I felt a light buzz coming on.
“Well, you might as well go ahead and fuck the midnight sun, then.” He laughed. Colorless sounds, scraping against the reef. “If sure is the best you can do right now, just wait. Ten years down the line, they won’t give a good fuck about you.”
I searched for a counterpoint.
“Yeah, or they might,” Lincoln preempted. “But only in the abstract. Had any friends when you were seven?”
“Yes.”
“Hope they’re doing well?”
“Yes.”
“Feel inclined to make sure that’s the case? Drop a line? Lend a hand?”
“Yes. Whatever I can, if I knew it would help.”
“Just wait. Ten years from now, careers. marriage, kids. A whole new world, and then what?”
“I ain’t getting kids, having marriage –”
“No shit. You won’t, but they will. Or they’ll be chasing their own white rabbit. And as for those who follow their dreams, and get where they want to be, really? Think they’re going to lift a finger? You’ll be a footnote, Lucky. Afterthought. A pixilated blip on the world wide what. Another nobody on that My Place shit.”
“MySpace.”
“You had to be right about something,” he said. Finished his drink. Picked up my glass before I realized it was empty. Fought his way to the bar as though an actual crowd had formed around us. “No, you won’t have a career, Lucky. But you best oughta. Those sad examples may be trapped, maybe desperate, but at least they gave up…” He turned to the bar. “Two Blues, Brigid baby. Two baby blues to match those beautiful eyes.” He leaned against the bar, shadow of a stately lion, voice growing. Catching eyes. “They gave it up, and they’re trapped maybe, but they’re trapped by their fallback. And that ain’t a bad place to be. ‘Specially compared to you. Think about it. Thirty-five years old, still sitting at that same warped fold-out bridge table you call a desk. You’ll be lucky if you even have a frame for your futon at that point. Doing time in some no-name city. Same place you were in the bad old days. Only back then there was hope. You could laugh, still, because there was still a corner or two to turn before you ended up just plain done. Who’s going to want you then? Will you be able to point to a single person who isn’t bored out of their FUCKING mind by the very SIGHT of you, let alone whatever you’ve got left to WRITE about?”
“Lincoln…” Brigid served up the drinks. “You want to keep it down, dear? It’s early.”
His mouth smiled, kept his face out of the loop. “Of course.” Struggled with his pocket. Turned his shorts inside out, bankroll fluttering to the floor. He bent down, knocked over a stool as he sifted through his twenties. “That’s sixty, right?”
“Sixty, yes.”
Lincoln turned to the barflies, their grizzled faces mean with envy. “Know what? One, two, three, four… four more! Let’s murder some fucking memories!”
The regulars suddenly remembered their posture, put their hands together as Brigid set up the entire bar.
“Yeah, yeah…” Lincoln counted out two hundred or so dollars. “Fucking vultures. How about you, Brigid, baby? Buy a girl a drink?”
“I’ll meet you halfway and pour myself one on the house.”
“Then it’s an extra thirty for you, sweetheart.”
“Lincoln –”
He picked up our drinks, headed back my way. Called out over his shoulder: “Can’t take it with you, Brigid, baby! Nobody can!” He plopped himself down, handed me my drink. “Oh, Lucky, you will fuck so many things up. In wilder and worser ways than your little rodent brain ever thought possible.”
“I’ve fucked up plenty,” I said.
“You fucking idiot. Do you know what they call World War Two?”
“The good war.”
“They have to. Because you know what they called World War One?”
“What?”
“The war to end all wars. Been to Iraq lately? Afghanistan?”
I had a heft of top shelf.
“Oh, that’s going to be the worst part,” Lincoln said. “It’s already started happening, and you don’t know it. They’ll lie right to your face, to your very body. The men will lie about their loyalties, their interest in your almighty struggle. And the women will lie about whatever they can to keep you. They’ll lie about your brilliance, their hopes for your hopes. They’ll lie to you about the size of your cock.”
What was the pen doing back in my hand?
