Across The Street

I've never met a single person in The Painted Leopard that isn't truly successful. Actors, authors, speedboat salesmen – millionaires, every one of them. Now, don't think I'm boasting because that place used to be my local haunt – all I'm doing is stating a fact.

I interrupt the conversation I'm having with Molly, a friend of mine – nice girl, Molly – to knock on the table for the barman. The man's a good guy; I've known him for years. Trustable type, even if he doesn't speak much. Or smile much, when I think about it.

He glides over and looks at me expectantly. Another lot? his eyes ask. I can never be sure if he doesn't talk by choice, or if he's mute.

I nod. I'm not sure what I hope to gain by ordering another beer. Not intoxication, of course; most of us, the actors and singers of the joint, have the kind of on-the-spot job that requires us to be sober at all times, or else face disaster – like the-lost-boy-we-don't-name that busted his whole career with one drink. Sensitive kid, he was. But as I was saying – it's why the Leopard went non-alcoholic last year. Can't say I regret the change, but as for some... but anyway.

Dracula – a name earned by his... intimidating appearance – fills a glass and slides it over the mahogany table to me. I pick it up, and continue my conversation with Molly. She's turned her back to me, but twists round again when she hears my voice.

“As I was saying,” I start. “Matt's a good type. Would trust him with my life. Not the usual kind of manager who'll steal your money the moment your back's turned. Not a sly bone in his body. Same with his wife. Charlie's a nice women, as far as wome-” I pull up, remembering who I'm talking to.

Molly looks at me with those large, innocent eyes that won her a place on the big screen, and I think hard to change my line before disaster strikes. She's the best type of friend, the type who listens, and I can't lose her by an unlucky word. Improvise, I tell myself – I did it a lot on the stage, before I quit.

“As far as manager's wives go,” I end lamely. Too late, I remember why I quit acting. Molly shoves her stool away. It topples, falls, and lands with a loud crash on the floor. People turn their heads to watch as she storms off with a face that reminds me of an angry sphynx cat.

I whirl around and shout at her retreating figure. “Well, it's not like you're a woman anyway! You're only seventeen!” It doesn't seem to help, as she disappears through the back door.

I turn again to the bar, then jerk backwards. Dracula is standing in front of me, materialised from nowhere.

“Don't scare me like that,” I say. “That's a bad habit of yours. It's not good to freak people out all the time, okay?”

He doesn't speak. He just stares.

I read his eyes, and give a short laugh. “Don't worry. She'll come back.”

I lift my glass and enjoy the taste of the beer – non-alcoholic, as I've mentioned – then slam it down on the wood. The barman stares disapprovingly at the small dent I've made in the wood before carrying the glass away. As he refills the glass, I look around me for someone else to engage in conversation, but everyone seems busy.

I open my mouth to speak to the man at my side, when my phone rings. Pulling it out of my pocket, I take myself out of the room, and peer down at the screen. It's Charlie. I confirm the call, and press the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello? Bill?” She sounds breathless, and... apologetic? Deeply, deeply apologetic. Horrified. This isn't good.

“That's me,” I answer. Get on with it, woman. I growl internally.

“Matt isn't with you, is he?”

I started. “Matt's gone missing?”

“Missing? No.”

Too much waiting irritated me into insisting that she “spit it out!”

“He's run off. With the money. All of it.”

I can't– I can't speak. The phone drops to the floor. The covering-glass shatters. Not Matt. It can't be Matt.

A man I don't recognise walks out of the bar, turning his head as if searching for someone. He sees me, taking in my shocked expression, my empty hand, the phone laying face-down on the floor and the fragments of broken glass surrounding it.

After a moment, after he realises I'm not going to address him, he speaks. “They were wondering where you were.” Matter-of-fact. Emotionless. His face, expressionless.

“My manager's run away with all my money. I'm broke.” It doesn't feel real until the words leave my mouth, then it's suddenly too real. Too much.

I leave.

蟻

The door swings open like a saloon door in an old Western film, and I breathe in the confused mix of exotic smells that characterizes the place. What would The Painted Leopard be without the perfume of the female film-stars, models and theatre-actresses filling the air?

I stroll up to the bar, and raise an eyebrow. A small, mean-looking man has taken my usual seat. I glance over at the barman and give him an incredulous look. He's the bouncer of the bar stools; how could he let some upstart take my seat?

He stares at me without speaking. As usual.

I sigh. Some things don't change.

The man in my seat seems to sense me behind him, and turns around. His face reminds me of the monkey that threw a stick at me last time I was at the zoo. I don't like him – although I might be prejudiced by the resemblance.

“My seat,” he sneers.

“You recognise me, then. I'm honoured.” I give a mock bow, accompanied by a very pointed glance at my stool. A woman laughs. Here, I can never be sure if people are laughing with me, or at me.

He snickers. “You lost this when you went broke. These seats are only for successful people. Not hobos.”

I look around for support, but the eyes that meet mine are full of disgust and disdain – at me. Turning back, I silently beg Dracula to help me. You're my pal, aren't you? I try to make my eyes as expressive as his. I can't embarrass myself by saying this aloud. Help?

