Don’t Cost to Look

He arrived late like he always did on Saturdays. His place was hidden two miles off the highway and fifteen miles from the nearest town. The joint was rocking. The dance floor was full of cowboys in ball caps and women too fat to be in the tight clothes they wore. A fragment of a song from the sixties warping its way around on the jukebox took him back, and for a second, he was transported to another time—another life. He was back in Chicago, dressed in a bespoke set of clothes, in a jazz club sipping Teachers on the rocks with a lemon twist, and in love without knowing what was coming down the road.

Then, his vision cleared, and the real world crashed back. Walls and ceiling painted charcoal black with thousands of sparkles reflecting neon red closed in on him. The music was loud enough to rattle glassware behind the bar, pounding out music alternating between rock and roll and despairing country and western songs which reminded everyone, especially him, of love lost and drowned in a thousand shot glasses filled to the brim with bonded whiskey and thrown back and gulped down to ease the guilt or pain of betrayal.

A great percentage of the men who were presently drunk or on their way to getting drunk and filled his bar tonight had been away one time or another. They were loaded down with a lifetime of petty grievances they regularly hurled against each other and at the world in general. He was aware of the nature of the people to whom he dealt out seven ounce pony glasses filled with ice and whiskey, vodka, rum, and gin with mixers of Coke, 7-up, Tang, water, and most often nothing.

All his customers assumed he was on equal footing with them. Now, after proving himself worthy of their respect and tough enough he was accepted.

He arbitrated their squabbles and most times kept a lid on the kettle he stirred every night. He heard them talk as though being away was a form of vacation. They never used the word prison when they talked about their time in state prison over in McAlester. Perhaps being away was a vacation from the torment of daily life on the outside.

He dreaded when somehow civilians found his bar. He had to baby sit them and make sure none of his regulars acted out or worse while the tourist were in the place.

He took a barstool at the end of the long bar that ran the length of end of the room. Van Cole, his bartender, put a light scotch and water in front of him. It was twelve o’clock in the morning. His bar would not close until the last customer left. He didn’t have a set closing time. Why would he? The bar had no license and the nearest law was 40 miles away. He was the law in the world he had create not in the seven days as the Lord had done, but in 23 days after his first bar was burned to the ground by a deputy sheriff. The price he’d paid for too much success and not using vending equipment padding the Sheriff in the back woods of Latimer County, Oklahoma. His new bar had convinced everyone he was here to stay.

“Your brother called,” Van said. “He’s driving down from Tulsa tomorrow. He said he’d be here about noon.”

His brother, Mike, was in the business too, but was closer to civilization, licensed, and had to close at two. One time, after closing his own bar, he drove down and arrived at four o’clock in the morning. With music blasting, full of methed up wide awake drunks, and everyone reeling and screaming at each other to be heard above the thunder of the music, Mike told him that his bar looked like the most dangerous place in the world.

The building was built of cinder block and had no windows. Daylight was barred entry. The dominating theme was black and the lighting indirect and red. Two oblong lights over a pair of pool tables were the only brightness allowed and only extended to the edges of the green felt. The neon of the juke box made a rainbow glow the middle of one wall. After his divorce, he’d made the place home to a constant madness to which all who dared to enter were invited, and from which he could not claim to be immune.

He saw her walk in at one o’clock. She came in behind a man and woman. She paused a step inside the door. She put a hand out as if to feel her way in to the haze of cigarette smoke set on fire by the red indirect florescence of the lighting. Her eyes adjusted, and unsure what to believe, she looked over the crowd. He watched her walk with her two companions to a table in the far corner by the dance floor. He motioned the waitress over and told her he wanted to buy their drinks.

He never messed with women who came in to his bar. Most were not beautiful and unattractive for a lot of reasons, but no matter, the women were a draw for his male customers. He was about to break his rule. He worked his way toward her table shaking hands, greeting customers, and chatting a second or two with drunks who believed they were his best friends.

