The Other Side(13)

He laughs again soundlessly. “Alice said you were cool.” He raises his eyebrows and shrugs and the gesture tells me Alice has this maniac wrapped around her little finger. “I think she was right,” he says before offering his knife-free hand in peace. “I’m Taber.”

I nod once and engage in a quick, firm shake, still unhappy he hasn’t put the knife down. But monumentally unhappier with the news that Alice doesn’t live here with her parents, she lives here with her boyfriend. Who’s familiar with weapons. And plays guitar. And who gets to see her in that see-through Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt every damn night. Screw Taber.

Stepping aside, he’s the picture of relaxed, full-on grinning at me now.

I don’t buy it and leave the apartment without another word, my cheeks and body burning with the unbidden memory of his girlfriend’s silhouette under her PJs. His grin was probably a taunt because he’s a mind reader and could see my indecent thoughts.

The QuikMart bag is gone from Chantal’s door when I walk past and hit the stairs two at a time. Cliff is still mopey when I reenter 3A, but so am I, so I chalk his gloom up to too much weed and don’t spare him a second glance after I put the toolbox back up on top of the fridge, wash my hands, lock up my backpack and skateboard I left sitting on the kitchen floor, and head for the door.

For Dan’s Tavern.

For several pints of warm, weak beer.

For obliteration.

And for the woman I’ll go home with tonight.

When I claim the stool two down from Johnny’s at Dan’s, he still looks grumpy. And his beer is still half empty. Both don’t bode well for conversation, but I want one of his cigarettes, so I remain to endure.

“Is it fixed?” he asks.

I nod as I click the lighter, breathe through my Friday night indulgence, and gesture to Dan to bring me a beer.

“Was anyone there?”

I turn my head to look him in the eye so he can see the weight of my answer without speaking a word. We do this a lot, Johnny and me.

“You met Taber?” he asks on an almost gleeful sigh.

I’m still staring at him when I answer, “He pulled a fucking knife on me.”

Because he’s an ex-military-man’s-man, the bastard actually half smiles.

Flicking ash in the ashtray in front of me, I shift my gaze back to the bar, shake my head, and mutter, “Shut up.”

Dan delivers my first means-to-dull-all-things-for-a-few-hours. I swipe at the edge of the glass with the cuff of my shirt to clean it up and take a gulp, happily leaving the Taber story to die out.

Until Johnny says, “Don’t let his appearance fool you, he’s harmless.”

I don’t look at him when I say, “He’s a psycho.”

He clears his throat. “He’s just trying to take care of Alice. Do you blame him? She’s a sweet girl, you’ve met her.”

I eye him wearily, but then mutter, “It was only a dull, steak knife,” because I’m glad someone is looking out for Alice.

Johnny eases back into the wall behind him and settles into his natural state of guarded, stubborn speechlessness, and I focus my attention on the mirror behind the liquor bottles on the back of the bar. I have a full view of the place from this seat and can inconspicuously watch every patron who strides in and stumbles out. Upon entry and exit, all of them carry their burdens and problems around like Samsonite luggage packed to bursting. I imagine them stuffing in yesterday’s firing or last week’s eviction, on top of being bullied as a child or an alcoholic parent, and then sitting on it to force the latches to close.

It’s a slow night, and I’m on my sixth or seventh cigarette and third and final beer—funds are a little light this week due to my extra, but necessary, purchase at the QuikMart—when she walks in. Shoulders thrown back to pitch confidence and her breasts like an ad campaign, but her eyes tremulously bouncing all over the room and their unwillingness to land on anyone for more than a nanosecond, negate it. I stand and make my move.

When I’m this buzzed, words come easy. I’ve been doing this every Friday night for a little over a year; and it’s not like it’s scripted, but it is highly predictable. There’s a natural progression, an ebb and flow, a give and take. I sober up, while she descends gently into drunkenness. I lead the conversation until I sense her need to open up the imaginary suitcase filled with real burdens and to start playing show and tell with them. That’s when I shut up and I listen.

And I listen.

And I listen some more.

When inebriation saturates enough to soothe her and I feel like her suitcase of burdens has been unburdened, and I’ve heard the man’s name who helped her pack it in the first place, (his name was Gerald, by the way, and he should be in jail) I tell her she deserves better. I tell her that her past doesn’t have to be her future. I also assure her that her present—me—is all wrong for her, and temporary but safe. She nods with a meek smile that I believe is genuine because it’s paired with glassy, trusting, but earnest eyes. The trust is the part that kills me every time because she truly believes I’m a good guy.

And I know I’m not.

The night plays out…and on…as always.

Dan calls us a cab at my request.

I offer her my hand.

She takes it.

And holds it tight, in a grip that feels like naked truth, the entire ride to her place.