Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

  Had myself a few swallows worth of a free drink. Kept reading.

  When we got back to my place, the lights were already dim. Just a string of Christmas lights hanging over my elevated bed. Milo had absconded next door, staying the night at Tarquin’s. Anya said she was going to take a shower. Asked if I wanted to join her. I told her I’d wait. We had our first kiss. It was big, full of smiles. A lot of mouth, but I didn’t mind. She made it work. Came back out with a towel wrapped around her body. We climbed onto the bed. I pressed play on Milo’s stereo. Strange Days soundtrack blaring. Brought that smile back. She had a body about her, and it tasted clean. Remnants of generic soap. “That’s pretty fucking nice,” she whispered at one point. We made our way through the entire album, CD changing over to Van Morrison. She was leaning backwards over the edge of the bed, hands planted against the adjacent mattress, some several feet below mine. I reached back and unplugged the lights. It was either that, or stop and pull the blinds, and I didn’t want it to end. Next morning, we kissed for a good two hours before she realized she was an hour late for work…

  “You really think you’re something, don’t you?”

  I turned to my right. Caught a man drilling for oil in his Guinness. Blue button-up, khaki pants. Thick scar below his mouth, like a fleshy soul patch. Hair a mess, suggesting the rest of him would slowly follow.

  I didn’t answer.

  He went back to his drink.

  “What’s this then?” Shane had returned from his break. Bulbous lips twisted in a curious smile. Eyes wide, black eyebrows arching. Standing side by side with Finley. Their arms crossed, as though I had broken curfew. “What’s in the box?”

  “Memories of Anya,” Finley replied.

  “Oh, I like Anya. Who’s Anya?”

  “Somebody he used to know.”

  “She got a sister, Lucky?”

  I lit another cigarette. “I’ll let you know once I’m done fucking yours.”

  And the round went to Lucky. And Finley saluted, and Shane bowed and served me another drink.

  I withdrew another stack of napkins.

  Got to drinking. Forced myself further into Anya.

  Hard to believe a good year and a half had come to pass.

  We found each other in Creole Nights. Played catch up. Wasn’t sure if I looked any different. She remained the same. Laughing loud, mouth open wide as she knocked them back. I was on my way to a poker game. Too good to pass up, but I asked her, “Anya. You want to meet here tomorrow?” and she nodded. “We can drink, I mean really drink. Talk Chekov, talk Shakespeare. Then maybe go back to my place and have lots of sex. I mean really fuck, want to?” She nodded, smiled so wide.

  I smiled back. Caught myself in the mirror, and ran a moistened hand along my face.

  Wiped the slate clean.

  We sat at a table for two. Back left corner. Underneath the glass skylights, twin periscopes looking out onto Macdougal. Drinking Jack out of obligation, taking vodka shots out of habit. She talked about The Cherry Orchard. I told her the four or five hands that had won me a few hundred dollars. I don’t know how Milo always knew, but he was nowhere to be seen that night. We took it to each other in every which way we could. It was raining, and outside the windows, Washington Square streetlights highlighted a glistening kind of abandon. We stayed in bed all through the next day, until the sun set. I had a game over at Kip’s. We walked out onto the streets together. She kissed me, wished me luck.

  A drunken business man was buying shots for the bar.

  Shane set a bullet of Jamison’s before me with a shrug. Eyes telling me to enjoy it while it lasts, kid.

  I followed his advice, and kept right on.

  Anya is guest bartending at Creole Nights these days. Another little thing we have in common. Last night, Zephyr and I played Texas Hold ‘Em at the far end. Money on the bar. Anya served us drinks. Kept my money stacked in neat piles. Ones, fives, tens. The band played on, and with every hand I won, she’d lean over to kiss me. Then her and Zephyr got involved in a historical debate, a hysterical fight over the lead up to WWII. Anya had lost two grandparents in the Holocaust and there was no way that was going to end well. I bought us all shots of Stolichnaya. Later on, she thanked me. It was one of our better late-night fucks.

  I blinked.

  Reread that last line.

  My handwriting had changed. Morphed into a fevered calligraphy that welded letters at impossible joints.

