Snapshots of Modern Love (16 page)

Showdown at The Night Owl

Ken walks into the bar not knowing what to expect. His landscaping crew could blend with the rough looking patrons and he is not surprised at that. It is Debbie that worries him, that intrigues him. Is she going to give him the cold shoulder? Is she gonna have the bouncer kick his ass right back to the parking lot? Is she even here?That would be a good joke, give him this address and she doesn’ t working here. At least it is not a gay bar, from what he can see so far. That would have been a good one too.

The ambiance light come mostly from garish beer signs hung over all walls and the Rockolla that is now playing ZZ Top . There is no TV but plenty of smoke and subdued conversations and the occasional laugh. It has been a long time since Ken has been in such a place, too busy making a living to live a life he thought he had left decades ago.

She is behind the bar filling two mugs from the tap. Once done, she carries them to one end of the bar where two biker guys are sitting. They don' t look like accountants posing as bad ass bikers but are the real thing. Ken is sure they even smell bad, like rancid leather. So far so good; she wasn' t bullshitting him. Ken sits at the opposite end of the bar and watches as Debbie is talking with the bikers, getting their money and coming to the cash register. She sees him and her pretty smile flashes and Ken feels he' s melting on his stool. Damn, he thinks, that smile, he gets shivers up his spine. It is like he has regressed twenty years and ... his common sense tries to reign upon his memories. Don' t be such a fool, he tells himself. She' s just trying to be polite.

Her back is now to him because she is giving the bikers their change. Skinny she is, and her little ass looks firm. Perhaps there is more sag to her shoulders than he remembers, but everything, even her hair, looks the same. Ken' s member starts to swell in his pants and he is both embarrassed and incredulous at his physical response. That' s what he needs, he thinks as a sarcasm, his dick doing the talking for him. He is still wiggling on his stool when Debbie turns around and walks toward him.

"Hi there," she says. Ken can now see her smiling dimples.

"Hi Debbie." He smiles too, but he' s not sure if he is doing a good job of it.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up."

"And I was wondering if you were going to be here."

They look at each other, as if double checking that they were who they claimed to be.

"Anything to drink?" asks Debbie.

"A Bud will do."

"Tap or bottle?"

"Tap."

While Debbie fills the mug, Ken notices that his hands are shaking. What a fool he is, he admonishes himself; she' s just an old acquaintance, one who went to bed with him many a time, one who shot a man to save him, one that looked at him with eyes that spoke of a desire he doesn' t understand. Stop, he says to himself, don' t be such an idiot. Debbie comes back with the full mug. They make small talk, what have you been up to lately, where do you live and so on, polite conversation that skirts what they want to say to each other but they don' t know how. Debbie goes off to serve customers and to take care of the waitresses. Ken is glad for the breaks that let him gather his thoughts, and Debbie is too. Ken cannot see any needle marks on her arms. Debbie noticed his eyes inspecting her for needle scars. I thurts her but she understands why; nobody wants to deal with a junkie. With a whore and a murderer it is not a problem, but with a junkie, it' s not worth the aggravation.

"Are you married," asks Ken.

"Nope. Was twice but that is history." Debbie remembers Billy and her stomach turns. "How about you?"

"Yes," says Ken. "Yes and no."

"How' s that?"

"My marriage is just in paper. We sleep in different rooms and don' t talk to each other."

Debbie rolls her eyes. She has heard this sob story so many times from so many losers, about the horrible wife at home and how getting laid by a mistress would be so good to their self esteems, and the story tellers all look at her as the purveyor of that self esteem booster. So this is what all this is about? Glyn had said to her," I love my wife and I' m very happy with her, but I like you too."And he got laid because he had been sincere. Debbie cannot stand bullshitters.

"Sorry to hear that," says Debbie in a flat voice. Ken shrugs.

"You know how it is, you try to do the right thing but it blows up on your face."

"Tell me about it."

