Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

  Carl came out from the bathroom, and when he saw me, his arms went wide. Might be the first time I ever saw that son of a bitch smile. He shook my hand, gave me a bear hug. Congratulated me, proud as proud can be. Lost his pool hall in his own pool hall, and he was just ducky. Some small part of me was still stuck, still thinking this wasn’t happening. I was too used to playing it cool. A man can’t keep an even keel if he gives himself the chance to actually ponder, realize how fast his fortunes can change from one day to the next. And that’s for better or for worse… It’s only the millionaires and psychopaths that get to find comfort in the particulars of how life works.

  This was a formality. A fresh look at the deal we had made, just a few hours later. Gentleman’s bet, I guess, if there is such a thing anymore. He told me he would get the paperwork drawn. Offered me the number of a decent lawyer. I was smokin’ and drinkin’ and doing what I could to keep up… And then those two cats in the back started arguing.

  The seven was no problem for Casper. Gave himself a bit of a bad leave, cue ball resting impishly on the edge of a side pocket.

  Now, much like me, or Casper over here, Carl didn’t care for that kind of trouble in his place. He turned, sweet as can be, and asked them to cool it. It was as though they hadn’t heard. So Carl loses the formalities, and doesn’t ask this time. Either settle this like men, or take it to the streets. And it wasn’t as though I hadn’t seen this before. I knew where this was going. Or where it was supposed to go…

  Carl didn’t bat an eye. Turned to the bar and folded his arms.

  “Is the jukebox broken, Charlie?” he asked.

  And Charlie replied in this thick, Irish brogue: “Nah, Carlton. Just needs some quarters.”

  “We got any quarters?” Carl asked.

  Charlie popped the register. Old school piece of hardware, all curves and buttons. And Charlie said, “Might not be enough.”

  The players at the back started shoving. Cue sticks clattering to the ground, beer bottles knocked onto the table, which, as you know, is the proverbial straw. And old Carl just shook his head, and said, “Make some change, Charlie.”

  Casper unscrewed his cue. Broke it down the middle. Took the shaft and pointed it downwards, looking to give himself some serious masse. Got a perfect curve for his troubles, free from the pillow. Scooting on down the green, kissing the eight goodnight.

  And Charlie strode out from behind the bar. Pushing seventy , wrinkles pulled tight like an old shoe, wizened by too many years spent sailing the seas. Well, Lucky, I watched that man walk on over and give them a second chance for maybe three seconds. And when those two tried to push back, it was as though someone had changed reels on us all. Man, he just went left, right. Down, upper cut, fists balled, I could see his veins bulging from all the way across the room. Can’t blame those poor dolts for not knowing what hit them, but I didn’t have a dog in that fight, and Charlie sent those two fuckers to the floor in the time it took to blink.

  Casper put himself behind the nine, and it was a simple shot.

  No parade, no applause. He leaned against the table and listened.

  Charlie wandered on back. Left those cats lying on the floor, licking their wounds. Back behind the bar and up to the register.

  “Makin’ change, Carlton?” he asked.

  Carl nodded. “Makin’ change, Charlie.”

  And Charlie held his fists above the register, opened his hands, and slowly let two busted rolls of quarters rain down, save for fifty cents, which he handed to Carl. And Carl walked back to the jukebox, helped those two jerks up off their asses, and handed them fifty cents. Told them to put on something good, and get on with their game – or get the fuck out.

  Joe lit another cigarette, finished his beer.

  And that was really the moment. Wasn’t the night before. Wasn’t the game. That was when I realized, for the first time, from that moment onward, that this fucking place was my problem for the rest of my life. And I asked Charlie, “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

  Casper lit a cigarette. Offered me one.

  I accepted. Both of us willing to let the story come to an end without our blessing.

  “Ran the table,” Casper said.

  Joe nodded. “Way to go, son.” He turned to me. “Lucky?”

