“That’s better. So, Sean, what about your day was so miserable? You get fired or something?”
“Or something.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
“Sure, I do,” she says, as the bartender returns with their drinks.
“You a therapist or something?”
“Or something,” she says, and they both chuckle. “That’s better,” she says again. “So, Sean, tell me all about your miserable day. I guarantee I can make you feel better.” Her hand falls to his thigh.
What the hell?he thinks.Why not?Sometimes you want a therapist. Sometimes a cheap hooker will do. “Well, let’s see. Where to start? I’m unemployed, broke, been lying to my wife about a job I don’t have, and she’ll probably leave me when she finds out. I’ll be lucky if I ever see my kids again. I have violent fantasies that scare the crap out of me. My drinking’s gotten way out of hand, I’m angry all the goddamn time, and when I’m not angry, I’m so depressed I want to shoot myself. But I can’t even do that because I can’t afford a goddamn gun!”
“You’re broke?” Brandi says, her hand quickly returning to her side.
Sean laughs out loud. “That’s what you took from that?”
“Hey,” Brandi says. “I’m a working girl. I can’t afford to waste my time. Seriously—you’re broke?”
“I am so seriously broke that I can’t even afford to pay for your drink.”
“Shit,” Brandi says, sliding off the bench, guarding the drink in her hand, as if she’s afraid he’s going to snatch it from her.
“Wait—what about your guarantee?” Sean calls after her.
The response he gets is a raised middle finger.
“Thank you. Feeling much better now.”
Brandi approaches the long mirrored bar and whispers something to the bartender. The young man, whose man-bun is at odds with his impressive biceps, leaves his post to approach Sean. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“I don’t know. What kind of problem were you thinking?”
“Suppose you just pay up and go home.”
“Sure thing.” Sean downs his drink in one long gulp. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see. Two vodka rocks and one gin and tonic…”
Sean is about to object, then thinks better of it.
“Thirty bucks,” the bartender says.
Sean fishes inside his pocket, pulls out two ten-dollar bills. “Take it or leave it.”
The bartender snatches the bills from Sean’s fingers. “Get the fuck out of my bar, and don’t come back.”
Sean scrambles to his feet. One more place he can’t come back to.
—
Sean pulls into the cul-de-sac just as Julia’s son is pulling out. He rolls down his window. “Nice-looking car,” Sean tells him. “I’ve been thinking of getting one myself.”
“Can’t recommend it highly enough,” Norman says.
Sean ignores the skeptical look on the other man’s face, the look that tells Sean he couldn’t possibly afford one of these babies, so who’s he trying to kid? “What kind of mileage do you get?”