Ken restraints his urge to reach across the counter and take her hand. She would probably jump away as if he were a leper, he thinks. Still, Debbie can see that desire in him, and she doesn' t know what to do about it, doesn’ t understand what it means. Is it just a middle age lust for an affair? Is it a true desire for her? Come on, nobody ever had such a feeling for her, and would a man who knew her as a whore and a drug queen ? Yet, he looks at her like nobody else has ever done. She feels uncomfortable at the same time she feels a sort of pride, at being wanted. She is glad when the bikers ask for another round and she can move away to gather her wits.

Ken doesn' t know if he should run out of the bar back to his miserable but somewhat understandable life or to stay put and continue talking with empty words. He wants to leap over the bar and embrace her, tell her that ... that he doesn' t know what the hell he' s doing or why, but that it feels right to have her in his arms, to smell her skin, to see into her eyes. Of course, he is nothing but a damned fool, he thinks, so he stays put and gulps his beer down. He didn' t know this was going to be so hard.

Debbie gets busy as the bar fills with more customers, and she' s glad for it. She wishes she could be her old self, the free lancing prostitute without a care, and she could just walk to Ken and say to him," Hon, I want you. Let' s find a room." But she' s not that Debbie any longer. She has been burnt too many times, and now she is a careful creature who protects her feelings like a mother gator does her egg nest. They continue to have short conversations where their eyes speak better than their words. There is a wall of fear, of doubt that surrounds them. Fear of being wrong, of being rebuffed, of being laughed at, of doubts about what their feelings are. Is this love? Neither can tell, They never had it in their lives before. They feel things that make them happy in a way they cannot explain at the same time that confuse them and scare them because such feelings are so foreign to both.

The skirmishing game goes on for hours, Ken drinking to drive his fear away and say to Debbie that, well, to tell her something that makes sense, that somehow he feels linked to her by invisible yet powerful ties he can neither explain nor describe. Debbie stays busy. She also wants to ask him Do you want me? Do you want me to be your whore again? For free or for a fee? What the hell do you want? But she can' t. Memories of quiet motel rooms where heat and sun shine and sea breeze imbued the air and sneaked under the sheets and under their skin fill her head. So stupid, she thinks, that was then, young and stupid, and this is now, old and still stupid, but not the same. Still, somehow she wants to believe that what has passed could be so again.

She lights her fifth and last cigarette of the day. Tonight she is sticking to it. Ken notices that she never uses the hip bag wrapped around her slim waist. Cell phone, cigarettes, lighter, tissues, everything comes out of her purse under the shelf by the back wall. What does she have in that bag? It is loaded with something. The thought comes to his mind and a second later is gone. Other more important things fill his head, and the alcohol is not helping either.

Glyn shows up and sits at the bar. Debbie already gave him a call early in the evening and told him about Ken; just enough so there are no embarrassing surprises for anybody. Glyn told her that it was about time she got herself a decent white man.

"Hi Glyn," says Debbie and serves him the usual.

"I came to see your boyfriend," says Glyn smiling from ear to ear.

"He ain' t my boyfriend." Debbie' s cheeks turn red and Glyn notices.

"He wants to be, and look at you!"

"What?"

"You' re blushing like a little school girl!" His laughter raises above the crowd noise. Debbie puts his drink in front of him and slaps his hand with a playful smile.

"Shut up."

"Where is prince charming?" murmurs Glyn. Debbie leans forward and says," At the end of the bar" and her eyes point to Ken' s end.

"Umm," says Glyn after a dissimulated look. "No bad. Go for it girl." Debbie just shrugs and answers with anon-committal "whatever."

Ken feels the alcohol loosening him up but not getting rid of his paralyzing doubts that don' t let him talk. Debbie and Ken now just look at each other and smile, but don' t know what else to say to each other. Over twenty years had gone by, and they have nothing to say to each other even if almost everyday of those long years they had thought of each other. Sometimes those memories had been nothing more than brief and unexpected shadows and other times had been long brooding sections of what if' s and what could had been but it never was. Despite their silence, their lack of verbal communication, they cannot stop looking at each other. Ken tries to be nonchalant but he cannot stop caressing her with his eyes. He' s afraid she is going to freak out; instead, she reciprocates his stares. Still, they cannot bring themselves to open up and talk. That' s not their way.

