Adam’s apple move the clear liquor down his throat. When he finished, he threw the bottle against the wall above the bargirl’s head. It did not shatter. The thick glass held and it made a sharp thwack against the wall and fell.
“We could tell,” I said. “Just get the whole thing over with.”
He laughed. “There you go again, Private. Retarded genius.”
I woke upstairs. I was in a bed, two mattresses on top of each other, really. The paper on the walls was striped yellow and corroded white and peeling. I heard running water from down the hall. I could see the bargirl’s reflection in the dirty mirror through an open door. A few seconds passed before I recognized her. She came out of the bathroom in a dingy pink robe. I saw freckles scattered over her chest, down her arms, down her long pale legs.
“Is he gone?” I asked her.
She took a damp washcloth and pressed it onto my forehead. I felt sick. “Yes,” she said.
“You speak English.”
“Of course I do.”
I couldn’t identify her accent. Tracks on her arms. No saint. Me neither. I saw that the bruise below her eye had deepened. It was now a thick black. I lay back on the bed. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I should have done something else.”
“You tried. That’s something.”
“Will you…,” I began. I didn’t know what I wanted from her.
She cut me off. “Are you serious?” A very sad look came over her face and her bottom lip began to tremble slightly and she slapped me.
“No. Not that,” I said, although a part of me did want to, to have control over something, even if it was for just two minutes. But I disgusted myself. I thought of the Joe who’d given me the address. He had probably done it, and he was probably dead. I imagined his body collapsing in on itself, the flesh rotting and then gone, the skin on his lips cracked until only dust remained in a thin veneer over his skull. I pushed her hands up to my withers. I moved them back and forth against the very short hair on the side of my head. I doubled over and grabbed an old metal trash can next to the bed and threw up into it. She rubbed my back. She kneeled at the foot of the bed and I sat up.
“You are all so sad,” she said.
I noticed an odd chirping outside the bedroom windows and I saw a few starlings flit by in the pale light of the streetlamps. They flew in circles, or else there were many of them, and the whole group passed in and out of the light on their way to settle on a rooftop, or on some tree that asked to have its branches filled, at least until its leaves and flowers blossomed, until winter was as far away as it could be. We stayed like that awhile. I finally let go of her thin waist and looked at her. “Is everyone gone?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I’ll go back downstairs and sleep there if that’s OK.”
“Yes, fine.”
I was still quite drunk and my head was foggy. I went behind the bar and found a whiskey bottle. I sat on the floor and looked out the window and drank the rest of the whiskey. The sun came up over a small canal across the street. I was very tired, looking out over the narrow band of water, wondering if it was cold.
The light was graying when I opened my eyes. The streetlights were still on. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. I looked around to get my bearings. My head pounded. My hands were very cold, and I realized I was lying facedown on the bank of the thin canal with my hands dangling in the water. It was flat and glassy and the only motion on the water was where my hands moved in it slightly. I pulled them out and sat up and began to rub my hands together to get the feeling in them back. God, what time is it? I thought. The house was across the street. The women stood like tired caryatids on the porch, each one leaning against one or another of several warped and peeling columns. They did not move, and I stood up and turned toward them, and they remained that way, as if in some raw tableau.
“Where is
“We could tell,” I said. “Just get the whole thing over with.”
He laughed. “There you go again, Private. Retarded genius.”
I woke upstairs. I was in a bed, two mattresses on top of each other, really. The paper on the walls was striped yellow and corroded white and peeling. I heard running water from down the hall. I could see the bargirl’s reflection in the dirty mirror through an open door. A few seconds passed before I recognized her. She came out of the bathroom in a dingy pink robe. I saw freckles scattered over her chest, down her arms, down her long pale legs.
“Is he gone?” I asked her.
She took a damp washcloth and pressed it onto my forehead. I felt sick. “Yes,” she said.
“You speak English.”
“Of course I do.”
I couldn’t identify her accent. Tracks on her arms. No saint. Me neither. I saw that the bruise below her eye had deepened. It was now a thick black. I lay back on the bed. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I should have done something else.”
“You tried. That’s something.”
“Will you…,” I began. I didn’t know what I wanted from her.
She cut me off. “Are you serious?” A very sad look came over her face and her bottom lip began to tremble slightly and she slapped me.
“No. Not that,” I said, although a part of me did want to, to have control over something, even if it was for just two minutes. But I disgusted myself. I thought of the Joe who’d given me the address. He had probably done it, and he was probably dead. I imagined his body collapsing in on itself, the flesh rotting and then gone, the skin on his lips cracked until only dust remained in a thin veneer over his skull. I pushed her hands up to my withers. I moved them back and forth against the very short hair on the side of my head. I doubled over and grabbed an old metal trash can next to the bed and threw up into it. She rubbed my back. She kneeled at the foot of the bed and I sat up.
“You are all so sad,” she said.
I noticed an odd chirping outside the bedroom windows and I saw a few starlings flit by in the pale light of the streetlamps. They flew in circles, or else there were many of them, and the whole group passed in and out of the light on their way to settle on a rooftop, or on some tree that asked to have its branches filled, at least until its leaves and flowers blossomed, until winter was as far away as it could be. We stayed like that awhile. I finally let go of her thin waist and looked at her. “Is everyone gone?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I’ll go back downstairs and sleep there if that’s OK.”
“Yes, fine.”
I was still quite drunk and my head was foggy. I went behind the bar and found a whiskey bottle. I sat on the floor and looked out the window and drank the rest of the whiskey. The sun came up over a small canal across the street. I was very tired, looking out over the narrow band of water, wondering if it was cold.
The light was graying when I opened my eyes. The streetlights were still on. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. I looked around to get my bearings. My head pounded. My hands were very cold, and I realized I was lying facedown on the bank of the thin canal with my hands dangling in the water. It was flat and glassy and the only motion on the water was where my hands moved in it slightly. I pulled them out and sat up and began to rub my hands together to get the feeling in them back. God, what time is it? I thought. The house was across the street. The women stood like tired caryatids on the porch, each one leaning against one or another of several warped and peeling columns. They did not move, and I stood up and turned toward them, and they remained that way, as if in some raw tableau.
“Where is
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