Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

by Joaquin Emiliano

  Extracted her Excalibur and unscrewed the cap. Took a double dose in two happy swallows.

  Wanda threw me an eyebrow or two, wondering when I had planted it back in her bag.

  Janet handed me the bottle. “There you go, Scooter-pie. Go deep.”

  I did. Wiped my lips. “So are you going to be Janet Love?

  “Yes, god, yes!” She took another belt. Sent the bottle back my way. “Janet Love!”

  “Then what?”

  “Do I look like a goddamn fortune teller?” she asked. Pretended to hand me the bottle. Drew it back and sucked down some more as I fought to reclaim what was rightfully mine.

  From somewhere off screen, Wanda smiled: “Snap.”

  We both turned.

  Caught her with a disposable camera.

  Eyes peeking over the rectangular box.

  We traded her. Bottle for camera. Took shots of her taking shots. Sent the merry-go-round from each one, to each other.

  Janet drinking with Lucky.

  Wanda drinking with Janet.

  A still shot of Lucky drinking with Wanda, which I would never have the chance to throw away.

  Both of us reaching with eager tongues towards the same end.

  Remy poked his head out from the waiting room. “They’re ready for us.”

  There was a quick scramble to see who would get the last belt.

  Remy waited patiently as we drank through a tangle of arms and Tennessee-tipped lips.

  ***

  The chaplain was dressed in a simple tweed suit.

  Protruding lips, sad and moist, clashing with his pleased brown eyes.

  An agent of happier days. Day in, day out.

  Because we were gathered there today to witness the union of Janet Banks and Remy Love. No vows. No invocation of the Lord from his unfortunate bureaucracy. An exchange of rings. A request for the witnesses to sign there, and there. Light shining through a stained-glass, nondenominational window, into the strangely triangular, nondenominational room. Pronounced husband and wife. Janet and Remy coming in for a kiss. Wanda bringing her fingers to an otherwise cynical mouth.

  Myself standing there with a drunken, stupid smile on my drunken, stupid face.

  Stupid, unreliable present, and when Wanda hugged me, I had the presence of mind to keep it to myself.

  ***

  We celebrated in an empty bar across the street.

  Remy ordered us a round of Cognac.

  Janet ordered loaded potato skins and mozzarella sticks.

  Just a little past noon, and the brilliance of the day wormed its way along the floor and wobbling barstools.

  We raised our glasses in a toast to the newlyweds.

  “Lucky…” Janet dumped the contents down her throat. Raised her glass once more. “I’ll never forget the night of my birthday…”

  In a rare moment of gratitude, God had the presence of mind to get Wanda choking on her drink.

  Janet remained stalwart. “I sent Lucky out. Out onto the streets. Out on a mission to fetch me a chicken shawarma. From Yatagan’s, across the street. He left, and with my drink in hand, I had to wait. And I thought he was gone. Wouldn’t come back. But he did. And when he did, he had twenty chicken shawarmas. Came down into Creole Nights and just started slinging those shits everywhere. I don’t think I ever saw the losers so happy. Everyone eating and pounding their Red Stripes. Happy and dancing, end of the fucking world… Thank you, Lucky.”

  We managed to bring our glasses together, drink.

  Wanda stared at me over her glass, question directed at Janet: “And then what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wanda shook her head. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Me too,” Remy echoed.

  I took an oversized bite from a rubber mozzarella stick.

  Lit a cigarette.

  “Good about her and Taylor,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Getting back together?”

  Without thinking, I put out my cigarette. Realized the mistake and lit another one.

  The bartender was a blonde. Straight hair, typical grin. Tits meant to entice tips from lonely number-crunchers, paisley ties and early afternoon knock-offs. I motioned towards my glass. Got a nice dose of Hennessy for my troubles.

  “I turned twenty-two again last night,” I told Janet.

  “Good for you, Scooter-Pie.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did those dirty girls make you do?”

  “All kinds of things,” I murmured.

  “Now I’m married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to do a shot?”

  “Tequila?”

  “Yes!”

  We gave ourselves a round, chased it down with cognac, and the world got a little easier for the two of us.