  Almost like a single thread leading me along.

  “You all right, Lucky?” Finley asked.

  “Yeah.” I reached for my cigarettes. “Could I get a shot of Stoli, please? If you would be so kind.”

  “You’re what riddles ask each other, Lucky…”

  Got what I needed. Took a shot. Asked for another, along with a fresh gin and tonic.

  “Going to have to cut you off one of these days,” Finley said.

  “That will never happen.”

  “Going to be a big writer someday, Lucky?”

  “Five-nine. About average.”

  He rolled his eyes, disgusted, and sailed back down the bar.

  We got good and drunk. Back at our place, she offered to dance for us. Milo was pretty far gone, catcalling well above legal limits as Anya spread that blanket like a cape. Topless. Smiling as she bounced to a little burlesque. Sandra was passed out in the closet. Another random event. We let her lie. The three of us curled up in Milo’s bed and fell asleep. I joined Anya in the shower next day. Water running down her body, mine. Both of us catching hot drops in our mouths between kisses. Fucked standing up. Got down into the mildew, did it from behind, bringing her up to kiss her neck, listening to her laugh in my ear.

  There was a shift. Something I didn’t enjoy or appreciate.

  Bad night at the table. That was Kip’s money, too. Wandered into Creole Nights, three sheets to the wind. Anya was helping out behind the bar. She served me a fresh addition to the family. A shot of Stoli Pepper. A pair of frat boys who had somehow wormed their way underground gave me a look. “Good luck, pal,” one of them said. Must have been trying it on with Anya for some time. I knocked back my shot, something awful. Told Anya to take a break. Led her to the back. Into the men’s room. Lights off, kissing, hands all over each other. Lowering our jeans in the dark. Fucking against that cold surface. Knocks at the door. Just a few minutes worth. Turned on the light and flushed the condom down the toilet. “Start yelling at me,” I told her. She did. I yelled back. Decent enough cover story. We charged out of the bathroom and took the argument to the closest table. Not letting up, until Zephyr put his arms over our shoulders. Leaned in, laughing. “You are both the WORST FUCKING ACTORS I have ever seen!”

  “All good?” Finley asked.

  “I remember that night,” I told him. “Next morning, thought I was going to die. First time with acute alcohol poisoning. Milo placed a pitcher of water before me. A loaf of bread. Told me to keep eating, and throwing up until I could get back to sleep. And I did. Got tired of seeing myself vomit the same sepia colors and added some Country Time Lemonade, just to see a little pink in my puke.”

  Finley: “I mean, do you want another drink?”

  “Yes. Sidecar of Stoli, too, while you’re up and about.”

  Anya caught us at Creole. I was already one bottle of wine into my evening. She was taking smuggled shots from a bottle of vodka. Said there was a rooftop party going on, somewhere in the Village. We made the scene early. Didn’t make any friends that night. Milo screaming, shirt wrapped around his head. Anya grinding against me, long before anyone had a chance to achieve even the slightest level of intoxication. Anya and I ducked into an alcove. My hands were all over her. Mouths clamped, working. Her hand between my legs. She led me to an unpopulated, adjoining roof. I figured we would tuck into a doorway, do it there. Anya. Flat against the middle of melting tar. Out in the open. Available to all surrounding apartments, moon shining down as I drove into her, let her flip me. Hair hanging down
in my face as she rode. Laughter. She excused herself to the bathroom…

  “Caught up with her as she walked up the stairs,” I read. “My vision swimming. Told her I had to go. That I would call. Scooped Milo up and made my way back home…”

  “That’s cold, Lucky,” Finley said.

  “True enough,” Shane agreed.

  I polished off my drink. “How long have I been reading out loud?”

  “Long enough to know I owe you an apology,” Finley said. “The writing does get a little better, after a little while.”

  My head bobbed against the pull of the little hand, reading ten past three. I reached for the final napkin. Held it out. “Then read this, why don’t you?”

  Finley obliged. Straining. “Is this even…. are these astronauts, Lucky?”

  “Look closer.”

  Finley did. Struggled. “Anya wandered into Creole Nights. We had a drink. I told her I was with Helena now. She nodded. We talked some more, but our time together was at an end. Both of us left it at see you next time…”

  He handed the napkin back.

