Last Call (348 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: Untruth
Rating: 1.33 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Snark << snarkk.at.gmail.com (View user info) at 2005-07-17 14:44:21 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
This is not a good place to be.
The waitress is looking at me with those dead eyes. They're deep brown but there's so much emptiness inside that they're draining what's left of me.
I tilt my head down because, if you do the camera can't steal your soul, and let my eyes linger on her pushed in, pulled up, shoved together tits for what feels like a little too long. I self consciously switch back to her face but she doesn't care. She's not really here. She's five years ago somewhere. I could hold a magnifying glass up to her crotch and she'd clean my ashtray and wipe the table till I'm done.
And I should be done friend. We all should be.
She asks me again if I want another and I tear my eyes away from the traffic wreck bulge in the middle of her tight white pants. I don't mean to gawk. That's not my style, but the fabric is thin and it seems like every ounce of brain tissue God left out of her was put into her labia instead, and I'm wondering if she's ever considered a skirt.
And I wouldn't think like this but I'm caught up in the dirty souls here.
I'm draining into her black sun eyes and her one to many children - to early in life - body.
I'm awash in the hopelessness of the end of this place; an end that's soaked into every last scarred piece of oak and chipped bulge of brass.
I hate it here but I love it too. Maybe it's because I feel an unspoken kinship with the warped pool table beside me, or maybe it's because a scarred Id craves like company.
The bar is smoky and dirty and reeking of defeat but I feel like a child in a womb.
I shake my head and point to my mostly full glass. She looks at me - without really looking at me - then nods at the wall and walks off, and I feel a little lighter but not light by a long shot.
I guess she didn't take it all, I guess there is enough of me left for one more drink. Maybe enough to get home when the faded yellow Budweiser lamps go out. Maybe enough to purge the memories of the night from my head with the rum beside my bed before it hits my hard thin pillow.
There's a faded green clock on the wall between two warped hockey sticks.
There's an old man in the corner with a fat wallet and a patch over his left eye.
The music is too loud and too old and the speakers are crackling like tired old bones.
I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. I let the soft smoke of that first drag leak out of my mouth slowly as I close my eyes and lean back against the hard back of the wooden bench beneath me.
There's a certain comfort in run down things. I don't come here often, maybe once every couple of months when the mood strikes me, as it has tonight.
"Buy me a drink?"
I don't have to open my eyes to know who is on the other end of that tobacco voice. She's been watching me watching her and everyone else for the last two hours. Her hair is short and dyed coppery red. Her jeans are tight and faded and her tank top is tighter over breasts that are more bra than flesh. Her eyes are green and the bags under them are almost black. I don't know if she's a prostitute or a junky but I think if this place has a soul, it's probably her.
"Sure, what are you drinking?"
"Vodka - Rocks."
I nod to her and she turns and nods to the waitress who is checking us out with a mixture of interest and disgust.
The waitress turns to the bar and says something to the bartender then resumes watching us out of the corner of one eye.
"I'm Mandy."
"I don't doubt it."
Her pouty lips form into a half frown and she reaches across the table and takes a cigarette from my pack without asking. She lights it and takes a quick drag before replying.
"You making fun of my name?"
"No, you just look like a Mandy."
"Fair enough, what do people call you?"
I want to tell her that I don't have a name tonight. I want to explain to her that I come into this place to forget myself, and I'm thinking that if anyone could understand that, it would be her but I decide to play it safe instead.
"My name is Ishmael."
"You're fucking with me."
I shake me head and pull my wallet from inside my jacket, then flip it open so she can see my license.
"No shit. That's what my parents called me."
She smiles tiredly and replies without looking at my license.
"I've seen you here before Ishmael."
"You sure? I don't come here that often."
"I'm sure. You come in alone and take this seat every time. You order gin and tonic and spend the night watching everyone around you, then leave before Last Call is done."
Her eyes narrow disapprovingly and she adds "You make them uncomfortable with that stare of yours you know."
"Who?"
"Everyone."
I don't know what to say so I say nothing. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep eye contact with her. There's something disquieting about the way her eyes seem to look through me and I find myself thinking that I'll probably end up buying her, or her next fix, just to keep the anger seething in them at bay.
"I might like you. I haven't decided yet."
Her strange proclamation sends a shiver up my spine and for the first time in all my visits to this place, I'm thinking that I'm in over my head. I'm thinking that if push came to shove, I wouldn't be half a challenge against this woman.
She flicks her ash into the tray between us and her fingers are long and thin. Her nails are chipped and red and I'm wondering how many men bare her mark on their face?
"I just bought you a drink." I reply amiably "What's not to like about that?"
