Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Cleaning up after myself, as usual

  Par for the course.

  ***

  The windows in my room offered widescreen variations, planes soaring above the East River. Slid into my jeans. Wondering if it wasn’t time for a change. Summer of the new millennium, and the world had already forgotten that Y2K was supposed to be the year it all came to a grinding, binary halt.

  A second chance nobody seemed to be taking too seriously.

  Myself, I was living in an apartment on East 95th, the cusp of Spanish Harlem. Splitting the rent three ways atop a tower of compartmentalized units. Holding down a job waiting tables at a four-star restaurant down East 72nd way. I had even managed to remain in my first committed relationship for the better part of a year. All indiscretions on hold.

  Same lips, body, after sex taste in my mouth.

  Day in, day out.

  But the drinking had escalated. Gotten worse. Or better, depending on what bartenders you asked. Still, as far as maybe went, maybe it was time to give it a rest. See if maybe a couple of days or so without an eye-opener, cocktail or nightcap might nudge me a little further in the right direction.

  I took a quick look around my room. Nothing but a square, green bridge table, home to my abused laptop and an ashtray gagging on Marlboro butts. Wood-framed futon. A mini-fridge stocked with tallboys of Bud Light. Empty wine bottles stationed along the window sill. Scattered papers decorating the floor, crammed with scribbled notes of events I wouldn’t have remembered otherwise.

  No posters, no photographs to judge me

  I rubbed my eyes, head pounding.

  Maybe it’s time for a change, I mumbled to myself.

  I glanced out the window, saw yet another plane float effortlessly across the sky.

  ***

  I called Helena. Got her answering service. Told it to tell her I was headed downtown. Took the elevator to the lobby, and headed out into the streets. Crossed Third Avenue. Caught a glimpse of The Bishop, one block down. Put on my blinders and made for the 6 train. Cut across the playground of PS 198.

  The low roll of thunder accompanied me all the way to the corner of 96th and Lexington. A sound so thoughtful and reassuring that I failed to grasp its meaning.

  Edged my way down the steps and into Manhattan’s sweltering tunnels.

  ***

  I transferred to the E on 51st Street.

  Sat in a relatively uncongested car. A couple of kids made an appearance, dressed in Nike gear, each holding a carton of peanut M&Ms. Raising money for their basketball team. Young entrepreneurs. I bought a pack for a dollar, unconcerned whether or not I was being hustled.

  Just another barroom tip deferred.

  The train clattered along, and I dug into my sweets.

  ***

  The skies had shifted dramatically in the half hour between worlds.

  I trotted up the steps, only to find a curtain of liquid pebbles crashing down. Fresh off the assembly line. Village denizens just starting to bolt for the nearest store, diner, anything. Ballers on the Third street courts calling it a day.

  Took me a moment to adjust. Felt the hard sting of BBs against my skin. Hot as the surrounding air, nothing refreshing about it. Helena’s building was on Fifth Avenue, halfway between Washington Square and Union. My feet staged a coup against a significantly damaged brain, and sent me running along Third. Improbable sunlight cut a surreal path up Macdougal Street. Buildings blurred, water like Saran Wrap. Ears filled with the rattle of rain detonating against parked cars.

  In a final, desperate plea for clarity, my thoughts coalesced around a single, powerful argument: Helena hadn’t been home. No telling when she would be coming back. And in the meantime, there really was no place else to go.

  I instinctively ran down a familiar set of steps. No time to guess why the security gate had been left open. I huddled in the alcove, stared up at the zigzag of fire escapes. Brownstone rooftops set against flat, starched skies.

  The jingle of keys made me jump. I whirled around, found Zephyr standing at the door. Skin camouflaged against the unlit depths of his bar. Broad smile and cheeks, pleased to see me. Eyes, brow and mustache colored with concern. “Lucky, man. What are you doing?”

  For a moment, I felt the words I’m going to quit drinking for a while forming along with the droplets on my lips. “God sprung a leak. What are you doing here? What’s it, like, four-thirty by now?”

  “Who cares? Come on in, man. You look like a wet dog.”

  The imagery got him giggling as he ushered me in.

