Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs

  He slammed his body flat against the door, eyes furiously straining inwards past rectangular glass panes. “LUCKY!”

  “Go home, man!” Clarence called out. Slowly backing away.

  “LUCKY, YOU FUCK! WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

  I began to move forward. Slow steps of a novice zookeeper. Arms at my side, fingers curled into terse, frigid claws. Bob Marley sending me down the path.

  …baby don’t worry.... ‘bout a thing…

  As my body came into focus, Rick’s assault softened. Still pressed against the window, bug on a windshield, his mouth melted into a miserable pout. Lower lip sticking out. Fists slowing, growing mushy against the glass.

  “Ah, Goddamnit, Lucky, why?” he cried out. “Why, dude? Why?”

  The rest of the bar faded. Drew back, dimmed in a backstage gloom.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Lucky!” he wailed. Reached into his jacket and pulled out a small blue velvet box. Popped it open and pressed it up to the glass. Nestled in its satin bed, a platinum ring rested, its bright diamond eye wide awake. Glinting in the foyer’s overhead light.

  For an instant, completely divorced from reality, I was actually contemplating saying yes.

  My eyes met his.

  “She was thinking about it!” he cried. Tears began to roll down his sculpted cheeks. “She was THINKING about it, and she would have SAID YES!”

  I opened my mouth. A few senseless, dried croaks clearing customs before I managed to say, I’m sorry.

  Not enough air in my lungs to possibly have penetrated the barrier between us.

  Don’t know if he managed to catch my lip service. Saw him snap the box shut. Return it to his pocket. A moment or so of inward reflection. He reached for the handle, gave it one last yank. Turned away before his fingers had even slid from the brass. Went plodding up the stairs, with long, overdrawn steps.

  So long, Rick.

  I turned to the bar. Walked back along what felt like a dark corridor and back to my seat. Surrounded by the disappointed mumbles of the Creole all-stars, I found a Lemon Drop waiting for me.

  Shot glass rim mimicking the circumference of a wasted engagement ring.

  In a moment of depressing clarity, I recollected something Tamara had told me.

  It’s been one hell of a night.

  Another turning point in someone’s life, unfortunate enough to coincide with Mr. Lucky Saurelius.

  Each rationalization came to the surface, dead on arrival; to listen to them, neither one of them was happy; they looked right, acted right; had done everything right, it would appear. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad thing. Could be I was the best thing that could have happened to them.

  Yeah. That was it, no doubt.

  Everyone in the world would be much better off if only they’d taken the time to be a little more like me.

  I took down Tamara’s shot and readied the one that was meant for me.

  ***

  Over the next hour, the regulars filtered out.

  As dictated by our underground gospel, the slate was already being wiped clean. The bottles remained where they were, ashtrays choking with an excess of cancerous leftovers. Bar sticky with worthless overflow. Teardrops left to dry until tomorrow’s opening moments.

  In the meantime, each one of my part-time friends made their way past me. Gave me an affectionate pat, quiet shake of the hand. Eyes brimming with regret, sorrow, and painful understanding. The young amateur had blown the call, sideswiped an entire lifeline with careless words, but the rest of us would live to fight another day.

  Lights extinguished. Noises off.

  Zephyr wandered over, saw me nestled with a collection of shot glasses and empty bottles.

  He set a glass before me. Rocks glass, free of ice.

  Poured a thin stream of rum, what amounted to a third of an ounce.

  “Don’t feel too bad, Lucky,” he said. Soft words resonating in the empty space. “You fucked up, real good. Next time you’ll know better.”

  I took hold of the glass. Swirled the rum around, making myself dizzy. “All those things Rick said. Why would he say those things if… I mean, why would a man talk about his future wife that way?”

  “Because he’s a man. A real simple man, is the problem.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he was trying to impress you. That’s what men do. You think the assholes that come in here talking about, man I fucked this bitch the other night, and she let me do this and let me do that…” He trailed off. “Men worry about what men think about them.”

  “You don’t. I don’t.”

