My temples throb, and as I spot a guy head out of the grocery store with a loaf of bread dangling from his hand, I bury the urge to snatch it from him. I’ve got money now and can buy my own loaf of bread. Maybe some meat.
Every time I came here peddling for pot, I’d mumble to some lowlife pleading for change to get a job. The pounding in my head intensifies. I’d get a job if I could. In a world that seemed black-and-white days before, now all I can see is gray.
Down the covered sidewalk, two guys stumble out of the bar, completely ripped. I used to come here to protect my mother. Each time I think of her, I feel like a frayed string is winding tightly around a nerve, cutting it off. I should find a pay phone and call her.
Gravity or just plain magnetic curiosity pulls me in the direction of the bar. There are three signs on its door and one grabs my attention. It’s not the one that indicates no one under twenty-one can be admitted nor is it the one stating motorcycle gang colors aren’t allowed. I’m interested in the help wanted sign: bartender and handyman. If I work here, I can score some cash and possibly some information on Mom.
Inside, the strong odor of spilled beer permeates from the drywall. To my right, a guy in a wifebeater breaks the balls on the pool table. The loud crack thunders in the boxed-in room and Hank Williams croons over the speakers. Neon signs advertising different beers hang on the wall and illuminate the dark dive.
My shoes stick to the concrete floor and, as I walk to the bar, I try to find one redeeming reason why my mother frequents this dump, even if it is for a fuck. Mom’s in her fifties, but she still turns the heads of guys at those charity balls. No need to lower or demean herself.
“Hey,” I call to the Vin Diesel bartender hovering over a small laptop. He’s a huge son of a bitch with a completely shaved head. “I hear you’re looking for help.”
“You a bartender?” he asks without glancing up.
I’ve mixed a few drinks at parties and nobody died. “No.”
“Then I don’t want you.”
“You should check him out, Denny,” says that same damn feminine voice that keeps popping up at the wrong times. Like the beginning of a bad dirty joke, Abby waltzes into the bar. She brushes past me and reminds me of a lazy cat as she slips onto a bar stool. “S’up, West.”
“You stalking me?”
She snorts. “You wish. I finished some business next door and saw you wander into this fine establishment.” Abby leans over the bar. “Where are the cherries?”
Denny slams his laptop shut. “I’m not a food pantry, Abby.”
“Hello, I get two of my four food groups here.” Abby lifts the bowl of peanuts and swivels it. “Protein food group and the cherries are the dessert group. You’ll feel bad if I die of malnourishment.”
My mouth waters at the sight of the peanuts and my stomach growls loud enough that Abby lifts a brow.
The Vin Diesel wannabe actually cracks a smile. He picks up a foam container and the smile fades as his eyes land on me. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His words are angry, but his tone isn’t. I have no idea what to make of him.
Abby grabs a fistful of peanuts and feeds them into her mouth, one at a time. I watch each one disappear behind her lips, almost tasting the salt on my tongue. Her eyes flicker between me and the bartender and I try to refocus on this moment, not on food. A single thought weaves through: Abby knows Mom’s secret. Is this the guy my mom is screwing?
“I’m here for the job,” I say.
Denny tosses the container at Abby and she catches it midair and immediately flips the lid to revel a half-eaten deli sandwich and chips. My knees go weak at the sight. He then crouches, fishes out a jarful of cherries, joins us at the end of the bar and slides it to Abby. She digs in and shoves a cherry in her mouth like she really is on the verge of starvation.
In slight, deliberate movements I’m not sure anyone but me notices, she edges the bowl of peanuts in my direction. I try to act casual as I approach the bar, but I’m so damn hungry it was probably a full-on run. After snatching a handful, I shove them into my mouth. My eyes close as I chew, part relieved, part devastated. How have I been reduced to such desperation?
When I open my eyes, I discover Denny staring at me. “You’re underage.”
“So’s she.” I tilt my head at Abby.
“I just feed her.”
“It’s true.” She tears a hunk out of the sandwich. “See, if you had listened to my story on Saturday morning instead of cutting me off, you’d know that. By the way—” she glances at Denny “—this is West Young. We go to school together.” Her forehead wrinkles as she chews. “I think. I didn’t go today.”
Denny crosses his arms over his chest. “Abby...”
She waves him off. “Yeah, whatever. I get it. I’m going to end up dead and pregnant then dead again by the age of eighteen. Then I’ll have thirty venereal diseases and end up pregnant again before I’ll die in a fiery car crash. Do you have those tiny pretzels? No? Damn.”
Giving up on her, he cocks a hip against the bar and assesses
me. “I’ve not seen you around. Are you new to the area?”
I don’t know why, but part of me is disappointed. I hoped his initial reaction meant he knew who I was and therefore he would be the reason why my mother frequented this place, but no go. He could still be the fuck, he just might not be familiar with her children. “Yeah.”