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church bell © 2005 by k.j. stevens
***
Flag Day
In a stinking bar. Ashtrays and cigarettes. Hands holding dirty glasses. Puddles of beer on the floor and on the table. The jukebox pounding the stale sweaty air. But I can smell her. Just showered, Ivory skin. Clean, strawberry smelling hair. Our elbows touching and energy shooting from pore to pore, rifling through our layers, pushing deep inside to places that feel familiar because it feels like they've never been touched before.
We sit with co-workers at four long tables that have been joined together to celebrate. Tommy is leaving. The six foot six hunk of business man, who makes more than all of us combined, is leaving us to be an executive for Ford Motor Company in Battle Creek. All I know about Battle Creek is that they make cereal there.
The people surrounding the table are misfits like me. College graduates who work because we need to so that we can do what we love. At the table I'm at there's a guitar player, an artist, and the sculptor, Eileen. She, like the rest of us, has been working at Cheney's Design Inc. for a year and a half because that's how long the company's been around. We came aboard because of promises. Two weeks of vacation. 401k. A casual dress code. Stock options. Paid Holidays.
Tommy had said that coming in on the ground floor of a new company meant one thing. That all of us would be moving up. So far, he's the only one doing any moving and where he's moving is out. Up and out. And he's the one that's been running the show.
I wonder about the loyalty and dedication that Tommy spoke of when he recruited us, and even though I think he's a heartless asshole, I'm sad to see he's leaving because we need people like him to run companies while the rest of us are running the world.
I can't believe how good Eileen smells in all of this. Her scent grounds me and as our legs find each other under the table, I keep fighting myself. She's married, I think. Married and has a kid. I can't decide what it is about her that gets me, but something does. It isn't her body, I think, because frankly she's bigger than I like. So maybe it's her long, blonde hair and the way her bangs curl and sweep down in front of her eyes. She looks at me a lot through that wispy hair and she knows that her blue eyes are an advantage. If she works at it, like she usually does, we'll end up calling a cab and heading to my apartment. From there, she'll call her husband. "I'm staying in the city tonight," she'll say, "because I'm too drunk to drive. Make sure you get up early enough to get Billy off to school."
I'll watch her talk and lie and I'll wonder at the foolishness of trust, the boundaries of vows and commitment, but I soon forget them because those are things that do not belong to me. And when the phone's back in its cradle, we'll go right to it. We'll be up and down and all around the apartment, from room to room, chair to floor, carpet to linoleum. When it's all over I'll feel like shit because I can't feel as good as I want to knowing that everything we've just done might be reserving two tickets to hell.
Everything goes away in the darkness though, when she snuggles up and drapes her arms around me, when I feel her breathing.
I'm talking to Chuck, the guitar player, about Hemingway and fishing when Eileen puts her head on my shoulder.
I say to her, like I always do, "People are going to start talking, you know." And she whispers into my ear, "I don't care."
"You guys aren't hiding anything," Chuck says. "It's obvious you two have been fucking for a while now."
The free beer, courtesy of the cigar-puffing, suit wearing, Tommy, is starting to kick in. Some have heard what Chuck's said, but thankfully Tommy's busy running his mouth about the Mercedes he's going to buy so not everyone has heard.
I lean over the table.
"Jesus Christ, Chuck. You want to get us fired?"
The artist, Jennifer, has two cents to put in.
"Fired for what? For taking some pleasure in this miserable fucking world? This goddamned company...they ought to give everyone a fucking sex slave as a bonus. Wasn't that in our contract?"
We laugh and drink and pour more beer. I see a light come on in the apartment across the street. There's a woman pacing back and forth in front of the window talking on a telephone. She's wearing a white robe and has a towel on her head. The woman has a nice, dark tan, or she might be Mexican. I think about the word Mexican and I wonder if there's a word that's more politically correct. It's hard to tell with all the rightness in the world. All I know for sure is that she's very attractive from what I can see of her. I look for a wedding ring shining through the window glass, or for photographs of children on the wall.
"Hemingway could kick Tommy's ass," Chuck says.
Chuck's an African American, but he's told me it's okay to call him black even though he's a brown chubby man. He's been playing guitar since he was eight years old. He's attended and taught at Interlochen, made and sold his own CDs, and he plays on Saturdays at the Music Cafe down the street.
"Tommy's pretty big..." I begin to say, but Jennifer jumps in.
"Before you two start talking about Hemingway and all the asses he could kick, I have something that I've been wanting to ask you, Chuck."
"Sure, go ahead."
"It's of a personal nature."
"Nothing's personal anymore. You know that."