  “Well, there’s all sorts of men. You can care about pussy, or you can care about other men. You’re you. Rick was Rick. He just thought that’s what it took to get you to like him.”

  I lit a cigarette, downed the last of that perfect, twelve-year rum. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

  “You weren’t. You didn’t. You haven’t been down here long enough to know. You’re not good at this yet. It’s going to be a long time before you are.”

  Didn’t bother to ask him what I was supposed to be getting good at. In a rare throwback to my earlier optimism, I felt as though I might have actually understood what he meant.

  But not nearly enough.

  “Why the hell would someone like Rick want me to like him?” I asked.

  “Unless his woman takes him back, he is going to be asking himself the same question every day for the rest of his life…” Zephyr let a smile slip on that last note. Corrected himself, and added. “You and your friends owe me two hundred and thirty dollars.”

  “Don’t got no friends.”

  “Then I guess it’s just you.”

  I felt my poker winnings cry out from my pocket. “Lucky for me, I had a bit of a run at the table earlier.”

  “That was a hell of a good story. The way you called that rich kid out on his bluff. Good eye, is what they say.”

  “They sure do…”

  “Want one last drink while I figure out this paperwork?”

  The rum was gone, and I had to order myself the standard fare.

  Jack on the rocks.

  My bankroll was gone, and I had to start a fresh tab.

  Down payment on an education still years in the making.

  Zephyr took his post by the register. Took a handful of impaled tabs, rummaged around for the calculator, and began to assess the damage.

  I took a sip of Jack and silently prayed for Rick and his once and future girlfriend.

  Witness.

  Janet was dancing in my dream. It was her birthday, in my dream. And despite the occasion, she hadn’t changed a thing. No place to go but down, into the depths of Creole Nights, where she spent most every evening. Tuesday through Saturday. Stationed behind the bar, her own foxhole, pinned down by dueling requests for drinks, refills, and the roaming eyes of men who could benefit from a sly castration or two.

  The last night of Voodoo Fete. What was once a weekly tradition of drums, music and rhythmic hips, all coming to a close. Combined complaints from the people two floors up, and a new city dictum forbidding six or more people from dancing in any bar, pub or watering hole that wasn’t a licensed nightclub.

  “AYIBOBO!”

  The subterraneans cried out in kind.

  I was seated at a table, for once. For some reason.

  Popped a Marlboro. Had a bit of chilled Jack. Ice cubes fleeing.

  Ayizan raised his arms. “God bless us all, the world has brought us all here. AYIBOBO!”

  I kept drinking, in this dream.

  This infuriating, superlative memory.

  Ayizan pointed, the full length of his arm. “We’ve got Zephyr and Evan behind the bar!”

  Cheers. The two brothers raised it up, applauding over their heads.

  “Janet, so beautiful! It is her birthday tonight! Thank you, God, for such a wonderful woman!”

  Cheers.

  From her station at bar’s
end, Janet lifted a bottle of sweet dynamite. Slender arms. Athletic build. Eyes an adopted flare of Korean madness.

  Ayizan pointed in my direction. Eyes smiling through his dreadlocks. “We’ve got Lucky Saurelius, smoking on his cigarette, AYIBOBO!”

  I raised my glass.

  The drummers railed against the approaching city ordinance.

  One last weekend.

  Ayizan went from table to table. Swinging a censer of incense. Pungent smoke reinforcing the musty scent of underground sweat, tears and body heat. He went from table to table, from friends to perfect strangers. Slid on over my way. Hovering before my seat, the two of us, eye to eye. Shadows scuttling along the walls and ceiling.

  I finished my cigarette.

  Finished my Jack.

  Held out my hand and met his. Let the eucalyptus oil slather its way from his palm and down my arm.

  When I looked up, Wanda was standing above me.

  Dirty blonde hair coming down in shoulder-length curls, where black bra straps wrapped over pale shoulders, beneath a white tank top. Hands on her hips. Their circumference encircled by a black belt; double notched, leather cracked and peeling. Bottle of Jack in her hand.

