Monday, February 9, 2004

The Lonely Whine

I don't think I like this story. It's unMitchish. But I'll post it...I mean, something is something. And there's about 5,000 words here, maybe a little less.

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"The Lonely Whine"
1
A beer bottle rolled on black gravel. Its neck hit against a streetlight and stopped in a clang. The light now on it, its label became clear. It was a bottle of Coors. Through its glass was the remains of the beer. Little drops of beer here and there. A small collection at the bottom.

A sparrow swoops in and lands on the beer bottle's side. It huddles there. Wings to its sides.

Another comes down and lands on the bottle. The bottle begins to roll away with the sparrows' uneven weight. The sparrows cry in surprise and flutter on the ground, still below the streetlight. Up on the light of the streetlight moths swerve back and forth attracted. Some are large. Others are small. They look like flies buzzing on a dead body.

The sparrows sit on the ground. They gaze out.

In front of them is a parking lot. Vehicles sit parked about it. The sparrows seem to be watching one in particular.

An old, blue rust-covered van sits idle. Exhaust comes out of its exhaust pipe and rises to the air in plumes. Vague shadows can be seen rustling in the van's windows. A form rustling here. A form rustling there. The sparrows watch.

The van's lights are on, casting light on the brick wall of a building. The building is a bar named The Lonely Whine.

Inside The Lonely Whine solitary drinkers sit about on swivel chairs. Others sit on tables. Soothing country music plays, giving a relaxed feeling. The lighting is weak to further add atmosphere. The smell is of fresh brewed beer and cigarette smoke.

The bartender, Vic Lars, leans on his table speaking. He is a man in his thirties. He has short brown hair and inset blue eyes. The person he speaks to is a regular, Bobby Bush. Bobby has red hair and sits on a swivel chair. Bobby has a foaming mug of beer and sips it as Vic talks.

"Ya see, this town's dying. Has been for a long time, don't ya think?"

Bobby nods, setting down his mug. "I sure do," Bobby says.

A TV sits in the corner. Some look at it. Some seem to be filtering it out.

The news is on. A reporter who looks like she's wearing too much make-up talks. She's talking about the economy and how it's on the rise. Whatever she's saying flies past you. She's just wearing too much make-up. Harry Benson sits on a far table, far from the TV. His eyes are on the TV. All he can wonder is why such a pretty woman is wearing so much make-up. What would she look like without it? he wonders and takes a swig of beer. She would probably look beautiful.

The bar is quiet except for the chatter of the TV, and Vic and Bobby talking. Everyone else in the bar is either drinking smoking or speaking low.

Through the widows of The Lonely Whine is night. Not much can be seen other than from what the streetlights allow. All else is darkness.

Outside there is now more sparrows. And inside the van shadows have stopped dancing.

A man with black hair and sunglasses covering his eyes walks out. He steps into The Lonely Whine and the door closes behind him with a soft noise.

Vic notices him as he comes and sits close in a swivel chair.

"What'll it be?" he says coming over. The man isn't from around. Vic thinks he's just someone traveling. Vic notices how concentrated the man is. He looks like he's thinking. About what isn't for him to know.

"Just a Coors," the man says. His voice is deep and piercing and heavy. Vic goes over and fills a mug. It foams and he hands it to the man with the sunglasses. Vic turns away and starts talking to Bobby again. Inside the back of Vic's head he makes a note to keep a watch on this man. He doesn't know why. It's a gut feeling.

"Want another one, Bobby?" Vic says, putting his hand on the now empty mug's handle.

"Make it so Captain," Bobby says.

"And it is so." Vic takes the mug and fills it. When he turns he eyes the strange man with sunglasses. He's sitting and sipping his Coors. Why does he have a bad feeling? Vic doesn't know. He hands Bobby his third one that night.

"So how're things on your front, Bobby?" Vic asks. Bobby places his finger on the mug. The cold handle feels nice and numbing. He brings the cool beer to his mouth. Sets it down.

"They're doing themselves as well as they can, I think. Job's the same shit. Wife's doing dandy. Or as dandy as she can be." He lifts his mug half up. "Things're same as they always are." The beer goes to his mouth in a swig. Bobby sets it down again.