“Sizable,” Lincoln said. “There’s a word for you. Jot them letters down and save ‘em for a rainy day. They’ll say you’re sizable, and it won’t mean a goddamn thing. If you had a big cock, you’d know it. If you had a big cock, they’d know it, the whole world would be lining up to suck it.”
I glanced back at the bar. Saw Brigid taking baby sips of her scotch. Staring.
“Yeah, she’s an angel, so you’ll fuck things up with her, too. You don’t know it yet, but you’ll be sitting by yourself in a bar with no doorknobs, wondering why you haven’t heard from Fiona, or Kate, or Leah, or Misty –”
“Who the hell is Misty?”
“– any number of women who once thought you’d be somebody. Interstates connecting every last corner of your conquests as the sun sets, and they’ll be somewhere else. And if you’re really lucky, Lucky, with any luck, they might even bother to look up as a car breezes past, and take the time to bother to ask: Lucky who?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I am trying to prepare you.”
I snapped my notebook shut. “I am prepared.”
“Incorrect, Lucky, that is just –” He made to slam his hand against the table, punctuate the point. Too tired, and he kept on without the visual aid. “That is just wrong. Fucking wrong.”
In place of a cigarette, I bit down on a straw.
“Most of us only have so much in us, Lucky,” he said, knee bobbing, making the entire table shake. “Energy is neither created or destroyed, but it is, by every day of the Christian calendar, depleted. By the minute. It’s coming out your every last pore, even as we sit. Speak. Roll over and play dead. You can rail against the dying of the day for what may seem like your whole life, but suddenly you look around, and it’s only been ten years. Or five years, or five measly little fucking seconds, see, you don’t know…”
He paused, trying to force the words out.
Reached into his pocket with automaton hands and freed a pack of Chesterfields. “You don’t know, Lucky. You don’t want to know. What it’s like.” He unsheathed a smoke, snug between his fingers. “You do not want to wake up one day and realize you’re done. That the aches, pains, fuck-ups, that all of it is just too much.” He pulled out his battered Zippo, and I was still two steps too shy from the law to realize what I was seeing. “You don’t want to know what it’s like to wake up and realize you’ve got no fight left in you…”
He lit up.
The smoke curled from his shredded lips. A winding Chinese dragon, magnificent grey reminding us all of what we had lost.
“You don’t want to end up on the dark end of the street, Lucky...”
“LINCOLN!”
Brigid was rounding the bar with fast, furious strides.
Lincoln came to. Brought the cigarette close to his face. Panicked, began looking around with wild eyes. Unable to find an ashtray. Pointing helplessly at the tabletop as Brigid stalked over. Snatched the Chesterfield from his hand and dropped it in his glass of Blue Label.
You could hear the cigarette smile as it died.
“Out!” Brigid lifted him by his arms, had Lincoln beat in size and strength. “I cannot afford to get fined or fired, now go the fuck home!”
I watched from my seat as Lincoln took a few steps towards the door. Stopped by the jukebox. Searched the bottles, walls and barstools in a daze.
“I don’t understand,” he said. Barely qualifying as a whisper. Stared down at his hands and sniffed. “I don’t understand what happened.”
/> He turned to walk away.
“Thanks for the drinks, Lincoln,” one of the regulars said.
Lincoln didn’t stop. Met the stairs with stiff steps and dissolved into afternoon.
Brigid sat down at the table. Glanced at the cigarette floating in Lincoln’s glass. “Shit. Wish I hadn’t done that.”
“It’s not his house, Brigid,” I said. “He’s just…”
We both inhaled the remains of his cigarette.
“No way,” I replied to silent questions. “He’s probably just on the ropes. For now…” I picked up my drink. Set it back down. “He’ll be back… I mean, he’s barely thirty-five, right?”
Brigid nodded. Reached out and took my hand. “Apple Martini?”
“Yeah… Yeah, sounds about right.”
“Why don’t you have a cigarette, and I’ll have your drink waiting when you get back?”
I gave her hand a squeeze.
