Banana Bread

I

Underneath the malodorous melange of Barley’s Biker Bar, D’Artagnan smelled a waft of armpits. He opened his leather vest a little, just to make sure it wasn’t him. It wasn’t. Barley’s just kinda smelled like that. 

Over the past year, Barley’s Biker Bar had become an every night thing for D’Artagnan. But he didn’t crank his Harley ninety miles each way every night so that he could take part in Barley’s regular raucous din. He didn’t really care for the nightly bullshit contests and abject stupidity that infected the place. He didn’t even drink anymore.

“Another, D’arty?” Claudette asked. AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill” rattled he house speakers.

D’Artagnan nodded, sucking in his gut even though he was belly up to the bar and Claudette could only see, at best, his massive beard.

Claudette returned. “Here you go. Tonic with lime,” she said with a sweet smile.

D’Artagnan up nodded. He fought the blush that rose in his cheeks. He hoped his beard would hide his bashfulness. Truth be told, the only reason he came to Barley’s every night was to see her. 

On instinct, D’Artagnan sidled off his stool, just a bit to the right. Cletus and Nelson stumbled headfirst into the face of the bar, right where D’Artagnan sat just moments before. Cletus’s right leg was strapped to Nelson’s left leg by way of two leather belts. Tuesday was Drunken Three-Legged Race Night at Barley’s. 

“Miss me, CD?” Hogan said as he walked behind the bar, like he owned the place. He had Banjo, Claudette’s dog, with him. Banjo began to lap a puddle of spilled beer. 

“Hoagie, you can’t bring him in here! I’ll get fired,” Claudette said.

“You said I could bring him!” Hogan said.

“I never said that!” Claudette said. 

“Don’t you remember? You said so this morning.”

“Did not.”

“Are you losing your mind?” Hogan said, taking a sip from his hip flask. “Probably need to lay off the sauce CD. Am I right D’Arty?”

If D’Artagnan gripped his glass any harder, he would have broken it. D’Artagnan’s father used to pull this bullshit.

As his father died last year, D’Artagnan stayed by his side for a week. He didn’t sit there, in vigil, to offer compassion or comfort. He didn’t sleep there, in a shitty hospital recliner, out of duty. He sat and watched his father writhe in pain for one reason and one reason only—he wanted to see what karma looked like. He wanted to watch the man who beat him everyday get some kind of comeuppance, a healthy serving of just desserts. And yet, even at the end, his father still made him feel less than. His father didn’t shuffle off the mortal coil in incomprehensible agony, nor did the nearly unrecognizable bag of bones offer D’Artagnan anything even remotely resembling an apology. His father’s last words were simply, “You disappoint me, D’Artagnan.” 

D’Artagnan just looked at Hogan, who awaited D’Artagnan’s reply. 

Hogan puzzled everyone. How Claudette ended up with such a total douchebag was a bit of a mystery. You’d think that Claudette, a kick-ass, slender, tattoo covered biker maiden, would end up with someone who at least dressed similar to her. Hogan wore khakis, Sperry topsiders, and an Izod shirt with the collar turned up. He looked like an extra from that 80s movie where Hoops McCann spent the summer on Nantucket Island. Normally, biker bars didn’t take kindly to a guy dressed like that, but as long he was Claudette’s man, somehow he got a pass. After all, a preppy guy who doesn’t work, and who, let’s be honest, probably comes from money, might be Claudette’s only way out of this shit hole. The life stories of those who passed through Barley’s were not for the faint of heart. If D’Artagnan ever learned Claudette’s story, he was sure that her tale would be no exception. 

“Earth to D’Arty. Come in, D’Arty,” Hogan said. 

D’Artagnan paused. He didn’t really know the first thing about Hogan and Claudette’s relationship. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t like him. For D’Artagnan, being around Claudette was intoxicating. Claudette was a perfect butterfly. Hogan was poisonous gaslight. Seeing them together crushed D’Artagnan greater than any crush he had ever known.

Just as D’Artagnan opened his mouth, hoping something witty would come out, the inevitable nightly brawl began. Tonight, Cletus and Nelson had come to an impasse over who was at fault for losing the three-legged race. Cletus cold-cocked Nelson and the onlookers immediately took sides, some trying to break it up, some encouraging it to proceed.

D’Artagnan continued to look at Hogan, who began to shout at Claudette. Hogan revelled in his temper tantrum while Claudette stared at the floor. D’Artagnan gripped his glass even harder. It shattered in his leather fingerless gloves. 

A bottle hit D’Artagnan in the back. The blow would have crippled any other man, but his long braided hair, his leather vest, and his back fat cushioned the blow. He stood up and towered over the brawl. His presence quelled the escalation and, after a few moments, the fight was over. 

As D’Artagnan returned to his stool, he scanned for Claudette. She was gone. Over the post-brawl clatter, D’Artagnan heard sobbing in the stock room. He tiptoed behind the bar. Claudette stood in the stock room with her hand over her mouth, sobbing. D’Artagnan took a step toward Claudette. Before he could even speak, Claudette said, “Leave me alone!” As she slammed the stock room door, D’Artagnan saw that Claudette was bleeding from her nose.

