She stared at me. “It’s not as likely as it seems.”
“What was your boyfriend’s name?”
“Manny. Manuel Castillo.”
I shook my head. Got the jukebox to hear my thoughts, send a little Rahsaan Roland Kirk my way, You’ll Never Get To Heaven. “I may have to check my notes,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” she said.
“Bit of a coincidence, then?”
“A familiar story?”
“Yes.”
“They’re all familiar stories,” Alana said. “And there’s no such thing as coincidence around these parts. Everything I’ve described matches everything you’ve described, because that’s all there is.”
I polished off my drink.
Alana had done pretty good business of her own, ordered us another round.
“Keep this up, you won’t be able to drive home.”
“Don’t be fooled. Sometimes, I like it here.”
I laughed with a tired wave of my hand. Lit a cigarette. High Top remained confused as to who was who. Served me the white Russian, slid my scotch between Alana’s awaiting hands.
“My room is a pastel rectangle, approximately fifty square feet,” I said. I handed her my cigarette, and lit another. “The walls are blank, cracked, like the rest of this place. The ceilings are fine. Higher than most hotels, possibly the most merciful part of this quiet thrust. The bathroom is a combination of wilted wall paper, blue flowers, and cracked porcelain. No television. Alarm clock wired to the radio. The ice machine on my floor has a hole in it, a plastic spider web spreading out. Like it was punched by someone who needed to get what was in there in a real hurry. Out of my windows, they face west, and you can catch the mirage of downtown LA as the sun sets, the buildings built into the freeway, the smoke and final solution to this crazy fucking city.”
Alana had herself a helping of what was rightfully my drink.Her braces gleaming, with an inadvertent laugh as she leaned close to me, she said, “Sounds like you ended up right back in LA.”
“And you just plan to never leave.”
She rubbed her forehead against my face, nose moving up, pressed against the corner of my mouth. “That was always the plan.”
I kept my hands where they were. Let my mind wander all over the angels in my imagination. Laughed a little. “Things get worse, don’t they?”
“Better hope they keep getting better,” she said. “You chose to come back.”
A few seats down, a perfectly bland nobody ran his hand through shallow streaks of grey. Turned to the man next to him and wondered where the time had gone. The man replied with a quick adjustment of his white undershirt. His eyes bulged behind lids that insisted on sleep. Didn’t look like that was going to be the case, though. Not as long as the sun continued to set, and certainly not as long as the clouds kept their distance for fear someone might recognize a familiar shape, somewhere in the world up there.
Not on that particular evening, promises broken, watching the clock strike midnight at the Stinson.
Making Love on the Moon.
This was a dry slice of wisdom handed down by Mr. Joe Watson, and on the surface, it was nothing new.
This is a man’s world, Lucky, he told me. They are the takers, the mapmakers. Self-appointed gods of history. And if there’s one thing God’s incapable of, it’s offering any kind of explanation of what he is or who he’s supposed to be. Men are so accustomed to existing as-is, what can they tell you? That I am a man. That you are a man. Self-evident truths we’ve relied on for so long, they’ve grown salty, turned our mouths to slabs of sheetrock.
It was Autumn, early in the season as far as the leaves went. Pantheon was back in town.
Joe’s eyes made short work of the eight o’clock crowd. Sliced clear through the haze of cigarettes and overcast bravado. Rested his back against the bar. Took another pull of Miller and tilted his head closer towards mine.
Lucky, he sighed, running a quick sound check. Plucked another Camel from the pack. Waited for me to finish waiting, then followed up with, what happened to all the men?
Nothing there I was qualified to answer. Made do with following the scope of his stare. Another night at On The Rail, this one just a little different from the others. Half the room plastered with college kids. Frat boys. Interchangeable smiles, cloths, haircuts. All colors of the palest pallett, their stuttering chuckles punctuating talks of class, kegs and pussy.
Back to Joe. Scratching lightly below his peppered beard. Furrowed brow, cropped crown and crow’s feet. Wasn’t the sort to be world weary. His skin was far too thick, his smile too many shades of grim compassion. Battle tested was the best way to put it.