  Creole Nights was littered with the flotsam of last night’s debauchery. Overfed ashtrays. Empty bottles of Heineken and Red Stripe shared the bar. Chairs stationed several feet away from tables covered in glass; straws bobbing in mid-tide helpings of Long Island Iced Teas and Lynchburg Lemonades.

  Par for the course.

  Shit. And here I am.

  “Haven’t seen you in a bit,” Zephyr said, taking a minute or so to take in the deluge. “What brings you down here?”

  Once again, I found myself about to spill my newfound goal of sobriety. “Got caught in the rain.”

  “I mean what are you doing downtown?”

  I wasn’t sure there was much of a difference between the two.

  Zephyr closed the door and locked us both in.

  Outside, the rain continued to fall.

  ***

  For the next hour, I helped Zephyr clean up.

  Cleared the tables. Wiped them down. Swept the floor clean of cigarette butts, mangled coasters and shredded labels. Went back to the kitchen to get some ice, two cases of Corona. Took a moment to pause between stacks of cardboard boxes. Knelt down and rubbed the cat along his soft, feline underbelly.

  “Hey, there, Moses,” I muttered.

  Zephyr turned the lights on to their lowest setting.

  Got the music going, unlocked the door.

  “Creole Nights is open for business!” he announced.

  Nobody would come in for another ninety minutes.

  Zephyr asked if I wanted a drink.

  I asked if I could use the phone.

  Dialed Helena’s number. Got the answering service again.

  Left a message, let her know where I was. Hung up with a muffled Goddammit.

  Out on the streets, Manhattan remained one large snare drum, pummeled by rain.

  Zephyr opened the register, counted out a few bills. “You want that drink, Lucky?”

  “Shit…” I sighed. Pulled up a seat and slapped my cigarettes on the bar. “Looks like this day’s just going to end up any way it goddamn pleases.”

  “So, yes?”

  “So yes. I’ll take a Bud.”

  Zephyr popped a top, placed the beer in front of me. “Here’s to the rain.”

  “Yeah.”

  My name is Lucky Saurelius and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been twelve hours since my last drink.

  I picked up my beer and helped myself. Reset the clock with every single swallow.

  ***

  Zephyr’s eyes brightened at the sight of fresh blood.

  I turned in my seat, now stuck halfway through my fourth beer. Quickly came to understand the celebration in Zephyr’s smile. A group of twenty or so people had bottlenecked themselves on the narrow steps leading in. Doorway giving birth to each one. Each one taking a few steps, then staying close to the entrance, talking in excited, whispered tones. Unsure of what to do. An assortment of business-casual chickens, heads whipping their way from one corner of the bar to another.

  Both Zephyr and I knew exactly what this was, though neither one of us had ever had ever witnessed it from within the sheltered walls of Creole Nights.

  Pub crawl.

  Finally, their leader emerged. Dressed in his own three-piece. Distinguished smile, relaxed command of the situation. Buzz cut clashing with sensitive, lightly freckled features. Face a latticework of deep lines, side effect of a constant smile.

  “Welcome to Creole Nights!�
�� Zephyr announced. “Come on in, have a drink!”

  It was a start. The unnamed leader stepped forward, followed by his uncertain flock.

  “So we’ve run into a bit of a snag,” he told us.

  “Me too,” I told him.

  “Let the man talk, Lucky,” Zephyr said.

  “We’re doing a pub crawl,” he began. I met Zephyr’s eyes with a psychic pop. “We were supposed to hit up a particular bar. Supposed to be around here. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it – called Kettle of Fish.”

  Zephyr deferred to me.

  I lit a cigarette. “Yeah, I can see your problem, sir.”

  He gave me the once over, put an friendly hand on my shoulder. “You can call me Blain.”

  “Good, you can call me Blain, too.” I shifted in my seat. Caught some of his people examining the mural on the far wall. Noting various points of interest, like tourists in an actual Caribbean village. “I couldn’t tell you where Kettle of Fish is. I can tell you where it was.”

  “Third, right?” Blain asked. “Supposed to be near Sixth Ave?”

  “Avenue of the Americas, yeah, that’s where it was.”

