“Well, are you going to keep looking at me out of the side of your eyes, or are you going to buy me a drink?”

“Oh, uh … yeah. Hi. Um, what are you drinking?”

“Something pink.”

“Okay. I’m Phil.”

“Carrie. Up here, Phil. Hee hee!”

“Sorry … God you’re ... Yeah, I’ll take a gin and tonic … and something pink for Carrie. Ah, pink…”

“Yes. Pink.”

“You’re very attractive. Here alone?”

“What?”

“I hate this song. Damn rap. I said, ‘I find you very attractive. ARE YOU HERE ALONE?’”

“Not anymore.”

“Awesome. You live nearby?”

“Woah. Slow down, cowboy!”

“No, uh, that’s not what I meant! Do you live in Fresno?”

“Yes, but I’m from L.A. I moved here six years ago, to this little town full of little people.”

“Careful, I’m a native.”

“Really? Are you pissed about what the white man did to you?”

“Ha ha. That’s pretty funny. I was born here.”

“Lucky man. Ever get out of the valley?”

“Not really. I spent a year in Bakersfield, but I don’t think that counts.”

“It does, but it only counts half.”

“I see. What brought you to the armpit of California?”

“I moved here with my boyfriend.”

“Good enough reason, I guess.”

“Now he’s history.”

“From my seat, that’s good news.”

“I just can’t take care of him anymore, you know?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, what does he expect? I can’t just wait for him to grow up. Damn. He can’t even dress himself, basically. He keeps slipping from job to job, and we live with his mom, for God’s sake! I mean, Jesus!”

“Sounds depressing. You still live with him?”

“Only for a little while. I am looking for my own place. I can’t stay with him. It’s not right, you know? It’s just not right. I mean, we live with his mother, for Christ’s sake! Really, it’s not fair to him. He doesn’t even get me hot any more. Man, he used to. Oh, my God! When we first got together. Shit! The problem is, he’s so damn fucking handsome! God!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told him: ‘I can’t live with your mom. You said we were going to get our own place.’ But it’s always something: ‘It’s not a good time for my mom. I hate my job and need to find something better. Blah, blah, blah.’ I just can’t keep being the responsible one, you know?”

“Sounds like he needs to grow up.”

“Exactly. But, God he’s good in bed! Oh. My. God. He’s turned me into a freak! But I can’t get all hot when his mom is always in the other room, and he’s so immature, you know? I mean, women need some kind of connection. You know what I mean? He keeps promising things will change, but there we are: living with mommy. And he expects me to be his mom, too. I do everything for him. I just can’t get excited anymore. Women need a connection. You know what I mean?”

“Sure.’


“So, what’s your story. I think you like my top.”

“Yeah. You look good. You’re very attractive. I have my own landscaping business. I went out on my own about three years ago. It’s going pretty good, actually.”

“You gonna trim my bush for me?”

“Baby, I would love to…”

“Excuse me, I gotta get this. Hello? What? I’m at the bar, Greg. Yes, I’m talking to Phil. Phil, right? Yeah, he’s nodding. I’m talking to Phil, and he keeps looking at my tits. What? Yeah, he’s good looking. And he has his own business. Yeah, I would say 30. Yeah, a younger man. Very funny. No. Really? You’ve got to be kidding. Ha ha. Fine, hang on … He wants to know if you like me.”

“Well, yeah, I guess I do….”

“Oh, baby, he sure does. And he’s still looking at my tits. Jealous? What? No way, he’ll kick your ass; he’s got serious guns. You’d kick his ass for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Definitely.”

“Did you hear that? What? NO! Really? But you’ve promised before. You did? Where? Really? What about mom? She’ll flip. Okay. Okay. Umm.; Oh. Oh, man. Okay. When? But what about Phil? I think he wants to Phil me up! No, I can’t. Baby, I can’t. Really? When? But you piss me off…. Okay. Come get me? I’ve had too much of the pink stuff. I know you like that. Okay. I’ll see you then. But I think Phil might kick your ass. Ha ha! Yeah, I love you to, baby. See you then. Bye.”

“He’s coming to get you?”

“Yeah. Listen, you’re very sexy, but he’s coming. Maybe I better wait outside. Besides, I need a smoke.”

“Sure.”

“You understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? Okay. Baby, you’ve been great. Thanks for listening to my sob story. Here…”

“Um….”

“That was to thank you. You have a nice cheek. Thanks for letting me kiss it. Good luck, okay? Bye, Phil.”
“Bye, Carrie. Good luck.”


