1989: a story of two misfit kids from mid-west america making it big in the big apple. and in the true sense of the american dream they find themselves in a life of sex, money, drugs, and a little rock n roll too.
warnings: adult content, mature rea...
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Author's note: This is the last chapter (it's a long one), but an epilogue and a one shot helping to fill some gaps should come shortly. Thank you all who have read this story, commented, and stuck to it over the years. Writing part two of this story has been so fun and a wonderful character study to do. Enjoy and again thank you all so much!
September 1993
Ruth Anne's Bar was a cement block-built establishment. The faded robin egg blue exterior paint was flaking and chipped. The standing marquee sign by the door advertised: Wet Your Whistle Wednesdays! 25¢ BEER.
Unfortunately, they had missed that by a few days. Only a few used cars were outside the gravel parking lot, which eased them. It was true they didn't want to run into anyone they'd known from ages ago, but it was inevitable. Still, the less, the better. It was still early enough that the weekend crowd hadn't started crowding the place.
There was a slight stench of light beer-induced vomit permeating under the scent of menthol cigarettes when they walked into the incredibly dim, sticky, smokey bar. When the door slammed shut behind them, the patrons inside sat and stared them down, and they stared back with the same scrutiny. Bill felt Alma squeeze his hand once everyone conceded by turning away and resuming conversations over the country music playing loudly on the jukebox speakers.
"I'll find a seat for us," Alma said, looking up at him. "I'll be okay," she said when he looked apprehensive about letting her go alone. He kissed her before she went on her own, just so that any eyes remaining on them could see who she belonged to. If it hadn't already been made obvious.
He had only been to Ruth Anne's twice, underage, with his old friend Scotty. Alma would visit occasionally when she came back from New York. Even her dad warned her about getting too drunk and joked that he didn't want a call to be picked up before they left. Alma explained on the car ride that she was on a bender after her mom passed and that the last time she'd been, Antonio picked her up. That following morning, she woke up on the bathroom floor of her old home with scraped palms and skinned knees from tumbling on the gravel parking lot.
The patrons of Ruth Anne's were mostly blue-collar, as were most of the people in town. Even if Bill and Alma stood out, someone knew someone—who knew someone—who knew they were local, so they were left alone.
When Bill approached the bar, the bartender wore a white halter top and straight red hair that covered her fully freckled back as she grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the sparse liquor shelf. As he scanned it, there wasn't much to choose from besides different tiers of whiskey. None you'd consider top shelf, though. Once the bartender fulfilled a burly, long-bearded man's order a few feet down the bar, she turned to Bill.
"Julia?" He was surprised to see his apathetic pre-teen neighbor, who was never impressed by his whole punk thing, was now a woman in her mid-twenties.
"Billy," she smiled as she chewed on a wad of gum. "What do you want? Need to use the phone?"
