Change

CHANGE

The bartender finished tending to the customer at the end of the bar and ambled back, a dish towel draped over his left shoulder. “So, Andy, you out slumming tonight, or what? No hot date?”

Andrew winced. He didn’t like the name Andy but gave Sam a pass since the bar was his frequent refuge. He looked down, concentrating on standing a quarter on its edge. Fortunately, the bar’s surface was somewhat level and the quarter new. It joined its two upright companions. “Yeah, Sam, taking a break. Recharging the ol’ batteries, so to speak.” Andrew attempted a smile at the affable, pot-bellied innkeeper.

Sam’s smile dimmed, and he grew serious. “Then again, I thought maybe you had an epiphany of some sort and were turning over a new leaf. You know, deciding to slow down and settle down, so to speak. You’re not a spring chicken anymore, even showing a little grey around the temples.”

Andrew grinned, making allowances again. He and Sam became loosely knit friends three years back when he became a repeat customer at the Riverbend Bar. Andrew maintained his smile. “Hey, pal, I resent that. I’m only 45 and just hitting my stride.” Andrew motioned Sam closer with his hand. They both leaned forward over the bar until their heads were almost touching. “I have a big secret for you, my friend—”

“Hey, Sam, how about a couple of beers over here?” This from two patrons farther down the bar.

“Be right back, Andy. Hold that thought.”

Several minutes later, he was back. “So, Andy, what’s the big secret?” Sam asked. They resumed their conspiratorial positions.

“Ain’t never gonna happen, Sam, ol’ buddy.”

“What isn’t?” the barkeep replied frowning.

“Did you ever watch the old sitcom Two and a Half Men with Charlie Sheen playing the main character, Charlie Harper?” Andrew asked.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a number of the reruns; it’s a riot.”

“Well, Sam, I’m a real-life Charlie Harper. Full speed ahead. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, use ‘em and abuse ‘em,” Andrew imparted, pausing for a sip of his beer. “And I have no plans on changing. When I do get old, I’ll invest in big pharma to supply me with Viagra. When I die, they’ll bronze my record-breaking tallywhacker. I’m a one-man army. No woman will get her hooks into me. You can take that to the bank, my friend.”

“Got it. My lips are sealed, Andy.” Sam grinned and stood erect, made a zipping gesture with thumb and forefinger across his mouth while wiping at the worn wooden surface of the counter with his towel. “But I wish you’d bring your dates in here more often. It always classes up the place,” he added.

Andrew glanced up and around the dimly lit area. The Riverbend Saloon was your typical shot-and-a-beer hangout. A few old Formica tables and beat-up chairs, a long bar with stools, a pool table in the rear, and the requisite neon beer signs on the wall pretty well defined the place. A small grill behind the counter at one end could produce a mean hamburger upon request, along with a few other friable items listed on a small chalkboard menu. Of course, there were the obligatory chips, peanuts, and pickled eggs to munch. Andrew looked back at Sam, and they both laughed.

A few of Andrew’s dates occasionally expressed an interest in “slumming,” harboring a  vague feeling of excitement in visiting the city’s seamier sides. The Riverbend was in a relatively safe area, but they didn’t need to know that. Its shabby, eyesore exterior and dingy, smoky interior were a novelty to most of them. The often loud and boisterous, lower-end clientele, the frequent visits by motorcycle gangs—usually innocuous—somehow heightened their sense of danger. And the sex afterward… well, it was never disappointing.

“Sam, hit me with another shot of bourbon and a beer wash. Not any more of that well- whiskey crap you feed the locals, but some of that Johnny Walker Red you keep stashed under the counter.” Andrew wrinkled his nose. “And you might want to tell Mickey to try using his mop a little more aggressively after closing. I think he’s getting sloppy tapping the kegs; the place is beginning to smell like sour beer. A smidgen of seedy dive ambiance is fine, but you don’t want to go overboard.”

Sam laughed again. He had no illusions about his “dive.” Sam left to retrieve the Johnny Walker.