II

D’Artagnan parked his chopper and ungripped its ape hangers. He walked to the door of his apartment, as he did everyday after a long day of cutting doors at Carolina Millwork. He entered, threw his keys on the door side table, and fell to his knees. 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. His sponsor, Jerry B., asked him to pray on his knees twice a day—once before he left for work and then again as soon as he returned home. When D’Artangan told Jerry that he wasn’t so sure about all this God stuff, Jerry said, “That’s ok, man, God ain’t so sure about you either.” If D’Artagnan got balls-to-bone honest, he’d tell you that he didn’t really believe in God. But, in spite of the doubt, acting as if there was a God somehow kept him sober for the past 11 years.

When one goes from a life of being more or less insanely drunk all the time to being stone cold sober, one finds himself with an inordinate amount of free time. Ex-drunks tend to have unexpected hobbies, ones of which their acquaintances might be surprised to learn. D’Artagnan took up baking soon after he got his second year cake. 

D’Artagnan entered the kitchen and turned on the oven, setting it to 350 degrees. He washed his hands thoroughly, making sure there was no sawdust or mill grime under his fingernails. He put on a baseball cap, tucked his three-foot braid through the one-size-fits-all hat hole, and wound five rubber bands around his beard. He donned an apron and tucked the tie strings in his back pockets. He left the apron untied because he had gotten so fat since getting sober that he couldn’t tie it off without cramping his upper back. 

He grabbed a quick bread loaf pan from under his rusty oven. He checked the pan for rat droppings and found none. He washed and dried it thoroughly. Then, he grabbed a stick of butter and rubbed nearly a third of it into the bottom of the pan. He set the pan aside and chucked the rest of the stick of butter into his jet black, skull and crossbones Kitchen Aid kitchen mixer. He poured some sugar in and ran the mixer at high speed. As the butter and sugar fused together, he measured out flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda all in precise ratios. 

As he approached the mixer, he thought of Claudette. The butter and sugar mixture was the same color as Claudette’s hair. D’Artagnan loved how her hair was a pure blonde—no roots, nothing fake about it. He poured the flour mixture into the sweet butter. 

He went to the fridge and grabbed some eggs. He broke two on the edge of a glass bowl with one hand and the yolks and whites fell in the bowl in one fluid motion. It took D’Artagnan about two years to master that move without getting bits of eggshells in the bowl. He whisked the eggs and added them to the mix. 

He took the eggshells to the trash can on the other side of the kitchen. He paused and held them in his hands. He thought of Claudette and how Hogan popped her in the nose last night. He crushed the broken shells in his hands and threw the pulverized shells in the trash. 

From the counter, D’Artagnan grabbed a brown bag. He swatted a few fruit flies from the opening and pulled out two very ripe bananas. He put them in a separate bowl and mashed them up with a fork. As he mashed, he watched the two differently ripe bananas form into one mash. In spite of their relative states of decay, they were able to make something new, something good, something delicious. D’Artagnan folded the mash into the batter, spread the batter into the pan, and put the pan in the oven. He set a timer for an hour.

He took three steps across his studio apartment to his chair and plopped down. D’Artagnan tilted his head back, found a spot on the ceiling, and fell asleep. He dreamt that he was back at Barley’s. Claudette served drinks from behind the bar. D’Artagnan walked to the bar, took out the foil wrapped loaf of banana bread, and put it on the bar. Claudette saw the gift. She blushed. She blushed the same way D’Artagnan blushed every time she called him D’Aarty and served him his tonic with lime. When she opened her mouth to speak, a kitchen timer rang where D’Artagnan expected her voice. 

III

Ninety minutes later, D’Artagnan arrived at Barley’s. Wednesday was Frisbee Night. He took two steps in the door, paused as a frisbee hit the wall beside him, and then proceeded to the bar. 

He scanned for Claudette, but saw that Cletus was tending bar. “Where’s Claudette?” D’Artagnan said. 

“She took off, man. She and Hogan had some big row last night. A few hours ago, she came by and told Barley that she and Hogan were moving to New Mexico,” Cletus said. 

“New Mexico?” D’Artagnan said. 

“I know, right? That’s what I said. Apparently Hogan has a ‘job’ opportunity down there and she can’t live without him,” Cletus said, making air quotes as he said the word “job.”

“Damn,” D’Artagnan said.

“Oh, but she left you something,” Cletus said.

“She did?”

“Yeah, a note on this here napkin.“

D’Artagnan snatched the napkin from Cletus but then slowed, trying not to look too expectant. 

It read, “D’Arty, you are so sweet. Never change. XO, Claudette.”

D’Artagnan’s stomach turned in knots.

“What’s your usual?” Cletus said.

D’Artagnan was already half the way out the door when Cletus turned around. D’Artagnan chucked a foil covered something into the trash and left Barley’s. 

As he mounted his chopper, he put the note from Claudette in his vest pocket. He turned back to Barley’s. “Balls to the Wall” by Accept cranked out the open windows as did a frisbee or two. 

He fired up his chopper, hit the highway, and accepted what he could not change. He felt his heart break completely.