  “At some point, there’s less of her,” I said. “And more of what happened.”

  “What’s in the box, Lucky?” Shane asked.

  “What’s in the box?” Finley repeated.

  I lit a cigarette. “Used to sit my ass down at Creole Nights. Almost every night. By the time eight months had past, I’d put in my dues. Practically drank for free. I’d scrawl out every last thought on their bar napkins. Take them home. Store them in a box. Then two boxes. Then maybe ten. At one point, I realized there was some trimming to do. Culling. I would take the napkins to the bathroom with me. Read over what I had written as I took a shit. Then, bit by bit, I would choose the worst of what I had, and use it to wipe myself. Quite literally, gentlemen, wipe my ass with my own words.” I polished off my drink. “I mean, a guy’s got to know shit when it’s shit…”

  Finley and Shane jumped the bar. Leapt right over, each one on either side of me. I turned with a lazy eye towards the commotion. Saw them rushing a man out the door. He was screaming. Face gone, profiled long enough to recognize him from previous pages as the man with the khaki pants.

  The bartenders walked back in. “You ok, there, Lucky?”

  “Yes. What just happened?”

  “Drunk piece of shit was about to take a swing at you.” Finley squeezed my shoulder. “He was trudging down the bar, headed your way. Arm cocked, ready to sucker punch you to the floor.”

  “Sucker punch,” I said. Blinked a few times, wondering if it wasn’t over just yet. “Thanks. To the both of you. Good lookin’ out.”

  “Can’t believe you didn’t see it coming.”

  “You never hear the one with your name on it.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  I watched them round the bar.

  Looked over and saw a napkin left behind by one of the lesser diners.

  Snatched it up.

  Reached into my pocket for a pen and began to write.

  Was down by Astor Place today. Got my hair cut. Starting that new job, waiting tables down on Second Avenue. Left the place with a shorn head, all dolled up. Spiked with product. Guess that’s why she didn’t recognize me. But against my better judgment, I called out her name. Anya turned, and it occurred to me it had been such a long time since I had seen her in the daylight.

  I turned the napkin over, kept writing.

  We skipped over what was, barely focusing on the now. Her lips the same, no doubt that smile could have doubled down if it weren’t for the fact that she was facing me. Even with garbage bags piling up along the sidewalk, I could smell the soap on her skin. And I wanted to tell her, those years were a better brand of life, and I had lost all sight of

  I ran out of room.

  Found a fresh drink awaiting orders.

  Picked it up, did it up. Televisions on replay as I took it down in three simulcast gulps.

  Folded my fresh napkin. Stacked it along with the rest. Placed them all in the shoebox. Fastened the lid on tight, and tucked it under my arm. Pushed myself away and began to walk towards the back.

  “Last call, Lucky,” Finley called out.

  I turned. “Back me up.”

  “You ever write a story about me, I want you to call it The Sight of an Empty Glass.”

  I tipped an imaginary hat.

  Walked into the men’s room, strolled into the stall.

  Dropped my pants and took a seat on the toilet.

  Lit a cigarette. Clenched my stomach. Clenched my fists. Ground my teeth together.

  Remembered that it had been several days since I had eaten anything.

  Had myself a tug, enjoyed the smoke for what it was.

  Sitting on the throne. Eyelids drooping.

  Good a time as any to truly start hating myself.

  As any cheap sheet of pulp will tell you, edit the clouds in the sky, if you have to.

  Crocodile Tears.

  Nadine was telling me about the scar on her cheek. Courtesy of a brick to the face, retribution for slamming another woman’s head into the curb. I was about to ask what happened to the brick, when she asked if I knew what happened to Bill the night before. I told her I did not. She asked what time I had seen him last. I glanced over her shoulder, watched Bill at the taps, pulling a pint of murky warmth. I refocused, met Nadine’s eyes. Brief regards to the milky scar against her dark skin, before telling her I had left at closing. She asked if I remembered anyone staying behind.