Vic nods. "I hear ya. Guess that's life, ain't it?"

"Guess it is."

"Yeah." It's silent. The only sound is the TV. There's now a commercial on about Shampoo. A lady's in the shower. But you can only see her face and her long black hair. Her face is pretty with a small nose. Water flows down it as she brushes her hair with shampoo and lets out noises of pleasure. It sounds like she's having an orgasm from shampoo.

Harry Benson is still watching the TV in his far corner.

Another man, Dexter Gale, is in his own corner, next to a window. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and slowly drinks his beer. The wisps of smoke hide his face. The eye of his cigarette glows red in the dim lighting as he takes in smoke.

It's always slow like this. Vic wonders how long it will keep going. How long until he won't be able to keep business any longer. Vic eyes Bobby's mug. It's empty again.

"Will it be another?" Vic asks. Vic can tell Bobby's getting drunk. It's usually after three or more he starts seeing it.

"The Pope a Catholic?" Yes, he sure is. So Vic gets another beer for Bobby.

"The Pope's just a figurehead," Vic says, setting it down.

"Yeah. All them people are just falling for it, too. Like a herd of bison or something."

Vic nods. "Yeah. I guess so."

Silence again. Vic busies himself with the TV. The news is over. There's the off-air sky cam on now. It's at an intersection of stoplights. A few cars are scuttling by. They look just as dead as everything else. Vic watches with no interest.

In the back Harry Benson is standing up. "I'm heading out, gotta get home. See ya'll later." He waits for Vic and Bobby's response.

"We'll see ya, Harry. Drive safe now. See ya when I see ya," says Vic.

"Hasta levista, baby," says Bobby.

"Oh, you know 'I'll be back.'" He says it like Arnold in Terminator. He ends up not sounding like him at all. But close enough. Close enough and off he goes.

The soft sound of the door closing. Then he's gone.

There's only three people left in the bar. It's time for him to act.

The man in the sunglasses stands abruptly up. A grin appears on his face. From his pant's belt he reveals a gun and pulls it out. He points it at Vic and then to Bobby and back to Vic again. "Don't even think of calling the police. And don't think of trying anything funny."

Bobby sits in his swivel chair with dull, intoxicated eyes. There's fear though. Tasty fear that the man in sunglasses eats up. Vic holds his hands in front of him. They're shaking. It's delicious. "You can have whatever you want! Just don't shoot me! I'll give you whatever you want—money, whatever! Just don't shoot!"

The man with the sunglasses pulls the trigger. Vic winces. And bang. The bullet flies out at breakneck speed and hits Vic in the temple. He's dead on impact. Blood ushers out from the wound. Vic topples over like a rag doll. "Okay. Just give me it all and I won't shoot," the man with the sunglasses says with a wider smirk, snickering. He eyes Bobby. "And what does Bobby say? Hm?" He laughs. It's not a nice laugh either. Not at all.

In his far corner Dexter Gale stands up and runs off in a rush. The man with the sunglasses turns to watch him. "That's right, be the little messenger. Tell them. Tell them and make them come." He turns back as he hears the soft closing of the door. He looks back at Bobby. "What do you say, Bobby?"

"I don't say anything, other than let me live. Let me live, and I'll do whatever you want." He didn't like this. Bobby's voice was too calm and held. He moved closer to Bobby, put the gun right against his head. That'll teach him. That'll teach him to hide it. There we go. There he goes, his face just screams fear now.

"We have a deal then, Bob?" A smirk. Wide and full of intention. He liked to see Bobby's fear. "I like deals. Deals are what spins the wheel. You better do just what I say though. Or else." He held the gun to his head and made a bang noise. "Do you know what I mean, Bobby?"

"I do. Now what is it I have to do?" The man with the sunglasses looks out the window. Then back to Bobby. He takes the gun from his forehead.

"Follow me, bucko. I got something to show you." The man with the glasses starts walking off. Bobby wobbles up and stupors over. He's half drunk and having trouble walking. "Better keep up. Don't want you to fall behind and the wheel to stop spinnin on the wrong place, do ya?"