  I took a drag, and gave Casper a smile. “Do it again. Double or nothing.”

  Joe gave my shoulder a firm smack.

  Casper got us a fresh round, and I stuffed two twenties into the bottom-left pocket.

  Got the rack ready.

  Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

  Nine ball in the middle, center of the universe.

  Answer to Joe’s question buried beneath a thunderbolt break, then resurrected as the regulars began to trickle in, set the stage for those regular business hours.

  The Myth of Friendship.

  So I was twenty-one and some years old. Not too far off from those Brooklyn years. Subleasing a one bedroom in a parallel universe. I was working as a waiter to pay my bar tab, and whenever I managed to sleep, my dreams were filled with faces I never once knew, remembering all that had never once happened, tangled bodies and sweat. The unit next to mine was room 18G, home to an old man, alone with his large brown dog. Saw them almost everyday, going for walks or sitting quietly in Rupert Park, watching the pigeons.

  The old man was disfigured, though it might have taken a second glance to catch on. One arm slightly shorter than the other. One shoulder slightly higher. Broken stride in place of a seamless gait. His beautiful, brown dog would stroll beside him, pant patiently, adjusting to keep pace with his master’s impediment. A limp so slight that no one ever acknowledged the old man or gave him a second glance. Wet, grey eyes that had gone unnoticed his entire life, it seemed.

  He would speak affectionately to his dog while they walked. Interpreting movements of the ears or certain chuffs with specific answers. When they sat, he would caress the dog’s back with long, adoring strokes. Scratch the top of his head. Rub the neck. They would sit, and sometimes they both smiled in unison at their invisible magic.

  People on the street would stop and pet the dog. Peer into its eyes with adoring diatribes. Feed it a steady stream of baby talk. Times like these, the old man’s arm would retract, his smile disintegrating. He’d watch his dog spread pure fulfillment, the patch of sunlight in everyone’s life. The dog would lend himself to these invasions, cautiously allow for invaders, and once free from their probing, he would press his nose against his master’s leg. The old man would bring his hand back to his best friend’s awaiting head, but it was rare to glimpse a smile return to either of their faces.

  At night, behind closed doors, the old man would rail against the dog. Curse and beat him. I could hear furious screams and the dog’s cries of pain as I walked past 18G, sat with a bottle of Gato, or lay by myself while the city sent callous moonlight through my window.

  This would go on for hours, occasionally lasting until three or four in the morning. I was an insomniac. Never fell asleep without dawn’s blessing, so it’s unfair to say that they kept me up. I wondered about the other tenants, though. Not a soul intervened, not one person ever took their fist to the wall, or pounded the floor with wasted demands. Come daylight, there was never any mention amongst the chattering classes. The old man and his brown dog would once again find themselves in the park. Side by side, enclosed in a bubble of tenderness.

  The last time I saw them together was the day Brianna appeared from out of nowhere with regards from the past.

  It was a Sunday.

  “Lucky?”

  I looked up and saw her standing by my bench with those sandy freckles and perfect grin. Same song, different day. Childlike eyes of a waking dreamer and her hair shone a blinding white. No pigmentation, just stark sand dunes ever since awaking from that nightmare at six years old.

  Though afternoons had always lent themselves well to Brianna.

  “Hello, Brianna.”


  She opened wide, body thin and inviting. “Come here.”

  I stood up and wrapped this gift with my own spindly arms.

  The swift memory of a childhood dance crept up on me.

  Then vanished, as we parted and sat, side by side on the bench.

  “You look good, Lucky,” she said.

  “I look like shit.”

  “Stop it.”

  “What are you doing in New York?” I asked.

  “Just visiting a friend. Sandy. Do you know her? She’s in the film program at NYU.”

  “I dropped out of the program a few years ago…”

  “That’s too bad. Everyone thought you were going to be a famous director.”

  “That’s what I was worried about.” I peered up to the leaves. “That must have been it, right?”

  She shook her head with courteous bewilderment.