  Wanda and Remy showed up at precisely the right time.

  “Should we go?” he asked.

  “One more drink,” Janet said.

  I turned to Wanda. “What do you think? One more?”

  Wanda let her lids rest, then shot back to the now. “One more for the newlyweds.”

  And that was what we toasted to.

  Another meaningless bar in the middle of New York City…

  ***

  Wanda and I stumbled into the apartment.

  A rare moment where all the squatters, deadbeats, and so-called friends had found something to do with themselves beyond the walls of 30k.

  I took a quick glance along the empty 40s, bottles of vodka, bourbon and scotch.

  Reached down for the last fifth of a fifth.

  Had a few draws and let exhaustion set the agenda.

  Stretched myself out on the couch. Black vinyl sticking to my skin, forgetting that summer was several seasons away from a violent, cataclysmic ending.

  “I hear you,” Wanda said. Stretched her arms high above her head. Gave her navel a quick lay of the land.

  I motioned with my head. “Coffee table’s right over there.”

  “Shut up.” Wanda brought the moxie along, into our bed.

  Couch. Whatever the case may be.

  Stretched out alongside me.

  Face to face.

  Eye to eye.

  “That was a good night,” Wanda said. I felt the Jack Daniel's hot against my face. Knew her lips must have carried the same dangerous taste. “Janet’s birthday.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was I there?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean, was I there? Was I in your dream?”

  I was tired. And it was nice to have Wanda’s leg casually nesting my knees.

  “Yes.”

  “It was different though, right? It was how it should have been?”

  “Helena.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now that she’s gone off to wherever people go when they go to France –”

  “Paris.”

  “ – yes, now that she’s gone –”

  “Taylor.”

  “You’re not on the rag, are you? That was just your excuse.”

  “We’re getting back together.”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “I like that you can say that without sounding desperate.”

  “It’s still a rotten thing for me to say.”

  Wanda smiled sadly. “I get tired of adoring you.”

  “Me too.”

  “I know what you really meant, so don’t expect the joke.”

  I put my arm around her.

  Wanda sent those eyes through me one last time. Wider than I had ever seen them. She shifted. Turned. Nestled in close with her back to me. Clasped my hand in hers, against her breasts. Didn’t seem to mind the mid-afternoon erection digging into her back, because what I said was really the long and short of all things.

  Whispered into her ear: “It’s never going to be our time, is it?”

  “Never.” She kissed my hand. “After all, we’re perfect for each other.”

  “
Sleep well, Wanda.”

  “You too, Lucky.”

  ’Til death do we part would have been a nice way to end this story.

  “You’re talking in your sleep again, Lucky,” Wanda said.

  Much better.

  I dropped out, drunk and in love with the way Wanda walked into a room.

 

  You Have To Earn It.

  Alex was four or five limbs above me, swearing as the branches scratched his face. I followed at a more cautious pace. Careful not to drop the half-empty bottle of wine in my left hand.

  The one light in the alleyway filtered through the leaves. Woodland spirit just out of reach. It must have rained earlier; limbs to our destination repeatedly squirmed free from my damp grasp.

  Nineteen years old, and the entire world seemed to be running away from us that summer.

  “I made it!” Alex called down.

  Another minute, and I was able to say the same thing.

  Apolonia’s roof was ours for the taking.

  I handed Alex the bottle. He took two gulps, sent it back my way.

  We started to roam the slippery plateau. From inside, mingled voices seeped up past the shingles, laughing, telling stories. Alex muttered something and walked to the northeast edge overlooking Montague Street. Stood in a streetlight halo, six-one frame of genetic athleticism. He watched the neighborhood settle.

  I wandered around and drank more wine.

  Santa Rita 120.

  It was red. Chilean. Good. My grandmother used to mix it with coke.

  Alex coughed through a fresh-lit cigarette. His vicious hack reminding me to help myself. I thumbed my lighter into ignition. My brain thanked me and my lungs despaired. I never listened to my lungs, though, so that was all right.

  We stood at twelve paces, back to back.

  I heard him ask, “How are we on cigarettes, Lucky?”

