I sunk into the depths of the tattered booth. It was 1970's-era black vinyl, with patches of duct tape that had long given way. The edges of the tears were ridged and tough, and surely would have done a number on my thighs had I not been sitting on my heavy wool coat. I unwrapped my scarf from my neck, and picked off the fingers of my gloves, one by one, then rested my arm on the table, only to end up with a sticky elbow. It was a bitter night, both in temperature and temperament. This place seemed like the perfect spot where I could just disappear into the darkness to be alone with my thoughts. I didn't want to be bothered.
There was a scruffy man sitting at the bar who would sip on his whiskey while once in a while glancing at the hockey game being broadcast on the old TV set in the corner. I don't think he cared one way or the other about the game or either of the teams that were playing, but it was a distraction and a means to not appear as lonely as he really was.
In the back corner, there was a pool table which had seen much better days. There were a handful of young guys shooting a game, who had clearly put a dent into a few pitchers of Bud Lite. They reeked of date rape, and had absolutely no sense of self. Any one of them could be transposed with the other and nobody could even tell the difference.
On the other side of the room a band was getting ready to play. Something about the musicians seemed out of place. They were wearing matching shimmery gold suits with oversized black satin bowties, and each of them had hair like an oil slick. They appeared as though they had just walked out of a bad b-movie. The bass drum featured a scratchy picture of a black cat, and it had the number 13 underneath it. The bass player was having trouble with his amp. The singer checked his pockets, more than once, and I wondered what was lurking inside of there that he could be so concerned about. He would adjust the mic stand up, then down, then up again. He seemed uneasy.
Finally the waitress came over to me. She had her hair up in a raggedy bun, and it was dyed bright red. I would guess that she was in her early 40's, but clearly she was hoping to hide that fact. She wasn't unattractive, but the years were starting to show. Here she was, at this age, still working at a scuzzy bar getting harassed every night for chump change in tips. The regulars there would tell her about their day, and proceed to spend hours on end getting more and more sloppy, and more and more sad. It was no wonder she was aging. I ordered a Shirley Temple, with "extra cherries, please."
The band was tuning up now, and I was admittedly intrigued. Those guys playing pool were getting louder, too. One of them accused the other of cheating when he was on his last shot. The 8 ball had barely skimmed the other guy's ball before going in the pocket, but he hadn't called it. Trouble was brewing.
I leaned back against the wall and brought my legs up across the decrepit seat. I couldn't help but poke at the ice and cherries in my drink; it was a nervous habit. I knew that I'd be better off back at my motel room watching bad infomercials, or pointless nighttime talk shows, but I couldn't stand to be cooped up anymore. I'd been on the road for eleven hours that day, and I needed to feel alive, at least for a little while. This journey seemed endless. I wasn't even sure where I was going anymore, I just drove and drove. It had only been three days of this torture, but it felt like forever. I didn't know whether I was escaping from my old life, or simply investing in a new one; it was impossible to distinguish between the two. Maybe it was both, who knows. I was just happy to be somewhere else. I needed the change of scenery more than you could ever imagine.
The band was about to start playing. The singer took the mic off of its stand, brushed an ebony strand of his slimy mane out of his eyes, and introduced his band as "The Lady Killers." They were from Oklahoma City, and were happy to be here, of course. Bands are always happy to be here, even when "here" is a shithole bar full of losers in some shithole town with more of the same. The song was dark. Slow. Hypnotizing. The drummer only ticked on the snare, tick...tick...tick... keeping the time of a leaky faucet. The bass player was turned facing the wall, head down, in a trance. Thump...thump...thump... like a heart on its death bed. Then the singer began to finger his guitar. It was melodic, but simple; the same three chords over and over again. I felt like I was in outer space. Then he leaned into the mic. He closed his eyes. His voice was smooth and silky. I would have never thought this man would sound like that. He crooned about a woman he'd loved and left. He crooned about the moon and the stars. He crooned about the gravity pulling his soul down and down and down till there was no more light at all. It was amazing.