I look at these boys and I fear there’s no hope. All bluster and no brains. No humility. Showmanship in place of experience and empathy. These are the leaders and representatives of the 21st century.
I asked if he wanted me to lighten their load.
That might help, he said. Don’t kid yourself though… It won’t change a thing.
I took an empty table alongside a thick bottleneck of Greeks. Picked a cue stick, 20oz weight. Rolled it across the surface, checking for warps in the wood, my ears picking up on their conversation. Each one talking over the other in an aggressive clash of matching philosophies. Repetitious advice, everyday household uses for the female body. Shared ownership of a not-too-distant future.
I racked for a game of nine. Broke with enough force to send a minor shockwave through my neighbors. Casually pulled a twenty from my jacket and dropped it into the top left corner. Went on a shooting spree. Nothing spectacular, pulling the odd punch or two. Chalked my cue on occasion. Taking my time.
It was Joe who had told me Sure, there’s a couple of hustles out there that work. Work with surprising consistency. But the mythology is a bit overblown. It’s like basics for breakfast. You can pretend you don’t know the first thing about leave, cushions or top-left English. But that’s a whole lot of effort. Whole lot of makeup and special effects. Yes, of course, without a doubt, people love a sure thing. Love being right. But if there’s one thing they love more, it’s proving someone else wrong. And they will dig that grave down to the bedrock before realizing they’re the only ones standing in it.
I heard the question in mid stroke. Drew back, took an unflattering shot on the eight. Straightened. Face to face with a six-two powerhouse sporting a Nets jersey, white Pantheon lid. Confident grin of a landowner. Not quite where I wanted him yet.
Had him repeat the question, then told him the twenty was my way of looking for a game. Took a moment to look past his mammoth shoulders. I sent a polite nod to his brothers. They threw a few deliberately indifferent responses my way, too cool for school.
He seemed interested. I told him it wasn’t like eight-ball. He seemed a little exasperated, made it clear he understood how nine-ball worked. I asked him if he understood what a race to three would entail. He said yes, best two out of three. I corrected him, right there in front of his boys – first person to win three games wins the kitty. Took it one step further, began to explain that kitty was really more of a poker term, cool if he didn’t know what I had meant.
But of course he did. And, of course, he had to insist.
And I had no choice but to tell him it wouldn’t be in his best interest. Him and his boys were eight-ballers. There were strategies and angles he wouldn’t know how to play. He’d be pissing his money away.
And New Jersey didn’t like that. He reached into his khakis, pulled out a leather tumor and sifted through a few twenties. Dropped one into the pocket and told me to rack.
I suggested we lag for the break.
He pretended to know what I meant, and I pretended to pretend.
Chalked my cue, and glanced over to find Mr. Joe Watson watching from his post.
Casually sending a nod my way as he lit another smoke, even though none of it would make any damn difference.
***
If you li
ved in Verona, there was only one sunset for every day.
If you lived at On The Rail, closing time was a second chance at twilight.
Two in the a.m. Tabs settled. Undesirables out the door. Each individual light over each individual table turned off, leaving the remains with a dirty bulb above the bar, buzz of electric signs. Fresh round for everyone in the know. A game of cards, late night movie shining down on the outdated television.
On this particular night, Casper had a batch of Bullet waiting beneath the bar. Poured some beauty into a couple of ugly red cups. Added a few ice cubes. We corralled one or two regulars into a progressive game of three-ball. Five dollars a round. Seven draws later, I was out thirty-five. Then thirty. Made the mistake of winning on the low end. My fifteen dollar victory was quickly meted by an interminable hour that left me down fifty when Casper dropped two on the snap then made short work of the third.
From the Greeks, to my own pocket, to the coffers of Casper Noel. So went the underground economy. Breaking even was as good as it got, and I sat down at a table with Mr. Joe Watson.
Nice work on those Pantheon boys, he told me.