Last call for alcohol. Glyn has been gone awhile. The waitresses, Dawn and Amanda, and Debbie encourage the last patrons to finish and leave. Ken stands. His stomach is knotted. So this is it. Over twenty years of expectations will come down to a
it was nice to see you
, maybe a cold handshake. He feels like ripping his shirt off and yelling
I want you Debbie!
so hard that his throat would explode. Why not? If he is going to make an ass of himself, may as well do it with flying colors. But he can' t, too afraid of rejection. The years have changed her, and of course, he has also changed. The whole thing had been such a foolish idea to start with. His logical thoughts fail to make a dent in his feelings for her. He remains standing but his body can neither move out or sit down.

Debbie comes over and sees the fear in his eyes. That' s a feeling she can identify with it, a long time companion that comes and goes but never stays away for long. She leans forward across the bar counter top and wants to say something but doesn' t know what. She wants to reach over and touch his face, but she is afraid. She smiles instead, a soft smile that makes Ken lose his tense nerves. He slouches.

"Hon," says Debbie. Ken raises his head and smiles. Her words sooth him.

"It will take me a few minutes to clean up and close. Do you want to wait and walk me to my car?"

Ken responded with a meek "sure."

Debbie and the waitresses start to clean up. Ken snaps into action, gets on the floor and starts to help the waitresses put the chairs over the tables.

"You don' t have to help, you know" says Debbie from behind the counter.

"I' m tired of sitting on my ass," says Ken. "I' m not used to it."

After cleaning the floor he gets behind the counter with Debbie and puts an apron on with a natural easiness that both startles and pleases him. He starts washing the dirty glasses. The physical labor invigorates him and starts to clear his head of alcohol and inaction. He feels cobwebs melting away. Sitting and brooding on his ass is not for him. He would rather be shoveling dirt than thinking about life. He shakes his head at the stupidity that has preceded him until now. Little by little he gets into the washing swing, memories of
Al' s Dinner
come to him, doing what he is doing now, washing dishes and listening to Johnny s stories and jokes. God, he misses the old man. Johnny would have given him a swift kick in the ass long time ago and had made him come to his senses a lot sooner.

"Whatever happened to that old man that you worked for at that place in Port Orange?" asks Debbie, now standing next to him and drying the glasses that come out of Ken' s sink. Ken wonders if Debbie can read his mind.

"His name was Johnny," says Ken.

"I always thought of him as Popeye," says Debbie. Ken lets out a hearty laugh, a sincere one.

"You know," he says between laughs. "I always thought that he did look like Popeye."

He pauses washing glasses but his eyes remain looking at the sink.

"I don' t know what happened to the guy. I came by a while later and the place was closed." He sighs. "Never could find out where he went or what had happened to him."

"He was a nice guy," says Debbie.

"Weird but nice," Ken agrees, going back to washing dishes."Remember the night he made us have dinner?"

Debbie hesitates. She remembers like it had been yesterday, and it had been magic but cannot explain why.

"Yes, I do," says Debbie in a soft voice. "Cheeseburger, onion rings and a beer."

Ken stops and looks at her.

"I can' t believe you remember."

"Do you?"

"Of course." Ken turns his face back to the sink. "like it happened yesterday." Ken is embarrassed to say those words, but they are true. They don' t speak afterwards. They just interchange glances and small smiles, but the dike of mistrust and forced politeness built during the previous hours now has a big crack in it. True feelings are already seeping through that crack. When the dike breaks, if it ever does, both Ken and Debbie wonder what is going to happen. Will they drown? Will they rise to the surface and be carried away to who knows where? It doesn' t matter, whatever happens it is meant to be.

The clean up is done, lights out and the bar' s door are locked and the waitresses go home with their tired feet and their pockets full of small change. Debbie and Ken linger in the parking lot, next to Debbie' s car. The street light above them casts their shadows on the cold asphalt as they stand in front of each other at arm' s length. Their hearts beat strong and they look at each other with eager eyes. Still, words don' t come easily.

"Debbie," says Ken. "I don' t know what to say. Well, I know what I want to say ... I just don' t know how ..."