Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  A bit too brilliant of a move. The locals took immediate offense, citing some sort of etiquette neither one of us had ever come across.

  They got in his gorgeous face, but good.

  He threw their shade right back. “What do you mean, no safety?”

  Their point man adjusted his Vietnam vet cap and stepped up . “You can do it if you like. It ain’t against the rules.”

  “You gonna tell me a hold ‘em player’s not allowed to bluff?”

  “Not the same thing, man.”

  “It’s part of the game, MAN.”

  The woman at the bar must have taken a page from my brain, Brenda Lee coming on strong. I took the melody by its reins and stepped in. “Look. We’ll give you ball in hand, how about that?”

  “We don’t want ball in hand,” the man insisted. “We just thought we was having a friendly game, not playing fuckin’ nigger pool.”

  …On the bright side, Alex was speechless.

  I crammed a childhood worth of rage down my throat and puked it back up with a last minute negotiation: “No ball in hand, next game is on us, you keep the table no matter who wins.”

  He hesitated. “Still…”

  “And no more safeties,” I added. “Tell him you’re cool, Alex.”

  Alex wanted a fight, and I couldn’t say that he hadn’t earned his share of wild swings. Knocked to the ground more than once, by more than a couple of hardened halfwits. Just never quite hard enough. Didn’t understand this wasn’t his world. Too good looking, too fucking perfect, the whole goddamn situation wasn’t his world.

  “Tell him you’re cool, Alex.”

  He was pissed, but he was also without a friend. Relented with a offended handshake.

  “Fuck, yeah,” I said. “Let’s play some pool.”

  It was scratch for them, shot on the thirteen for me, shot on the nine for me, and since I didn’t feel like getting killed, sunk the eight in the corner right, with the cue sent right down the corner left.

  Alex couldn’t deal. Madly competitive, something I never understood. Though he came by it honestly. Family vacations structured around the mythos of Olympic lore. Up at nine in the a.m. to play volleyball. Break for lunch, then it was ultimate Frisbee, then synchronized napping and extreme board games after dinner.

  Alex was a winner, was the problem.

  I was a loser, and could let the world slide.

  Only thing was, there was something different about this one drunken calendar date.

  Trying to get Alex to cool his jets by the easy color of Bud and Beam.

  “So we lost, so what?” I said. “It happens, time to time.

  “You gave them the game.”

  “It’s not our house, Alex.”

  He tossed his shot back. “They don’t get to make up the rules as they go along, it’s not their game.”

  “It’s only a game.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” I raised my shot, toasting Mike and Molly. Got a gracious nod, and moved to bring my lips in for another belt of what did it, when my phone buzzed.

  I paused.

  Put the shot down and checked the number.

  An endless stream of digits with no dashes, dots, no point of reference.

  “Hang on,” I said.

  I stepped outside and answered a call that would send my life down the wrong path for the next ten years.

  ***

  I flipped my phone shut.

  Felt the breeze.

  Gave into the air.

  Tasted the salt, tire treads on the tip of my tongue.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Nothing to distinguish the answer from the roll of distant waves.

  Stepped inside. Slid the door shut.

  Alex had taken a seat at one of the tables. The towering blonde had joined him, along with a new friend. Brunette. Thick thighs and a jukebox bottom making this rockin’ world go ‘round.

  Couldn’t care less.

  I stepped to the bar.

  Molly took her cue, got me two more beers and a couple of shots.

  Mike reached over some empties and gave my arm a pat. “You good there, Lucky?”

  “Yeah.” I lit a cigarette. Blinked. “My book’s getting published in the UK.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Don’t feel that way.”

  “Congratulations, son.”

  Molly served it up, and Mike filled her in. She reached over and gave me a hug.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I really just kind of figured I would be pocketing the advance, then never seeing print, not even once in my life…”

  “Well, you were wrong. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

  I shook my head. “Mike? Molly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I never thought I would have the scratch to do this, but I’d like to buy a round for the bar.”

