Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  “We should go sometime.”

  I kept the possibilities close to my salty heart, as the buildings receded to a blueberry-grey.

  Caught sight of a man walking towards us. Frame of a healthy marionette. Grey beard grizzled against muddy skin. Dressed in teak colors, head to toe. Counterpoint steps, as he turned his moistened eyes upon me. Stopped short. Glared at me as we walked by.

  “Boy,” he said, “I want to smash your face in, and I don’t even know why…”

  I kept on.

  Fortunate enough to have Zelda on my arm, tugging along like a red wagon as she kept watch over her shoulder.

  “What the fuck was that about, Lucky?”

  “Just the universe. Sending a message.”

  “You know that guy?”

  “No.”

  “But?”

  “But he thinks he knows me…”

  “How you figure that out?”

  It was getting dark. “I know a place where we can get some coffee.”

  “Hmm.”

  I pointed to the ground. “Dog shit.”

  She clomped her way around it, wheels misunderstanding their purpose.

  ***

  “It’s a little hard to explain,” I said.

  “What’s hard about it?”

  Café Gina, Prince Street between Thompson and Sullivan.

  White marble tables, carved into tiny circles. Seasonally misplaced Christmas lights hanging from the walls. Large doors opened out onto the streets, letting the urgency of city life stream in. Below the counter, bright lights bounced off decadent pastries.

  The harmonic sounds of coffee cups mingled with our own as we sat.

  One of us waiting for the other to speak.

  I remembered the question, and laid down my answer.

  “Yes... My parents. On my father’s side. All the men on my father’s side got their nose broken right about their early twenties. My grandfather, a mishap in Odessa, back in Russia. My father, rugby game in Chile. My brother. Twice. Once while driving along the LA freeway, last-second swerve onto an off-ramp that sent his car into a divider. Second time, a bar in Tijuana. Put his arm around some drunk Mexican and began speaking to him in Spanish. Never mind it was my brother’s first language. Depending on who you are, he passes for almost whatever race you peg him.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me… So this cat thought my brother was being disrespectful, some gringo bitch making fun. Fast as you can, pops my brother right in the weathervane.”

  “Ouch.”

  “My brother can be an idiot.”

  “Like you?”

  “I’m more of a fool.”

  “Difference?”

  “Fool doesn’t get executed for making fun of the king.”

  Ovidio slid back to our table. Hair cut in a jet-black helmet, parted to the left. A pale baby with premature creases and an eager grin. Twenty-seven-year-old Italian import. “More coffee for you and your friend, Lucky.”

  “Thank you much.”

  He crouched low. “You, eh… maybe want a little bit of the wine?”

  “I want all the wine.”

  “We got a bottle open in the back. Maybe a little bit in a coffee cup? Our little secret?”

  I gave Zelda the silent question. She nodded.

  I relayed the message to Ovidio. “Two cups of our little secret. Please.”

  He scurried back behind the counter.

  Zelda poured some sugar, stirred. “You still haven’t explained yourself.”

  “So every man on my father’s side had his nose broken. Right about when they were twenty years old.”

  “I’m guessing that’s you.”

  “For the past week at least.”

  Ovidio dropped off our clandestine red, and scuttled to the next table.

  “For the past week?” Zelda asked.

  “Random men, strangers in the streets. All of them have been picking fights with me. Swinging wildly. Had some Jersey asshole body check me outside Bobst Library just yesterday. Practically knocked me into a wall, then started screaming, What, want to start something? Want to start something, bitch?”

  “And the guy in the hat earlier?”

  “The guy in the hat earlier, yeah.”

  I pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Offered Zelda a stick. She shook her head, pulled out a pack of Parliaments. We lit up, sipped some wine. Chianti, from what I could taste.

  “So it’s inevitable?” Zelda asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “You believe in destiny.”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “What’s hard about it?”

  “Lot of chance out there…”

  “Yeah, ok. The chances of so many random people looking to punch you in the face, break your nose. What do you figure that figure that comes out to?”

  “Gastronomical.” I took a drag. “Don’t look like the curse is in any mood to be broken.” Drained my wine and exhaled.

  Zelda did the same. Pointed with her chin. “You’re smoking.”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t used to do that, last time we saw each other.”

  “Would you have remembered if I hadn’t reminded you?”

  “I do remember you, Lucky.”

  Our smoke mingled in the air between us.

  She ran a finger along the scar on her cheek.

  Ovidio swept in to keep the moment from coming into focus. “Oh, no! Your cups are empty! Let me take them, I will refill them for you.”

  Zelda watched him leave. Shifted her eyes back to me. Christmas lights dancing off her skin. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to know more.”

  “I know a bar on Macdougal that caters to the underage.”

  “And to think, all I did was wake up this morning.”

  From beneath the table, I could hear her wheels rolling back and forth along the tiles.

  ***

  It took another piggy back ride to get her down the steps of Creole Nights.

