Skinheads and Mortuaries.

 

I ordered us drink after drink

she talked about her pets and about her job and smelled

like perfume, cold air and cigarettes

and it occurred to me there that she could have had

any man on earth, but there was something there, also,

something that didn’t quite line up with her image.

Not that I cared, I lived in a town where image was everything

the more fucking junked out or weak a man looked

the more women he got

But I sat there anyway, tall and big and out of the

dating loop, but she saw something there, maybe the

total lack of concern on a damaging level, but

sparks flew and my blood ran hot and I sat there

and listened

She tapped her fingernail on the table,

“See?  I don’t really smoke that much.  Didn’t even bring my pack tonight.”

She talked and laughed, blushing, smiling and reaching across the table

to squeeze my hand

I sat and listened, watched her lips and her long fingers

while she punctuated the subject of herself with an occasional

question about me:

“Do you watch much television?”

“Not much, no.  How about you?”

“Certain things.  I just recorded a special about mortuaries.  I have a thing for mortuaries, oh, and serial killers.”

“Makes sense.”

She nodded, “Not that I’m a fan, just fascinated.  You know?”

“I understand.  Of course.”

She laughed.  Outside I watched

two skinheads standing at a red light.

Boots, uniforms, the whole deal.

I watched them and thought

about cancer

she reached over and squeezed my hand,

“But I’m not into sitcoms and shit.”

we drank there for a couple of hours.  The bill was 90 dollars.  I handed the

barmaid my card and the girl stood to go to the bathroom

I watched her reflection walk to the back doors and all the

necks crane out of their booths to watch

it move.  The sun had just fallen, and I looked at my hands then

out to the freeway.  All the years and dirt.  The running of sweat

and the frost of fear across the clock, the taming of youth and the

death of will had missed me for once.  A drink arrived on my table

I looked at the barmaid,

“I’m sorry, doll.  I just needed the bill.”

She touched my shoulder and pointed to the bar, at two men sitting together,

“It’s on them.”

She walked away.  I lifted the drink and nodded to them,

“Gentlemen.”

She sat back down.

“Who are they?”

“No idea.”

She laughed,

“Two men don’t send another man a drink unless they’re fags.”

The barmaid appeared with a drink for her.

“Same thing,” she smiled.

The girl smiled at them, sipped the drink and ate the cherry.

“Fags rule,” I said.

One of them walked over.  He was a good one, drunk and forgotten there

a bit on the depressed side, but also momentarily sedated

and almost happy looking.

The town was full of them.

I remembered his face from some promotion, some reading

one of those weird nights on my new job.  He smiled to her and leaned down

into the triangle of my ear and shoulder.  He smelled like vodka and body odor,

“We’re taking off,” he said, “I wanted to come here and tell you that I love your shit, man.  I know you probably get that a lot, but I don’t care, I love your shit.”

He put his hand out. I shook it,

“Goddamn, man.  Thank you.”

He slapped me across the back and walked off.  I watched them walk across the parking lot, past my car, a 1989 Honda hatchback, mostly rust.  I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.

She looked at me and smiled,

“What’s that like?”

“It’s fucking awesome.”

She laughed wildly.  Partly because she was hammered, but also I think

it was relief that I didn’t go on with some

bullshit artsy answer.

She got up and sat next to me, put her head on my shoulder,

“I’m drunk.”

“Lush.”

She laughed, “I love that word.  So sweet and cool sounding, so much better than calling someone a drunk.”

The barmaid slid the bill and a pen over beneath my card and two mints,

“Looks like you’re ready.”

She smiled and walked off.  I tipped her a twenty

and signed the receipt.

I drove us to a pancake house on Powell

where we sat across from each other so drunk that the night circled us in tracers.

It was just after 8 pm.  I went to the counter and ordered some eggs and toast.

I looked back

to see what she wanted but she was passed out in her seat.

The cook looked at me and laughed.  I waited for the food

and carried it over.  The place was dead empty.

I ate and watched her hair,

fallen over the booth seat, her body fetal, her fingertips

touching the floor, while she coughed and the vomit hit the tiles.

I took my long sleeve off and reached over the table

moved her hair above her face and

wiped her mouth and nose clean

She mumbled,

“I’m on my period.  But it’s your call.”

I removed her shoes and covered her lower body

and placed her hair back over her eyes.

The cook was in the back watching television

I sat there and drank my coffee and watched the traffic on Powell.

It was a good night there

it really was.

Advertisements

About Jeff Stewart

Click the About tab on this page.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Skinheads and Mortuaries.

  1. You should write a book. 🙂

  2. Anne Bocci says:

    Raw. Ridiculously intriguing. I am with you at that Original Pancake house.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s