  Mike smiled. “Don’t know if any of our boys are going to accept. Your friend Alex ain’t exactly man of the hour.”

  “Sixty minutes,” I mumbled, before coming to. “So don’t tell them it’s from me. Just tell them it’s on the house.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “There isn’t one,” I said. Snatched a stack of napkins off the bar. “Can I borrow a pen?”

  I opened a tab for the angry and ungrateful.

  Sat down with Alex, his date for the evening, and her restless wingman. She knew why she was there, and I didn’t feel like make believe.

  “What’s up?” Alex asked.

  I spread out a few napkins. “They’re publishing it.”

  Alex blinked. “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good for you.” He went ahead and did his shot.

  The brunette thought it was time to care. “You’re a writer?”

  “He’s a dynamite writer,” Alex said, sticking to the code.

  “I’m ok,” I told her.

  The blonde smiled. “Why aren’t we celebrating?”

  “I’ve got to take care of a thing or two,” I said. Reached for my shot. “They might want another one after this.”

  “You don’t know that,” Alex said.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “This is a blip on the radar. A stopgap bandaid for the economy. You going to write young-adult fiction for the rest of your life?”

  “It’s a gig.”

  “It’s a market.”

  “And I’m a little piggy, it would appear.”

  The brunette brandished her cigarette in Alex’s face. “Your friend is weird.”

  “He really is,” the blonde echoed, but she wore a smile when she spoke. I caught a small, diamond crucifix winking at me from between her sun-freckled tits.

  “I’ve got work to do,” I said, and began to lay down some foundation. Reached for my beer.

  It was half gone in a half second.

  So was the brunette.

  Alex let his hands wander over what was left of our double date. Kissed her neck. He’d steal glances over towards the locals. Let them know who was running things, who had stepped in to take what was theirs.

  I let my pen blaze a trail, then closed out an eighty-six dollar tab.

  ***

  Alex’s family was away for the weekend.

  Had the beachfront house to ourselves, though three was crowding the four-story rental.

  I cracked open a bottle of red.

  Handed it to the blonde.

  She tried to make me feel better with a few strokes along my ribcage. I was familiar with the code and pretended to tend to some business outside.

  Watering the plants, or some such fucking thing.

  ***

  I sat out on the deck, and wondered where the moon had gone.

  Drank deep, choked on sleep.

  Let the sounds play catch, cashing in on hopeless nights. Those years spent drinking underground, uptown, winding my way parallel, always wondering. Now this. Now a book, now, maybe, an opportuni
ty. Made a mental note of the rejection slips, form letters from rags, riches, everything in between.

  I lit a cigarette.

  Didn’t feel like vengeance.

  Didn’t feel much like a chance for all those stories from a bar with no doorknobs.

  I stood.

  Belted to the left by a gust of wind. Down the wooden steps.

  Turned at the landing, stairs leading back towards the house.

  Paused halfway down.

  Faced with sliding glass doors. Panoramic view of a third-floor bedroom.

  Lights on. Noises off.

  No small surprise, Alex had led his lady down to where the magic happened.

  Sat down. Kicked my legs, stretched my arms out. Made the most of my balcony seat.

  Remembering that one time spent wandering the surface of Appolonia’s roof.

  I watched as he moved his mouth along her body. Technique not half bad, but I was starting to think maybe there were two exceptions now.

  I got bored. And half a bottle in, I realized it was done. She was asleep on a mountain range of pillows. One boot off, the other toe grazing the floor. Mini skirt hiked up her bare ass, arm hanging off the bed.

  I sniffed. Lit a cigarette.

  “Got one for me?”

  Without looking, I tossed the pack up the steps. Sent the lighter in for reinforcements. Heard him snap a few sparks before burning the tip and exhaling. He threw the pack back down. It hit me in the head. I didn’t take my eyes of the bedroom, that woman.

  “Congratulations, again,” he said.

  I took a pull of wine. “Thank you.”

  “Still, you did kind of stumble over your own dick into this. What about you short stories? What about your plans?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fine.”

  “How was she?” I asked.