Andrew returned to balancing his quarters. He lived a fair distance away on Lake Erie in a single-story condo on the beach. His job as an advertising exec at Montgomery and Fitch paid well. He liked coming here; nobody but the regulars knew him, only a few of which were present on this weeknight.

He mused on his confessional secret with Sam. Maybe the “slam, bam, thank you ma’am” type analogies were a bit harsh, but he was the “perfect storm” when it came to women. Intelligent, personable, and handsome, Andrew saw no reason to change, despite Sam’s cracks about age and settling down. The women lined up at his feet. The consummate skirt-chaser, he was the envy of all his single friends. Still, he sometimes wondered… no… he just needed a break was all, no need to wonder about anything. Mesmerized, he stared at his balanced quarters. When they wouldn’t stand up, he’d call it a night.

The tinkling of the bell over the tavern’s front door, reminding Andrew of a quaint, old fashioned gift shop, interrupted his reverie. He glanced over as a short, attractive brunette entered, took off her three-quarter length belted coat, and sat down at the end of the bar near the door. As she settled in, she scanned the room, noticed him, and offered a tentative smile before looking away.

Andrew quickly evaluated. She was thirtyish, short hair, small-breasted in a pale lavender blouse, nice legs below her dark skirt. The woman appeared out of place in the seedy bar. He sipped his drink, debating, weighing the pros and cons. As usual, the pros won.

Andrew aimed one of his balanced quarters in her direction and gave it a gentle flick. It rolled straight and true until it collided with a Styrofoam bowl of peanuts on the countertop near her. She looked at it, him, and smiled. He picked up his drink and walked over to her. He held out his hand. “Hello, my name is Andrew.”

She took his hand. “I’m Abigail, Abby for short. What’s with the quarter?”

“Well, I was going to ask a ‘penny for your thoughts,’ but considering the rate of inflation since the idiom’s origins in the Middle Ages, I figured the price had to be up to at least a quarter.”

Abigail gave a small laugh, “My, my, aren’t you the urbane gentleman. An idiom, Middle Ages, inflation? A little unexpected vernacular for this type of place.”

Andrew gave her his sheepish, boyish expression. “Well, you’ve discovered my secret. This college grad likes to hang out on the seamier, dark side; my haven from the more sophisticated and complicated corridors of life.”

Abby’s eyes skittered around the dingy establishment nervously before refocusing on him. “Well, your secret is safe with me, Andrew. And a quarter will do the trick. I was just wondering what I was doing here and if I should order a drink.”

“My treat, what’ll you have?” he asked.

Abby hesitated a second. “A margarita, I guess.”

Andrew waved Sam over and gave the drink order, including another Johnny Walker for himself. Sam gave him a wink, a knowing look, and departed. 

The woman was older than his first estimate. Despite makeup and the soft glow of the ambient light, delicate lines etched the corners of her eyes and mouth. Andrew now figured her age as somewhere in the early forties, about the same as his. Abby had a few miles on her, a few hard laps around the track under her belt. Past disappointments tempered the hopeful expression in her eyes, giving her furtive glances a faint hint of desperation.

“So, Abby, what brings you to this quaint tavern?” he asked.

“A friend of mine is having a bachelorette party not far from here,” she said. “It became somewhat boring, depressing actually, and I needed a drink. I’m from Grand Rapids and don’t know my way around here very well. I stopped at the first place I came to, which was here. I’ll be in town for the next three days for the wedding…” Abigail prattled on in a blatant attempt to keep his attention.

Pasting on his most attentive look, Andrew nodded and added comments where he deemed appropriate but allowed the woman to ramble until she slowed, which was well into her third margarita and his fourth whiskey.

Abby filled in Andrew with a short bio on her recent history. Nervous at first, the margaritas oiled her tongue, and the words flowed more freely. She was a secretary at a small firm in Kentwood, divorced, no children—one reason her husband had left her for a younger woman. Abby’s inability to have a child had been a crushing blow to her maternal ego and her husband abandoning her had been a double whammy, a devastating finishing touch to what had once been a tranquil life. Now she was back on the singles scene playing field, unsure what to do, where to look, or how to act.