  Greeted by the ring of a silver bell and sounds of a dozen jaws dropping. Regulars unable to comprehend who had got dragged in by what the cat dragged in.

  I set Zelda down at a table by the mural, and headed to the bar.

  Aiysan gave me a wink. “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky.”

  Joined by Zephyr, Evan, Orlando and company:

  “Nice.”

  “Somebody’s got a live one tonight.”

  “Mr. Lucky Saurelius, the man.”

  “Enough.” I accepted a gifted cigarette and a light. “You do realize this joint’s the size of thimble.”

  “I can hear you!” Zelda called out from the table.

  Zephyr laughed, brought his hands together. “Busted!”

  Served me up a pair of Coronas. On the house.

  I took them back to the table. She was seated on the bench, back to the wall. I sat across from her, my own back to the room. We both worked the limes down our longnecks and toasted.

  Zelda was good with the drink, already halfway through.

  She burped. “Excuse me.”

  “No need.”

  “Hm.” She lit a cigarette. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Any of them.”

  “Starting now.”

  “You are destined to get your nose broken. But you haven’t. Because there’s a lot of chance out there.”

  “There is.”

  “What’s holding it back?”

  “You’re familiar with chaos theory.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You ever heard of Steles?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Ok.”

  “So we all know what we know.”

  I took a sip of beer, had a drag. “You ever think what might have happened if only?”

  “All the time.”

  “Imagine if only, then take it down to the smallest of events.”

&nbs
p; “Wait, is this the butterfly thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ok.”

  “Yes…” I lifted my hand. Stuck my pinky out. “This is my pinky.”

  “I know.”

  “Just a pinky.”

  “Yeah. Keep on.”

  “And now…” I began to move my little finger in slow, semicircles. “There I go. I’m changing the air around us. True, the door is closed, and it’s a long way from here to Melbourne, but like it or not, I may be affecting the weather half way across the world. Just by this. Just by doing this.”

  Zelda gave me a look. “Then stop doing it.”

  I paused. Withdrew my hand. Reached for my beer. “Never thought of it that way.”

  “See, you can make room.”

  “Think so?”

  “Double edge. Before I left the house today, I put on roller skates.”

  “So now there’s us.”

  “Here.”

  “Destiny?”

  “Any chance I could get another drink?”

  I held up my pinky.

  Zelda shook her head. “I told you to stop doing that.”

  “Not what you think.”

  Zephyr coasted by with another pair of Coronas. “Here you go, Lucky…” He smiled at Zelda. “Good to see you again. Love the roller skates.”

  She gave him a wink.

  I lit another cigarette. “Yeah, Zelda. Good to see you again.”

  “You heard of Prince Wesley?”

  “Yeah. Reggae singer. Big fellah, gray dreads?”

  “Yeah. Used to date my mom.”

  “You’ve been here before.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me I don’t know where to look.”

  “What about when?”

  “Saturday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saturday, then.”

  We toasted. Quietly swept the unspoken coincidences aside.

  ***

  Half past midnight, and it was the same scene. Six drinks later. The live music had canceled, leaving room for softer sounds. Tables topped with drinks, conversation. Music dressed in shades of late-eighties reggae.

  Zelda and I were smiling.

  A little unbelievable, even to myself.

  “I remember the day,” I said.

  “More,” she said.

  “I was lying with my head in your lap. You were touching my temples.” I reached up with my fingers. About to demonstrate, when –

  “I told you to stop doing that.”

  I put my hands down. Had a drink. “ – you were touching my temples.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You seem… irritated.”

  “I’m irritated that nothing ever happened.”

  “A little irritated myself.”

  “Your fault,” she said. Lit another cigarette.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you remember why?”

  “Because I’m a fool.”

  “A fool can insult the king without worry of execution.”

  “But me?”

  “You told me, a few days later, that I was like a virus.”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it. Prove you remember, because it’s stuck with me all these years.”

  The speakers tuned themselves to No Doubt, Underneath It All.

  “I told you I liked you. Short sold it. It was more than simple affection. But I wasn’t ready to try for anything. With anyone, what it meant to mean something. Or anything. You got to me too late, I guess. And I told you, that ever since I met you, I internalized you. And it was like a virus. You get it. You deal with it. You beat it. Then it stays in your body. Never leaves.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not the best way to describe how I felt about you, agreed.”

  “You compared me to chicken pox.”

  “To be fair, I compared you to shingles.”

  “Yum.”

  “I regret it, wholesale.”

  “Me too.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think of the music, and I get…” she shook her head. Cigarette, beer. “I just get how I am right now.”

  “Yes, but we’re here right now,” I said. “So one thing leads to another.”

  “Mm.”

  “Want me to take you home?”

  “I want to keep talking.”

  “Me too.”

  “And send another drink our way. Who do you have to fuck around here to get a shot of tequila?”

  “Nobody.”

  I went to the bar and placed my order.

  Ignored the regulars. Looked over my shoulder.

