The Barfly
Another grey day.
Lacy swivels on her stool, watching the bubbles in her beer climb the inside of the glass. They look alive, almost eager, as they creep and tumble into each other, trekking the path towards becoming one with the dank air of the dark bar. If only she felt that kind of eagerness coming here. If only Favorite was where she found her collective, and not just somewhere she went when she was tired of feeling lonely by herself.
She takes a swig of beer. Too big a swig. What do those bubbles look like, now, climbing the slimy red darkness of her esophagus? She swivels the stool harder, spinning into a full 360. A belch escapes as she grabs the bar to stop her spin. Her right foot kicks the stool next to her. Its occupant looks up from the glowing white pad in front of him and down at her feet.
“Sorry,” Lacy mumbles. What is she, a child? She hides her face in another swig. Lets the next belch whisper through her nose. Her eyes water. She looks out the window behind the bar. Sodden. Misty. Bleak. Summer is over for Portland. The days of endless grey have begun.
Lacy pulls herself into a cross-legged position and, slowly this time, beer in hand, rotates 180 degrees. She leans against the bar and looks out at the sea of silent heads. The place is nearly full, heads bowing in reverence to games and media, or faces pointed upwards, blank eyes enraptured by imagery seen only by them through their augmented glasses.
Auggles. Lacy owns a pair, though she seldom uses them the way most people do. For the most part, she hates them. This past spring some developer released an application called Under Their Clothes that used AI to postulate what a person looks like naked. They app was recalled, but not before auggles were banned in schools, government offices and most workplaces. It won’t last, the bans, the recalled apps. Lacy knows it. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.
Generic music fills the otherwise silent room. Basic rhythm, a few repeating notes, and a low murmur of unintelligible human voices in conversation. A trick to convince the mind that it’s in the presence of a social atmosphere on lazy weekday afternoons when everyone is plugged in. It works, Lacy admits to herself. It’s comforting. Sometimes she listens to these soundscapes to fall asleep when she’s not drunk enough to drown out the loneliness. Her eyes scan the room, land on a group at a table in the corner. They’d come in with a gust of exuberance, celebrating the birthday of the blonde in the tight pink hoodie. Cheeks flushed, laughing, they’d ordered a round of jagerbombs. Clinking, chugging, snorting in enviable cohesion.
Now they are silent. Nothing to envy but their oblivion to their self-imposed isolation.
Lacy only knows how to find that oblivion at the bottom of a glass.
She lifts the glass to her lips, ready to drown it all. As she does, the person seated on the other side of her stands up, backing into her upraised elbow. Beer sloshes up her nose and down her chin.
“Hey!” she exclaims. She swivels towards the offender, but the lumbering back of the patron can’t see the mess it has made of her makeup, her shirtfront, perhaps even her life. The lumberer can’t hear her, either. Tragus speakers on full blast, probably.
“Fuck this day,” Lacy mutters to herself as she turns and sets her now empty glass on the bar. “Bryan? Can I get a towel?” She says it louder than she needs to.
The bartender swipes away some invisible projection in front of his auggles and stands up. Brings a dry towel to Lacy.
“You wanna ‘nother?” he asks, picking up her glass.
“Yes,” Lacy huffs. Then she looks into Bryan’s eyes. “Please. Thanks.”
Bryan nods. He takes her glass to the fountain of oblivion and fills it up.
“Rough day?” The voice comes from the man whose stool Lacy had assaulted with the toe of her red rubber boot.
“Meh,” she grumbles, glancing over at her neighbor. She’s never seen him in here before. He doesn’t look the type to patronize this bar, not in that crisp collared shirt and stylish blazer. She can’t tell how old he is. Older than her, though. Older guys are ok, sometimes, when they don’t spout patronizing anecdotes that ruin any chance of her going home with them. She meets his gaze. Grey eyes. Pretty, though, not like the mess of mundane going on outside. They crinkle. A smile? A squint? Is he sizing her up, too?
“I’m fine,” she says brusquely. Bryan sets a fresh beer in front of her.
“No charge,” he says with a dismissive wave. Lacy picks it up. She gulps it slowly, leaving a long enough pause to kill the conversation with her neighbor. Her neighbor doesn’t appear to care. He raises a shot glass silently and swallows the lifeless yellow liquid inside it. The glass makes a muffled thunk as he sets it down on the cocktail napkin. He turns his attention back to the gamepad in front of him.
