The Woman in the Bar

Just playing around with this character of Billie, who has been dancing in my head for a few days now. She's sick of her life, but maybe her happy ending is staring her in the face.

When I was a kid, my brother was obsessed with superheroes. Superman and Co. You know, by day some normal guy and by night an alter ego. I always wanted that for myself, the double life. It seemed exciting and mysterious at the time. 

Ha. Be careful what you wish for. 

It's been like this for two years now. By day I'm Billie Kirshner, I live alone in a crappy and pokey apartment in Chicago, Illinois, and I have an equally crappy job writing articles for Love Week magazine, which is highly ironic and soul-crushing with my love life the way it currently is. I used to be a real journalist, believe it or not, back when I was someone else. I don't think I could go back to that now; I've changed too much. 

Inevitably five o'clock comes around and I no longer need to stay at the office, so it's off to a public toilet for me to change. I wasn't kidding about the double life. A toilet's not a phone box but it's the same principle, plus phone boxes have windows and I'm not quite at that level of not caring yet.  

I come out of the bathroom and someone else has taken over. A woman in a tight short dress she's too old and fat for, with backcombed hair the color of mud and smudged makeup. A dollar store Madonna. Her name is Robin, and she is not me. I hate her. 

Nevertheless, I need the money. So I go, or Robin goes, however you want to put it. There's a sleazy bar in the armpit of the city, The Cool Cat Hook. It's always filled with the regular shitbags this kind of place attracts, and they leer at me as I walk past them to my corner. I feel like it's only a matter of time before I give those men what they want.  

I approach the bar to get my equipment and a drink. The barmaid reminds me of myself. B***s everywhere, greasy hair, a piercing on her upper lip, Too Old for This S**t. I buy a cheap bottle of wine. Red, since all the drinks here are lukewarm anyway. If no-one else was here I'd have drank it straight from the bottle, I'm not alone though so I take the glass. I shouldn't care so much. A drunk I may be, but not half as much as these people, and even if they could see me through the cigarette smoke they wouldn't care. Still, I must keep whatever dignity I have left.  

My corner is literally just a corner, no fancy stage or even a box to stand on. There's a power outlet on the wall where I plug in the amp, and then the guitar, then the microphone. They're not mine, of course. I had to sell mine for rent money. They live here, behind the bar.  

I drink three glasses of wine like shots, like water after a year long drought. God, I needed it. It hits my bloodstream like a tidal wave, washing over me and releasing the pain and the fatigue. I know it'll return ten times worse in the morning, but for now it's worth it. My tongue is looser, my shoulders lowered, my breathing easier. 

So then I could finally begin my aimless strumming and hopeless caterwauling in hope of getting paid. I do something resembling He Said I Love You, then Home Troubles, Stairway For You And I, I Think I'm Done With Love. The list goes on. I wonder if I subconsciously picked the songs on purpose, because they remind me of him. 

A living stereotype, that's what I am. The woman who's life has gone to the dogs, so makes up for it with booze. At least none of it's illegal. I'd never touch any of that stuff, for I do have a little self respect left. He'd probably be disgusted at the sight of me now, even more so than he did at the end. Not that I care, or at least that's what I tell myself. 

There's a reason I keep coming back to this place, and it's not just the money. A woman in her late twenties at the oldest, blonde and petite and pretty, sitting alone at one of the tables. She's here every night, and I know because I am too. I can feel her whenever I play, her eyes boring into me from behind a gin and tonic. She endures the slobbering jerks even more than I do, but she takes no notice. Clearly she has more willpower than I do. This isn't the place for a woman like that. 

I've drank more quickly tonight than usual, so I'm feeling extra confident. I decide, in my stupor, to confront her.  

My so-called music comes to an end at last, and the barmaid presses fifty dollars into my sweaty palm. It'll probably be wasted on more alcohol, but I've got to make it last. One more slip up and I lose my day job. I tuck the money into my bra, and saunter luridly towards the blonde stalker woman.  

"The Hell are you doing here?" I jab my fat finger at her, accusatory. 

"I'm sorry?" She's taken aback, even scared, understandably. I continue to wave my finger. 

"You're in here every damn night. Pretty little thing like you, willingly walking into the depths of Hell over and over. Is there something you want, Blondie?" 

"My name is Nichole," She says, "And maybe I just happen to like this bar." She's on the verge of tears. Damn. What did I even do? Was the word 'Blondie' really that offensive? 

I try a drunken insult, but she's grabbed her bag and left before I can get a word out. With Nichole gone, my senses start working again. My mouth is dry, and I need a cigarette. I fetch one out of my bag and take it outside, as if the fresh air would do me good. 

Nichole is out there too, sucking on one herself. I bat it out of her hand and put it out with my foot, all the while mine burning between my lips. 

"What do you think you're doing?" She protests. 

"Quit while you still can, kid. Trust me," I gesture to my own cig, "If I could cut it out I would." 

"I'm twenty-eight, I think I can make my own decisions." 

"You're a baby," I say. Try being thirty-five, "Also bullshit you like this joint. It's a Hellhole and you know it." 

"Fine, you got me," She sighs and leans against the wall, "It's you. One night I got lost after a night out. I was drunk and terrified. But then you walked past, and I instantly felt safer. I followed you to The Cool Cat Hook, and you're right. It is awful. I couldn't leave though; you played and sang so beautifully." 

"Are you deaf or something?" 

"It's true! Why else would I come back here ever night? I want to see you." 

"Should I ignore how creepy this whole thing is?" 

"Oh, maybe it is. I don't care. I've fallen for you." 

Nichole looks deep into my eyes, and I stare back. My dull brown against her soft yet bright blue. She can't be serious. 

"Look," I'm really not sure how to let her down gently, but I've got to, "I'm not really into that. I mean, we all dabbled in high school, but- anyway. I've grown up now. I've go- I had a husband." 

 "What happened?" 

"The inevitable. I drank too much, I was jealous, I was an overall s****y wife." Usually I wouldn't give this information away to a stranger, but I had to turn her off. It didn't seem to work. Instead she placed her soft hand gently on my chest. It's the first intimacy I've felt in months, and I admit it feels good. I resist the urge to wrap my arms around her tiny frame. 

"So you two didn't work out. It happens. It won't be entirely your fault, so don't beat yourself up about it. You're still young and time is on your side. It'll be okay." I feel guilty then, because damnit, she's a nice girl. All I've done is throw it back in her face. Suddenly I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to make it up to her? She looks at me, doe-eyed, and I feel braver than I probably should. 

"Do you want to go to a nicer bar? I'll buy you a drink." I hear myself saying. She takes my hand, shaking with alcohol, in her own and leans closer to me. 

"How about a coffee?" 

I don't know why, but somehow this feels right. My lips twitch into a smile and I put my arm around her. Nichole's hand clutches at my waist. We walk together into the streetlight, away from The Cool Cat Hook, never to return.

Reviews

[Peter Rogerson]

I came here because when I reviewed a poem of yours you wrote that you prefer writing stories, and I can see why. This is a beautiful, carefully observed character study and I just wanted the two women to find a coffee somewhere and get to know each other as intimately as they felt right. If you're only 17 and can get your head into the mature and bitter character you've created I hate to think what you'll be doing when you're my age!!

[AUU]

Your description of "Robin" was very good. You were quick to establish her character, and that made it easier to hear her voice.

Paragraph indents would be nice.

I will say Nicole's bluntness is a little odd. Doesn't seem real.