***
Stepped out into the afternoon. Lit up and scanned Third Street with heavy lids. Trying to catch Lincoln’s scent. To my left, the door to the Beantown Comedy Club remained closed. Padlocked, awaiting the next entrepreneur to step in.
When Zelda walked past, we almost didn’t recognize each other.
“Lucky?”
“Zelda?”
Five years since our last encounter, and she hadn’t changed. Round face. Large eyes. Dark skin. Small mouth, abbreviated lips that bordered on violet dusk.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m ok.”
“You sure?”
I frowned. “Yeah, sure I’m sure. Want to come on in and have a drink?”
“Oh, what? No. No, thank you.”
“Well, it’s great to see you…”
She sent an uncomfortable hand up and down the strap of her bookbag.
I realized I was swaying slightly. Smoking a cigarette outside a bar at three-thirty in the afternoon.
I think she realized it too. “Well. Bye, Lucky. Good to see you, too.”
“Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself.”
With a charitable smile, she continued her way east.
I smiled, shook my head. “Guess I did fuck that one up pretty good, this time.”
Then I remembered there was an Apple Martini awaiting me inside.
Courtesy of Brigid.
And in a few more weeks, I’d fuck things up with her. Wouldn’t be long before Fiona joined those ranks. Followed by countless wrong turns, poorly placed bets and several misspent springs. Right on schedule, all the way to thirty-four and one-half years old, when I would be faced with the reality that Lincoln may have been right, and that there was a decision to be made.
Because it was a Wednesday.
I lit a cigarette, made a trademark out of it.
Tossed the match aside, took a seat at the edge of worn, tattered blue. I had forgotten to turn on the radio, the lights. Just a single bulb from the bathroom pouring across the floor of my basement dwelling. Picked up a bottle of Gato Negro, had a few swallows. Adjusted my tie, cuffs. Had a few more. Smoked and watched the cat play with a knotted length of white rope. Watched the rope win. Watched the cat walk away, all denial and feline swagger. Snubbed the cigarette. Lit one more, the last one this time, I promised. Tapped a single black dress shoe against the floor. Felt my ass meld into the cushions. Molested the bottle for another good go or two. Two, then three gunshots ripped through the evening walls. Could have been close as the other side of Sunset Park. Waited for the sirens. A good five minutes passed, and the wails began to crest. Red and blue streaking past the windows. Heading west, reshaping the scene of the crime. I got to my feet. Checked the date on my phone, the last time, this time, I promised. Had a look around. Ignoring the pack of cigarettes in my coat, cash in my back pocket. Pretending I wasn’t entirely prepared to walk out the door. Made do with the cat, returning for a cursory survey of my shins. I reached down to pet her head.
“These are all just stories from a bar with no doorknobs,” I told her.
She purred, rubbed her face against my shoes, then let go.
Wasn’t the worst advice.
I snubbed my cigarette, threw on a single-lapel tux jacket, and abandoned ship.
Went to catch the N or the R. Whichever came first.
***
Turned right at Ben’s Pizzeria, ignoring the scent of stillborn slices, and took one last walk down Macdougal.
Stopped by the newsstand for old time’s sake. Bought another pack of Reds from a man who still remembered me, some seven years after my first purchase. He handed me a copy of the Times, headline reading Military Service Becomes Issue in Bush-Kerry Race.
He tossed some smokes my way, pointed to my tie. “You are doing well now, my friend?”
“It’s a costume.”
“What are you dressed as?”
“Someone else.”
He laughed. Same as it ever was. “Tell him I said hello.”
“Hello.”
“Hello! Two seventy-five, your change…”
“Hello.”
“Hello, hello, my friend.”
“And goodbye. Take care.”
“Goodbye.”
Not much chance I’d ever see him again. Kept strolling on down. Past the Caffé Reggio. Same line out the door at Off the Wagon. Bimbos and bros, thick necks, polo shirts, disco-ball halters, bleached, worn, ready, and tagged with brand-name reminders. Past The Comedy Cellar, same old tune, barkers begging for people to come on down, check out some live stand-up. One or two unwilling steps later, finding the entrance to Creole Nights.
