Once inside, I take a good look around. My gaze darting along red vinyl banquettes, dark wooden tables, wall-to-wall carpet of indeterminate color, and a long mahogany bar crowded with patrons—the majority bearing the tired glazed look of people who’ve been teetering on their bar stools too long.
Searching for an empty seat, preferably one in a dark, undisturbed corner where only the waitress can find me, it’s not long before I spy an older couple vacating just the kind of small booth I need, and I’m quick to claim it well before their dirty plates can be cleared.
I pluck a menu from its holder, taking great care to maneuver around its sticky edges as I study the array of salty bar snacks on offer—all of them chosen to whet the thirst and make you drink more.
“Somethin’?”
I look up, startled. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Would. You. Like. Somethin’?” The waitress smirks, makes a point to over-enunciate every word. Tapping her pen against her hip in a way that tells me she’s so used to getting crap for tips, she sees no point in trying anymore.
“Um, yeah,” I say, knowing if I ask for more time she’ll never pass by again. “I guess I’ll just have the buffalo wings—oh, and um, a Sprite too. Thanks,” I add, committing the cardinal sin of sliding the menu toward her, and watching as she huffs, shakes her head, and punches it back into the holder where it came from.
“Anything else?” she asks, and despite her surly, beaten-down tone and defeated, hardened slant of a mouth, I’m guessing she’s only a handful of years older than me.
I’m also guessing she might’ve once been the town beauty queen. There are traces that linger by way of her long acrylic nails, freshly filled from what I can tell—carefully tended dark roots bleached a light, yellow blond—and black lace push-up bra that heaves her breasts so high and round they threaten to spill out the top of her tight white tank top, causing the name tag that reads: MARLIZ! to teeter like a seesaw—but for whatever reason, it still wasn’t enough to buy her escape.
“I need to charge my phone,” I tell her. “Is there a vacant outlet I can use?”
She jabs a thumb over her shoulder, her modest bump of a bicep jumping in a way that begs me to notice the intricate snake tattoo that winds its way from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder and unseen points just beyond. “Talk to the bartender,” she barks, turning to tap an overworked busboy on the back, ordering him to clear my table ASAP, before she heads into the kitchen, her hip leading the way through a set of swinging doors that appear to swallow her whole.
I head for the bar, making sure to keep an eye on my stuff as I flag down the bartender, which is easier said than done. But before I can speak, he’s already eyeballing my hand, the one with the stamp, and directing me back to my seat.
His back turned toward me when I say, “Hey! Excuse me—I’m not trying to order a drink—I just want to charge my phone. Do you think you could help me with that? I’m pretty sure you must have an available outlet somewhere.”
He stops, heavily lidded dark eyes gazing down the long strip of bar, studying me in a way that causes e
veryone else to lower their drinks and study me too. Making me wonder if I should just grab my bag and retreat. Get myself to that bus stop and take my chances on getting spotted by Paloma or Chay or whoever else she has working for her.
I don’t like being stared at, especially like this. It reminds me too much of the way the glowing people watch me. The crows too. Reminds me of that awful night in Marrakesh, when the Djemâa el Fna turned into a sea of dark flashing eyes and bloody, severed heads hanging from spikes.
I take a deep breath and rid my mind of the image. Glancing over my shoulder to check on my stuff as the bartender says, “Got a charger?”
I nod, unable to tear myself from his gaze once I’ve returned it.
“So…” He flattens his palm, looks at me like I’m the dumbest thing he ever saw.
And even though I’m reluctant to hand it over, it’s not like I have other options. Still, I can’t help the way my stomach lurches when he closes his tattooed fingers around the phone and leaves without a word. Disappearing down a long corridor as I return to my seat, where I slurp my Sprite and pick at my basket of buffalo wings, all the while keeping tabs on my watch, willing the hands to move faster, never having wanted to leave a place so badly as this.
A crowd of people push past the bouncer—four guys trying to look tough in their baggy jeans, beer-brand tees, and camouflage hats—while their dates try to look hot with their puffy hair, teetering stilettos, cleavage-baring tops, and jeans slung so low their assortment of tramp stamps and belly rings are neatly displayed. Their eyes narrowing when they catch me staring, then forgetting me just as quickly once the song changes from an old Red Hot Chili Peppers tune to a classic Santana song that gets the girls dancing.
Their hands circle each other’s waists, as they swarm and grind in a way that practically begs their boyfriends to notice. And it’s all I can do to grab hold of the table, my fingers curling around the edges, squishing a stale piece of petrified gum someone saw fit to leave there—as my head swirls with the beat of that incessant drumming. The sound so persistent it turns the chorus into a meaningless flurry of words that fade into nothing.
It’s happening.
I’m getting pulled under. Lost in the noise.
The atmosphere turning first hazy, then shimmery, and it’s not long before everything stops, and time screeches to a big slamming halt.
The waitress now frozen with a tray of plates balanced on her palm—as the busboy pours a solid arc of water that never reaches the bottom. The dancing girls caught in mid-wiggle—lips puckered, eyes slitted—their boyfriends’ tattooed arms caught reaching for freshly poured beers.
No matter how many times I blink, the scene refuses to change, refuses to march forward again. The beat so insistent, so rhythmic, it causes something inside me—something ancient and deep—to tremble and stir and rise to the surface.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fight for control of myself. Aware of the crows swooping down all around me, landing on my shoulders, the table, pecking hard at my fingers—as the glowing ones nudge up against me, urge me to listen, to heed their warning.
I reach for my bag, fumbling for whatever remains of the herbs Paloma gave me. They’ll make me sleepy, there’s no getting around it—still, sleepy is better than this—anything is.
Dumping it into my soda, I give it a quick swirl with my straw, then chug it so swiftly it spills out the corner of my mouth, flows down my neck, and lands in small sticky globs on my chest. Then I lean back in my seat, wrap my arms tightly around me, and wait for the vision to end, for time to pick itself up and march forward again.