“That’s sweet. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Boston: “More than a Feeling.” Clay felt the song as much as heard it, the harmonies and high-pitched guitar bringing back a rush of high school memories, so that for a moment he was not here, perched cautiously at the end of the bar, close to the door, close to escape. He remembered singing along to this song while driving his car (a ’71 Vega – how could he help but inwardly chuckle?). A smile formed in his gut, although it barely reached his lips and eyes, as he reflected on his efforts to reach the high notes, slipping into falsetto. Boston – they were all geniuses, he remembered. Smart guys with guitars.

He realized too late that he was smiling, and that his gaze was vaguely focused on a woman at the other end of the bar. Awareness dawned slowly; she was looking back, intently, something like curiosity on her face. A small wave of panic found its way into his mind. He hadn’t had much to drink yet: a Long Island, a Corona with lime, now he was nursing another Long Island. He had, a moment earlier, decided it was his last drink. He wondered for the fourth or fifth time why he was here. It wasn’t to pick up a woman. It wasn’t to make friends. He was studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone but the bartender. You can’t be rude to the bartender. Clay wasn’t drunk, but he had difficulty focusing just now. What was that look? And why was he staring back?

She was not particularly pretty. Her efforts to render herself attractive seemed juvenile, although she looked to be in her mid thirties - younger than Clay by a decade. Willowy blond hair fell down around a face with too much color, overly accentuated eye make-up trying to hide eyes that had been…

He felt the embarrassment. He was staring at her, and her curiosity was giving way to something else … fear? Disdain? She looked away, pretending to be interested in the pool game behind her, turning away from Clay completely.

Clay felt guilty. This was not surprising: guilt being Clay’s default mode. She had been crying. Is that why she was here? Had she come here to nurse a broken heart, the way he nursed his second Long Island, cradling it gently, consuming its contents lovingly? Was she seeking some attention to convince herself that she was desirable? Had her lover husband boyfriend girlfriend something walked out on her as Clay had walked out on Trish two months before? Had he (her lover husband boyfriend something) said the things Clay had said: selfish, hurtful, painfully true, absolutely necessary things?

For forty minutes, he had sat here watching, the same way he watched the world, gathering data, forming opinions based on his observations, testing his theories against the next thing that happened: that man is going to approach the raven haired woman drinking a gin and tonic; that long-haired twenty-something is going to defeat all comers on his pool table; that couple is going to stop kissing and start fighting before the night is over; those two friends are going to never agree on whether or not Barry Bonds is a cheater, but they will agree that he has a helluva swing.

He watched. That was why he was here: to see this microcosm of a world revolve around the bar and its large, serious keeper, Bernie. He just wanted to watch. God, he thought, I am a voyeur. Always looking, never touching. He had become Trish’s alter ego.

The Eagles: “Take It to the Limit.” This bar liked the seventies, which seemed right, if you eliminate the disco. She had turned back toward him now, almost defiantly. He realized she was staring, daring him to return her gaze. He couldn’t. He pretended she wasn’t looking. In the bar mirror, he saw that she was prettier that he at first assumed. The make-up didn’t work, but could not hide a pleasant face. She had been a pretty girl, sought after by boys in high school, and by young men in college. Perhaps she had invested nine years in a man who had left her in a barrage of harsh words: words that betrayed the anger he had felt for years, words that blamed because then he could walk away and pretend it wasn’t a shitty thing to do. Her face was rounder than when she was a college party girl, and now she wandered if she could ever go back again, and did she seem like damaged goods to the men in the bar?

She saw him looking in the mirror. He was forced to see her now, to stop pretending, and he looked at her with a smile. She seemed unable to decide whether to return the smile. She nodded, picked up her purse, and walked the length of the bar. He could feel anticipation now. He hadn’t really been alone with a woman since Trish, and he was surprised by his physical reaction: he was aroused. She wasn’t looking at him as she approached his end of the bar, but there was no doubt about her destination. She passed him with a brief glance and continued to the door and out into the night.

Was that a brush-off or an invitation? He didn’t know. Should he follow? He was gripped by confusion. Suddenly he wanted to hold her, to tell her he was sorry for all of the bad things the world had thrown at her, to pat her shoulder as she cried ragged tears of grief and anger, to comfort her and draw comfort in turn from her pleasant, wounded, vulnerable face with too much color and puffy eyes. Suddenly energized, he slid off the bar stool, and tripping for a moment over his feet, rushed to the door and out into the night.