuestros rumbos!

  They ran through it six or seven times.

  I took six or seven hits from my flask.

  Replaying how it was I had ended up in that land of calibrated make-believe.

  Fake backdrops bearing witness to the revolution, domed ceilings and historical pillars nestled against a dead-end sign deep in East LA.

  ***

  Rehearsal ended at a punctual nine-fifteen.

  I ran a follow-up with the director, took some notes. He seemed to believe his every last word, lips on a loop, talking art, culture, the rich tradition of the radical. As was the case with all compulsive artists, he never asked for my opinion. I got away with more than I needed. No need to fake my way through the proceedings. I wasn’t a revolutionary, was barely an artist. Certainly wasn’t a radical. I liked my bars empty, my mind broken, and my alcohol in whatever shade opportunity would allow.

  He lit a cigarette, and at least we could agree on that.

  Halfway through my Marlboro, Alana put in an appearance. Stood by her boss for a spell. Like any good director/actor and all around bearded man, he took the time not to notice, until the last traces of smoke had made their way to the upper balconies.

  He introduced us.

  We shook hands.

  Then kissed abruptly.

  A minor peck on the lips, just subtle enough to rearrange the letters in our names.

  “So what are you doing here?” she asked. She smiled, a set of braces putting her anywhere between thirteen and thirty.

  “Research.”

  “You’re a writer.”

  “Right now, just a peddler.”

  “Research?” She lit a
cigarette.

  I copied her. Blew smoke. “Yeah. I got lucky.”

  “And ended up here?”

  “Long version ain’t nearly as lucid. Know a good cab company I can call?”

  “Where you headed?”

  “The Stinson.

  “Downtown?”

  “South Grand, between East Eighth and Ninth, that’s the place.”

  “Can I drive you?”

  “Would you?”

  She was maybe four foot eleven. On a good day. Dark skin, an accent that spiked and ebbed in what felt like Venezuelan rhythms. Brown eyes split in half by a bridge that blossomed out into a wide nose. Lips with sweet meaning, lost to her furrowed brow.

  “When do you leave town?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Let’s not waste time, then.”

  I turned to say goodbye to my contact.

  He was already back on stage. Enraptured by a cardboard boulder that gleamed with a white and silver paint job. The bottom boards told him some sort of joke and he laughed.

  I laughed along and let Alana lead the way.

  ***

  Ignition switched, every last emergency light awakened as the engine bitched right back. We reversed our way along a single lane of gravel and tilting telephone poles. The car was a standard shifter, which I didn’t think I had seen since the days of Milo’s beat up ’82 Corolla.

  “I heard it was HBO,” she said.

  “They’re looking to expand their base. Want a new series, miniseries about Latinos in East Los.”

  “And they called you?” She spun her car up against a garbage can, back bumper knocking it over. Rebounded, turning the wheel, a near one-eighty onto the nearest cross street. “That’s kind of something.”

  “They called me, my father and my brother,” I specified. “They were under the impression that a family of Latino writers would make a nice angle.”

  “Would it?”

  “It’s a gimmick.”

  “So your father’s a writer?”

  “He’s a journalist. Activist. Teaches at Pantheon University.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He’s whatever he needs to be at any given moment.”

  “A real survivor.”

  I rolled down the window. Lit a cigarette. “That’s him, alright.”

  “And you?”

  “Writer. Plain and simple.”

  “You must be doing ok, though.”

  “I ain’t the worst I been.”

  “Nice.”

  “I ain’t that, either.” I rolled the window down. Lit a cigarette. “What’s your story?”

  She had herself a smoke. “Just a girl from East Los, you know? Nothing special.”

  “Yeah, this town is kind of rough.”

  “Been here before?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like when we get to know each other better,” I replied, knowing there was no chance of that.

  “How about now?”

  “You married?”

  “No.” She paused at an intersection. “Well, yes. Well, engaged. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Guess not.”

  She smoked her cigarette and we stared out our respective windows. The entire city was alight with orange streetlights and the cold carriage of distant lives.

  Dead oasis.

  She pulled into the parking lot.

  I tossed the last of a pack out the window. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “That’s all?”

  The radio reminded us of Operation Iraqi Freedom’s ongoing success.

  “Don’t know what else there is.”

  “This place has a bar, right?”

  “You’ve been here before.”

  “Buy a girl some drinks,” she said, stared with a puckered glare. “I mean, you can’t really be this stupid.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Now what does that mean?”

  I reached into my bookbag, checked the situation.

  Fresh pack of cigarettes and a sealed pack of Trojans.

  “Hope you like your ice cubes warm,” I said.

  “I don’t.”

  She removed the cover to her car stereo, and slipped it into her bag.

  ***

  The Stinson was a ten story cardboard box, carved out from the rapidly changing skyline of downtown LA. A few blocks shy of Broadway, where the crooks, hustlers, and one-eyed serpents still pedaled their porn, Prada knock-offs and gold watches that would turn your wrist green on a dare. A few unfortunate steps north, and your eyes would bleed at the sight of construction signs, large metal cranes stretching on high, Caterpillars laying the foundation for a playground of another color.