That goddamn yellow sign. Snug between a tattoo parlor and a restaurant I had never bothered to explore.
Took to the steps. One, two, three, so many times previous.
Urban quicksand.
Strolled on in, familiar jingle just above the door.
Faced with just another night underground. Tables empty, save one or two couples whose luck had given them one last chance. Empty seats all along the bar, massive underbite. Only a few regulars at the back end. Same old Caribbean tracks looping the loop, carried by muted bulbs and byzantine candlelight.
I checked the glowing Budweiser clock on the wall.
Ten-thirty. No date, no occasion.
I ambled over to an empty seat. Gauged the mood by waving to the regulars. Same pleasant reciprocation. Nothing to add contrast to the calendar. I staked my claim, pulled in close to the bar.
Zephyr tossed me a napkin, casual smile. “Lucky! Nice tie, man.”
“Suits the occasion.”
“Good of you to join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“We are the world, motherfucker.”
“Where’s the band?”
“Canceled.”
I waited for more. News of a replacement. Regrets.
“Nothing?” I asked.
Zephyr shrugged. “It’s dead tonight, anyway.”
“Not really what I expected.”
“Not what you expected.”
“Tonight being what it is and all.”
“It’s not over yet, Lucky.” He waved as one of the regulars departed. Out the door. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Double Jack. Rocks.”
Zephyr smiled. “Double Jack. Rocks.”
He did the honors. Steady stream filling a glass, emptying the bottle. All the way to the brim.
“Last of the Jack.”
“Last of the Jack?”
He placed the drink before me. “Yeah, man. That’s it.”
“Done?”
“Well. Tonight being what it is, and all.”
“Want me to run to the corner? Pick up a bottle?”
“Liquor store closes at ten.”
“Ok.”
“Enjoy your drink,” Zephyr said. Reached beneath the bar. “And enjoy this…” He set an ashtray down before me. “Have yourself a smoke.”
“Don’t you usually wait ‘til la
ter, these days?”
“What can they do to us, tonight of all nights?”
I nodded. Raised my glass.
“Hold on…” He shuffled down the bar, fetched his rum. Met mine with an elegant A-minor. “Cheers.”
“Yeah.”
I plunged into my drink, before remembering that would be the last of it.
Set it aside. “Time being, I guess I’ll take a Budweiser.”
He popped a cap, set it down. Waved his hand for the comp and walked away.
I nodded into empty space. Turned to look over my shoulder.
Empty floor. Door stuck to its gums.
“Give it a bit,” I muttered.
Remembered Zephyr’s gift and lit a cigarette.
Just like old times.
***
Half past eleven, when Helena walked in.
She grinned, enough to cover everyone in that lonesome joint. Skipped lightly to my side, took a seat.
“Hi!”
“Hey there.”
“How have you been?”
I watched her fingers tap against the bar. Head tilted at a bizarre angle as she considered each of the bottles. Tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth.
“What do you even drink these days?” I asked.
She grinned. “I still like the good stuff.”
“Well get yourself some. I’m buying.”
“Stop.” She laughed, as though this was one of the better ones she’d heard. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
She flashed another glamorous smile, eyes on emerald. “Fine. I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Jack’s done.”
“Huh?” She laughed. “No it isn’t!”
“It’s done.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Guess this is really it.”
“Let me buy you something else.”
“I want rum!”
So I called for Zephyr. Inquired as to the chances of Barbancourt. He shook his head. I ordered a Bacardi Select, another Bud. He caught sight of Helena. Jumped back. I watched her lean over the bar to hug Zephyr. Listened to them talk about tomorrows. I smoked for a bit, biting down on a cotton filter. Drink served.
Helena raised her glass. “What shall we toast to?”
“I don’t even know.”
“To Chevalier?”
“So, so long ago.”
And so long went the drinks. I took a drag, let something occur to me.
“All those times,” I said. “All those kisses, I figured I should apologize for the taste of cigarettes.”
She laughed.
I wouldn’t have minded getting stuck with that sound for the rest of my life.