Perhaps she was an extraterrestrial from another planet. A woman like a hundred year flood that only happened once in a life time. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was not alone. Her entrance had charged the air. Her hair was jet black and teased high and fell back past her shoulders in a reflection of light. Later, when he saw her up close, he’d see her eyes were blue. It was not only her beauty and how tall she was that set her apart. For him it was as if a spotlight cut her out and dimmed all the other scruffy, dilapidated humans who populated his bar. She was a beacon at the end of a lonely tunnel.

She sat with her back to the wall, and as he drew closer, he saw she was as tall as he was, maybe taller. She had small firm breasts, and unwisely in this place, her nipples were almost visible under her shear sleeveless black, silk blouse. She did not shave under her arms which was a surprising turn on for him. He stood at her table.

She had white skin that glowed red from the red florescent eight foot long bulbs hidden behind cornice boards he had installed over squares of black mirror tiles glued to plywood and hung around the walls of the bar in eight foot by four foot panels. Some said the effect of the lighting excited demented passions. They were probably right. He did not care. Demented passions were fine with him. He might be the leader of the uncontrolled pack.

“It don’t cost to look, cowboy,” she said when she saw how intensely he stared at her. “Touching might be another story.”

He felt heat rise up in his throat. He was a freshman in high school again aching to take out the most beautiful senior class girl. He extended a hand toward the civilian she had come in with, John or Jonathon. He didn’t remember. Her companion acted like an old friend of his and proud that he had taken time to come over to their table.

“My wife.” he said and motioned toward a small, dark woman on his left. He waved in the direction of the reason he had come to their table, “and this is my cousin.”

He bent down close to her, and breathed in the perfume of her skin and hair. He told her he was delighted to meet her.

“I bet every man wants to touch,” he said.

“My husband would not like it.” She smiled up at him. “He’s possessive.”

“I don’t blame him.” He smiled and introduced himself. “I’m David.”

“I’m Sheba, Bathsheba Lighthorse.” She said. “I was joking about that ‘don’t cost to look’ business.”

“I hope not.” He’d laughed. “I’m happy you are here.”

The waitress came and set their drinks on the table.

“Let me get the drinks,” he said waving away the man’s money. He slid a twenty dollar bill on to the girl’s drink tray.

“May I join you for a moment?”

He sat down next to her without waiting for an answer.

“Where’s your possessive husband?” he said

“He’s fighting with his unit in Afghanistan. He’s a marine. This is his second deployment there. He was in Iraq before that. He’s been gone off and on for three years.”

“He sounds dangerous,” he said dismissing the man from his mind. “How did you end up lost down here in Latimer County?”

“My mother lives in Wilburton. My cousin too,” she said. “I was in a car accident in Minneapolis, and I’m here recuperating. Nothing too serious. My cousin offered to show me the sights of Wilburton. It took about twelve minutes, and we decided to come out here.”

“I glad your cousin brought you. No one ever comes to my bar unless a customer brings them the first time. I don’t have a sign up. I don’t get many innocent civilians.”

“I hope I’m not too innocent for your place.”

“I bet you are. I’ll have to make certain you don’t get into trouble.”

He had to leave them, but managed to work his way back several times to her table. He’d meant it when he told her he would look after her. He watched her dance. She was not intimidated by the attention of his customers. She did not invite any of her dance partners to sit down at her table. He invited Bathsheba and her cousins to go to breakfast with him after the bar closed. She thanked him, but declined.

“My cousins had to leave. You still want to take me to breakfast? I could use a ride back to town,” she said when he found her sitting alone later. He asked her to sit at the bar.

After all the other help and the customers left, Van Cole counted the take and paid himself. He laid the money bag on the bar. “I’m out of here,” he said. “You two don’t anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You want a drink for the road?” he asked her. She shook her head no. She had moved up to the bar as he had suggested after she asked for a ride home. He went around to the back of the bar and turn off all the lights leaving a small cone of white light on over the bar so they could see their way out.