  “She’s an heiress.”

  “Huh?”

  “Her family is Emerald Isle.”

  “She owns the island?”

  I heard him nod. “And a boat.”

  Alex always was the one to get the girl. “Get her to take us out on it tomorrow.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She owns an island.”

  “You’re getting published.”

  I drank some wine. “You are elegant, sometimes. You know that?”

  “Spare me.”

  “Ok.”

  “I’m not your enemy,” Alex said.

  “You treat me like one.”

  “That’s because you’re my only real friend.”

  “Alex?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nigger pool,” I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nigger pool,” I told him, one more for the road, just to make sure he understood. “That’s how you tell a fucking story.”

  “Yeah. Goodnight, Lucky.”

  “Night, Alex.”

  I don’t know where he wound up. But he certainly didn’t end up in bed with the island heiress. Made sure of that. Saw her body rise and fall with every breath, perfect time with every wave.

  Alex.

  He didn’t know it, but he had his own set of rules.

  And he would never be anything other than a winner.

  The ocean said goodbye, somewhere from inside the bottle, blameless and never ending.

 

  Henry.

  First and only time Finley ever cut me off, Gordon made fifty dollars on the deal.

  It was a Tuesday, and it was cold outside.

  Inside, The Bishop was wall to wall. Packed with ex-pats, professionals, leathery regulars, preppies and prelims. Finley and Shane taking all orders. A dozen different fingers molesting the jukebox. Cigarettes festering like rotten boils. Television a cross section of college hoops and rugby.

  I had colonized my own seat hours ago. Sat staring at a bottle of Bud and an empty shot of once was. Fresh off a disastrous gamble involving an ex-girlfriend, a battered passport and a dog named Chevalier. Nauseating ache wallowing below my ribcage. Tasting anger on my lips. Cigarette dwindling, waiting for another belt of Beam.

  Got my wish, along with another beer.

  Quick appraisal from Finley. “You don’t look so hot tonight, Lucky.”

  “Yeah.”

  To my right, a rugby fan with purple gums pounded the bar with his pint. Got his suds all over me. To my left, a broad-shouldered bruiser in a black leather jacket put the moves on his date. Bumped my arm as I moved to take my shot. Threw an apology over his shoulder. Slow burn, my eyelids twitching as I licked the bourbon off my wrist. Took it down. Drank the first third of my beer and went to the men’s room. Waltzed around the urinal, sheathed my useless pecker back into its nest. Washed my hands. Took pains to avoid the mirror. Didn’t need to reflect on that particular half of the world.

  Stalked back to the bar.

  Caught sight of the leather jacket parked in my seat.

  In. My. Seat.

  Saw the flash of an enchanted smile from his date.

  Lost control for a moment. Eyes glazed with bloodshot clockwork.

  Third person perspective, as this lunatic named Lucky strode towards his seat. Reaching out with both arms. Taking hold of the chair. Shaking. Shaking hard. Unsolicited aggression as the bruiser stood from his post, turned to face his aggressor.

  I dropped back into my first person body.

  Toe to toe with the man who would put me in the hospital.

  Welcoming the opportunity.

  Nothing doing, though, this time. Nothing but apologies. “Sorry, man.”

  Shit. I felt my misdirected rage subsiding. “Yeah, well –”

  “Can I buy you a drink or something?”

  “No, I’m fine, just…” I muttered something else. Took my seat. Went back to ignoring him.

  Sat and waited.

  …Got myself a pair of useless friends for my efforts.

  ***

  “Look at this sorry piece of shit,” Gordon said, grinning.

  “Yeah. He don’t look so hot,” Korben agreed, toying with his dreadlocks.

  “I once vomited on a pecan pie,” Gordon continued. “Don’t remember the circumstance, doesn’t matter.”

  “It really shouldn’t.”

  “But I did. And the result was a finer, infinitely more charming entity than this thing sitting here.”

  “A little harsh.”