He looks at me, and his eyes speak pure betrayal. He's right, they say. You forfeited your place here.

All I can do for a moment is splutter. “You – what – I thought – Drac – upstart.” I pull myself together. “Bah. Who needs you?” With a regretful look at the interior of the last remnant of my success, I leave The Painted Leopard. Hopefully, I won't have to add never to return. There's always hope.

蟻

With the glare of the sun in my eyes, I lift my hand to my forehead. There's a sign across the street from the Leopard. I can only just make it out – The House Ant? In any other situation, I would scoff. Why would they name what looks like a pub, after an animal that small?

I don't want to dirty my shoes by stepping into that insect-hole, but there's a small chance that the sign's misleading. Maybe behind that dark wooden door is a warm welcome for me. Famous as I am, I doubt it somehow, but the chance remains.

I cross the street and shove the door open. It moans, the bottom of it scratching painfully against the floor. The whole place must be deserted, for the door to be in that derelict.

A glance upwards, when the door has finally opened wide enough to fit through, shows me how mistaken I am. It's full of people. Judging by their clothes, they're probably all street rats- Remember, you can't go back to the Leopard. Optimism, man! – but I'm sure they're nice people... on the inside. And the establishment may be poorly-lit, messy and filled with stagnant air, but I'm sure it's... passable in some way.

Any ideas of how to big this place up, Einstein? You're on your own for this one.

The barman – small and thin, wearing oddly casual clothes and a solemn expression – nods his head to me from behind the counter. I walk up to him and lean on the counter in an attempt to seem casual. No bar stools, I see. At least that eliminates the risk of someone stealing my seat again.

“I presume this establishment sells alcohol?” I ask politely. I'm treading on dangerous ground just talking to these potential criminals, but it strikes me that, in my present position, I've lost the advantage of higher status. I'm not rich anymore, although I'm still famous – I can imagine the local papers having a big laugh at my expense as soon as they can print a new edition.

The barman looks at me, his midnight-blue, almost black eyes boring into my soul as if he knows every one of my secrets. At least I've got something here to remind me of the Leopard – but unlike Dracula, his eyes are somehow friendly. As if it's not only my secrets he keeps, but everyone's. Even with our brief encounter, I can imagine coming to him in the future, trusting him to keep my secrets until death tears them from him. The feeling is so... odd. So new. It almost scares me.

“No alcohol here,” he says at last. “But you're welcome to a drink and a seat if you want. Drink's on the house – it's always hard, the first time.”

I blink. The drink's on the house? How can he run a business like that? That's not how the Leopard works- I remind myself that I'm not part of the Leopard anymore. It abandoned me. They abandoned me.

“Uh. Thanks,” I say awkwardly.

He hands me a drink. I turn around and try to find a seat as far away from other people as I can. I've never been to any slums, never associated with any criminals – I don't know how to socialise with these people.

I'm still at the bar, trying to choose where to sit, when an old man in one of the corners shouts, “Give us a song!”

I jerk, thinking he's talking to me. But as a few other people raise their voices in agreement, a gentle stream of music reaches my ears, and I notice the man in another corner who sits at a piano. He turns his head momentarily towards me, and winks.

On an impulse, I decide to sit the middle of the people, on a table with two people. The man wears a shabby suit that would've been first-class if it wasn't mellowed to a dull yellowish-grey with age. A woman sits next to him, a sad smile on her face. She's dressed in oddly old-fashioned serving clothes, and I think she must be a waitress.

They welcome me with silent, companionable glances. The occupants of other tables turn around to see me sit down, all with amicable gazes that somehow don't offend me like the hard stares I got at my first day at the Leopard.

The old man comes over and sits next to me. “What's your trouble, son?” he asks. “Everyone has one. Don't be shy.”

I smile nervously. All my old confidence has drained from me, in the presence of these new, oddly friendly people. Suddenly, I feel guilty for having thought of them as criminals. I decide to open up to them.

“I'm a singer. Won't tell you my name.” For some reason, I feel an urge to be modest. A first. “Manager disappeared a few hours ago, with all my money.” It feels good to confide in someone, even these strangers.

The waitress starts laughing gently. The business-man joins in, and soon all of them are laughing. It doesn't rile me like laughter at me usually does – they mean it nicely, I can feel it. Their laughter is sympathetic, understanding, and friendly. Soon, I find myself joining in.

蟻

That night, I made real friends for probably the first time in my life. I won't pretend I changed instantly – it took years for that – and I won't pretend my prejudice against the 'commoners', as I called them at the time, was completely wiped out at that moment either.

Matt was caught and brought to prison, I got my money back, I got my good reputation back – but I never went back to The Painted Leopard. Even in my regained success, I continued to haunt the Ant; I even figured out why it has its name.

Why I never returned to The Painted Leopard? I discovered one thing about it that stopped me going back. See, the truth is: I've never met a single person in The Painted Leopard that was truly successful.