  “Half a pack.”

  “I’m out.”

  One of the neighbor’s lights went out.

  “You can take from me,” I said.

  “How long is that going to last us?”

  “Not long.”

  “We’ll have to get more… Are you too drunk to drive?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “I drive better when I’m drunk.”

  “So it’s settled.”

  I strolled over to the edge of the roof. Joined Alex, his hands crammed into grey Dockers. Foot tapping. His brilliant eyes stared with green venom through the leaves of oak and pecan trees. I handed him a cigarette. He accepted. A burst of laughter erupted beneath us. We looked past our sneakers, envisioning candied smiles by the kitchen sink.

  “How about wine?” Alex asked.

  “How about it?”

  “Do we have any more?”

  I raised the bottle high. Glass curvatures warping the brightest stars, drowned in fermented red.

  “Three quarters drained.”

  “What about inside?”

  “This is our third, Alex… might be the last of it. Unless we get down from here.”

  Alex looked around. “How are we going to do that?”

  “Back the way we came?”

  “There’s always the expressway.”

  We stared down, past gutters clotted with dead leaves, forgotten seasons. The front yard winked at us. Premature dewdrops gathered on overgrown blades, awaiting our decision.

  “What do you think, Alex…? Twenty, twenty-five feet?”

  “Maybe thirty…”

  “Thirty?”

  Alex coughed, doubling over, almost losing his balance. He straightened and spat over the edge. We watched that little golden treasure fall, fall, fall, then splat.

  “That’s definitely thirty feet,” Alex concluded.

  “So do we jump?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “How long ‘til the blue laws bite?”

  “Two in the morning. Hour and a half down the line.”

  Alex was pleased. “Plenty of time.”

  “So it’s settled.”

  We puttered about, kicking at random acorns. I took a few pulls, sent myself back to seven years old, first time tasting my grandmother’s wine and coke. Back then it hadn’t been so bad. Roaming the waterlogged surface of Apolonia’s roof, full taste of currant with every sip, I couldn’t summon the appreciation.

  Wine and Coke.

  Coke and Wine.

  Terrible.

  Given the chance, I would’ve set my grandmother straight on that issue.

  “Given the chance…” I murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Let’s have a seat.”

  Alex and I ungraciously sat our asses down. Rainwater bled through and our clothes turned moist. We ignored the unpleasant sensation, didn’t think about tomorrow.

  “What time is it, Lucky?”

  “One in the morning, judging from the position of the street light.”

  “We should get down from here…”

  “Ready to jump?”

  “Let’s have another cigarette first.”

  I slipped him a Marlboro, had one of my own.

  “One step closer to death, Alex.”

  Alex shrugged, drunk.

  I agreed, silently.

  We smoked and drank.

  “You were smart, Alex,” I told him. “You’re smart now, but you were smart leaving school when you did.”

  “I don’t think I was.”

  “You were.”

  “I left my friends behind.”

  “They left me behind… you got out before they had a chance to dump you in a ditch with your throat sliced open.”

  Alex turned to study my face. This was our first conversation in four years. He seemed to be judging me. Searching for something. I wasn’t entirely compelled to give him anything.

  “So our friends left you, Lucky?”

  I nodded, laid back, watched the moon slowly melt out of the sky. I felt the wet roof grind into my back, pine needles and dirt. There weren’t any pine trees around, so I really had to wonder whether there might be other factors past this rooftop trap.

  I wasn’t ready, clinging to the protests of our simple exchange. “Life isn’t,” I said.

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Life just isn’t…” I thought about this. Then, “And if it is, then it’s all nothing more than varying degrees of the same thing.”

  “Oh, shit, man…”

  “I know, it sounds so good.”

  “No, you stupid cunt, not you –”

  I tore my eyes from the heavens, and noticed Alex looking past me, across the roof.

  “What is it, Alex?”

  “Shh…”

  I shrugged, drank some more wine. Alex had landed at MIT, studied engineering. Claimed to hate it. From below, people joined together in a song. Alex kept staring and finally, I grew curious. Rolling onto my stomach, I was able to look through the neighbor’s window, and the details of a lit room.