  How the Stinson would survive was anyone’s guess. Home to the last of the great drifters, a transient mansion for men with no inclination of past or present. Either on their way to the next great adventure or postponing the inevitable suicide. Noose fastened tight, drenched in scotch and unbearable camouflaged memories .

  Never mind the trailblazing smoking ban that would soon envelop half the country with its own brand of chamomile haze. The lobby’s mismatched armchairs, cracked sofas and wounded coffee tables all played host to cell phone desperadoes, tugging at the last remnants of their cancer sticks. Frenzied eyes, last minute deals to ensure the Stinson would not remain their home for even one week longer than absolutely necessary.

  Same went for the bar.

  The jukebox was drunk, the barstools splintered, and the ashtrays didn’t give a shit.

  Master of ceremonies was a middle aged, platinum-dye job with thick lips, planetary tits and a dress in leopard prints. Silver eye shadow haling from some East Asian destination . They called her High Top. She was fast, sharp. A woman so quick to anticipate, that she appeared to simply drift up and down the bar on a lazy gust of wind.

  I ordered a scotch on the rocks.

  Alana ordered a white Russian, got carded. She flashed an ID and a blazing smile of electric diamonds.

  I paid for both.

  She raised her glass. “Salud.”

  “Salud.”

  We drank in silence and smoked, let the record player turn over a new leaf or two.

  “You’ve been here before,” she said.

  “Not in this bar.”

  “In Los Angeles.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you’d tell me when we got to know each other better.”

  “Yes.”

  Alana glanced down the way. Knew I would follow suit, caught some ancient man with a fedora and a crippled hand talking nonsense to his drink. “This is as better as it’s going to get,” she said.

  “I fell in love with a girl named Leah,” I told her. “I fell in love with her some several years ago, back east. Followed her here. Out to the wild frontier. Didn’t end so good…” I took a stab at my drink. “I was talking to some guy earlier today. Some kid, really, not much younger than me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty four, I think.”

  “Yeah, we all think. Go on.”

  “He’d just got sprung from prison. Shaved head. Sad tats all over his arms.”

  “Standard teardrop.”

  “Yeah, Homeboy Industries, they got a tattoo removal program.”

  “But they can’t do nothing about the teardrops, yeah. Too close to the eyeballs. Can’t have lasers that close to your eyeballs, can you?”

  Black-and-white photography on the wall dealt out puddles of Sinatra, Mohammed Ali, and any other person you wouldn’t think might have thought to stop in.

  “Yeah.” I told her. “He was waiting for his interview. Being brought back into the fold. His eyes were darting behind his glasses. He was trying to be positive, talking about his time in prison, his prospects for a new job. But his knee kept bobbing up and down. Rapid fire. He wasn’t doing as hot as he said, no way. And the only thing I could think was about the smell of
this place. This city, the way things hang in the air. Even though my last encounter was everything west of Fairfax, all I could think was what happened last time I was here. Man, dangerous thoughts, when all you care about is yourself.”

  “What did she do to you?”

  “Huh?”

  High Top stopped by and asked us if we wanted another drink.

  Only one answer to that.

  We lit a few cigarettes, and when our drinks arrived, High Top got her hemispheres upside down and handed me the white Russian. Gave Alana the scotch. We each settled on the hand we were dealt and drank.

  “What did she do to you?” Alana repeated, taking another ride on the merry-go-nowhere.

  “You’ve been here before .”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “You know this place.”

  “You ever been stabbed before?”

  I shrugged. Gave negligence a walk in the park. “Had a prostitute hold a knife to my throat once…” I took a taste of her white Russian, let the milk coat my stomach. “Not on my tab. Someone else’s. Also, it technically happened to Wanda. But I stole it for myself, we used to have this agreement.”

  “Well, Wanda can keep it.”

  “You stab somebody, Alana?”

  “I ran wild around downtown with a fake ID back when I was a teenager,” she told me. “I came here with my boyfriend. Someone tried to put the moves on me, some old man with a crippled hand, but he was all muscle. Marine, or Navy Seal, or something you wouldn’t want to fuck with, anyway. Things got out of hand. High Top wasn’t bartending that night, and I guess it’s good for the both of us that she wasn’t. The cops told me his name afterwards, and it was Franklin. He stepped into the middle of the fight and my boyfriend stabbed him. I mean, it was an accident, but also, yeah, he stabbed him. He was dead by the time the EMTs showed up. He took off, ran his ass back to East Los. I stayed behind, holding Franklin’s guts in place. He’s no genius, my boyfriend — he left his blade behind and everything. The cops interrogated the shit out of me, just for fun, a chance to give their hands a little taste of my body. They never needed any of it.”

  Alana took a bite of her straw. Lifted it from her drink like a slender cigarette and pointed some twenty feet away from where we were sitting. “There’s Franklin, all over the place.”

  “So I imagine your boyfriend’s in jail.”

  “Not anymore. And he ain’t my boyfriend.”

  “Out on parole?”

  “Just recently.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. Drank her white Russian, which sent my head spinning. “Twenty years knocked down to three? Got him to cop a plea without proper representation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like a match to me .”