Play It Safe(7)

My eyes moved and I saw her at the bar. I didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to look at her but I did. I’d seen a lot of her kind in my life, what with my profession. A shade too much makeup. Not put on well mainly because she was drunk when she put it on and this was because, in some way, she was always drunk. Decent clothes also not well-taken care of but she tried. She had a cardigan on now, a tight skirt. Later that cardigan would come off, she’d show skin. She’d try for attention or spend some time when she was relatively sober telling herself she wasn’t going to go for it, wasn’t going to do that to herself again. Then she’d get drunker and she’d want company, she’d want to talk, she’d want someone to convince her that her life wasn’t in the toilet and swirling. She’d want someone, even if for an hour, to make her think she was pretty. She’d give him a blowjob for it. She’d do anything. She’d do more if he bought her a couple of drinks.

Barfly.

I saw that in my future like I had a crystal ball and the gift.

I saw it and it terrified me.

I looked down at my beer. Then I lifted it as if to extend a big middle finger to my life and my future and took a drag.

Happy bartender came back then leaned into me. “Order’s in.”

“Cool,” I said quietly. “Thanks but sorry. They probably weren’t happy getting a last minute order.”

Her twinkling, hazel eyes left me and scanned the bar then came back to me. “Thursday. They haven’t exactly been run off their feet and they need me to have the extra five bucks in my cash register.”

Her cash register. As usual, I was right. She owned the joint.

“Right,” I said and took a sip of beer.

Her brows drew slightly together. “You the new waitress at Jenkins?”

I shook my head and dropped my hand.

“The new teacher?” she went on.

I wish.

I didn’t even have a high school diploma. I could hardly be a teacher.

“Nope,” I answered.

“I’m Janie,” she introduced herself, stretching out a hand I took and squeezed while she kept talking. “Good place to settle, Mustang.” I let go of her hand and she dropped it but kept going. “Followed a man here, got shot of that man, he got shot of Mustang, thank God. I got the town in the break up.”

“So you came out on top,” I noted and she grinned again.

“Definitely. Also got me a Mustang man. He’s way better.”

I again grinned back. I liked that for her.

“You got a man?” she asked curiously but still friendly. I was in her bar the night before, came in alone, left alone. The same tonight. I was young. She thought I was new in town. She probably wanted to fix me up with someone.

But I didn’t have a man. I didn’t have anything. I had three pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, five long-sleeved shirts two of those being henleys like what I had on now, a heavy sweater, a lighter cardigan, two tank tops, half a dozen pairs of undies, three bras, two nightshirts, seven pairs of socks, two pairs of cowboy boots, one pair of flip-flops, three pairs of shorts, a bikini, three books, a watch, a jeans jacket, a scarf, seven bottles of perfume (my only splurge, I loved scent), some makeup, assorted cheap jewelry and not much of it and a brother.

That’s all I had in this world. All of it.

I had nothing else except my life, my health and a special talent that made enough money to eat, keep ceilings of cheap hotel rooms over our heads and gas in Casey’s tank.

I lifted the bottle to my lips, my eyes slid away and I murmured, “Nope.”

“Pretty girl like you?” she asked and my eyes slid back to her as I took a sip.

I didn’t answer.

Then I dropped the beer.

Then, as much as I wanted to talk to a pretty, friendly, happy bartender I knew the drill.

So she had to know it too.

I turned and dug in my purse at my side, pulled out a bill and slid it on the bar. The tip was decent, more than I could afford, as much as she deserved.

“Keep it. Gonna shoot some pool,” I told her, not meeting her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Janie.”

Then I grabbed my bag, jacket and scarf, slid off my stool, tagged the bottle of beer and wandered along the bar, through the scattering of tables and up two steps to the platform that held two pool tables, their felt red.

I liked the red. It gave a warm feel to the space.

I also liked that the tables were freebies. No sign that said you had to get the balls from the bar. No slot to insert coins or bills. Balls available. Cues on the wall. Proof Janie was friendly. She wanted people to come to her bar and stay awhile. It was just a bonus that when they did, they had to buy beer.

I set up the balls and chose my cue.

I’d broke and downed half a dozen of them by the time Janie came up the platform with my red, oval basket, its white waxed paper, my sandwich and fries with matching, plastic, squeezy bottles of ketchup and mustard, red and yellow, these in one hand with fingers expertly wrapped around.

“You’re good at that,” she noted, putting my basket on the high table by the wall in between the two pool tables, three stools around.

“Thanks for delivering the food,” I told the table, lined up, pulled my hand back and let fly.

Down went the six.

She hesitated, I felt it then she moved.