She was sitting just outside the edge of the light. One white hand was visible on top the bar. The black of the room surrounded and pressed in on them. He moved from behind the bar and walked to her. He sat down next to her with his back turned to the quiet, empty darkness. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

He pushed his hand into the light and with a tip of his finger touched the nail of her index finger. The nail was painted blood red and looked long and sharp enough to cut into his heart. She leaned her face into the light.

“Do you want me to take you back to town?” he said drowning in the deep ocean blue of her eyes.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I do.”

Scuffling

I stood behind the bar and watched Sammy Sullivan. He was sitting at a table drinking bourbon and coke and flipping cigarette butts at a tall, thin guy in a cowboy hat sitting at another table with his back turned. It would be only a matter of minutes before the cowboy figured out what was going on. Then, we would have us a show.

I didn’t know why Sammy was permitted in my bar. He was always causing trouble. Maybe I was bored, or maybe I liked trouble. I’d barred him out of the place a few times, but always let him back in. I watched Sammy flip a butt and hit the cowboy square on the back of the neck. I moved toward the end of the bar so I could step out and bust up the scuffle that was about to start.

The kid I had working with me behind the bar shook his head. He didn’t understand why I let the stuff that Sammy was always pulling go on. I shrugged my shoulders to say me neither. I saw that the cowboy was in Sammy’s face and had him by the lapels of his leather jacket.

“I’ll be right back,” I told the kid. I stepped out and took a couple of steps over to the two new best friends. I pushed between the cowboy and pulled Sammy toward the door.

I manhandled him outside and pushed him up against the side of the building to the right of the door. He was drunk. I stepped back and told him he had to go home.

“You telling me to leave?” he said.

“Time to go,” I told him.

“You telling me to leave?” he repeated.

His buddy, Chink, was standing outside off to the side but had not butted in. When I turned my head and looked at him to make sure he understood to stay out of it, Sammy hit me in the mouth. Chink was shocked. I don’t think Sammy believed he’d done it either, but didn’t have more than a split second to reflect on his mistake.

I caught Sammy across the face with my forearm and knocked his head against the concrete block wall of the building. He melted down the wall like hot butter. Chink moved over and covered him so I wouldn’t hit him again. I helped Chink pick him up and carry him to Chink’s old pickup.

When I went back inside and walked back behind the bar, the kid gave me an ‘I told you so’ look. He wrapped up a hand full of ice in a bar rag and handed it to me. I pressed it against my cut lip.

“Sammy going to live?” he wanted to know.



“Depends on how hard the idiot’s head is,” I said and pressed the cold bar rag tight against my lip.

I Won't Tell

He went in search of coffee. He didn’t use the elevator down to the street. He walked down the five flights of stairs he found at the end of the hall eight doors down from his hotel room. It was six o’clock in the morning. He’d moved into the hotel the night before and had slept badly.

This would be his first day alone in Cartagena. Yesterday, after their week together in hotel on the beach, his girlfriend deserted him and flew back to Bogotá. This small hotel was three blocks inland. It had a courtyard shaded by a giant mango tree loaded with fruit.

He stepped out of the hotel into the bright Caribbean sunlight. Six o´clock and already warm. Next to the hotel he saw a small café, but his desire for coffee was distracted. He couldn’t believe what he saw. In front of the small café, on the sidewalk and partially in the street, was the most astounding sight.

There may have been a dozen. Some were wearing cocktail dress, some had on short shorts, and all were dressed for the evening. One, a black, was tall and beautiful; her friend standing and chatting next to her had the same café con leche skin color as his girlfriend. He heard her say, “Hasta luego,” to the black girl before she walked over to where he was standing.

“Buenos días. Eres italiano?” she said. “Are you an Italian?”

“No,” I said. “American.”

“Do you date?” she said.

“Would you like a coffee?” I said. I indicated a table just inside open front of the café. She walked with me into the café and sat down at the first table. I sat across from her.

“Café con leche?” I asked. She nodded yes.

“Dos.” I said to the waiter.

“Are you busy later?” she said. “What are you doing later?”