  With my face inches from her belly, I raised my glass again with blind expectations.

  She lifted, tilted. Sent a stream of sour mash swimming, right up to the rim.

  I set my refill down, and then Wanda was straddling me.

  Denim thighs wrapped around my waist.

  She curled her fingers around my neck. Thumbs pressing up beneath my chin. Drumbeat coursing through her nails as they dug in. Lifted, tilted. Brought my eyelashes to meet hers. Crystal blue bearing into me. Mouth parted in a tiny, prepared invitation.

  When I closed my eyes, Wanda was pressing her lips against mine.

  ***

  And when I woke up, Wanda was standing above me.

  “You were talking in your sleep,” she said.

  I shifted against the grain of my open futon. Windows host to the flu-colored sunlight, typical of winter mornings. Jazz station playing Wynton Marsalis, “You Don’t Know What Love Is.” “You went to go sleep under the coffee table.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “You fell asleep next to me.”

  “I know.”

  “Well…” I stood up. Bent low and reached beneath the wooden frame. Pulled that worn contraption back into its full, upright position. Room for none more. “There. That looks a little more honest.”

  Wanda didn’t comment.

  I was spoiling for a fight and she knew better. “You going to throw on a tie?” she asked.

  “What are you going to wear?”

  She gestured along her body. Feet planted, catwalk spiraling around bare feet. Worn jeans. Black, double notched belt. White tank top. Black bra strap visible over a single, pale shoulder.

  “That’s it?” I asked, remembering my dream.

  “Sweater, sure. Jacket, too, should do the trick.”

  “And then?”

  “It’s a casual affair,” she said.

  “And yet, I should throw on a tie…”

  “Because if you don’t, you’re going to wish you had.”

  I opened the mini fridge. Helped myself to a tallboy. Swished a mouthful of watery suds. Offered it over. She took a few swallows. I followed up with my own rhythmic timing. Set it down.

  Caught a flicker in her wild blues.

  I traced the momentary blip, down past my body.

  Faced with a discouragingly slight morning erection. More of a benign tumor, poking from the corner of chastened boxer shorts.

  “Maybe some pants, too,” she suggested.

  I rubbed my eyes. “A little privacy, please?”

  “Sure.” Wanda stole the beer from my table and left me alone.

  I struggled with my pants. Struggled with my tie.

  Realized I needed a shirt to go with it.

  Glanced at the futon.

  Tore at the noose around my neck and hit reset.

  ***

  The N train tossed us onto the steps of City Hall. A few wayward protestors were posted a few yards away. Placards raised, commemorating the slaying of Patrick Dorismond. It was almost one year later, March 2001, and public interest had waned.

  And Wanda paid for our coffee.

  We sat on a park bench and counted squirrels. Caught somewhere between frozen headaches and genuine appreciation for sunlight. The space between us was authentic and casually painful.

  “What were you dreaming about?” Wanda asked.

  “Mm…” I popped a Marlboro. Offered her one. Lit hers, then mine. “Janet’s birthday.”

  Wanda smiled, only with her eyes. “That was a good night.”

  “Yes.”

  She took a strong puff. I could hear her lips tugging. “What was the dream about?”

  “Janet’s birthday.”

  “What was it about, though?”

  “More of a memory.”

  “Just in a dream.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing different?”

  I glanced over. Just slightly. “Why do you ask?”

  She tapped her nails against the coffee cup. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Janet jumped out from behind a tree.

  Did a little high kick, her thick boot-heel coming an inch from my face.

  Came so close to ripping her silver strapless dress in half.

  “What’s up Scooter-Pie?” she crooned. Hair pulled in a sloppy cinnamon roll. Pair of curls falling on either side of heavy eyeliner and rouge. Opened her arms and scooped me up.

  Tossed me aside for Wanda.

  Remy Love joined in. Smiling. Quiet. A foot shorter than his future wife. Dressed in a slick, burgundy suit. Matching tie and cufflinks. White pressed shirt popping nicely against his dark skin. We shook hands, went in for a half embrace.