"No," Bobby says. "I don't want that."

"Then you better get it together. God doesn't spin no dice, and neither do I. I'm not takin chances. You get over here and keep up with me or else it's bye-bye Bobby with a bang."

"Okay. I get you." Bobby made a conscious effort to keep up with the man. He was almost caught up.

"And don't try anything funny. You know what happens to funny people. And I don't have any patience for funny people. I'll put em out of their misery. I'll put them away." Bobby nodded and caught up just as the man was opening the door outside. He held his hand to catch the door but it slammed Bobby in the face. He winced in pain and pushed outside. Cool air touched him.

The man with the sunglasses opened the van's side door. Bobby approaches. The man grabs Bobby by his shirt and throws him in.

There's a woman inside. Her head is a big hole. It's been shot off. Mangled pieces of her black hair and brain matter are strewn about. Bobby utters a cry of disgust. The woman is naked. Prostrate in the van, her breasts contour out. They're full of scratches and bruises. Her hands are full of them too. Her whole body is. Her black pubic hair stands out in the meek light. He can see scratches there.

"What Bobby, you don't like?" the man with the sunglasses asks. "If you don't like, I can help you. I can make it go away." He holds the gun out. Points to it. "Is this what you want?"

"No," he managed. "No."

"Okay then. You quiet down now. Quiet down now or else."

Bobby is stricken with sudden hate for this man. "You bastard! You sick motherfucking bastard! Did you rape her before you did it? What the fuck did you do? You fucking bastard!"

"Tsk tsk tsk. Now that's no way to talk to me Bobby. Take it back now, or else."

Silence.

"Take it back, Bobby. Take it back or else it's bye-bye Bobby. Or else the wheel of deals stops spinning and it ends in a bang."

Silence.

"This is your last warning Bobby. This is the last time I'm going to ask. You better apologize. You better talk to me nice. Or else I'll do it. You know I will. I did it to her, I can do it to you. Now what do you say?"

A cry of disgust. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you? Well, here's what I have to say to 'fuck you.'" He held the gun to his head. "I'm sorry to do this, Bobby. You were a good guy, you know. A good guy. Your wife's gonna miss you. She's not gonna like this. But here you are Bobby, bein selfish. I don't take well to selfish fuckers like you. I don't take well to people who tell me I'm a bastard. I don't take well to it." He pulls the trigger. It echoes. Then nothing. "Why Bobby? Why? Oh wait, I know why. Because you can't play by the rules. My rules. Well, the dead get movin and the livin get goin." He smiles. He likes the way his head had bled. He likes the way it had exploded at point blank range. It was beautiful. It was so beautiful. He smiles.

Then silence. Inside The Lonely Whine Vic lies slumped over behind his counter. He's dead. In the van the woman and Bobby lie down, bullets through their heads. They're dead.

Outside the beer bottle had rattled away. There were now a dozen sparrows propped. Most were concentrated near the faraway streetlight looking at the parking lot of The Lonely Whine. The sparrows were watching the van. They had heard the gunshots. They had watched it all. They were witnesses.

The van drove out in a rush. It went where it was going.

The sparrows followed in flutters.

2
They're bleeding. The gums of his teeth bleed slight as he peers close in the mirror. Below the somewhat yellow somewhat white teeth there's the gum line and it's red. Bleeding a bit. He eyes the red. So red. He goes out and puts his toothbrush back in his mouth. Brushes it around. The sound is just like a large brush with its thistles. The loud scrape-scrape of it. It feels digging in. Feels penetrated. Feels harsh and scraping.

He peers at his teeth again. Opens his mouth so he can see. They're still bleeding. He spits into the sink. Dull red saliva mixed with toothpaste comes out. He turns on the facet. Watches it go down the drain, down and away from him. It's gone. It's swirled down. But his teeth still bleed. He'll take care of that; he'll make it better.

