3 Months In Iowa

I knew this blind date was a bad idea. I've been here in Iowa for 3 months now and the local folk are already trying to set me up. I don't trust the woman that threw this together, but hell, it's a Friday night what else have I got to do? It's better than sitting in my dark hotel room counting the cockroaches on the ceiling. Maybe I'd even get a pretty face to look at for 15 minutes before vomiting this morning's scrambled eggs. I look at the clock that is on the far wall off to my left. She said she would be here at 9 o'clock sharp, its now 9:02 and I'm beginning to wonder. I turn my attention to the football game that is blaring over a television set that looks like its from the 70's. I've got $40 bucks riding on this game, damn over weight-pill-popping-jocks better win this. I signal to Ron, the bartender, and order another scotch on the rocks and a bowl of peanuts. The peanuts are edible but the scotch goes down like sand, leaving my mouth with the feeling of being stuck in the Sahara desert for a few days. The familiar sound of Elton John comes over the P.A.. system, and I've suddenly realized I haven't had quite enough to drink to deal with this. I look around the bar and notice the group of guys in trucker hats and dirty blue coveralls playing pool. The man who is taking his shot now has a scruffy beard and his laugh reminds me of a bear. The laugh lines remain around his mouth even when he frowns after missing the 8 ball. He reminds me of a favorite uncle, not mine, but someone else's I'm sure. A drink after work does the body good, or at least that's what the guy in the corner is trying to tell me with his dagger-for-eyes. I wonder how many guys are in here to escape their families. I wonder how many of them are married, or are they here to pick up bar s***s? I remind myself that I'm here to meet a woman and it makes me feel dirty. It's 9:07, still no sign of her. My fellow alcoholics are now yelling at the television. Beer and peanuts are flying and I duck my head to avoid the shrapnel. My team is down by 7 points. I can't handle the pressure. I order another drink and have to yell to be heard. I stare into my 3rd shot of scotch as if it will somehow reveal the secrets to life. The lighting in this bar is dim, like most. Stale cigarette smoke hangs in the air like tear gas. I'm going to have to get out of here soon if I want to survive this chemical warfare. The front door is old and creaks at the slightest touch. Needless to say it can be heard even over the dull roar. A slight breeze tries to fight its way in, but the smoke is too thick. I can smell her cheap perfume wafting its way towards me. I avert my attention back to the television. I don't want to be the first one to initiate the conversation. The woman takes a seat at the bar beside me. That concoction she is wearing is overpowering and I feel as if my stomach is on strike. She asks if I'm Seth and I nod the affirmative. She offers her hand and says some name like Candace or Candy. I can't tell which and I honestly don't care. I steal a sideways glance at this girl. Her hair is dirty blonde, or maybe its just that is hasn't been washed in a week. Whatever strange hairstyle it's in is being held up by at least 10 lbs. of Aqua Net. She's tapping her nails on the bar as if she's already ready to leave. A small smile plays around the corner of my mouth. I wonder if those nails were scratching the mayor's headboard the night before. While I give her credit for making said nails and lips match, the color makes her look like a prostitute. I contemplate saying this out loud, but I have a feeling I'd be taken for a ride by one of the guys in trucker hats.

Before her drink arrives she excuses herself to the bathroom. I watch her as she goes. Those cotton candy legs are well displayed underneath a pleather mini skirt. I wonder how tall she would be without those 6 inch heels. I notice she walks with a slight limp and I have to ponder that too. Old injury? Too many years being a waitress, or too many cold nights on a street corner? The game is almost over by the time she returns. Its 9:45 pm. Must have gotten her fix in the bathroom stall. She's all talkative now and must think it's cute to talk while smacking her gum. A girl like this doesn't own cats, and if she did, she'd probably to forget to feed them. No, there are no books or plants in this girl's place. I can only picture lava lamps and fake fur couches. Our drinks finally arrive, something to occupy my time until she gets the hint. Ron winks at me as if to say 'good catch'. I try to smile back but I'm not finding this situation funny. Maybe its my posture, maybe its the bar itself, either way she offers her hand once more and says she has plans she has forgotten about until just now. Now I'm all smiles. I take her hand like we're old friends and wish her a good night. I didn't realize just how suffocating her presence was until it was gone. The air seemed a little lighter even through the haze. I ask Ron for my tab while I go wash the filth from my hands. My tab comes out to just under $25 bucks, and I'm suddenly aware that my team has miraculously just won the game. Another $40 worth of groceries for the week. I smile as I pay my bill, say goodnight, and make my way out into the cold air. My lungs are jumping for joy the amount of fresh air, though it is frigid and I know said lungs with start burning soon. I stuff my hands into my jean pockets, searching for warmth that isn't there. I start walking towards the bus station to look at the weekly fares. You never know when you'll find a good deal. I turn onto Ash street and notice a crowd of people gathering up ahead. I zip up my jacket and try to hide my face in it. I'm not in the mood to talk to strangers. I keep my head low and continue to walk. I notice those cotton candy legs before anything else. I give a little laugh as all I can think of is someone maiming a clown. Her legs are distorted like some gymnastics move gone wrong. Even in the dim city lights around us, all I can make out is the red. Her nails, lipstick, and now her face are covered in the same shade. The guy that apparently hit her is sitting on the sidewalk, head in his hands, freaking out. The onlookers are sighing and pointing like they all knew her personally. I zip up my jacket the rest of the way so all you can make out are my eyes and disheveled hair. The bus station is just a few blocks away and I'm determined to get there before 10:30. I quicken my pace, as if the fares will change and I'll somehow miss my golden opportunity to get out of this hell hole. I step over a homeless man while saying excuse me, feeling like I've just walked into their living room when I wasn't invited. A few strays cats up ahead are fighting over scraps in the trash can. I try to get her mangled body out of my mind. Those twisted legs and fake fingernails that will stay red forever. I'm almost to the bus station now and all I can think of is that she looked much better with blood on her face.

End.

© 2018 Eleanor Melanson

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Reviews

Delmar Cooper

Personally, I think it has the makings. Not all put together yet, but the makings. I suggest you read Truman Capote's story, "Children on their Birthdays." Your piece put me in mind of his.

Posted 6 Years Ago

roarke

This piece moved at the speed of thought. Which is a good thing for a first person narrative. Aside form some little typos, the only thing I'd like more in the beginning is some reference to why the guy is in Iowa to begin with. Although it's obvious he's a kind of transient, it give him a foundation to start his narrative. Great setting and scene development, and I like your building main character development. I enjoyed reading this hunk.