  “Hello, Lucky.”

  “Glad I could make it, Remy.”

  He laughed, rubbed a hand along his shaved head.

  “What did you two kids get into last night?” Janet asked.

  “It was Lucky’s belated birthday celebration,” Wanda said.

  Remy gave me another hug. “Happy birthday.”

  “Belated,” I told him. “They tricked me into celebrating.”

  “What’d you give him?” Janet asked Wanda.

  “Three rounds of truth or dare with me and my girlfriends.”

  Janet snagged my cup. “Ooh. Nice n’ hot.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Coffee ain’t bad either.”

  Janet took a sip. Frowned. “I expected a bit more of a kick…”

  I reached over, patted Wanda’s green canvas satchel. “Slipped a fifth of Jack in here. We’re good.”

  “We are good,” Janet said.

  “Ready to do this?” Remy asked.

  Janet bent low. Kissed him full on the lips.

  They held it.

  A blast of frigid wind found its way around them; lifted my tie, tossed ragtag curls against Wanda’s lips.

  I dropped my cigarette on the ground. Crushed it. “Can we all go get married now? It’s cold out here for the rest of us.”

  They broke apart.

  Hands clasped, Janet and Remy began to walk towards City Hall.

  Wanda and I watched them for a few seconds.

  I gave her an elbow to the ribs. “Thought you said this was going to be a casual affair.”

  “Good thing you wore a tie.”

  She held out her hand, palm facing the treetops. Smiled in a southerly direction.

  “Goddamn you, Wanda,” I said, and wrapped my fingers around hers.

  We followed them up the steps and into the machinery of New York City.

  ***

  Emptying my pockets was never a problem.

  Took less than three seconds of crumpled bills and confused apartment keys.

  Sent my bookbag through the x-ray.

  Walked through the metal det
ector without a care in the world.

  The security guard on the other end had taken the liberty of unzipping what was rightfully mine. Rifling through notebooks and worn Post-its.

  Domingo was the nametag, embossed in brass.

  His eyes were large, set against Dominican bronze. “What’s this?”

  “Bad writing,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied. Before I could praise his read on the situation, he lifted the fifth of Jack from my bag and gave it a shake. “I mean, what’s this?”

  Wanda must have slipped it back into my bag sometime earlier.

  “Fourth floor,” I told him.

  “Wedding?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shoot…” He shook his head, smiled sadly. “Go ahead, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  I collected my twelve or so Washingtons, keys to the kingdom.

  Watched them run the wand up and down Wanda’s body.

  They smiled while she remained rooted, arms held out.

  ***

  So there was a six-foot blonde seated next to a man matching her in every last detail. Dress and all, matrimonial twins. There was a Jamaican with his arms wrapped expectantly around a diminutive brunette, hair cut so close that a red birthmark, fashioned after a tired armadillo, could be seen at the roots. There was a white teenaged punk with pink hair, nipples so clearly pierced, arm-in-arm with a Japanese man in a fresh pressed suit. There was a cancer patient in a wheelchair, her husband-to-be decorated in multi-colored tattoos of B-17s, P-40 Warhawks, F4U Corsairs. Two teenagers mixing it up between hopeful smiles, nervous glances towards the door and deep, wet kisses, tongues triangulating.

  Waiting for their number to be called, like patrons at the local butcher shop.

  Wanda stole my thunder with a quick whisper: “This may be the most honest place on the entire planet.”

  I leaned close to her ear, unconcerned with proximity: “I thought of it first.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And I’ll beat you to it, someday.”

  “Do your worst.”

  “And I’m going to call it, If Found, Return to Wanda.”

  She smiled with her eyes. “What makes you think they’ll ever find me?”

  Janet hijacked our moment and dragged us into the hallway.

  ***

  Surrounded by dull tiles and navy nameplates on endless doors.

  Cracks in the ceiling. Splintering along the walls, paint job the color of mulch and worn Astroturf.

  Janet dug greedily into Wanda’s satchel.