Promises, Promises, Promises . . .

“Drink coming up,” the barkeep stated. “That’s got to hurt,” nodding his head in Roger’s face’s direction. Roger wasn’t sure if he was talking about the shiner, or his hang-dog hangover draped on him like a damp bedspread. A cold draft slapped the bar, a thin layer of ice crusted on the mug. He nodded at the barkeep, a man he’d talked to once before in one of those states where he couldn’t remember what they talked about.

Roger took a healthy slug. The beer burned his stomach, and he gagged. The second gulp was smoother and by the fifth, the pounding inside his skull gone. Roger was alone except for the barkeep. The muted TV at end of the counter was on ESPN Sports Center; the one at the other end was on the Lifetime network. The jukebox blared. Roger chuckled. His life was Lifetime bad, sappy movie. Life is in the toilet, and people don’t flush. It’s the opposite of an ESPN Sportscenter: no highlights.

He tapped the mug on the counter. “Another, please,” he whispered between songs. “Not the month or day to give up drinking, I guess.” He wasn’t sure he was speaking to.

The barkeep put down the knife and orange he was slicing. “You sure?” Roger smiled.

“That thing’s fresh,” the bartender said as he pulled another draft. “Buy a cheap steak and keep it covered at least two hours, until you can’t stand the smell of raw meat no more.” He was wide shouldered and snaggle-toothed, a tattoo on his left forearm. He was older than he looked, Roger thought. “Know it’s an old wives’ tale, but it keeps me on my backside. Probably heard a thousand remedies.” He chuckled. “Name’s Simon.” He gestured around the room. “Seein’ as how it’s slow, we might as well be friends.” He laughed again and stuck his hand out.

Roger finished his second as a smooth wave swept over him: His hands no longer trembled. He couldn’t hide his eye, and that would heal eventually. The shakes seemed to be more permanent, just like his need to pee if he drank on an empty stomach. About eleven every morning, he started shaking, regardless of what he was doing. Only way to stop it: a couple of drinks.

Letting go of his hand, Roger said, “Roger. We’ve met before. About a year ago. New to town. Sort of. Grew up here and was just returning.”

This was only the second time Roger had ever been to The Glade. It was the kind of place that couldn’t hide what it really was: a tired, out-of-date bar. It had cinder-block walls covered with beer posters of buxom women next to motorcycles, two dart boards, and a wood veneer wall. A fan spun lazily over a pool table in need of new felt. The place didn’t smell of urine and mold because of the cigarette haze. It was off the beaten track, tucked into a strand of woods, the parking lot on the side of the building opposite the road. He’d come here with a friend the day after Suzanna told him that she was leaving. He’d wanted tired and out-of-date then and he wanted it again this afternoon.

Simon eyed him and said, “Oh, yeah. Problem with the old lady.”

Great memory, Roger thought. “Not anymore.”

“Work everything out?” Simon looked between him and the plastic container of limes.

“You could say that” and now it was Roger’s turn to chuckle. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, a bit of foam dissolving on his skin. “She left me.”

“Happens I guess.” The jukebox stopped, and a chilling silence filled the space in front of Roger. He polished off the beer and tapped the mug on the counter as though Simon was a blind man in need of a reminder. “You’re the reporter, right? Seen your picture next to your column.” He stood in front of the beer taps, running a damp rag through his hands, waiting for the mug to fill. “Like your stuff.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Best writer we’ve had in Montrose in years. You’re too good for this town.”

Before Roger could thank him or laugh or that he came back to town to save his marriage (didn’t happen) and find himself professionally (didn’t look like that was going to happen either), a rush of warm air swept in, the stack of napkins next to the taps fluttering. The front door slammed, and Simon dropped a bowl of mixed snacks in front of Roger.

A fake blonde, her face layered with make-up and a cheap fur wrapped around her shoulders, walked towards the bar, her high heels clicking, her dress swooshing. She wore bright orange lipstick and an unlit cigarette. She was husky, not fat, but not slim either, her dress tight. Not the kind of woman Roger would expect in a dark, smoky bar at 1:30 on a cool January Tuesday afternoon. She’s saucy, he thought, once a looker who’s now staring down at the backside of life, one that’s full of cellulite. Probably a prostitute, and a desperate one at that.

She plopped down on the stool next to him, the cigarette still. Simon reached over with a lighter, but she waved it away.

“New around here?” Simon asked.

She ignored the question as she dug around in a small handbag. Roger stared, curious what she was looking for. “Aha,” she said, pulling out a couple of quarters stuck with paper lint. She walked over to the jukebox, her hips swinging like saloon doors.

Simon was chopping limes, humming as the knife clicked on the cutting board. Without looking up, he said, “Don’t do that. I can put credits on the machine from back here.” With that, he messed with a button somewhere below the bar as the woman flipped the pages of choices while removing the fur. Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” played. “AC/DC’s next,” she said. Quite a combo, Roger thought, unsure if he was thinking of the songs or her outfit.

“Anything I can get ya,” Simon asked.

“Soda, any kind,” she said as she hung up the fur and sat down, her legs crossed, her head cocked towards Roger like a cat that had just heard a weird sound.

“That shit’s ugly.” She pointed at his left eye. “Sarah,” she said as if naming the shiner.

“What?” Roger put his mug down, shaking his head. “Oh, sorry, Roger and that’s Simon,” pointing towards the beer taps.

