The Other Side(5)

I snatch them up and nod at the bartender, Dan, to get his attention. The balls of my feet are resting on the railing under the bar and my heels bounce involuntarily in anticipation.

I want to yell, “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t make it until June! I want out now!” But Johnny isn’t a mind reader, thank God, and doesn’t know my plan, so a hissy fit would only serve to feed the This Kid Is Mental title I try to avoid. I mean, I know I’m a head case, but I don’t want to give others a peek in to the crazy going on inside my skull. So, I sit in silence, like I always do, and accept the watery beer that Dan sets in front of me. The pint glass is hazy, the telltale signs of a half-ass dishwashing job. Tugging the cuff of my sweatshirt down to cover my palm, I make a few swipes at the rim in an attempt to clean it before bringing it to my lips. It’s lukewarm and tastes like misery. Next to me, Johnny points the open end of the pack of cigarettes in his hand in my direction and shakes one loose, as he ironically coughs a raspy, lung-rattling cautionary tale. I take it without a second thought and reach for the lighter on the bar in front of him. Lighting it, I inhale deeply, earnestly, wishing that the smoke filling my lungs could cloud my mind instead. But I guess that’s what the beer is for. I only smoke when I drink. And I only drink on Friday nights. And only at Dan’s because happy hour is from five to eight, which means a pint costs a quarter. The added bonus being that Dan never cards me. I’m tall and even though I have a baby face, my surly attitude ages me, and the purple bruises under my eyes, let’s not forget those. It’s only when I smile that I look my age, at least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s been years since I hinted at a smile so I wouldn’t know.

Johnny leaves the pack of cigarettes on the bar between us. It’s unspoken I can help myself. Not sure why he’s so generous with them because he sure as hell isn’t generous with anything else, maybe he’s trying to kill me.

By beer number three and cigarette number four, the bar is starting to fill up as tortured souls file in like lambs being led to slaughter. Some bars are Friday night destinations for fun and celebration, Dan’s is a destination for sedation and eradication. It’s a place to hide out and forget for a while.

Johnny sits on the same barstool day in and day out. I know why he chose it—the barstool—it backs to a wall, and he has a full view of the bar and the door leading outside. No one can sneak up behind him here. Even drunk he’s on guard. It took me a long time to figure him out because he doesn’t talk about it, but I’ve seen the camouflage jacket with his last name on it that hangs on the bedpost in his room. I know he served in Vietnam and I’m assuming by the way he acts that he never made it out. The shell sitting next to me that smells like beer, cigarettes, and ruination boarded a plane home, but the real Johnny Stockton vanished a lifetime ago.

Just as the bliss of a warm buzz begins to descend on me, the hinges on the front door creak and a brunette walks in with everything I’m looking for. Even from across the bar and through the haze of cigarette smoke, her sagging shoulders, shuffling pace, and tight frown tell me she’s carrying something heavy, the weight of it bearing down like her pockets are filled with bowling balls. Her eyes flit around the room; it’s obvious she’s never been in here, she’s looking for a place to land before she draws any attention to herself. Too late.

I watch her for no more than two minutes before I know she’s the one. Every Friday night I survey the crowd, like I am right now. Most guys look for shallow attraction on the outside; I look for deep devastation on the inside, so brutal it seeps out. I look for the woman whose vulnerability is flying high above her, whipping in the wind like a white flag on a battlefield. I seek out the broken.

I introduce myself, and because I’m mildly drunk my approach is softened, less awkward, more mature. The words flow freely when I drink, which is a bonus. She’s meek and shy until she gets a few beers in her and then she loosens up. Like pulling at stray yarn on a worn sweater, she begins to unravel. As it happens it’s a seesaw, she goes up and I come down. Because the moment I take that seat next to her no more alcohol passes my lips.

Her name is Jessica. She’s twenty-four, recently moved here from Philly, and lives with her older sister. She’s also newly single. The way she talks about her ex is amiable, but the terror in her eyes isn’t. It’s a tattletale. I listen to her words. I listen to her eyes. And I decipher the truth between them. The more she drinks, unbidden honesty coaxes the two to blend into middle ground and my suspicions are confirmed. She ran away. Because he beat her.

I don’t say much, I’m the listener, remember? But as we approach the fine line of the precipice I try to avoid, I tell her the same thing I’ve told all the others: “You deserve better.”

I’m talking about her past company and her present.

When she’s done talking, and there’s a discernable level of balance between her state of drunkenness and the lightening of her worry, I ask Dan to call us a cab.

You’re waiting for me to dish on what happened next, aren’t you? You want all the juicy details? Too bad. I’m an asshole and a gentleman.

It’s after one in the morning when I walk in the front door of the Victorian on Clarkson and head up the stairs. My feet are tired after the long trek from Jessica’s. So is the rest of me. But I’m tucked away into that quiet corner of my mind that rarely allows me to feel—different, better; I try not to put a label on it because it’s temporary—but I feel.