Waiting for Change

Today we have another very special friday. This time with a guest writer: Katie Jares, who is a little more experienced that Kyle and I. She was not given a prompt at all and wrote this not knowing where it was going at all. So please enjoy.

The five o’clock crowd rolls into the bar bringing in an unnecessary amount of noise. This place has been quiet for hours, just me, Dom, and the booze.  I know this happens everyday, but I can’t seem to get used to it. Dom is on the other side of the bar taking drink orders from a group of men loosening their ties. A woman in an impossibly tight skirt leans over the jukebox flipping through songs. The table of suits next to her gawk as she bounces her hips to the ambient music that always plays. I take another swig of my fifth pint, and wipe the foam from my grizzly mustache. Now the routine begins. An Usher song starts blaring through the speakers. The tight-skirted woman is now accepting a drink from one of the men at the table. She beckons over her friends. They all chat. Same shit, different day.

“Paul?”

“Huh?” I turn to find Dom. His face is red and flushed. He has also loosened his tie. The fat on his neck still spills over the collar of his pit-stained button down.

“I said, can I get you another one?” he pants.  I look down at my now empty glass. When did that happen?

“Oh, uh yeah," I know I shouldn't, but at this point I don’t care. "And shot of Jack,” I add almost apologetically.

I spin my soggy coaster on its edge while Dom pours the shot. I knock it back without hesitation, and chase it down with my fresh beer.

“That’s your last one, okay? We don’t need another repeat of Wednesday.”

I give him a sarcastic solute, and rub the tender spot on my jaw. He shakes his head and walks away with a smile. He’s a good guy. Not many people would cut someone off at six o’clock on a Friday, especially me, but Dom knows I can't afford it. He's always looking out for me.

The bar is now full of white-collar workers blowing off steam. I no longer feel welcome. Ironic, considering I own this place, although not for long at this rate.  I chug the rest of my beer and pull a fifty out of my wallet trapping it under my still-sweating glass. I know its not enough to cover the tab, but I don’t worry about it. Dom knows where to find me and I’ll be back tomorrow anyway. It wont be the first or the last time the till is in the red. I slide off my stool and try to steady myself. I can feel the blood rush to my legs carrying the alcohol with it, the warmth floods my veins. My head is spinning as the room sways to the left. I could use some fresh air.

"I'll be back, Dom" I call out; he nods once and wipes the sweat from his brow. I shouldn’t leave him alone, but he can handle it.  I stumble through the crowd hearing their whispers. To them I must look like a vagabond trying to find relief from the heat. I try to ignore them but I can feel their stares burning into my back. I step out into the suffocating summer evening; a haze of humidity has settled between the buildings making the neon signs lining the street look fuzzy and confusing. I'm sure the alcohol is helping with that, but I know where I'm going. I navigate my way to the diner on the corner and plop down in my usual booth. I hear Cindy, the waitress, call out my standard order to the kitchen before joining me at my table with a coffee. She slides it in front of me. I grab two sugars and a creamer, without looking at her.

“Pauly! Long time no see, haven't been here in a week."   I wrinkle my noes at the nickname. She knows I hate it, but can’t help herself. "How've you been, hun?"

“Oh you know, same shit, different day,” I say in a huff, surprisingly without a slur.

Reaching out to tug a piece of my overgrown scruff she chides in her thick Jersey accent "Lookin' so manly these days, love this beard". I don’t like to be touched, and she knows it, but after a steamy session in the supply closet one drunken night, she thinks she is entitled to the contact. I scratch my beard to loosen her grip. “Thanks, I’ve been--” I try to give as little information as possible “—busy. Haven’t really had time to shave.  You know how it is.” She doesn’t, but nods anyway, and goes back to smacking her worn-out gum. I swirl my spoon hoping she will leave me be, but I know better.

After a Moment of Silence, she pats my stirring hand excitedly  "You know what you need? A vacation! I know a great little place just off the coast, you would love it."

"Cindy, you know I can't just leave the bar."

"Sure you can! Look, you’ve already left," she gestures around the half empty diner around us. "It's that easy. Come on, Pauly, have a little fun." I hate when she begs. I wonder if she will leave if I say yes. I settle for "I'll think about it."

"And if you need someone to come with, let me know." She slides out of the booth with a wink and a click of her teeth. I resist the urge roll my eyes, because I know she is looking over her shoulder expecting a smile. I sip my coffee instead.

The window is clouded, but I can see the streets teeming with twenty-somethings looking for their next libation. A twinge of jealousy sneaks into my consciousness. To be that carefree again, I can't even image it.  Between child support, my rapidly failing bar, and paying bail from my most recent bout of public indecency I wouldn’t be able to afford a vacation even if I wanted to. Everyone owns a piece of Paul, except Paul. Or wants a piece, I think as Cindy brings over my dinner, but her eyes are not on me, but on the fire truck passing the window. I swear this woman is attracted to disasters. Like me.

"So what'd you think that’s about?" She asks, equally excited as she is nervous. An ambulance distracts her from my nondescript answer. I'm too busy spreading gravy over my chicken-fried steak to care about someone else's plight. I have enough of my own, thank you very much. I swallow hard to clear my mouth.

"I bet someone just passed out, happens all the time."

She bounces on her the balls of her feet for a moment, obviously deciding if she wants to join the flock of onlookers now swarming to the scene. “Hmmm, well I’m gonna check it out. Just a peek.” She really can’t help herself. The bell on the door tolls as I stuff another spoonful of mashed potatoes in my mouth.  Its only half masticated when I hear Cindy’s gasp.

“Paul! Paul, its at your bar!” I barely have time to process what she said. “Come on, come on!” She yanks me out of the booth, my silver wear clatters to the floor.  In the street, I lose Cindy to the crowd as I fight down the vomit that creeps rapidly up my throat; the alcohol still very present in my system. The flashing lights in the fog make my eyes burn, but I lumber over as fast as I can manage to the stretcher now exiting my bar. The crowd is hard to push through; I get to the ambulance right as the doors close. A red-faced Dom is clutching his chest through the window. Cindy finds me as the ambulance disappears down the street. I'm left dumbfounded in a street full of strangers.

It rained at Dom’s funeral. I remember watching bits of earth moisten and crumble into the pit where he was laid to rest. His wife standing in down pour gazing helplessly at her husband as their three children clutched to her arms and dress.

“I didn’t even know he had kids,” Cindy murmurs as she fills our last beers at the tap. The black birdcage veil attacked to her hat hangs in her face, her eyes still red and puffy from the funeral.

“Neither did I, and I thought I knew all about him.” She slides me a beer, but I leave it, and instead pick up the memorial card from the service. It’s filled with stories and details about his life. It’s filled with things that I never cared to learn about him. “I guess I was the one who did all the talking.”

Cindy comes around the bar and puts a hand on my shoulder right as the door swings open. We both jump. A man in a gray suit peaks his head inside, his shoulders and hair damp from the drizzle.

“I saw your sign outside. Is this place still for sale?”

“Yeah, come on in. Can I get you anything?” I say as I walk behind the bar. It feels wrong.