  “But honest…” Gordon threw Finley a semaphore wave. “Barkeep! Pint of Guinness and a shot of Knob Creek for me. A pint of Newcastle for my friend here. And get this sorry creature another of whatever he was having.”

  Finley trotted on down. “Good of you to show up…” he sent a quick nod in Korben’s direction. “Dreads.” Got his due respect from Korben, then got around to the black sheep in the room. “You buy Lucky his drinks, you best be ready to look after him, there, Gordon.”

  “I ain’t doing your job for you, Finley,” Gordon proclaimed, then bellowed with laughter. Noticed a sly suggestion, and leaned in close. Let Finley whisper in his ear. Nodded. Pulled back. “Team effort then, we have an agreement.”

  My curiosity was sated by a fresh round.

  Gordon raised his bourbon. “To Lucky Saurelius… the sorriest asshole this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  Korben raised his glass. “Don’t forget about the other side.”

  “Yes, correct. I always forget about the other side.”

  “And the line itself.”

  “Yes. At the very least, we can say he walks it with perfect grace.”

  “That’s unless Grace decides to go home with another man.”

  “Ah…” Gordon scratched his head. “Is this before or after he vomits all over her?”

  “Depends on the girl. Or the pecan pie.”

  I listened to them talk. Skipped the ceremony and downed my Beam.

  Eventually, they remembered why they were there, and toasted without me.

/>   ***

  Gordon had been feeding me drinks for an hour or so, when Danny Nellegan staggered in. Tie askew. Couple of buttons undone. Waxed chest a tasteful, salon tan. Arm in arm with a page torn from Vanity Fair. Introduced her as Ana, then went about slinging our names at random. Ana was far more deliberate in her choice. Picked Korben from the lineup and led him to a nearby booth.

  Nellegan joined us. Bought a round. Spouted a few words about working for Fox News, something else about how Ana had chosen wrong. Went to run some interference on Korben’s catch of the day.

  “Looks like Nellegan’s lost his girl to Korben,” Gordon said, stealing one of my cigarettes.

  I had one for myself. “Nellegan’s gay, you enormous idiot.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “What you don’t know could fill –”

  “Why’s he trying to cock block K?”

  “You smell like cheese.”

  “How else you want me to smell after a day at the cheese counter?”

  I coupled my mumbled response with a swift loss of balance. Saved by a fresh bottle of beer. Taking it down. Suds trickling down my cheeks.

  “Best watch yourself, son…” Gordon said. “Finley is liable to cut you off.”

  “Nope.”

  “Care to place a little wager?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve lost enough?”

  “Name the last time I lost a bet to you.”

  “I meant in general.”

  I sucked on my cigarette. “Fifty?”

  “Deal.”

  We had ourselves a shake.

  Danny stumbled back to the bar. Just long enough to order a fresh drink, then back to the table. He mentioned something else about Ana, wrong choice. Blew past my reply. I shrugged. Thought I’d flaunt my wager with another call for beer and Beam.

  Slow burn.

  ***

  Gordon grew bored with me and hatched a plan. Fresh off his weekly paycheck, he ordered a Midori sour. Picked up the green concoction and solemnly walked it to Korben’s table. Interrupted their game of footsy with the humble accent of an English butler.

  “Your Midori Sour, Sir,” he informed Korben.

  Set the drink down and returned to the bar. Guffawed with childish glee and ordered a Bay Breeze. Escorted shades of cranberry red to the table with the same loyal panache. Same dry, British delivery:

  “Your Bay Breeze, Sir.”

  Back again; this time making it a Fuzzy Navel.

  “Your Fuzzy Navel, Sir.”

  On and on, not planning to stop until Korben’s playing field was leveled with effete, multicolored landmines. I glanced behind my shoulder. Saw Ana doing her best to ignore the dodge. Caught Korben’s smile catching up with his frustrations.

  I turned back to the bar.

  Realizing the giant in the leather jacket had nuzzled close to my seat, once more. His back turned. Still hitting his stride with that nameless beauty. An occasional glimpse around his six-five frame revealed the trusting smile of a woman who was having the time of her life.