Dead Coyotes

She twisted the top off a bottle of beer and placed it in front of a soft, ruddy-faced man. The bottle landed with a hollow clunk on the whiskey-stained bar. Gabi noticed the oversized Hawaiian shirt and thought the man looked out of place. 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” said Gabi, smiling warmly. In the year she had been tending bar she had become good at warm smiles. It helped with the tips even if it didn’t come naturally. When she wasn’t chasing her dream, Gabi had little to smile about.

“My wife and I are meeting someone,” said the man, picking each word carefully. 

“Should I start a tab?” Gabi asked, still smiling. A woman appeared from the restroom. She wore a silk, rose-colored blouse and pleated black pants. The lights from the pool-table danced off the woman’s ornate necklace and Gabi’s eyes drifted to the empty tip jar on the counter.

“I’ll have a glass of wine,” the woman said to the man as she made her way to one of the many empty tables.

Gabi reached for the sangria - hesitated, then grabbed the corked bottle of cabernet. It was a slow night, even for a Tuesday. She glanced at the Coors Light clock over the jukebox. Eight-fifteen. It was still early, things might pick up. If not, Barry would be upset. He got irritated when the tabs were light. He would blame Gabi and grumble about losing the bar. If he were in a particularly vile mood, he would threaten to take the cabernet out of her paycheck. Rule #6: Cabernets were for weekends.

Gabi placed a stemless goblet on the bar and, with great ceremony, uncorked the bottle in front of the hopeful tipper. She filled the glass as the man placed his credit card on the bar. 

“Keep it open?” Gabi asked. 

“Please.”

“Will do,” she said happily, glancing down at the name on the card, “Andrew.” 

The man collected the drinks.  “Call me Dusty,” he said flatly as he turned to make his way back to where his wife was waiting.

Gabi carried the card to the register and placed it in the empty slot next to the twenties. The slot was empty because larger bills went into the safe. It was rule #3. Gabi never understood why she should leave the register unattended to stow fifty dollars in the safe. But Barry had rules, and Barry gave her a job when she was in desperate need, so she tried to abide. Over the last year, she had learned much about Barry’s eccentricities. He lived alone, was never married, didn’t drink despite owning a bar and never wore the same pair of socks twice. He would purchase a year’s supply of socks all at once. Gabi thought it had something to do with being compulsive, but she later found out that Barry didn’t know how to launder his clothes. It would turn out to be just one of the many things that Barry couldn’t do. When she came looking for work, she didn’t know how badly Barry needed someone to take care of him. ‘I need someone to work the bar,’ he said. ‘Can you do that?’ Gabi didn’t know what ‘work the bar’ entailed, but she replied, ‘sure.’ That was the extent of the interview. The next day he gave her a certificate from the county along with a list of rules. ‘This certificate,’  he said, ‘means you can serve booze. Beer and wine, that’s all we got. Follow these rules,’ he said, handing her the other sheet of paper, ‘and you won’t get fired.’  Gabi gazed at the handwritten paper with the words, ‘THE BAR RULES’ written across the top.  They were numbered one through ten. She returned to the first piece of paper, which looked more official and appeared to be the product of a laser printer. She later learned that the certificate involved listening to an online course and taking a test. When she asked Barry about this, he said he was afraid she wouldn’t take the job if she found out about the test. Gabi took the test, and the rules became more of a set of guidelines rather than terms of employment.

Behind her, she heard the door swing open, followed by ‘Hey Gab’. She recognized the voice.

“Hey, Chet,” Gabi replied without turning around. She closed the register and pulled a Miller Lite from the cooler.

Chet sat down at the bar. He only tipped when he got drunk. Real drunk. The kind of drunk that makes one forget where they live. The only time Chet could afford that many Miller Lites was after a big job. Gabi figured he would blow his entire paycheck. Rule #2 was, ‘Don’t serve drunks’ but Chet was the exception. When he came in on a fat paycheck, he would forfeit his keys, drink until closing time, then sleep it off in the bed of his pickup truck.

 “There’s a coyote den with a bunch of pups. Do you want to bring your stuff?”  Chet said enthusiastically. 

“I don’t want to get eaten by a coyote,” Gabi replied playfully.

“They ain’t gonna mess with you; like I said, it's mostly pups. Me’n Bruce shot three of ‘em this morning.” 

“You shot the pups?”

“Nah. We shot the full-grown ones. We didn’t know about the pups. We found ‘em later.” 

“You killed the parents, and now they’re all alone?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Pretty much.” 

“Jesus, Chet, That’s horrible.” 

“Coyotes are no good. Bruce is going back to clean out the den tomorrow. So if you want to take some pictures, we could go first thing in the mornin’” 

“No way!” replied Gabi, “That’s too sad. I take pictures to make me happy.” Gabi pried the tab off the beer. It made a satisfying spitz.

“Like that one there,” Chet said, pointing to an enlarged print thumb-tacked to the wall above the register. 

