The bar itself was out of the way, I
mean, it was downtown, but hidden. Located in a dusty, cobble-brick alley from
the main strip. For me that worked, I didn’t particularly care to be around a
bunch of loud tourists…or students, for that matter. I ducked into the door, a battered,
metal one plastered with flyers of bands no one ever heard of and after my eyes
adjusted to the dank I took a seat at the counter.
The bar was small. The counter itself
only offered about six or seven chrome stools bolted to the concrete floor.
There were four booths lined along the opposite side of the bar. A large, dusty
plate glass window shrouded in dead neon tubes. The bartender, a flabby, balding middle
aged man with a ponytail, attended to a group of four University students who
sat at the end corner of the bar.
I ordered a beer as I scanned the dank
room for a familiar face. Nothing. Everyone I hung with previously in this town, where did they all go? An abrupt wave of alienation surged over
me. An absolute feeling of being severed from the human condition.
I took a napkin and began jotting down notes for the novel I was working on. I made no
eye contact with the group of raucous male students as I sipped my beer. Heaven
forbid I get wrapped up with the Are You A Writer/What Are You Writing crowd.
To be sure, conversations of that ilk don’t unsettle me, but at that moment in
time, I simply wanted to drink, not to be bothered.
On the second bottle, I was approached
by a scraggy little lad in baseball cap and worn jeans who apparently stumbled
in from the heat. Shaggy, black hair fell out from beneath the cap and cascaded
down over much of his dark, Native American features. Short but skinny, he
obviously was poor and undoubtedly lived either on the streets or South Tucson.
He was actually ruggedly handsome, but already intoxicated. The group of white,
male students scowled at him in derision. He wasn't bothering anyone from what
I could tell. I saw him as simply another guy out for a drink and managing with
his life’s hardships like anyone else, through alcohol. I sighed, glancing at
the students. People can be such hypocritical shits.
As I stated, he approached me and
slurred timidly if I was German. I smirked and said no, I was American. He
never asked, which was a plus, but I chose to drink with this guy, who said his
name was Stephen. He was twenty-two and worked parking cars in a parking lot.
For almost nothing, he sustained off of the meager tips from washing the
vehicles and guarding them against thieves who have a habit of stealing license
plates and selling them. He stated he wasn't queer and actually never had sex
with a man. Leering at me he smiled that tonight he might want to change that.
I laughed and said calm down tiger or some stupid shit in a vain attempt to be
coy.
Noticing my scribblings on napkins, Stephen
asked what I did for a living. I mumbled, "A writer."
"A writer?!" He snatched a
napkin off the bar and plucked a pen from his pocket. "I don't believe
you. Write something."
I smirked, grabbed the pen and scrawled
out, "His eyes were stone. Sadness. Yet a spark rose from the ashes with a
sudden burst of lust that was likely to drive a man mad. He eyed me as he ran
his fingers gently back and forth across the stubble on his chin. His mouth was
slightly open, his lips plump and soft, with a glint as though he had just ran
his tongue across them. He wanted something. Actually, he wanted it all. And
one day he would have it."
He glared at the scribbles and said in mock surprise, “Oh
no! That’s about me?! It’s good, though.” As he folded the napkin and placed it
in his front pocket, we both burst into laughter and more beer was ordered.
Things were going good and pleasant
until Stephen threw up. Right there at the bar. A cascading flow of pinks and
yellows splattered onto the cigarette butt littered tile. The students and the bartender reprimanded him as Stephen stumbled back into the mensroom.
After a bit, the bartender snarled at me, "Go check on your friend."
I rose and when I entered the toilet, I found Stephen passed out in the urinal. After a couple of are you all rights, I succeeded in pulling the young man out. Unfortunatly, a student witnessed this and repoted this fiasco to the management. Thanks, snitchy.
The bartender behind
the bar ordered the young man out. Two of the students grabbed the lanky lad
and tossed him out on the street. I followed them to the curb and picked Stephen
up out of the gutter, handing him his cap.
“I want to go home.” He said, wobbling.
“I’ll walk you to your bus stop.” I
stated.
“This late? Not running. I need a cab.”
Thoughts of dragging this lad to my
house and doing all sorts of nasty things flashed through my head. Literally
using his anatomy as my own personal amusement park. But, I digress. I am not a
monster. I agreed to find a taxi to take him back to South Tucson. One surly
fucker stated eighty dollars and before I had time to protest, Stephen climbed
into the back of the cab. I handed the smirking jerk of a driver four twenty
dollar bills (all I had left), waved goodbye to Stephen and headed back home.
3:26am. I exhale a breath and look
around at the still buildings where I see darkness and light. I bet most people
are in bed right now sleeping or reading a book or novella while some people
are on the phone, watching the television or maybe there’s a few in love
couples lying beside each other carrying on a conversation while sleep beckons
for them and the smile and voice of the other encourages them to continue to
ignore the sleep.
I walk the long, lonely way. Nothing out
on these dark streets. Not a soul. I feel the beat tide of depression consume
me. I seriously do not know what to do...