Lacy’s not fine. The death of Josh Sedgwick has left her confused and empty. This stranger doesn’t need to know that, though. How could she talk to someone about feelings she can’t define? She doesn’t want to talk. Fuck, maybe. An aggressive grind against a body to hold on to, a body whose face she wouldn’t have to remember or see the next day. She sends a secret sideways glance towards her neighbor’s screen. A bunch of boxes and numbers. Smart people games? Old people games? Fuck, maybe. But not this guy.
The minutes creep by. The bubbles creep up the glass. The level of liquid sinks slowly towards empty, as it is wont to do. Her shoulders heave. She remembers the kindness of her neighbor and holds back the sigh that would invite more conversation, more self-pity.
The front door slides open. Lacy watches in her periphery as the patron ambles toward the bar. He slides himself heavily into the empty stool on her left with an uninhibited grunt. Lacy raises her eyebrows and sneaks a scrutinizing peek. It proves disappointing, though from the sloppy and self-loathing energy he radiates she wasn’t expecting otherwise. Pilly sweater, stringy bleached hair with oily brown roots. She does a double take as he orders a Long Island. A half-smile twitches on her lips. Her day isn’t going as badly as his.
He peels off his wet sweater. The acrid smell of alcoholic sweat pierces Lacy’s nose. He places his sweater on his lap. It slides almost instantly on to the floor. He doesn’t notice.
“You dropped your sweater,” Lacy says. Her automatic politeness is replaced by immediate regret. The newcomer looks down. He grips the edge of the bar with his left hand while he leans over, flailing his right hand below him in an effort to reach the fallen sweater. More grunts ensure, paired with some bumping and pushing into Lacy’s thigh with his head. She shifts out of his way. He emerges, sweater in hand, beaming triumphantly at his pretty neighbor.
“Got it,” he says, slamming the sweater down onto the bar. The edge of a sleeve slaps into Lacy’s empty glass.
“Good for you,” Lacy replies, picking the sleeve up with exaggerated disdain and letting it drop in the pile in front of her new neighbor. “Can I get another beer, Bryan?”
Bryan nods as he delivers the caustic concoction to her neighbor, who picks up the drink and stares at her over the rim of his glass.
Men are notoriously easy to read, particularly when they are already drunk. Alcohol and a cute girl who had just done something nice for him? All systems go for this brute. She’s definitely not interested. Still, he may have a personality that will allow her to see past the linty beard, the uninspired tattoos that cover his thick arms. A depth to his personality that not only explains the shabbiness of his appearance but makes him a great commiserator over the injustices of life. She’s only here for one more beer, anyway. Then she has to go.
Lacy watches a pillowy foam push its way up to the top of the fresh glass of beer Bryan pours for her and waits for the inevitable icebreaker from the man on her left.
“How’s it goin’?” he drawls.
Lacy slumps.
There are many types of vocal intonations she likes, including drawls. The endearing Southern drawl is one, and she was pretty sweet on the singsong cadence of the Scottish tourist who had taken her back to his hotel last month. (She’d barely understood a word of what he said, but who needs words when you have scotch and genitals?) She likes the slow and deliberate speech of Mainers. She even likes whatever it is that butters the edges of the voice of the oldish dude on her right. (What was that? Hard to tell from only a few words.) Lacy is a fan of all the accents of people who come from places she’s never been, but she is not a fan of the accent specific to the Land of the Lush. She shakes her head. Some people don’t know how to drink.
“I’ve had better days,” she mutters. The bartender delivers her beer, holding out a chip reader as he does. She extends her right hand, waves her palm over the device.
Thank you for your patronage, coos the automated voice as it registers her payment.
"Isn’t that voice sexy,” the lush says, suckling his drink from around its ice cubes. Lacy pretends not to hear. She scans the bar for an empty seat. All the tables are occupied in some form or another, and the only spot left at the bar is on the opposite side of the dude to her right. Blatant rudeness is a last resort, so she stays put and ponders whether being perfectly disgusting is an inherent talent or a well-practiced skill.
“I still need your payment for the tea, bro,” Bryan says, tapping something into the reader before holding it out in front of the lush.
Your payment has been processed. Thank you.
“You’re welcome,” the drunk drawls exaggeratedly. Lacy rolls her eyes.
“Bry, does it really have to talk?” she mutters. “Can’t you change the settings or something?”
“I could recount the psychological studies on how the female voice positively impacts branding and loyalty if you really wanted to hear it.”
“I think it’s sexy,” the lush volunteers.
“Case in point.”
“I’d totally fuck her.”
“Go for it, dude.”
Bryan turns away, leaving the chip reader on the counter. The lush turns to face Lacy.
“What’s your name?”