Gabi followed his gaze to a glossy, color photograph of a sunrise. It wasn’t the best picture she had ever taken. The composition and lighting were off. But she kept it anyway, partly because it made her happy but mostly because it marked the beginning of a journey. It’s been almost two years now, she thought to herself. Two years since she stepped out of that motel room and was greeted by the most beautiful sunrise she had ever seen. Looking at the picture, with its blend of pinks and purples smeared across a vast blue sky, reminded her of that day. Her first day in Texas after driving for twenty-three hours. She had slept in her car along the way but stopped at the first motel she came to after crossing into the Lone Star state. This was where she would finally save up enough money to open her photography studio.  She gave herself three years. It had once seemed like a long time. Three years to make it. Three years until her fortieth birthday. Now, In two weeks, she will turn thirty-nine. There was some money in the bank, but not nearly enough. For the first year, it was all she could do to survive. She often found herself preoccupied with thoughts of moving back to California. Then she found Barry, living in his dilapidated trailer behind his dilapidated bar. ‘Work the bar’, she found out, mostly meant taking care of Barry’s needs. He was well into his sixties and complained about driving. So Gabi would pick up his prescriptions and do his grocery shopping. In exchange, he allowed her free reign of the bar. She cleaned it up the best she could. Decorated. What she couldn’t find for free, she would try to persuade Barry to buy. Gabi used her photography skills to create a website and a Facebook page. She started a karaoke night and an open-mic night. It didn’t take long for crowds to show up. Barry seemed happier, and for the first time in her life, she had more money at the end of the month than she did at the start. But none of that could change the fact that she would be thirty-nine soon. She figured she needed fifty thousand to start her studio. The last time she checked, she had six thousand dollars in the bank. At this rate, she would barely have enough by the time she was fifty. It was too depressing to think about, so she tried not to.  

“Yeah.” she replied, “like that one.” 

The door swung open again, and in walked a sculpted wool blazer handsomely draped over a woman in her early thirties. She wore a knitted skirt with black leggings and high heels. The woman, carrying a briefcase, paused momentarily, looked around, then proceeded directly to the table where Dusty and his wife were sitting. Gabi watched as she shook hands with the wife before taking a seat. Dusty looked over his shoulder toward the bar and pointed to his empty bottle. Gabi pulled another Blue Moon from the cooler and took it to the table.

“Anything for you, ma’am?” Gabi asked the newcomer. The woman simply waved her off. Gabi noticed several official-looking documents spread across the table. The woman had placed a ballpoint pen on the document that lay in front of Dusty. The wine was untouched. Gabi returned to the bar lamenting the open bottle of Cabernet and starting to forgo the prospect of a tip. It was ridiculous, she thought. Then, shaking her head, she realized that it was beyond ridiculous. It was demeaning. To think she could accomplish her lofty goals on tips and a meager wage. Yet, here she was, every night, chasing. What? A dream? No, she told herself, not a dream, a fantasy. When she got back to the bar, Chet was pulling another Miller Lite from the cooler. 

“You know you’re not supposed to be back here,” said Gabi. 

“It’s okay,” replied Chet, like he somehow knew.

“Why are you here anyway?” 

“To get a beer. You were busy.” 

“I mean here.” she said, waving her hand around, “in the bar. Why do you come here almost every night? Do you ever long for something more? Something different?” 

The question was received with a blank stare from Chet. Gabi waited. She wanted to know what compelled him to come night after night; drink Miller Lite until he either ran out of money or passed out.

“I just wanted a beer.” Chet replied. His eyes fell away.

“Well, Chet,” Gabi said matter-of-factly, “there’s more to life than drinking beer.”

“And I guess someone to talk to,” he added.

Gabi noticed that Dusty’s wife and the new woman had gotten up from the table and were getting ready to leave. Dusty remained seated, and no one spoke as the woman gathered the papers and placed them back into her bag. Dusty sat motionless as his wife said something to him, her words drowned out by country music coming out of the jukebox.

Thank you for coming in. The words formed in Gabi’s mind and stayed there as she watched the two women exit the bar.

“Follow me,” she told Chet. 

Chet dutifully followed Gabi to Dusty’s table, where he sat with an empty beer and a distant look.

“Another Blue Moon?” Gabi asked. 

“Sure.” Dusty replied softly.

“Dusty, this is my friend, Chet. Chet, Dusty.”

“Good to meet ya,” said Chet. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.” 

“This is Dusty’s first time.” Gabi answered. “I’ll be back with that Blue Moon.” Gabi picked up the untouched glass of cabernet. “Would you like me to leave this?”

“No.” 

Gabi returned to the bar, tossed the beer bottle into the trash and poured the cabernet into the sink. She reached for the faucet to wash the expensive wine down the drain, then paused to stare into the glistening pools of burgundy. Blood, she thought. She tried to picture the coyote pups huddled together in their den. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to leave the one place that held the promise of a future. Would they ever make it out, she wondered? If not, how long before their spilled blood is devoured by the dusty earth, with nothing left behind but a crimson stain to be washed away by the next rain? Gabi had six thousand dollars in the bank. In two weeks, she would turn thirty-nine. The Coors Light clock read eight twenty-five and her tip jar was empty. Gabi sighed. She pulled the handle, and the rain came down.