I shifted in my seat some more. The springs in the cushion were more dagger-like than springy. It was like sitting on a lumpy alley mattress that was full of deflated soccer balls. I poked at my drink again, fishing out the last cherry that had been buried underneath all the ice. I speared it with my straw, drew it to my lips, then ripped it off the stem and placed the stem on my soggy cocktail napkin.
The music was loud, and my purse was sitting tucked between my hip and the back of the bench. My phone was ringing. I felt it vibrating. I frantically fumbled around in the darkness trying to find it amongst all the other crap I had in there, but missed the call. It had been him. Again. Why couldn't he just leave me alone already?! Couldn't he take a hint? I'm not interested in assholes, and he was most certainly an asshole. I started thinking that maybe I should change my phone number, but then I would feel like he won. Goddammit.
The band was about to play another song. I shifted in my seat again, then the guys in the back started shouting. They had gotten even drunker, and braver, and the testosterone was cranked to 11. The bartender lifted the hinged, wooden counter and went to the back to give them a warning. "It's cool, man!" they exclaimed. The bartender went back to the bar.
The next song was more of the same. It was like listening to a rattlesnake's bowels. There was something horrific about it, but astoundingly beautiful, too. I felt like I was being molested, but willingly. The music felt dirty. Tawdry. I was being seduced by its black, filthy tentacles. These guys weren't from Oklahoma City; I was certain they had come from the depths of hell. "The Lady Killers" could not have possibly been a coincidence, it was literal.
The hockey game was over, and the man at the bar had had enough. As he hobbled off the stool, twisting his ankle, he told the waitress he had to be at work early in the morning, then stumbled out into the street. I was getting sleepy, too, but dreaded going back to that crummy motel room. It stunk of cheap sex and mildew, but it was all I could afford. I only had a few hundred dollars to my name, and no clue where I was going to eventually end up. I had to watch every penny.
The drunk guys playing pool finally left, too. It was just me, the bartender, the waitress and the band. I could no longer deny my presence in the room. There was nowhere to hide anymore. The singer was crooning at me and only me. This song was about a wolf who had wandered alone in the mountains. The snare was gentle, tisk, tisk, tisk, this time sounding less like a faucet and more like the crinkling of a newspaper when you turn the page. The bass player was facing forward now, but still had his head down. You could see the sweat penetrating the armpits of his suit jacket. The singer strummed his guitar as though he were making love to it. His fingers moved up and down the neck, changing positions just to its liking. He moaned, the guitar moaned, it was all too much, but I couldn't tear myself away from watching him. I was entranced.
I felt my phone vibrating again, but this time I didn't bother to look. I knew it would only be him again, and the thought of even seeing his phone number lit up on the screen made my stomach turn. Ugh, just leave me alone!!! I brought my legs back down to the floor, then straightened my skirt. It had twisted and had inched up a little too high for my liking. The band stopped playing. The singer slung his guitar off from around his neck, and simply said "Thank You" before once again brushing his hair out of his face. He loosened his crooked bowtie, then lit up a cigarette. You weren't supposed to smoke at this bar, but the waitress and bartender didn't seem to mind. It was five minutes till closing time, so who really cares anyways.
I began to button up my coat, and motioned to the waitress for my check. She came over to my table and told me the drink was on the house, then winked at me. I left her a tip of three folded dollar bills and all of the change I had left in my wallet, which was about .86 cents, give or take. I grabbed my purse and stood up to leave, but I felt the singer's stare. He was sitting on the stage with his left leg crossed over his right knee, casually shimmying his foot up and down. His shoes were shiny white patent leather, with scuffs on the sides, and the soles were nearly worn through. I met his eyes with the corner of mine. I felt hot all over. My face was flushed, but I'm not sure if I was embarrassed or aroused. I felt paralyzed, knowing what awaited me back at that motel room when I left. Maybe I would be better off with company tonight. Maybe I would give my body to the devil... maybe I would even give him my heart...