  She was playing with her hair…

  ***

  Side by side.

  Both of us on that bench, four shots deep. Beers cleared, moved on, long since ignoring the count. Cigarettes nearing empty. Budweiser clock reading 4:15. Only a couple of stragglers left behind.

  We were shoulder to shoulder.

  One of her legs resting on a chair. Wheels wondering what happened, remembering when they used to matter. I watched the contours of her thighs press against whitewashed jeans.

  No doubt we were staring at the same sad scene. Focusing on the same collection of martini glasses left behind by those who were done with stories.

  “So when does it end?” she asked, quietly. Lit a cigarette with a misshapen candle. “When you turn twenty-one? Twenty-two? Ever?”

  “How old are you, these days?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “More of a common question.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “How’s that?”

  “You know I’m adopted.”

  “Yes.”

  “So my official date has me at twenty. But when I went back to visit the village where I was born, in Ethiopia, they said otherwise.”

  “Otherwise how?”

  “They remembered the night I was born. They knew me. Said that the moon disagreed. Said that I must be at least twenty-four. Could be I’m old enough to be having a drink without worrying about what my ID has to say about it…”

  “Wow.”

  “A good story.”

  “It belongs somewhere.”

  “Maybe that was the point,” she said. “Maybe we were only supposed to meet for this one story. This one idea, right?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t like it.”

  “There’s a butterfly in Japan laughing at you.”

  “Don’t speak Japanese.”

  “You make sense, though, in a strange way.”

  “Don’t know no other way to do it.”

  “The scar on my cheek.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how I got it?”

  “You told me that night in the car.”

  “You need to hear it again, though. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “They crept into my house and killed my mother,” she said. “It was during the Ogaden War, or thereabouts. I was a baby. Can’t say I remember. Story goes I was lying in bed with her. They put a bullet in her head, and that bullet scratched my cheek... Whether on its way in or out, I don’t know…” She picked up a shot glass and licked at stray grains of salt.

  “What a stupid world.”

  “You want to talk about the smallest of initial conditions. Half an inch, a nervous twitch from the hit man,and I wouldn’t be here. Random, random.” She hummed along as Jonny Nash began to sing I Can SeeClearly Now. “Do you think we can we do anything to stop it?”

  “Got a quarter we can flip?”

  She dug into her pocket. Lifted her lap from the bench as she did. Hips rubbing against mine. Withdrew a twenty-five cent piece. Placed it on the table. I picked it up and threw it across the bar.

  She gave me the favor of a deep kiss.

  I tasted tequila and unscented candles.

  “What did that mean?” she asked.

&
nbsp; “Just… I don’t know.”

  “Hey!” Zephyr looked up from his totals. Spectacles gleaming with perfect reflections. “If you two want to fuck, you have to go home!”

  “Poetry,” Zelda said.

  “Can I walk you back to your place?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got wheels on my feet… you can roll me there.”

  Before that, we had some stairs to contend with.

  ***

  Pale blue and luminous greys acted as escorts.

  Up along Third Street. Past Castlebar, the Beantown Comedy Club, several years shy of knowing either one. Past LaGuardia place. A city coming to life, second chance in every last living thing. Zelda by my side. Arm linked with mine, my own little sidecar.

  She stopped before the Washington Square Village apartment complex.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “What?”

  I lit a cigarette. “This is where you live? This whole time? Right around the corner from where I pretend to learn?”

  “My mother is a professor in African studies.”

  “If that don’t beat all.”

  She lit her own cigarette. “It don’t.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says me.”

  No stopping the sun. Blue might soon give away to pink. The nearby roar of a garbage truck signaling the start of a new day in Manhattan.

  “I don’t think it’s true,” I told her.

  She bent down to unlace her skates. “What’s that?”

  “I’m not fucking around, Zelda. Stand up and talk to me.”

  “In a minute.”

  I waited. Counted down the full sixty seconds.

  Sure enough, time enough to get those skates off.

  Zelda slung them over her shoulder.

  First glance at tie-dyed socks. Toes wriggling against the concrete.

  “It can’t just be that you don’t know how old you are,” I said. “It has to be more. The reason we met. The reason we’re standing here in the cold, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s not good enough.”

  “We can always see each other tomorrow.”

  “It is tomorrow. Already.”

  “Yeah…” She put her palm along the back of my neck. “Another day without getting your nose broke. Why not take the same chance with us?”

  “I should warn you, if I see you again, I’m going to kiss you.”

  “You already did.”

  “You kissed me.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I’m going to kiss you. I’m going to mean it. And it’s going to be endless.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance.” She paused. Glanced down the street. “Hug me already.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Perfect day,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  She drew back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  Zelda gave me a smile to remember her by and walked away.

  I took a breath and popped my last Marlboro. Walked east towards the 6 train. Searching my pockets for a light. Thrown off my stride as an NYU janitor shoved me against a chainlink fence.