Andrew hesitated. He might be a male chauvinist pig, but he tried to set a few moral guidelines—albeit debatable ones—whenever he could. Andrew preferred good-time party girls and the professional, sophisticated not-interested-in-a-long-term-relationship type female, even the occasional high-priced bombshell hooker. Still, he tried to stay away from the vulnerable, “injured doe” sort of woman. But a man had to be flexible when the opportunity presented itself.

And Abby was attractive, intelligent, and had a body she obviously took good care of. He found her desirable. Her conversation had dwindled to a halt; she was looking at him expectantly, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

Andrew took another long sip of his drink, followed by his most charming smile. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Marriott, downtown.” There was not only a shadow of longing in her eyes but a trace of sadness as well. “I probably should go while I’m still a little sober. Would you… ah… like to stop in for a drink? I know it’s not near here, but I’m enjoying our conversation… and I don’t know many people around here… and… ah…”

He bailed her out, “Sure, I’d love to. I’ll follow you.” Andrew hoped her room was on the ground floor; it would be easier to slip away later. He helped her with her coat and headed for the door, giving Sam a wink and a thumbs-up sign as he headed out. Andrew walked her to her car, a conservative black, late model Honda Civic. As she folded herself in, he admired the flash of thigh that her hiked skirt revealed. He closed her door and headed for his BMW.

Andrew had her pegged. The woman had passed into the big Four-O’s alone, no children, no husband, no prospects. And now it was panic time. Abby was desperately trying to find someone to hold on to, someone who would be there the day after, to save her from being alone. A lot like him in many ways when you thought about it. He decided not to think about it. 

Andrew fell back on the bed, breathing hard, Abigail collapsing next to him. Their sex had been frantic, almost desperate; their second go-round nearly as frenetic as the first. It was as if they were using sex to fill a vague, ethereal need just beyond their reach. 

Abby was lying with her head on his shoulder, her body molded to his. She was talking, murmuring now. “Maybe we could order room service in the morning, just relax and have breakfast in bed?”

Andrew could imagine the hopeful, anxious look in her eyes. “Sure, that sounds like a great idea.” The pang of guilt that suddenly stabbed at him when he told the lie surprised him. Something else below that feeling… something else…

They talked until Abby fell asleep. Her head was on his shoulder, her arm lying on his chest, her leg draped across his groin. Her breathing became deep and regular. It would be difficult for him to get out of bed without waking her.

Soon, she changed position with an unconscious sigh, rolling onto her side away from him. Andrew waited a few minutes, arose, and quietly dressed in the dark, his only aid a sliver of light from the hotel’s parking lot forcing itself into the room through a opening in the curtains.

“Do you have to go?” Abby was awake.

“Yes, I forgot I have an 8 a.m. business meeting this morning, and I have an hour’s drive home yet. I’m sorry.” Silence from the bed was his only answer. Maybe she had fallen back asleep.

An unaccustomed feeling of guilt gripped him. The business meeting lie was a stock excuse he used on women, so why the regret now? Andrew wrestled with this new sensation as he tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and readied to slip out into the discreetly lit hotel hallway. He hesitated in the open doorway when he heard a muffled sound, much like a sob. Andrew turned and looked back at Abigail’s still form lying on the bed. She was facing away from him, softly illuminated by the glow from the hallway. He listened, standing immobile in the silence. Maybe it was his imagination, he thought, but then another, barely audible sniffle.

A lump rose in Andrew’s throat. His hand tightened on the doorknob. He gazed out into the bleak and empty corridor, devoid of warmth and life—an apt metaphor for his life. He looked back at the warm silhouette on the bed.

Andrew inched the door closed on the silent and lonely corridor. Maybe breakfast in bed wasn’t such a bad idea. 

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