“I am going to walk and get to know the city.”

“Are you at the hotel?” she indicated the hotel next door with her head.

“I am. Do you live in Cartagena?”

“No. I am from outside of Monteria, Cordoba.” She said. “I am here for the season. I can make enough in three months to last all year.”

“I was here with my girlfriend.” I said. “She had to go back home yesterday.”

“We could spend an hour together. I’ll call my mother and tell her I’ll be late,” she said. “$200.000 pesos for you.”

“Your mother?” I said.

“Yes, she takes care of my little girl, my daughter.”

The waiter set a large, white cup with espresso coffee in the bottom and a small pitcher of hot milk on the table in front of each of us. He placed a bowl of brown sugar in the center of the table and gave each of us a spoon that he set on top of a napkin to the right of the cups.

I watched the pretty woman cross her legs, lean forward, and spoon three spoonfuls of sugar into her cup. She poured in milk until the coffee was the color of her skin, picked up the cup, and took a sip. I fixed up my coffee with sugar but did not add as much hot milk. I took a sip and smiled.

“I needed coffee,” I said.

“We could go up to your room.” She took another sip of her coffee.

“You are very beautiful,” I said, “but my girlfriend . . .”



“I won’t tell.” She smiled.

Did You Tell Him

She stood there her face full of loathing.

His rage was surging and rippling in every pore of his skin. He wanted to smack her across her arrogant mouth. Close it up forever. God, he wanted to beat the hell out of her. To make her pay. She had her back to the bed room door. Instead, he drove his fist through the flimsy veneer of the door next to her head.

“Fuck you, Rick. Go ahead and kick the door too while you’re at it.”

He stopped himself from doing just that. He wanted to kick the cheap trailer to pieces. He’d been out of work for a year. They had rented the cheapest thing they could find. He hated what he had become. He wanted to slap her taunting mouth off her face.

“God damn it,” he said. “God damn it all to hell.”

“God’s got nothing to do with nothing, Rick.”

He stepped back. She had been a beauty once. He’d love her so much that he thought the whole weight of the universe would crush his heart when he was not with her he missed her so much. Now it was all he could do not to kill her, to beat her to a pulp.

He would never accept how his whole life had gone sour. Losing his job had been the start, but the final straw was her betrayal.

“I am leaving you, Rick. It’s over. You thinking beating me up will make me love you, want to be with you, stay in this pit of a place?”

“I love you,” he said.

“You’re pathetic is what you are. Get out of my way.” She picked up her scuffed up suitcase off the bed. She pushed opened the ruined door.

“Don’t come near me again.” She said. Pulling the suitcase behind her she left him sitting on the sagging bed. The pickup was parked and waiting down the cracked street. She though the suitcase in the back and climbed in.

“Get me out of here,” she said.

“Did you tell him?” the blond guy said.

“You better drive on out of here before he comes out or you’ll know firsthand,” She said.

Soon

He wonders when it will happen. When will he decide? When will he decide to stop? “No more,” he will say to himself. There will be no one to tell. After a while, a guy starts thinking it ain’t worth the effort. He walks the beach. As far as his eyes can see, white sand with cracked shells that bruise his bare feet. Old people walk a head of him and follow behind.

“We’re a fucking parade,” he hears in his head. “A parade of dry sun burnt skin and flaccid muscles. Turkey necked men and women with tits and bellies no longer fighting gravity and hanging down over their shorts. Jesus!”

He looks down when he’s pissing and can’t see his dick. Even when he wakes up with a hard on he can’t see it hidden behind the mountain of his belly. He has to push himself up and off the bed with his arms when he stands up in the middle of the night and stumbles into the toilet to pee.

His wife is old and tired. A lunatic lost in a head full of the past. He doesn’t see her as the young bride he married fifty years ago. He sees her as she is and hates her for her insecurities and constant questions repeated every ten minutes. She will not leave him in peace. Jesus!

He hides in the folds of the couch in the living room and tries to nap.

