Passenger(8)

The men at the tables cast glances at me only briefly, and with disinterest, before turning back to their boisterous conversations, their heavily callused hands gripping beer bottles in a headlock. There is a woman among them, I notice; she acts as a transient, rotating between two tables to deliver messages, this broad-smiling, painted-lipped carrier pigeon. She is middle-aged, with coiffed wine-colored hair and a sturdy figure, except for the too-wide hips. She wears a low-cut halter that displays ample cleavage, and, in watching the woman, I am profoundly assured of my heterosexuality.

I go directly to the bar. From my pocket, I withdraw the $2.18 I took from the table by the apartment door, and set the money in front of me on the bar. I do this, I realize, because I hope I have counted wrong—that there will somehow magically appear to be more money than I originally thought. But it is just the $2.18; so when the well-groomed male bartender materializes in front of me, I only tap the bills with my middle finger.

“It’s all I have,” I tell him. My tone is nearly apologetic.

The bartender is friendly enough. “No problem.” He reaches for the nearest draft spigot with one hand while simultaneously producing a pint glass from beneath the bar with the other. He fills the glass, cuts off the thick head, and fills it again.

When the beer is set in front of me, I do not immediately touch the glass. I am looking around the place, taking it all in—the low, dark ceiling festooned with looping strings of Christmas lights, the dormant jukebox, the excavated Mayan piano. The people. All of them. Again, I watch the woman weave between the tables. I am reminded of the black cat in the alley, winding in and out of the trashcans. The woman’s breasts pull taut the fabric of her low-cut halter. And maybe her hips aren’t that big after all…

I sip the beer and feel it go all the way down. There is almost an audible splash as it spills into my empty stomach. When was the last time I ate? Maybe that’s what the throbbing at the back of my head is: a hunger headache.

There are bowls of complementary peanuts and pretzels staggered at intervals down the length of the bar. They look like traps, the way they are placed. I reach for the nearest bowl and, hooking my index finger around its edge, drag it toward me. Moments later, the bowl contains nothing but a fine white powder punctuated by granules of salt, reminding me of beach sand.

Reminding me…

Do I frequent the beach? Do I have a house there? Maybe I am rich. Or poor. Am I a vagrant, a beach bum? A lifeguard? A champion swimmer?

And it occurs to me that I can be whatever the hell I want. Because I am starting over. Because I am brand new.

“Today is my birthday,” I say. The words are out of my mouth before I realize I have spoken them. And while the bartender only smirks and nods and does not look up from his bartender work, the busty woman with the wide hips that aren’t too wide suddenly appears beside me. She is smiling with very red lips and startlingly bright teeth. Up close, she is a bit older than I originally thought, but there is something alluring about her. Or, rather, the ghost of her allure is still visible just below the surface.

“Well,” she says, “happy birthday, hon.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” She proffers a slender hand with manicured fingernails the color of a hemorrhage. Silver bracelets clatter and slide up her arm. “I’m Patrice.”

“Hi, Patrice.” I shake her hand. “I don’t know my name.”

“That’s sad. Someone should name you.”

“Maybe someone should.”

“You live around here?” Her eyes narrow, but her voice remains playful. “Because you don’t look familiar.”

“I’ve got a place on St. Paul.”

“Because I know most everyone around here, hon.”

I shrug. “I might be brand new.”

“Are you in the military?”

“No,” I say. “Why?”

She reaches out and runs one palm along the top of my head. There is nothing sensual about it. It is abrupt and awkward. “Your hair,” she says. “Short.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not in the military. At least, I don’t think so.”

“So, birthday boy, how old are you today?”

“One day old,” I say. And, after a moment, we both laugh.

“Pitcher up,” the bartender says, setting down a pitcher of light-colored beer and still not looking up. “You always fall for the mysterious ones, huh, Patty?”

“Bite your tongue,” Patrice says, and quickly scoops up the pitcher. It occurs to me that Patrice works here. She winks at me as she carries the pitcher to one of the tables, and calls after me, “I’ll have to find you a name before you leave, birthday boy.”

I stalk a second bowl of peanuts and pretzels from farther down the bar. They are free, sure, but I desire to maintain some discretion.

The military. Sure. I’m AWOL, my ship having docked at the Port of Baltimore. I’m stumbling around the streets with a head injury, my body wracked with fever, my memory shut down on the atrocities I witnessed overseas. A coping technique. So I take a bus into the city and wake up brand new.

Absent without leave.

Sure.

“On the house,” says the bartender, setting down a fresh pint. “Happy birthday, mystery man.”