  “Fuck…”

  I didn’t know Apolonia’s neighbors. Didn’t think anybody really knew their neighbors, too many secrets for a simple potluck to illuminate. But from what I saw, I knew that he had brown hair and a square, manicured body. The woman may have been his wife, mistress. Jane Doe. Couldn’t see a ring. Her blond hair was plastered to the sides of her face, wet with sweat and beaded encouragement. She had small, genuine breasts and I thought that if I had myself a woman like that, I wouldn’t bother to turn the light off either.

  Very flexible.

  “My God,” Alex said.

  “Look at them go, man…”

  The woman’s face contorted.

  The man stole occasional glances to his own penetrating member as he worked away.

  “My God…”

  Someone had once told me that dolphins were the one of the few creatures other than humans who indulged in recreational sex. Stood to reason. There was something ugly about human sex.
That must have explained arousal; the repulsive brought us all closer to truth, and suddenly, it hit me:

  “She knows.”

  “What?”

  “Alex, she knows we’re watching her.”

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “She does.”

  “I’ll bet you she doesn’t.”

  I didn’t take my eyes of the window, “I’ll bet you twenty she does.”

  “You’re on.”

  “So it’s settled.”

  Alex nudged me: “Lucky.”

  “Shh…”

  “What time is it?”

  I didn’t answer, just kept watching the sex thing happen. The entire world taking place in that one bedroom, and I thought about abandonment. Shipwrecks. Bodies left behind in the desert. New thoughts, ideas. The next step, and I laughed at my own brilliance, checked my wrist.

  “One-fifteen.”

  “Should we jump now?”

  I frowned at the digital numbers staring up at me. “Do you know whose watch this is?”

  “Lucky, let’s jump.”

  “I don’t own a watch. Always lose them, somehow…”

  “Oh, look at that, he’s about to come. I’d put a twenty on it, he’s close to the edge.”

  “Who the fuck does this watch belong to?”

  “Check it out, Lucky, it’s going to happen…”

  I forgot about the numbers and inched forward. Through the pane I saw the woman scream, the man’s mouth contort, a pair of demons or tortured informants. Ignoring the act, all I could see was agony. People fucked the life out of each other. The man collapsed on the woman, and she spread her arms across the bed, almost motionless. Elegant corpses, pristine, dead in the house next door.

  “Was it as good for you as it was for them?” Alex asked me.

  “I don’t know how good it was for them.”

  “You know what you saw.”

  “I don’t know shit.”

  I stood up and walked to the edge of the roof. There was some kind of uproar happening from within, but it didn’t sound urgent. Just a group of drunken fools, the few friends I had left and there was always the chance I was lying to myself. There was so much to be wrong about.

  “Alex?”

  From behind me: “Yeah?”

  “Just what the hell have you been doing with yourself for the past couple of years?”

  “We should jump now, Lucky.”

  I took a pull of wine, thought about my grandmother. “Answer my question.”

  Alex was looking at the sky.

  I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was.

  So I lit a cigarette, tossed it over my shoulder. I heard a hiss of pain, silence.

  Then, “Thanks.”

  I sparked my own.

  “I was at a party, Lucky.” Alex sniffed with a certain disdain. “And I saw this blonde dye-job on the lawn, sitting by herself. Recognized her as a girl I’d once made out with at some other party…”

  “I hate parties.”

  “Shut up…” A pause then, and I guess Alex was taking a drag. “I walked up to her and started talking. We talked and talked, some fucking awful conversation. And then we went back to my room. We were on the bed, half naked, and I’m sure she was drunk as I was. Turns out she had just gotten implants, and her tits were sore. Didn’t want them touched. Guess to make up for this, she went down. Started to give me head. Then she stopped, looked at me and asked, Do you even remember my name? And I looked down at her and said, Look, does it really matter? And she said, I’ll give you three guesses. And I couldn’t remember her name, it was true. So I told her, Is it really that important in the larger picture? In a universal sense does it make a difference who you are and who I am? Do you know my name, and even in if you do, does it actually, finally matter?”