  We lapsed into silence. I looked into her eyes, almost sure I recognized the ocean somewhere in there. Her lips stretched into a smile. I let the exhaustion leave my face and returned the favor. A car alarm went off nearby, went quiet. Brianna looked away.

  “Tell me a story, Lucky,” she said, hands on her knees. “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting tables, writing…” I hesitated. “Not much of a story, Brie. I’m sorry.”

  I nodded to myself. Lost count. Didn’t want Brianna to know how I had dealt with the years, or anything that might suggest the passage of time. My eyes fled across the park, sights landing on the old man and his dog.

  “Has it been five years?” Brianna asked. “Since the last time I saw you?”

  “Might even be seven…”

  “No. Six at the most.”

  “Long time, anyway you chose to remember it.”

  “You ever visit North Carolina?”

  “Used to. Summers and winters, but not so much anymore... you?”

  “I’m living there. You should come down more often, Lucky.”

  It was a beautiful day. A bird hopped up to my shoe. Bent close, then took flight.

  “So much for me,” I said. “What’s Brianna got to say for herself? Go on. Impress me.”

  She looked out to an elderly couple.

  Considering.

  Then: “I’m engaged.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Engaged...”

  “Yeah.”

  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three.

  “Engaged…” I repeated.

  “Guess who I’m marrying.”

  I blanked. “Who?”

  “Guess.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Brian.”

  My brain stammered. “Brian Daniels?”

  She nodded, smiling bashfully.

  The old timer and his dog were making their rounds now. Man’s best friend taking an occasional moment to sniff trace amounts of squirrel. Memory swelled in the wake of conversation and I chose to be polite: “How is he?”

  “Wonderful,” Brianna answered, a terse pride edging into her voice. “He’s in advertising.”

  “What about his music?”

  “Hasn’t been doing that for a while...”

  “The ad game seems fitting,” I managed. Felt there must have been more worth mentioning. “Brian always had a way of convincing people…”

  “It’s an online start up, so it’s not really about face time, but pinpoint targeting.”

  “I always thought he’d be too shy for the job.”

  “Well, people get older. Grow.”

  “I suppose that’s sometimes the case.”

  “Milo’s going to be the best man.”

  “Him and I never really hung out in high school.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “Milo?”

  “Brian.”

  “Maybe not shy,” I amended. “Maybe that’s the wrong word for Brian.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Rippling fields of entrepreneurs, online is the future, I hear.”

  Brianna gave it another go. “Lucky?”

  “Three years. I think.”

  She looked at the ground. “You two were inseparable.”

  I nodded, not in any mood to answer.

  “Brian was wondering about you just the other day.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well…” Another memory flew past. “Now he can stop.”

  Her eyes changed. “You all right?”

  “Always.”

  I had lost my edge for deception over the years, and I don’t think she bought it.

  Two middle-aged men with thick Irish accents walked past. One of them tipped his hat to Brianna, but I doubt she saw it. On down Second Avenue, a passing car blasted music from my childhood, and the driver couldn’t have guessed what I was thinking.

  “It is a little confusing, though, isn’t it?” Brianna said, finally.

  “How’s that?”

  “Brian and Brianna.”

  “A little unreal, sure.”

  “That’s the word. Why us? Those names, getting married. Shouldn’t things turn out just a little less…”

  I waited. Then ventured. “Redundant?”

  “I was going to say perfect.”

  “You would have remembered that word.”

  “How about ironic? Brian was your best friend.”

  “Friends disappear. It’s their most distinguishable trait.”

  “You two were inseparable.”

  “Again, pointed out. Not the most original sentiment.”

  “Neither is irony, but I stick by my statement.”

  I shrugged. “”Why ironic?”

  “I was in love with you when we were shorter.”

  “Shorter?”

  “I don’t like to say younger.”

  “And you were in love with me?”