She doesn't smile but she doesn't frown either.
"Why do you come here?"
"Why do you ask?"
"It's impolite to answer a question with a question Ishmael."
"I don't know really... I guess I come here to escape."
"Escape what?"
"Everything."
She leans across the table and looks at me intently then sits back and places her hand on mine. Her touch is cold and I glance towards the bar to take a break from her gaze. The waitress says something over her shoulder and the bartender begins to watch us as well.
Mandy butts her cigarette, half smoked, then leans back in her chair and lets the trace of a smile cross her face.
"I guess you can stay, for now."
I can't help but chuckle. The realization that I'm letting this broken down woman play me like an instrument is too much. I want to tell her to fuck off. I want to go back to my quiet rumination and - God help me - I want to kiss her.
"Is that the official Mandy seal of approval?"
The question comes out more sarcastic than I had planned but to my surprise she chuckles as well.
"You know Ishmael, it's good for someone like me to meet someone like you once in awhile. It reminds me that I'm not alone in the world. It reminds me that I have friends."
"That's a bit presumptuous don't you think? We just met. You don't know me."
"Sure I do. You're name is Ishmael."
"Knowing someone's first name is hardly a sign of steadfast friendship."
"Sometimes it enough."
And she's right. I don't know why but I feel the same way. I feel like I've known her all my life and it's beginning to freak me out. When the time comes, and she makes whatever proposal that she has in mind, I'm going to pull out my billfold and give her whatever she wants. I'll do it without blinking and without thinking and I won't look back.
"Who are you?"
"I told you. I'm Mandy."
"No... I mean what are you, what is it you do?"
She pulls another cigarette from my pack, lights it, takes a drag, exhales a blue white cloud into my face and chuckles again before answering.
"What is it you think I do?"
"It's impolite to answer a question with a question." I admonish.
"Honey, I never said I was polite. Tell me what you think I am."
I search my vocabulary for a soft way to say it but the word slips out regardless.
"Whore."
Her face goes cold for a minute and then she nods and smiles. I notice her teeth for the first time. They're straight and white but they're chipped in places too.
"Yes, you're right. I'm other things too but mostly I'm that."
I'm at a loss for words again. I'm thinking this is a good point to ask her to leave but my treacherous hand pulls my billfold out of my jacket and places it on the table.
"I have money."
"I'm flattered but no."
"No?"
"I like you Ish, I really do, but we're out of time. It's almost the end of the night and I always leave before last call. I don't like to be here when the lights get turned down, it makes me feel empty."
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I want to tell her she wouldn't be alone, that she'd be with me. I want to tell her that she's helped me in some way that I can't explain and I want to repay the favor. The billfold is thick and warm in my hand and I would almost be willing to pay anything to talk with her an hour longer.
"Last call mister. You want something or are you happy sitting here and talking to yourself?"
I turn to the waitress and say "Pardon?"
"Last Call. You want something or no?"
I open my mouth to answer but the words catch in my throat. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the other side of the table and the empty chair where Mandy had been sitting.
A quick sweep of my eyes tells me she's no longer in the bar.
"There was a woman..."
"Uh huh, there usually is."
"No" I reply as I point to the empty seat "I was just talking to her, can you tell me... does she come in here often?"
The waitress frowns in annoyance and shakes her head.
"You haven't talked to anyone all night long except yourself mister. You want something or not?"
Her words hit me like a slap across the face and I blink then look back at the chair and the half cigarette sitting in the ashtray. The lipstick on the butt is red and thick and it fades to nothing as I watch.
"No thanks" I mumble "I don't like Last Call, it makes me feel empty."
She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling then turns and walks away. She stops at the bar and says something to the bartender and they both laugh.
They think I'm crazy and maybe they're right but I don't care.
I throw a hundred on the table and slowly make my way out. I stop at the door and look back, half expecting to see Mandy there, floating serenely and waving goodbye, but there's nothing but the waitress, the bartender and the old man.
I whisper her name and smile because I don't feel so alone anymore. I don't feel quite so beat, and I think I've figured her out. Ghost, phantom, psychosis, call it what you want friend. I'm thinking she's none of those. I'm thinking she's this place. She's the faded brass and scratched wood and quiet comfort of a smoky room.
I'm thinking that if enough souls pass through a place, maybe it can grow one of its own.
And she was right. Sometimes in order to make a friend, all you need is a first name.
The rum beside my bed can wait.
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Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2008-12-30 00:12:15 EST (#)
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Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (user info) at 2005-10-27 10:37:02 EDT (#)
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Horray for the elite 8!
(At least I lost to the eventual winner.)