  “Well, we’ve been looking –”

  “Where it was,” I said. “It moved. Don’t know where. You all want to check out what filled in for it, the bar now goes by Fat Black Pussy Cat.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the one. Fat Black Pussy Cat.”

  He stared at me. Really stared, dug into my eyes with a knife and fork. I was having a bit of a day myself, and thought I’d return the favor. Let him know we were brothers in arms. He smiled, eased into a grin.

  My face wasn’t wired to go that far, but I gave him a nod.

  “All right!” he announced. “Looks like we’re doing this instead. Order anything you all like and…” he turned to me. “What’s your poison? Pick a shot, any shot.”

  This day simply would not quit. I glanced at my wrist. Remembered I didn’t own a watch. “Tequila’s always a perfect match for the rain.” In a last ditch effort to make Zephyr some real money, I added: “Patron is even more perfect.”

  So there it was. Blain told his crew to order up, sidecar of Patron for everyone.

  Zephyr invited me to join him behind the bar, lend a hand.

  I was happy to oblige.

  We fell into our routine with ease; served up what few beers Creole Nights had to offer along with a catalog of mixed drinks, electric lemonades, whiskey on the rocks, vodka, rum, cognac.

  Been a long time since I’d stepped in those shoes, but it was like riding a bike.

  Straight into a burning building crammed with psychotic lobsters.

  Zephyr waved his own glass of rum. “Give it up for your guest bartender, Mr. Lucky Saurelius! Let your tips bless him like the rain!”

  Received my own little parade, and a blizzard of ticker tape bills.

  Zephyr bundled the cash, slipped it into my damp pocket.

  I was back where I belonged. Seat still open. Keeping a close ear on the downpour. On the awaiting telephone call, on the babble of corporate conversation all around me.

  Blain nudged himself close, tilted his bottle of Bud in my direction. “Thanks for the help, Lucky.”

  We crossed swords, took a swig.

  “What was the name of the place that I was supposed to –”

  “Fat Black Pussy Cat.”

  “Ha!” He shook his head, waved at one of his followers with a meaningless flick of his wrist. “That still kills me.”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you up to, down here, by yourself?”

  “Hard to call this being by myself…” I lit a cigarette and took a look around. “What are you doing down here not by yourself?”

  He loosened his tie, read the label on his beer. “I’m on a pub crawl, right?”

  “Yeah, had one look at you all and –”

  “I work at Stanton, McGregor and Plymouth,” he plowed ahead. “We’re the PR parent company of the ad agency Stanton and McGregor, mostly handling the overseas interests of American affiliates.” Before I could ask what that meant, he sort of clarified. “For Stanton, McGregor and Plymouth. We babysit babysitters.”

  I decided to nod.

  “So these are my top accounts,” he said. It served as a reminder, and he called out, asked how everyone was doing. Satisfied with the positive response of clashing accents, he brought it back to us. “They’re in town for a few days. My boss thought a pub crawl might be an entertaining way to kill an evening. So we started down at our offices at One World Trade, snaked our way uptown. Started to rain, and we switched to cabs. About to hit up Kettle of Fish, only to find –”

  “Fat Black Pussy Cat.”

  “And I guess that’s what I’m doing down here… not by myself.”

  I nodded towards the international consortium. “What are they in town for?”

  He smiled, eyes a little on the worn side. “Funny thing about business trips. Lot of times, it’s fly first, find a reason later.”

  Sounded a little blasphemous to be spoken so plainly, in such close proximity.

  I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Caught sight of two Japanese men in suits, happily jabbering over white wine. Couldn’t tell whether they were identical twins, or if perhaps I was just a supreme racist.

  I was about to ask Blain if I was a racist, when I noticed another pair of shots stationed before us.

  Blain was smiling at me. Eyes restless with a blind enjoyment. I gave him an approving look. Got my due in a wink, and we toasted. Knocked it on back.

  He slammed his glass against the bar.

  Rubbed his face with a loud moan, a man faced with another day at the races.

  “All right,” he mumbled to himself. “Time to get going.” He took a deep breath, repeated the exact same words in an enthusiastic, booming tenor. “ALL RIGHT! TIME TO GET GOING!”

