Love, Lose, And Repeat

One For The Road

Her order goes unanswered, "two screwdrivers--hold the orange." She is leaning into the place with a pair of heels, shiny, silver, strapped together with shiny buckles dangling around her neck: the closest she'll ever get to diamonds. She's hiding an unhinged smile with two cracked lips, dripping strings of blood."and give me two-no-three shots of the most expensive Irish whiskey in the house."

My glance tips between her and hitting worn, gray piano keys in front of me. My circular frames fall down my face and collect at the bridge of my nose. Barman keeps up garnishing glasses: olive here, ring of salt there, no cherries--nothing sweet just olive, lemon. Men on barstools sip martinis dry and dirty. They talk through deals gone bad, money frozen in foreign accounts, wives filing suits of divorce and asking for alimony.

The A-sharp chips beneath my finger as I swing down to play it. It's an Emerson steel-frame piano with carved wood legs. That meant something in 1935, when it was hot off the assembly line with glazed dark woods and shining keys. The stool splinters as I sit. The keys are soft and gray and when I hit them wrong sometimes they do not play. The piano still sits front row. It disguises the bar, because if their wives got wind of where they spent their "Thirsty Thursdays," they might come down to collect them.

My eyes keep fluttering upward to get another look at that spandex dress, neon pink, low-cut sweatheart neckline down to the curves of her oval peaks. Her knees are knocking rain drops down to the burlap welcome mat. Then there was her hair, dinged by dirt, entangled in whistling winds. No one invites her in, because despite this disguise drinks cost cash. no cold ones of drafts. We serve artisan craft martinis, margaritas, our wine cellar downstairs is full of barrels older than my piano.

Servers keep by the back, discuss with the manager (who is counting his hundred dollar tips to keep him for disclosing their locations) on how to keep her out there--ordering to the air and not to busy bartenders.

"I ain't looking for work, unless any boys willing to give it to me. I'm just here for a drink--and some company." Her eyes flash cold, like two burned out coals in a fire, not even the slightest tinge of red or a spark. I keep playing, all I know how to do. A tug of my bow tie, slick back of my hair, and I start an upbeat tune the crowd talks through and she's still standing there, blocking the way to the night behind her.

My flat-top piano's wood shakes with a four-cord crescendo. I look up, shes leaning over my carved sold cover, knocking over ashes, cigarette stains. She watches me play for no one. Her fingernails tap to tune while mine fall under pressure and spill on my keys. Then, a fast gesture, she taps my glasses, tight to my forehead, and I feel like I've been touched by death.

Wile the men by the back, play full houses, four-ace-winning hands, gambling fortunes born into, inherited under. They sit with careful painted wallpaper, slick black barstools, glass tabletops. One plays a pair of two; they loose the loot, two-million, chump change to them. The ones who throw nickels at me and tell me to play that la-dah-dah-dee song from the movies, and then, no--that's not right.

I hear her whispering something soft or maybe she is humming now too: "You know this song?" and she hums again. She opens her mouth and I see blood coating the inside of it and two front teeth knocked out. I shake my head. I don't know the song. "A boy used to sing it to me to help me sleep. I've always had sleep troubles. I've tried doctors, pills, plants, milk. The only thing that helps is--company."

The regulars play that one last round, I mean it, of texas-hold-em and then maybe one more drink for the road. The sloppy drunks at the bar smoke fat, black-papered cigars and brag about how much cigars cost in pesos. And then there's Pat, at the bar, who watches the clock so he can punch out.

I don't get paid to play the keys this late, my shift finished twice over at midnight. Men gawk behind the leaning lady starring just below her back. They look but not too long, the virus they think they'd catch from her, they think its airborne. See, I start to feel bad, like here i am just trying to fill my aching wallet with nourishment hard to find in recessive cities and I have to see this.

Shit, to me it's like watching a half dead cat crawl out to the woods looking for a nice spot to sit until the night's predators take what's left."No barman wants my money, honey." She pulls a wrinkled fifty from her left mound and holds it in the air, "it's just as good as everyone else's." She leaves it on top as a tip: "I could really use some sleep tonight" I took to the keys, letting her tip slip into my sleeve:
    "What do you want to hear?"