I nodded, helped myself to some bourbon.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized what defined me, he said. Because I worry about you, Lucky. I’ve met one or two of you in my life. Once or twice. And then I never met them again, if you catch my meaning. Or even if you don’t. Either way, I never did see those cats cross my path after the last time I saw them.
I had a drink.
Casper was at the bar, restocking. Running down the checklist.
I’d like for you to do something with your life. Not in the general sense, like those boys tonight. Blow a few years at college, go into the family business. Run a hedge fund, run the whole goddamn world into the ground. That’s not doing something. That’s following. And not following is something you are good at. But you can’t let it be a rule. The defining factor. It’s one thing for a person to be free. The minute a man’s brain turns to anarchy, that’s the bottom of the ninth.
My eyes fluttered towards the bottle.
Joe gave me the go ahead, said he wouldn’t take it personal if I had myself another go.
I don’t remember where I was when Kennedy was shot, Joe said. Don’t tell a lot of people this, because it isn’t true. But it might as well be. Truth is, I just don’t care to remember. Which is far worse of an admission. Purposefully removing yourself from the collective sorrow of that day in ’63. Sad to say, I never liked it as a moment. Wasn’t interested in it. Slide that pack of cigarettes on over my way, and I’ll tell you what I remember instead…
I did as I was told. He had himself a Marlboro.
Slid the pack on back.
I helped myself to both a smoke and another drink and waited.
I was sixteen years old in July of 1969. It was the twentieth. There was a girl I had been chasing after named Madeline. Her full name was Madeline Mae. I knew her as Maddie. And it was on that night, after much of what passed as courting in those days, that we bunked together in her tiny house. Practically a shack by today’s standards, but it had running water, electricity. All the basics. Might not have been her first time, but it was certainly mine. Stretched across the couch. Mother out for the evening, a nurse on second shift. Television on. Anticipation of what was to come overwhelmed by anticipation of what was to come. Because we were supposed to be watching history. And in a way we sort of did, Lucky. Making love on those old cushions, thinking to myself there’s nothing more that could be going right in this ugly old world, when I had it in me to turn to the television. I took a moment. Turned to her. Kissed her to let Maddie know it was all right, what was about to happen. Gently moved her face, turned it so that we were both looking at the screen. There was Neil Armstrong, taking his first steps on our sister satellite. I told her, watch this. Look at this. And we smiled in the middle of it all. Time out in the middle of making love on the moon…
He didn’t smile this time around. His eyes did, a little.
I favored him with a nod, too busy waiting for him to finish his story.
He never did.
Somewhere in the middle of the history, Casper had taken a seat at the table.
Puffing on a decent, ten dollar cigar.
The Jukebox playing a little Jimi Hendrix, reminding us that Somewhere a king has no wife.
He offered Joe a pull.
Joe gave it a taste. Nodded. Smoke trailing from his lips in felonious wisps.
When the offer came my way, I declined with a grateful smile.
At home with another cigarette, another pour of bourbon and the endless sunset of Joe Watson’s story.
We sat and listened to the music for another half hour or so.
Joe had been there and back. He’d done the road, hustled Harleys, laid sheetrock, shot at killers from behind the badge, laughed in the face of Atlantic City, been left for dead, lost everything he had in a single night, been married, divorced, brought his daughter up through the years, all the while watching, always, for any sign, any hint, for the reason we kept fighting.
I took a few bullets down my throat.
Somewhere in the distant past, Joe ended up owning On The Rail.
And I ended up living there for far too many years before something else came along to define whoever I was, in what otherwise was a man’s world.
Sonia’s Window.
the boy sat on the floor of Sonia’s apartment in 100 degree summertime. dry desert heat flowing between the decrepit patio and the bedroom. cigarette clamped between his lips, steeped in the details of the day. indifferent to the nameless young anarchist stretched across the couch, struggling to decipher the cover of a vintage 12 inch. the slow swing of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong swelled from velvet red speakers, occasional skips and vinyl pops. in another room, snatches of conversation.
the boy’s gaze fell on a stuffed elephant, nestled between a few cassette tapes and a cinderblock shelf. he raised a plastic cup to his lips. small swallows of Gato Negro. listing the flavors, shades of lush blueberry and cherry bygones.
couldn’t bring himself to venture back beyond that same morning. waking up to the arid sunshine. traversing one house over to knock on Paxi’s door.
and Paxi had rolled out of bed without hesitation.