  Amid the multicultural agreements, he hunched over the bar. Reached into his jacket. Brandished a business card. Handed it over with something between a grin and lynched horse thief.

  I accepted the token, awaiting further instruction. An explanation. Didn’t get one. Blain simply dusted himself off, gathered his followers like a telepathic sheepdog. Corralled them up the steps, one by one, out into the dusk.

  The rain had stopped.

  “When did that happen?” I asked.

  Zephyr slapped down a stack of tens and singles on the counter.

  “What’s that?” I asked, equally surprised.

  “Your cut, Lucky,” he said. “He tipped us one hundred dollars.”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you not see all those people he brought down?”

  “Yeah, but those others already… and, I mean… all I did was show up today.”

  “And that’s all it took…” He nudged the money in my direction, took a ten-spot off the top. “And I’ll just trade this in for a double of Jack?”

  I bit my lower lip. “The rain stopped.”

  “And you’re still waiting for your phone call.”

  I took a look at the battlefield of empty bottles, glasses left behind by the world’s economic superpowers. “Guess I should help you clean up first.”

  “That’s fine too,” Zephyr said. “No reason for you to leave, right?”

  My reply was a collection empty remnants.

  I got my drink and waited.

  ***

  It was approaching eight, when what shouldn’t have happened, happened.

  Nothing more than a weak mix of regulars and randoms. Clothes barely dry. Shoes still damp, a duet of oversized slugs. Ice cubes protruding from an nearly wasted glass of Jack.

  The bell above the door gave its ceremonial welcome. I’d given up on hopes of Helena stopping by and extracting me from my seat, and I didn’t turn to investigate. Lit another cigarette, and let me be me. I sucked back the icy remnants of my drink.

  Felt an elbow rub against me.

  One
quick look to my left revealing a face I never thought I’d see again.

  Surprised enough to make an exception to the rule of cool. “Blain? Christ, What the hell are you doing back down here?

  His face had become an irreconcilable jigsaw. Pieces crammed together from competing sets. Happiness, dread, relief, bewilderment, a firewall of terrified resolution. Armani suit clamoring, ready to abandon ship. Steering the Titanic under cover of a perfect haircut, and eyes that had yet to catch up.

  “It just occurred to me,” he said. “You never told me your name.”

  “Going to have to beg your pardon there.”

  “Your name. I introduced myself, told you to call me Blain. You made a little joke. Said, you can call me Blain too. And, I mean… your name’s obviously not Blain. So what is it?”

  I had recovered enough to let the situation play itself out. “I’m Lucky. Lucky Saurelius. Feel as though Zephyr already mentioned it, back sometime there.”

  He gave a weak smile. “Good to meet you.”

  “Twice over.” I let the current of underground conversation do its thing. Let a few lines from Pharcyde’s Runnin’ take precedence over conversation. Bore witness to a couple walk through the door, take a good look at what they were getting into, then leave. “So that’s settled. Going to be taking off, now?”

  “Don’t think so,” he replied, motioning for Zephyr.

  “Seriously, where’s your guys? Your accounts, I guess, is what you called them, right?”

  “At a restaurant,” he said. Strung Zephyr down the bar, ordered himself a beer and a pair of shots. Turned back to me. “Carmine’s up in midtown.”

  “Are they still alive?

  “I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Came back to see you.”

  Interesting.

  Leaning in no small measure towards appalling.

  “Wait, what?”

  Our drinks arrived.

  “Yeah,” Blain said. Picked up his shot. “Just sat them all down for their antipasti. Told them their Caesar salad was legendary, not any of that creamy shit the commoners dip their shit into. I don’t know.” He sighed. “And I just had to leave. For some reason I just had to come back and ask you your name.”

  I reached for my shot. A little sick to my stomach. Raw admiration colliding with certain realities. “You just left them?”

  “Just left them.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “No.” He took back his shot.

  Not wanting to be impolite, I hurriedly followed him. Wiped my lips free of agave. “What do you mean, no?”

  “Yeah, I’m probably getting fired tomorrow.”