“Doris,” Lacy says quickly. Why did she answer him? Why does she always think she has to be polite to people she dislikes? Stupid. Stupid. She presses a button on the bar in front of her. It powers up an insert, which scans her and elevates to a level appropriate for her height. She hates these damn things. Hardly ever uses them. She doesn’t even carry her holobit around when she doesn’t have to. Doesn’t wear auggles on the transpod or have her tragus microspeakers in at all hours. She prefers to be alert. Present. Ready. Right now, though, she needs to look busy. It’s all about body language. She activates the privacy settings so her neighbor can’t tell she’s not looking at anything.
“Doris.” The poor name stumbles about on his drunken tongue. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what my name is, Doris?”
“Nope. Not interested.” There. She could be rude. Easy.
She stares at the welcome screen, watching her drunken neighbor in her periphery. He is still for a few moments. Maybe he’s given up. Lacy enters a name into the profile directory, the same name she searches every day. It’s blank. It’s always blank. Inactive for the last two decades. She swipes it away. Loads profiles of neighborhood dogs. Some of them she recognizes from work.
“My name is Richard,” her neighbor says after nearly a minute of silence.
“Good for you.”
Richard laughs at Lacy’s response like he’s laughing at the punchline of a joke he doesn’t get. There are a lot of things he doesn’t get, but his ignorance clears his path from what any other man, drunk or sober, would quickly recognize as roadblocks. Unhindered and uninhibited, Richard stretches his right leg out behind Lacy and rests it on the bottom rung of her stool. Lacy stiffens.
“Dorrrrrrrrrr-isssss. I adorrrrre you Dorrrrrrissssss.”
It’s a toneless melody.
“Hey. Hey Doris.”
“Yep.”
“You got a boyfriend, Doris?”
“Yeah, he should be here any minute.”
“Izzee good to you?”
“The best.”
“Aw, that’s good. You deserve the best.”
He reaches a calloused hand out to touch Lacy’s hair. She ducks away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“All right, all right.”
Richard lets his hand drop. It brushes against Lacy’s back on the way. Bastard. She should have trusted her intuition right off the bat. He didn’t fit in here. She’d known that instantly. He’d probably been kicked out of all the gin joints in the world before stumbling into this one. How do these guys always find her? And worse, why does she always give them a chance? She straightens up, looks to her right at the empty seat on the other side of her more sober neighbor who sits, motionless, watching without looking.
“What kind of perfume are you wearing?” Richard tries again. He leans his face toward her neck.
Lacy jumps out of the way of the lush’s trajectory, off her stool and nearly into the lap of the man on her right.
“Excuse me,” she mutters. She reaches for her beer. Richard grabs her wrist.
“What are you afraid of? I just wanna get to know you.”
Hard lines show in the face of the drunk. Violence waiting to divulge itself. He doesn’t just want to get to know her. Lacy narrows her eyes.
“Let. Go. Let go or I’ll scream.”
But Richard isn’t here anymore. He yanks on Lacy’s arm, puts his hand on his crotch. Words smear out of him, almost unintelligible. Almost.
“I got something to make you scream.”
Lacy freezes. Her mind races, oblivious to her surroundings, as blacked out as her assaulter. She feels the texture of his jeans. The edge of the material lining the zipper pressing against her knuckles. Its stitching. The soft t-shirt material covering the belly that folds over his waistline. Should she kick him? Push him? Go limp? None of her self-defense classes, the Jiu-Jitsu, Karate, had prepared her for this, had prepared her for her own deer-in-the-headlights reaction.
“Hey, Richard! Whatchu got for me, there?”
It’s the older guy, her neighbor, her more sober neighbor with the pretty grey eyes. He’s sitting in her seat, now, leaning in towards the bionic alcoholic. When did he get there? He reaches for Richard’s crotch. Pinches it like a clown’s nose.
“Honk-honk!” He leans in closer. Richard leans backwards.
“They ever call you Dick, baby?” the older guy coos.
“Get the fuck off me, freak!” Richard squeals, releasing Lacy’s hand and slapping at the hand of his new love interest like an angry toddler. Lacy leaps back, coming out of her daze. She rubs her wrist, though she can’t tell if it’s hurting.
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing? You smell so GOOD!” The older guy leans in closer. Picks a piece of lint from
Richard’s beard. Lacy laughs, in spite of her fear, or because of it. The whole bar laughs. Everyone is watching. Through his sodden perception of reality Richard manages to discern that the laughter is at his expense. With two brutish hands, he reaches up and shoves his assailant. Unfortunately for Richard, physics, too, has gotten wind of the joke, and makes its slapstick contribution with a first teetering, then arm-circling and flailing Richard sliding backwards off his stool and landing with a thud onto his amply padded rump. His audience roars with laughter.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