I have to go to El Centro, the boy had told him. in English, giving Paxi a chance to practice. Don’t want to get lost. want to come with?
Sure, Paxi answered. Just let me eat some M&Ms.
the bus had been packed, even after peak hours. windows open. the pair had stood towards the back, balancing against the bounce of potholed streets. unspoken agreement to keep an eye on each other’s pockets. half an hour down the line, disembarking on the corner of Alameda and Manuel Rodriguez, that second one named after a revolutionary who would dress as a bum and run scams on the mayor.
city walls alive with graffiti and dead foliage.
and now, they had moved to the dining room. sun streaming through the window, a tiny rectangle revealing the rooftops of Santiago. all seated in semi-quiet, the agoraphobic presence of a wake. nodding along to the swing of things. stoned atmosphere. Sonia licked a wooden spoon smothered in honey, which the boy suspected was the only food in the house.
the record ended, and Sonia went looking for something fresh.
a little Jimi Hendrix, possible bootleg featuring Lonnie Youngblood.
the melodies stung. side winding saxophone, blues guitar, and the sounds of the crowd. one night only, once in a lifetime, pressed into orbital grooves.
the young anarchist stood. swung a satchel over his shoulder, patches sewn into tattered, navy blue. stole a cigarette from the boy, shook his hand. introduced himself as Federico, then left.
Sonia and her friend escorted him out.
the boy heard the front door close. waited for a few minutes.
across the table, Paxi looked up from a copy of Hopscotch. threw out a little
joke, wondered if they would ever come back.
the boy said he didn’t know. glanced at the clock, long hand making its rounds. he searched for a date, only got the time. all along the maroon walls, photographs did their best to guess. evidence held in place with dabs of black electric tape. the boy turned his head, jumped back to find the picture of a dead cat lying on the street. roadkill. paws stiff, insides splattered across the concrete in blinding, saturated hues.
the boy reached for his empty cup. just to make sure there was nothing there for him.
the runaways returned. Sonia placed a cardboard box on the table, handed the boy two bottles of Gato Negro. pointed to the corkscrew. as Sonia and the other girl retired to the kitchen, the boy went about his task. he poured himself some wine. a few sips of purple to grease the wheels.
from the kitchen, the low sizzle of oil in a pan.
lured by the promise of a late lunch, Paxi went to offer his services.
the boy couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle. chivalry held in check by loud colors and the surreal remnants of an afternoon sunset.
Sonia walked in and hung a string of dried oysters around the boy’s neck.
How do i look? he asked in broken Spanish.
Good, she said. took one of the bottles back into the kitchen.
he noticed a button, inexplicably pinned to the back of her shirt. crossed out swastika peeking through vines of matted brown hair.
the scent of onion and cooked pasta overtook the apartment, riding the currents. the boy thought the breeze must have been the same one, from that same night. ketchup in place of tomato sauce. stretching their pennies. stretching the hours until the minutes bled, begged for them to crawl into bed together and set things moving once more.
Sonia popped her head in. asked if he was hungry.
the boy fabricated a large breakfast, and declined. refusing to become part of this new apartment.
stuck with superimposing. two years gone, laid flat upon a second transparency. watched as Sonia placed mismatched plates over the dozen candles they had once lit, as Paxi plopped into his chair with total disregard for the cat who had napped for hours, as the girl he didn’t know reached past countless empty bottles, daylight swirling through midnight, creating a stage door sort of lavender, as Sonia sat in her own lap, dish held close to her mouth, unaware of the cigarette she was smoking as she removed her shirt and let it drop to the floor, had herself a glass of wine and laughed at the boy’s mispronunciation of the word psychopath.
Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs Page 5