  She slapped my shoulder. “You knew that, Lucky.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Brianna refused my version of the past. “What do you think that dance was all about?”

  “You never told me.”

  “You should have known.”

  “Should have known lots of things.” I couldn’t remember that one dance. Felt it in my stomach, a familiar bout of tired unrest. Rhythmic mistrust Brianna might have simply passed off as unreal. I wanted to let it out, but ventured a guess instead: “Brian always loved you…”

  “He told me this.”

  “Told you he never realized how beautiful you were, how he always wondered if you and him would finally get together…?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just seems like something he’d say.”

  “He did.”

  “I know…”

  Brianna’s face grew serious.

  The old man and his dog were slowly making their way across the park.

  “I know friends drift apart,” she said. “Naturally. Over the course of time, as we grow taller –”

  “Grow taller, I like that.”

  “But what are we talking about, here…? Did something happen between you and Brian?”

  “Fucked his woman,” I said, suddenly in the mood for a story. “Ex-girlfriend, actually. But Brian was still in love with her. I feigned ignorance, and when I began to notice that his once-was was digging me, I used every subtle trait at my disposal to make it seem like an organic event. I even asked one of Brian’s friends for advice, pretended I didn’t know if it would be right to fuck my best friend’s ex-girlfriend. I’d known Brian for fourteen years, and got everyone to believe that I honestly didn’t know the first thing about him. It was nothing short of genius. Made it look like his girlfriend’s fault.” The words came effortlessly, etched in stainless steel. “Fucked her a couple of times. She said we should tell Brian, and I kept telling her I will, I will. Didn’t even really like her that much, just wanted the conquest. I mean, with the effort it takes to pick up girls, a guy like me takes every
chance he can get to put another notch in his belt… Could have kept it going longer with her, but one of Brian’s friends caught us in the act and pushed me into a corner. Couldn’t lose face, so I had to tell Brian. And Brian didn’t take it so well.”

  I could feel my features growing cold and angry. Didn’t stop. “Then I tried to pin it on Brian, tried to tell him he was the one who had grown distant from me. That Brian had slighted me somehow, and there was nothing wrong with what I did. Even squeezed out a tear or so, but Brian saw right through it. He refused to talk to me again after that. Didn’t matter much to me, though. I had everyone else convinced I had made an honest mistake, and as a result I suffered no real consequences…”

  I turned to Brianna, neck stiff. Jaw clenched. “And that’s what happened to Brian Daniels…”

  I waited, only now aware of how loud my voice had become.

  Searched for some kind of reaction.

  Brianna took a breath. “Fuck you, Lucky…”

  But Brianna was smiling.

  “Fuck you, Lucky. When I asked you to tell me a story, I meant a real story.”

  “Not real enough?” I asked.

  “I can always tell when you’re telling a story.”

  “How?”

  “You’ve been sitting here still as a stone. I can’t get a word out of you, and all of a sudden, you talk and talk and talk and spit some ridiculous nonsense about sleeping with Brian’s ex-girlfriend…”

  I smiled weakly. “Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it?”

  “And Brian doesn’t ever talk about you that way…”

  “You’re right.” I looked at the ground. “Friends don’t do that sort of thing. To each other…”

  The conversation died for a moment. I don’t know what would have happened, what else I might have told her, if the old man hadn’t walked past. Brown dog matching him step for step.

  Brianna’s eyes lit up.

  “Puppy!” she exclaimed. Went to her knees, covered the dog in a thick lather of affection. Scratched its ears. Rubbed around the head and belly, delighting in its very existence.

  The old man and me remained quiet. Faces on semiautomatic.

  I was thinking about Brian. Don’t know what the old man was thinking about.

  Brianna finally let up, and the old man departed. Brown dog padding along faithfully.

  We were alone, once more.

  “When’s the wedding?” I asked.

  “Around a year. No set date.” Brianna was standing now. Floating above me, a marauding angel. “You should come. I think Brian would get a kick out of it. If you came.”