Ambition

Chapter 3

Harry

I climb hastily back into the comfort of my car, not stopping to pull the ragged seatbelt across my chest before rushing out onto the cold streets of downtown. The traffic is heavy, full of the stereotypical family adults weaving their way through the purposeless events their lives have become. When did society determine the lives of humans must fall into such a repetitive pattern of comfort? School, job, marriage, kids, then you die. Sure maybe it was a little melodramatic, but it was still enough to send what’s left of the relatively sane individuals who were actually capable of thought, over the edge.

I blonde woman in some fancy highbred crossover cuts through three lanes of traffic and slams on her breaks, throwing the entire right hand lane into disarray.  If I stay on this road for a few more minutes, maybe I won’t have to break the news to my mother. The thought, as temping as it may sound, deters me for a brief moment, but I cast it away.

I take the next exit into a promising looking downtown landscape. Cars that would normally render the streets impassible on a Friday night are today mostly centered around a modern looking dance club with a giant inviting “Now Open” sign. I park a few shops ahead, but continue walking up the strip until I find something with a more familiar edge.

I come across a neon red light outlining the words Red Moon. The windows are tinted, and there is the faint scent of peanuts and stale beer along the outside of the building. When I walk inside the setting reminds me instantly of England. A large wooden bar lines the back wall, full of empty stools and an impressive collection of old liquor and black and white movie posters. A statue of a drunken armadillo rests atop one of the tables. I assume it’s some Texas-America joke lacking any true meaning or purpose, but at least it’s memorable. A low honest voice sings quietly in the corner to a song I’m unfamiliar with. The entire atmosphere depicts a collection of individuals who look like they couldn’t possibly have anything in common with each other. Maybe that’s why I like this place so much. Every single person looks so out of place, each doing their own task; swaying gently to the music, drumming their fingers alongside the old wood walls. It all lacks complications.

I select a chair on the shady side of the bar and order a coke without glancing at the menu. If there was one thing Americans were tight asses on, it was their drinking age restrictions. I’m not sure how my individual peculiarity stood out in compared to the rest of the crowd, but the bartender graciously filled the glass a few inches high of something hard before placing it under the tap. I nodded appreciatively; I suppose not all Americans are terrible.

An hour and several gracious cokes later, I had told the bartender, Skip, a fifty-seven year old wise ass all about my move to the states and my voluntarily absence father. I must have been drunk enough, because I remember requesting one of my favorite Elvis songs, and when the artist didn’t recognize the song, volunteering myself to perform for the collective group of Thursday night drinkers. Through the haze, I must’ve have been half bad because Skip offered me a job to come back late tomorrow night.

I turned to glace over at the miniature grandfather clock the rested bellow the Red Moon sign on the bar. It was only 7:37 and already the liquor had well taken over my better judgment. “Skip, I need a ride to the eastside of downtown,” I mumbled. I was smart enough to know I shouldn’t be driving in the state the liquor had left me, but not stupid enough to entrust a stranger with my vehicle either. I suppose the situation in itself identified that, even though I had packed my entire life away and was cast from everything that withheld what I identified as myself, I at least hadn’t yet developed suicidal tendencies. Yet.

Skip slid ungracefully down the bar, and placed a metro card in my hand, “Use this kid, but take your keys. I’ll expect it back when I see you Friday.” And with that, he left me with a plastic card, and a set of directions to the metro written in black washable ink across my forearm. If that didn’t scream drunk I don’t know what would.

The walk was short, just a few blocks from the Red Moon. The streets were just beginning to darken and the long shadows of the downtown buildings created hidden patterns on the concrete. I passed a group of pre-gamers, howling the name of a professional team I was once again familiar with. The women wore short tight skirts and bustier tops, elaborating their cleavage though without much support from the fabric. As a man, you can’t help but appreciate the vanity of young woman these days. Back at home, the success of every party thrown was measured in the number of drunken crazed females falling carelessly out of their clothes and onto the inviting laps of the guys who had placed the bottles in their hands in the first place. I had never been one for parties, sure they were all fun and wild for a time, but I found drunk puking teenagers rolling on the floor annoying rather than amusing. 

Thunder cracks its heavy whip and the sky enlightens, a fist of lightening hammering down onto the blacken horizon. A gust of rain sweeps through the building, pelting my back and I duck hastily into the nearest building.

Through glazed eyes the instant brightness of the room blinds me, creating a dull ache in the back of my skull. When I’m finally able to focus, I realize I’ve wound up in a store I was bound to bind at one point or another on my own. Without even seeing a sign, I know I’ve entered a Barnes and Nobel, and from the looks of it, a selectively stocked one at that. Large displays catch my attention, featuring the newest highest grossing modern day tales, all highly overpopularized by the lovesick teenage daydreamers. I weave in and out of shelves until I discover the section that always enraptures my attention. To my disappointment, I am not alone in the isle.

I have this weird thing about bookstores and solitude. I’m not sure if it’s motivated from the unwelcome judgment that always comes from seeing guys like me in a, give or take- family friendly environment. Or rather, if it is derived from just the desire of isolation while I allow myself to become lost in a novel that becomes entirely my own. The reasoning is pointless, the fact of the matter is I despise the small blonde figure crossed legged on the floor right smack in the middle of Bronte’s section of literature.  

She doesn’t look up when my feet lead me only inches from her position on the ground. She simply turns her head sideways, as if to account for my physical presence, but doesn’t pay any further attention.

I clear my throat loudly. No movement- not even a flinch. My patience, already shortened by the alcohol, become further wasted. “You’re in my way,” I state bluntly. Still no movement. I point the tip of my shoe upward and bump her knee and immediately am met with a pair of wary hazel eyes. Now clearly able to see her face, I also note the pair black ear buds that were hidden along her blouse.

She removes them, frowning, “Not many people introduce themselves with feet these days,” she remarks curtly. The girl stands, unfolding her legs carefully as if they had fallen asleep. Once she upright she hastily pulls back one leg, kicking the boney portion of my shin with her toe.

An amused smile attempts to spread over my face, but I force it to stop before it reaches my mouth. I look down, recognizing she is holding the exact book I had been looking for.

Of course she would be holding Wuthering Heights. Not to scrutinize all other ancient literature, but if there are any classic novels worth reading, most can be found within the same era as the great Bronte herself.

“Interesting choice in novels,” I remark, “May I?” I reach tentatively for the book, and she hesitates before placing into my outstretched hand. I watch her expression change between bemusement and curiosity as I randomly flip through the pages of the book until I land on the chapter I had been searching.

“I begin to fancy you don't like me. How strange, I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me,” I state flatly. The girls hazel eyes stare expressionless into mine. I wonder what she sees there. Does it reveal what intentions I might have behind the reciting of a random line? If she were to figure it out, I’d like very much for her to explain it to me. If I am being honest with myself, she probably realizes I am drunk, and just wants me to go away and leave her to her peace.

So instead of waiting for a response, I close to book, tucking it under my arm, and turn- walking straight out of the bookstore without ever paying for a thing.