He takes a paper cup from a cup dispenser. Fills it quick with water. Imbibes it to his mouth. Swishes and swashes it around. The water moves forceable around his teeth. He can imagine the water catching small particles. Can see them being washed with the water. The liquid feels good. It feels flowing. Moving. He spits it out hard. More dull red. But less. And on comes the facet. Bye goes the dull red water with whatever it carries.

Kneeling down he takes out the mouth wash from the cupboard. Non-alcoholic. He's got to stay away from alcohol. Doesn't mix well with him. He twists off the cap. Puts it upside-down and pours some mouthwash into it. Puts it in his mouth. Swish and swashes it around. Mint flavor. It burns a bit. Not like alcohol would. He pushes it with force all about his teeth. Swish swash. And spits it out hard. Even a more dull red this time. It's stopping. He turns on the water. Watches it spin down. Bye-bye.

It's done. He looks at his teeth in the mirror again. The gums are still red on their tips. It'll just take time. Take determination. He'll conquer it. He'll be the master. The dominator.

He closes his mouth, stares at his face a bit. Backs off from the mirror. Looks himself over.

His mouth strains in a pursing of pressure. His eyebrows V. His hands strain.

"Georgie, Georgie. What's this my friend? Did you see those teeth?"

His mouth unstrains. His eyebrows unV. His hands unstrain. He's just regular Georgie again. Kind and considerate.

"I'm sorry. What can I say? Haven't been taking too much care of me teeth, you know."

Now it's back to mean Georgie. V for an eyebrow. Strained jaw and mouth. This time his hands ball into tight fists. He beats them together.

"Oh Georgie. It's not just that—it's not just that. It's not that at all! You also haven't even bought your father his Father's Day card. You never do anything, Georgie. It's TV. TV. TV all the time, Georgie. It's always Star Trek and what the hell Captain Pickard's gonna do. It's all about you—it's all about you and the TV. Always. It's always about that fucker, isn't it, Georgie? Isn't it?"

Back to kind considerate kind Georgie.

"Yes. I guess so."

He sees himself strain in the mirror again. Watches his face contort. And listens again.

"You 'guess so'? Georgie, wake up! You know what I want you to do, my friend? You know what I'm gonna have you do?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna have you go out and get the Father's Day card right now. I'm gonna have you go there. Will you do that, Georgie? Will you do it for Christ's sake? Will you?"

"Yes. I'll do it."

"Will you? Or are you just saying that? I want you to do it. Do it now! You got me? You hear me? Do it now, Georgie. Do it for your daddy dearest."

"I'm not just saying it. I promise I'll do it. I'll even get him a present with the money I have since I was fired. I'll make it a good present."

"A good present? It better be. Your old man's not gonna last much longer. And that's another thing—getting fired. God, get another job! Are you just gonna sit on your ass all day? Get a goddamn job! Pick up an application when you go to the grocery store to get the card—I want you to do that. Will you do that, too, Georgie?"

"Okay. I will. I'd better get going."

His face tensed. But it was smiling now. And his hands came up to his shoulders and patted them. "All right then. But you better do it, Georgie. Or else it'll just be the same old same old, won't it? And you don't want that any longer, do you? You gotta get it together, don't you?" The hand left his shoulder.

"Yes. I've got to get going. Okay. I'm going now. See you later."

"Hasta luego Georgie."

Georgie waved back to the mirror. And walked away to his old car. He waved to his dad on the way out. "I'm going out, dad. Need anything at the store?"

His dad looked up. He was an old man. Gray hairs. Balding head. Going senile. "Naw, I ain't gonna need nonethin. Ye gonna be back soon, son? I ain't liken bein alone an such." His voice had that faraway wheeze to it.

"I shouldn't be long at all, dad. Just getting a few things. Here—I'll leave you my cell phone number before I go, so you can call me. In case you think of something, or are in trouble."

"Cello phone? When they maken that to an instrament? Mus be a weird contrapshen."

Georgie laughed a bit. "No, dad. A cell phone. It's a compact phone that's wireless. Can be used from most anywhere. Here—here's the number." He wrote it on the newspaper he'd grabbed lying by his dad's feet. "It's 624-1234. Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. Call me if something's up."