“Simon,” she said over Dylan, “keep this man from getting’ thirsty. He probably shouldn’t tie one on, but there’s nothing you or I can do to stop him. He’s made the promise, but you know what they say about promises: the shortcut to disappointment. So, might as well help, that’s always been my attitude. Right, Roger?” She punched him in the shoulder like they were old buddies. “So, tell me how a good-lookin’ guy like you got such a fuckin’ butt-ugly whack on the face.”

“Bit fancy to be wearing fur, isn’t it?” Roger asked glancing around the Glade.

“Don’t go changing the subject.” Sarah took the cigarette out of her mouth and put it in the handbag. In addition to the bright orange lipstick, she had cracking, caked blue eye shadow, dark hair roots, and a strong, cheap perfume.

“Are we skipping the chit-chat and just getting down to business?”

“And what exactly might you be referring to?” Sarah asked as the cigarette bounced up and down as she spoke.

Roger chuckled. He might have a shiner, that now hurting less than this morning, but he wasn’t stupid. Unbelievable, he thought, how everyone who comes in a dive bar immediately thinks everyone else sitting there is a moron. “Don’t play coy, okay.”

Sarah stood up just as her soda arrived. “So that’s what you think. A drunk maybe, but not that.” She ran her hand down the front of her dress and grabbed her drink. She looked like she might throw it in Roger’s face. “You see, I should slap you and give you a twin for the other side of the face, but whatever you think is your problem, not mine.”

Roger put up his hand. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” he said. Typical. Speaking before really thinking, deciding he’s smarter than everyone else. His head was spinning, and he wished he could rewind the last minute and start over. But that’s what he was always wishing. “This pop on the head and a couple of beers and I ain’t thinking straight, know what I mean.” He chuckled.

“Not really. Might buy the couple of beers.” She winked and smiled.

“Maybe we can start over,” Roger whispered. He looked down at the floor, because he’d learned long ago that looking down when you’ve insulted a woman always got sympathy.

“Okay, let’s. Where were we?”

“A long story.”

“I’ve got all day, and by the looks of it, you’re not plannin’ on leavin’ any time soon.” She sipped her soda. “And about the fur. It might make me look cheap and whorish, but I always wear one when I go bar hopping. Some of these places cold enough to freeze a witch’s tit.” She smiled and licked her lips.

Everything was wrong with the picture, Roger thought. Bar hopping but drinking a Diet Coke. Furs. Dressed almost like a hooker. Her saying no didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Everyone lies, he reminded himself. That’s it, she is a retired, recovering alcoholic prostitute, and he chuckled at his investigative skills. Not a trained sportswriter for nothing.

“Well, what happened?” She turned and faced Roger. She had a “butter face.” Great tits, incredible ass, righteous curves all around, everything perfect, “but her face.”

Four or five beers later, or was it seven or eight, Roger was done with the story, Sarah’s hand resting on his knee. She laughed at all the right times, asked the appropriate questions, cooed like a mother hen at his purported pain. He no longer thought her make-up overdone. It blended beautifully, the way one of those umbrellas looks good in a Mai Tai after enough of them.

“Simon, time?” she asked. “Four-thirty? You’re shittin’ me.” She stood.

“Where ya going,” Roger asked except it sounded like “We are yah go’n.” His tongue felt like his head had this morning.

“Onward. To the next bar. The next stranger. I’ve enjoyed it,” Sarah said, reaching into her purse and pulling out the earlier cigarette. “Maybe a find a promise that works out. Doubt it though.”

“Going? You leavin’ me, here?” Roger cried, his voice plaintive. His head drooped. “Stay.”

Sarah leaned over and peeked Roger on the lips. “You’re a nice man. You got a big heart in there,” she said as she ran her fingernails over his chest, “but, you’re a fuckin’ mess. And I ain’t talkin’ about the eye. And I ain’t thinking of your promise.” She winked. “Take care of yourself.” She grabbed her fur off the nail next to the jukebox and then punched in a Meatloaf song, “Love in the Rearview Mirror.”

Simon left a couple of customers at the far end of the bar, bringing her change on her tab. “Thanks.” She nodded. Roger watched as if they were in a fish tank, their movements blurred and their words distant and muffled. “What’s with the cigarette, anyway?”

Sarah smiled, pulling the coat around her tight. “I don’t smoke anymore, but I need something to do with my hands. Candy made me fat. I hate carrots. Chewed the tops off enough pens that I got tired of men asking if I was sexually frustrated. Just to set the record straight, I’m not.” She paused “That tobacco smell right under my nose keeps me honest.”

Roger piped up, a bit louder than he realized, “The fuckin’ sodas and bar hoppin’?”

She turned at the door. She stared right through him. The first time all afternoon that there wasn’t anything sexual, not so much as a hint. “Been where you are. Messed up. Like to prove to myself that I can go out and not drink. I just did that. Also, need a reminder why I shouldn’t drink. I see that” and pointed at Roger. “Take care of yourself. Promises take time.”

He was about to ask her if he could come, but he was caught up in the promise thing she kept mentioning, and Simon chuckled at. By the time he right himself, she was gone out the warped screen door into the late afternoon soft light.

He watched as her hips rocked like a boat on a stormy sea, with a half-drunk mug, two empty shot glasses in front of him, and a bender that was well beyond halfway home, thinking of the Romantics song, “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” nodding at Simon and tilting his mug, a head nod towards the taps.

The End