“Armond!” she shouts. “Armond!”

He hears her searching room to room. It won’t be long now.

“There you are,” she says. “The children will be here soon.”

His son was killed riding his motorcycle 20 years ago. The daughter lives in California. She won’t be coming soon. Has refused to come home since her mother disowned her years ago. Jesus!

Meals on Wheels brings lunch. After lunch he can escape to the beach in front of his million dollar house. The hired woman will fill in for a couple of hours, and his wife will call her Eunice.

“Eunice!” she will shout. “Oh, my beautiful child. You are home at last.”

Every day, when he comes home from the beach he checks his stash. He has 50 pills. The strongest pills available. The directions say take no more than two for a full night’s sleep—no more than two in 24 hours. He holds the bottle of pills in his hand. Not today he decides.

“Soon,” the voice in his head says. “Soon.”

Endings

He met a woman on line through a dating service. He’d looked at a hundred photos and read an equal number of profiles. Finally, he emailed a brunette whose profile said she liked sailing, hiking and wanted to meet someone who was into outdoor activities. She had posted five photos and looked to be tall and rangy.

She emailed him back and they met on Skype and chated a couple of times. In the screen of his laptop, he saw her at the table in her dining room with her back to a wall of paintings. She painted watercolors and had her favorites framed and hung all over her house she told him. He invited her to look at his art work on his website. His were mostly digital paintings of nude women while her paintings were water colors of landscapes and flowers.

They agreed to meet for coffee. She suggested a Starbucks on Yale Avenue. They met on a Saturday afternoon. She arrived late, but he didn’t mind because he had his computer. He saw her come in. She hesitated just inside the doorway, and he got up and went to where she stood. They walked together to the counter. She ordered an iced coffee and refused to let him pay. She was in a pair of black jeans, wore a loose sweater and cowboy boots. He had on a brown leather jacket and some gray slacks. He’d worn a pair of boat shoes.

She wore no makeup. There was no hint of sexuality about her. I wonder if it is on purpose, he thought. He guided her back to the table with his coffee and laptop, held out a chair for her to sit, and joined her at the table. She sat with her back to the wall. He closed the lid of his laptop and pushed it to one side.

They both took a sip of their drinks. He reached into his brief case and pulled out a drawing pad and a charcoal pencil. He started sketching her portrait. I can’t wait to see how we end up, he thought. It can go several different ways:

“I loved your paintings.” She said. “I thought I wouldn’t, but I admit that they were beautiful. I pictured myself posing for you.”

He turned the sketch around and pushed it toward her. She looked at it for a long moment. She looked up at him.

“Yes I think I would like for you to paint me.”

He pulled a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil out of his briefcase. He started sketching a portrait of her.

“I looked at your website,” she said. “I asked my pastor to look at too. He said your paintings were obscene.”

“Obscene?”

“Yes, he told me that I had to be careful. Men with an obsession with sex and naked women were sick and dangerous.”

“You came anyway.”

“I almost stayed away.”

He turned the sketch and pushed it over to her. She looked at it for a moment and then looked up at him.

“May I keep it?” she said. “It is beautiful.”

He took a drawing pad and a charcoal pencil out of his briefcase. . .

Like Me

His niece always had a new girlfriend. She was a workaholic, made a very good living from her consulting firm, but her girlfriends were problematic. They were beautiful, but most had emotional problems.

He was cutting a prime rib that he had cooked and brought over to his brother’s house as his contribution to the birthday celebration. His niece came into the kitchen to get more wine.

“I want a beautiful girlfriend like your newest,” he told her.

“You can have her,” she said. “She’s upstairs pouting in the bathroom.”

She twisted a corkscrew down into top of the wine bottle.

“I know why men hate women,” she told him. “They are so needy. They always end up asking the same question: “why don’t you love me?”

“We don’t hate them, at least not in the beginning.” He laughed. “Not until they ask that question.”

“Why can’t women be more like a man?” She laughed and popped the cork out of the wine bottle. “More like me!”