The Passenger by Lisa Lutz Page B

my chest, but then the old man slid it right back and said, “You’re far from home.”
    I took a breath to settle my nerves and said, “Road trip.”
    â€œWhat can I get you?”
    There was that decision again. Did I change my habits to adapt to my new person or were these details ultimately trivial? Fuck it. There was time enough to figure out who Debra Maze was. Right now, I needed a whiskey.
    â€œWhiskey, neat.”
    â€œWell okay?”
    â€œSure,” I said. I was pinching pennies these days.
    â€œName’s Hal,” the bartender said as he served my drink. “Holler if you need anything.” Then he winked. It looked sinister, but I believe his intent was friendly. A wink is a difficult gesture to master and yet practiced by volumes of men who lack the panache to pull it off.
    The lady a few bar stools away rested her head on the splintered wood and began to snore. I heard a man in the corner give some kind of doglike yelp after he failed to make his shot.
    Then some other male voice shouted, “Blondie, come here and bring me some luck.”
    Another man said, “Leave the woman be.”
    Yet another voice in the low register said, “A woman like that should not be sitting alone.”
    I took inventory of the bar to see whom the men might be speaking of. Other than a short phase in junior high school, after my mother gave me a brutal perm, I’d never been unsightly. I’ve heard myself described as pretty, handsome, easy on the eyes. But the only two men who ever thought I was truly beautiful were my daddy and Ryan; I don’t believe I heard it after they were gone, even from Frank when he was courting me in that mild manner in which he courted. Only one other woman was in the bar besides me and the sleeping one. I couldn’t comment on her looks; she was wearing a cumbersome neck brace, which is hardly an accessory that invites flirtation.
    I’d never gotten the chance to turn Amelia Keen into a real person. She was still just a little bit more than a shell when I shed that disguise. And here I was again, trying on a new disguise that felt about as natural as that powdered orange juice I used to drink as a child.
    One man unhitched himself from the knot of pool players and approached the bar. He was tall and lean and a bit weather-beaten, like an actor in an old western. His long-sleeved shirt retreated to his elbows, revealing the trail of a tribal tattoo that probably snaked up his entire torso, like overgrown ivy.
    Hal was serving another customer, so the man reached over the bar, took a bottle of whiskey—better than the stuff I was drinking—and poured himself a shot. He let the bottle hover over my cordial glass.
    â€œCan I buy you another?” Tribal Tattoo said.
    â€œLooks like you’re stealing another,” I said.
    â€œHal knows I’m good for it.”
    â€œBut I don’t know what you’re good for,” I said.
    â€œThat’s because you’ve known me for less than a minute. I need at least two for a deep, personal connection.” The man refilled my drink and dropped a twenty on the bar. “This seat taken?”
    â€œNo,” I said. Because the seat wasn’t taken, not because I wanted to encourage the man. I’ve never quite figured out a way to answer that question honestly and gain the desired result (man not sitting down). This time, it didn’t make any difference; Tribal Tattoo sat down before I had time to respond.
    He shoved his shirtsleeve above his elbow and lifted his glass to toast. “Bottoms up,” he said.
    I clinked his glass because the last time I didn’t clink a strange man’s glass, he called me a bitch and things got out of hand. Sometimes it’s easier to be agreeable, as long as the demands are reasonable. I’m generally willing to clink glasses with anyone, but I draw the line in other places.
    â€œI hope you don’t think