"Aight. I callen ye on Jello Phone if anythang ain't goin good." Georgie smiled a bit. Cello Phone? Guess you can't fix what's already broken. He nodded and was off.

The car roared to life. It was some older model car. From '67 or even earlier. Georgie didn't know. He didn't care. Cars were what they were for to him. Not much else. They were just transportation.

Georgie was soon to the parking lot of the local Supermarket. It was a big bustling place. Most of the parking spots were taken. People kept walking all about. He stopped and yielded to many as he searched for a spot. The place was busy. Always seemed to be.

And there was a spot. It stood out to him—right next to a blue, rust-covered van. And a nice car that looked much more modern than Georgie's. He parked in between them, put his car in park. Turned off the engine. Got out.

It wasn't too cold out. There was a slight breeze as he walked into the supermarket. The sliding doors—motion-opened—slid open as he approached them and he was in. His mind kept going over what he was going to do. Kept going back to his tense face in the mirror. He knew what he was here for.

He was going to do it.

He walked through the isles. He skirted around people as they got in his way. He said "excuse me" when he needed to. Then there were the cards.

There were little tabs above set partitions of cards. They told you what kind of cards you could find. There was sympathy cards. Birthday cards. Get well cards. Marriage cards. He scanned. There it was. Father's Day. He looked at some of the cards.

The one he looked at first said, "When I think of my dad. . ." and beckoned you to open it. On the front there was an entirely absurd smile face. He opened it. "I think of love. And all the beauty my father's given." Then a few lines down. "Happy Father's Day. From your son." What a terrible card. He put it back. It wasn't Georgie at all.

"And what do we have here," Georgie said as he pulled out another card. He had seen half of the face of Barney the Dinosaur. It piqued his interest. So he took it. Barney's impressionate face took up most of the card's front. He had his big dinosaur grin. And was just as purple as always. On the top it said, "HAPPY FATHER'S DAY." Georgie opened it, a smirk on his face. "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family." It read in lines. Like a poem. It was another terrible card. Pretty tasteless. He put it back as if he were embarrassed. And maybe he was.

Then he found the card he wanted. He saw a pretty woman's face. It attracted his attention. He grabbed it out. It had a woman with long black hair and a picture-perfect smile. He teeth shown and were white. Below, you could see the woman's torso. She was wearing just a bra, but it was a concealing bra that didn't show much. On its top it said, "Dad, I didn't know what to get you." Then on the bottom, "So I got you something special." And after reading the message saying "I got you something special," looking at this woman's face and torso, it all made you just have to open up the card. Now that he looked at the woman's eyes he could tell they had some innocent pleading to them. It made you want to look inside even more. He opened it up. It was the same picture of the woman, but there was a black censoring box around her bra area. Georgie smiled a bit. It read, "I thought she'd look good in black. (Turn to back of card.)" He turned it over. There was nothing there but another message saying, "(Turn to front of card.)" It was genius in some way. At least some way. He took the card and an envelope.

The checkout line was long. Soon as Georgie got in line, another man did. He had sunglasses on concealing his eyes. He held his purchases in one of those red baskets. Georgie only looked once at him then turned back and waited.

The line moved slow. But all the same Georgie was soon paying for his card. The beep of the card being rang up resounded. "$1.25," the cashier said like a machine. As if she knew the price was going to be $1.25 and she didn't even need to ring it up.

Georgie took out his wallet, handing her exact change. Then, "Can I get an application too? That'd be nice."

"Oh," said Ms. Machine Cashier. "I'll go get one."

"Okay."

She rustled away like leaves. Then she was back. "Here it is." She handed it to him.

He looked at her nametag. Her name was Nazerie. What a cute name. "Thanks, Nazerie."

She gave him a weird eye. He walked off.

Outside the breeze was still light. He came to his car—beside the blue rust-covered van and the car. For some reason he looked in the van. He didn't know why.

What he saw in the car he never wanted to see. As soon as he saw it he got the hell out of there. That was bad. He didn't believe what he saw. He couldn't have seen that.

But he did.

He did. And it was all he could think about as he drove home.
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