  I took down the rest of my lager. Truth was, Bill had been fucking Preesha, currently stationed three stools down. I only knew this because of Helena, currently stationed at a table with Bill’s brother, Howard. Howard and Helena were also fucking. She’d been kind enough to take a break for my visit, though from how things operated in that corner of the world, Howard was probably vacationing in someone else for the week. I didn’t know whether Nadine was fucking anyone on the side, or if Preesha was fucking anyone on the regular, but one thing remained certain.

  Everybody was fucking everyone else.

  And I was fucking no one.

  So I lit a cigarette, and gave Nadine a shrug.

  So that put an end to that.

  So we talked about her Algerian childhood instead.

  That took us to six bells, and the whole lot of us stepped out of that English pub, onto the streets of Paris.

  Not Texas. The France one.

  ***

  Helena hopped alongside me. Wide grin, streetlights shining in her clueless, emerald eyes.

  “It’s an afterhours bar,” she said. “It’s called Le Crocodile!”

  Preesha was walking with us, keeping a safe distance from Bill and Nadine. “In case you were wondering, Lucky, that means The Crocodile.”

  “Yes. I am not a complete fucking idiot.”

  Preesha laughed. Round face tilted back. Light brown lips stretched against gleaming teeth.

  She had a point. “Never mind. Tell me again what Le Crocodile means.”

  To my left, Bill and his brother began to speak in fast-track French.

  Howard glanced in my direction. Blond hair held in perfect position. Smooth skin, blue eyes regarding me from several superior inches on high. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  He pointed right, down a narrow, old-world side street.

  ***

  The doorman was a six-five scarecrow. Ponytailed, dour. Polite.

  He took a look inside, checked the capacity. Waved us in between puffs of a fading Gauloises.

  Le Crocodile was a narrow affair. Scant standing room between the tiny tables lining either side, path leading to a five-top bar. Solitary lanterns were pitted against candles and purple spotlights. Walls lined with two-toned portraits of Parisian landmarks, past and present personalities.

  We placed our orders through the smoky air, cocktails upwards of twenty euros apiece. Helena distributed the poisonous assortments. Assig
ned me a vodka concoction laced with lime and pomegranate. I engaged my straw, sucked my way two-thirds down. Put in another order.

  Had a look across the room and spotted a Great Dane. Size of a skyscraper, butterscotch fur laced with a cummerbund of lustrous white. Seated in an easy chair, on his haunches. Watching a handsome couple steal kisses between whispers.

  I took a few more sips. Stared over the rim, thinking why not?

  A majestic creature crammed right between the jaws of an overstuffed crocodile. Sure. Made no more sense than my own presence in this alien nation. Fresh bread and blood oranges. Duplicitous lovers and loose change.

  I leaned against the bar. Watched Helena and company laugh it up, ignoring the assortment of knives in each other’s backs. Glanced down at the one in my chest. Cardinal red seeping into my white t-shirt, matching my drink.

  Or what was once my drink.

  Checking the contents to find it had long since been tapped.

  ***

  At least the Italian sea captain lived up to all expectations. Sinewy muscles, skin all leathery beneath his blue linen shirt. Nose like cracked cauliflower. Crown of grey hair matching a beard that spread across his weather-beaten mug, beady eyes caught in a crow’s nest.

  He sat across from me in one of the many fold out chairs, the sort reserved for Hollywood stars. His traveling companion sat to my left. Some four years my senior, a possible twenty-six in certain light. Soft, intellectual features. White shirt, black tie. Legs crossed. A student of some kind.

  The pair of them had met two days previous, at an exhibition on Picasso and the French New Wave. The Sea Captain was fluent in Italian and Spanish. His companion, Italian and English. Myself, stuck with English and Spanish.

  Not one of us knew enough French worth wasting on each other.

  The Sea Captain lit a cigarillo, asked me what I was doing in Paris.

  Directly behind him, Helena, Preesha and Howard were seated around a burning wick.

  Nadine and Bill off in a corner somewheres...

  “I came to see my ex-girlfriend,” I told him, in Spanish.

  He laughed, shook his head. Translated into Italian for his companion, who shook his own with a sad smile. The Sea Captain motioned for me to continue, unable to contain his excitement.