Room, being
underage and all, but I got the gist of the place online. Live jazz sets the
tone, catering to the realm of the upper class with its polished black bar,
steel stools, tinted glass, track lighting, and exclusive drink selection.
Tess says it wasn’t anything special, pretty
much the norm expected of any dive bar: dim lighting, sticky floors, deafening
music, eclectic customers, and lots of drunken bastards. Some looking to wallow
in their misery, some needing to feel important while eying the competition, others
hoping to get laid, or those who just weren’t ready to go home and face their
families.
Tess probably fit into the latter. I know there
were times she wasn’t happy with her life choices. If she had a redo, I
probably wouldn’t have been born. But of course, she would never say that to my
face. A daughter just knows.
Tess tells us that she chose the stool at the
far end of the bar to be alone. She swears she wasn’t looking to hook up or
start a lively conversation. And yet, she says the key is to look disinterested
and wait to be found. It’s always best to be the chooser not the pursuer. And in
following her golden rule she says she hardly noticed when he came over to take
her order.
“What’s your medicine of choice, Miss?”
She remembers his voice was gravelly, whatever
that means. She tells us she asked for a soda—her code for vodka tonic—and when
she looked up, his bold blue eyes alarmed her; and for a moment, only a moment,
she seemed to lose her taste for soda.
She says he had her at that moment.
He had a way about him, she says, that must
have charmed many women into dropping a twenty or two into his massive tip jar.
She remembers his hair was a thick mass of jet black, slicked back to frame his
sculpted face. Wearing black slacks and a button up shirt with the sleeves
rolled up at the cuffs, it was easy to tell that his body did justice to his
handsome face.
“Diet or regular?”
“Do I look like I need a diet?”
“No you don’t.”
Tess pegged him as a young thirty, which piqued
her interest even more. When Brett arrived with her medicine, she let her eyes
hold his. She always says the eye hold is key.
Tess spends her free time cultivating her look.
She is definitely a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. Seductive,
mysterious, elegant.
She says she had him at that eye hold, but if
it were me, I’d probably think the guy was just angling for a big tip.
“Oooo,” Bella chants in between mouthfuls of
Lucky Charms, “Loral and Mikey, sittin’ in a tree, K-I—-S—”
I clench my jaw and flash a menacing stare,
causing Bella to freeze mid-chant. When I turn back to face Tess again, Bella
starts giggling uncontrollably. Bits of milk-drenched cereal flick off her
spoon and onto the table. Tory smiles gleefully, mouthing the rest of the song.
“Ugh,” I flail my arms in the air and storm out
of the kitchen. I slip into my worn red Converse, pick up my backpack and slam
the front door on my way out. I decide to wait in the car.
Neil Wilcox:
5:23 P.M.
The late afternoon air is brisk. Most of the
leaves are by now trampled into tiny brown flakes, blanketing the sidewalks and
gutters, lifeless, then flying like celebrationless confetti each time the
blustery wind smacks them around.
Kids return home from school and worn parents gear
up for their second shift—homework to check, dinner to prepare, laundry to do,
and bills to pay. Dogs bark eagerly—wagging their tail if they have one—itching
for a snack, a loving scratch behind the ears or a pat on the belly, and a free
run outside in the lollapalooza of scents. Dinner will be consumed with
reptilian consciousness, the televisions will buzz in the background, decaying
peoples’ minds in a mild hypnosis as their jaws hinge and slack, hinge and
slack.
Bundled in a lined gray windbreaker, I walk the
familiar yet lonely path around the block—a three mile trek around San
Carlos—the
underage and all, but I got the gist of the place online. Live jazz sets the
tone, catering to the realm of the upper class with its polished black bar,
steel stools, tinted glass, track lighting, and exclusive drink selection.
Tess says it wasn’t anything special, pretty
much the norm expected of any dive bar: dim lighting, sticky floors, deafening
music, eclectic customers, and lots of drunken bastards. Some looking to wallow
in their misery, some needing to feel important while eying the competition, others
hoping to get laid, or those who just weren’t ready to go home and face their
families.
Tess probably fit into the latter. I know there
were times she wasn’t happy with her life choices. If she had a redo, I
probably wouldn’t have been born. But of course, she would never say that to my
face. A daughter just knows.
Tess tells us that she chose the stool at the
far end of the bar to be alone. She swears she wasn’t looking to hook up or
start a lively conversation. And yet, she says the key is to look disinterested
and wait to be found. It’s always best to be the chooser not the pursuer. And in
following her golden rule she says she hardly noticed when he came over to take
her order.
“What’s your medicine of choice, Miss?”
She remembers his voice was gravelly, whatever
that means. She tells us she asked for a soda—her code for vodka tonic—and when
she looked up, his bold blue eyes alarmed her; and for a moment, only a moment,
she seemed to lose her taste for soda.
She says he had her at that moment.
He had a way about him, she says, that must
have charmed many women into dropping a twenty or two into his massive tip jar.
She remembers his hair was a thick mass of jet black, slicked back to frame his
sculpted face. Wearing black slacks and a button up shirt with the sleeves
rolled up at the cuffs, it was easy to tell that his body did justice to his
handsome face.
“Diet or regular?”
“Do I look like I need a diet?”
“No you don’t.”
Tess pegged him as a young thirty, which piqued
her interest even more. When Brett arrived with her medicine, she let her eyes
hold his. She always says the eye hold is key.
Tess spends her free time cultivating her look.
She is definitely a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. Seductive,
mysterious, elegant.
She says she had him at that eye hold, but if
it were me, I’d probably think the guy was just angling for a big tip.
“Oooo,” Bella chants in between mouthfuls of
Lucky Charms, “Loral and Mikey, sittin’ in a tree, K-I—-S—”
I clench my jaw and flash a menacing stare,
causing Bella to freeze mid-chant. When I turn back to face Tess again, Bella
starts giggling uncontrollably. Bits of milk-drenched cereal flick off her
spoon and onto the table. Tory smiles gleefully, mouthing the rest of the song.
“Ugh,” I flail my arms in the air and storm out
of the kitchen. I slip into my worn red Converse, pick up my backpack and slam
the front door on my way out. I decide to wait in the car.
Neil Wilcox:
5:23 P.M.
The late afternoon air is brisk. Most of the
leaves are by now trampled into tiny brown flakes, blanketing the sidewalks and
gutters, lifeless, then flying like celebrationless confetti each time the
blustery wind smacks them around.
Kids return home from school and worn parents gear
up for their second shift—homework to check, dinner to prepare, laundry to do,
and bills to pay. Dogs bark eagerly—wagging their tail if they have one—itching
for a snack, a loving scratch behind the ears or a pat on the belly, and a free
run outside in the lollapalooza of scents. Dinner will be consumed with
reptilian consciousness, the televisions will buzz in the background, decaying
peoples’ minds in a mild hypnosis as their jaws hinge and slack, hinge and
slack.
Bundled in a lined gray windbreaker, I walk the
familiar yet lonely path around the block—a three mile trek around San
Carlos—the
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