"Okay then. My question is this...In this world of so-called equality I still think that the reason I haven't made it yet is because I'm a woman. Do you think that the reason you haven't made it yet is because you're an African American?"
"Because I'm black? That's bullshit. I'm making it now. And so are you. To hell with all that. What is making it? Is being like Tommy making it? Because if so, I don't want any part of it. Look at him...what an asshole! Not only could Hemingway kick his ass, I think he would do it for fun!"
Miraculously, there's a moment of silence in the bar. The jukebox is changing songs, conversation has lulled, and Tommy's heard what Chuck has said about Hemingway kicking his ass.
"You talking about that fucking writer?"
"You can read, Tommy?" Jennifer yells. Everyone laughs.
"Fuck all of you! I could kick a writer's ass!"
"Not Hemingway." I say, and there's more laughter.
Tommy moves toward me. He smiles.
"You're a writer, aren't you?"
I nod my head and sip my beer. I see that the woman from the lighted apartment is gone. I think maybe she's getting dressed to go out and think that it's too bad her bedroom window isn't facing the bar because it would really drum up business. I feel Eileen's hand on my arm. I can tell she doesn't want me to start anything with Tommy because she knows that I won't back down.
My silence and the laughter of others has hurt Tommy. He's getting red in the face and I notice that his big hands are clenched into fists.
"Don't worry about it, Tommy. Hemingway's dead."
"Because someone like me probably kicked his ass!"
"It actually was something like that," I say.
Across the street, the woman is in her window. She's on the phone again, wearing a black bra and unraveling the towel from around her head. She's bent over to let it all out and for a second I lose sight of her. When she pops up again I feel warm. From the beer, from Tommy's bullshit, and from the sight of her with that long, dark hair.
"A toast!" Chuck yells, "To Tommy and to Flag Day!"
"Flag Day?" Tommy says, "Fuck that! To Tommy! And it's no wonder I'm leaving after working with a bunch of freaks and queers for so long! You fuckers really weird me out the way you talk about queer shit all the time. Maybe you are all queer, but it doesn't matter. Let the queers sing their songs, write their stories, and play with clay. In a month I'll be driving by in my new Mercedes, and if you're lucky I'll slow down long enough to wave! "
Everyone laughs and drinks. I turn and look at Chuck.
"Is it really Flag Day?"
"I guess so. I got up to mark yesterday off on the calendar and it said June fourteenth -
Flag Day. I thought it would be best to change the subject. Tommy's loaded."
"Yeah, but Hemingway could still kick his ass."
Eileen pushes her body against mine.
"We ought to go soon," she says.
"What do you mean? The beer's on Tommy and we're just getting started."
"I know but I'm tired."
I think about the woman in her lighted apartment, slipping a white blouse over her black bra. I imagine she's probably in the bathroom, finishing up her hair, spreading on scented body lotion for someone to inhale.
"Can we hang just a little while longer? I like talking about this shit."
"What shit?"
"Hemingway and stuff."
She rolls her eyes and smiles.
"You boys and your talk. Hemingway's dead and his time is up. He's out and Nicholas Sparks is in. But I don't want to get into this. Maybe Tommy's right. Maybe you boys are a little queer. Do you really like each other?"
"We love each other!" Chuck shouts as he raises his glass.
All of us clink glasses, except Eileen. She gets up and goes to the bathroom. I imagine that when she gets back it'll be time to go.
"You two are fucking, aren't you?" Jennifer asks.
"Leave him alone!" Chuck says.
"Why should I?"
"Because you're just jealous because he's giving her cock and not you!"
"I don't like cock, remember?"
We forget sometimes that Jennifer is a lesbian because she is amazingly beautiful. She is a tall, shapely, red head. Besides being an artist, she's a lifeguard and she runs in marathons. The woman is a glorious physical specimen.
"That's what I mean! You want to be the one giving it to her!"
Chuck is laughing, Jennifer pauses to sip her drink, and I can tell she's thinking of something to say. It's a nice break in the action because I like the way her lips touch the glass.
"Very funny, Charlie, but I'm afraid she's not worthy of
my dildo."
Chuck laughs again, and so do I because all of us are getting drunk and I'm thinking that if Hemingway was alive I bet he wouldn't mind being right here with us. Drinking, laughing, and talking shit. Especially on Flag Day.
Tommy's drinking shots. There's a busty waitress trying to make him keep his hands off her and the glass. He's told he has to keep his head tilted back and remain still so that she can pour the shot down his throat. Tommy tells her that he'll sit still if she pours the drink from between her tits. He says that there's a big tip in it for her, so the girl straddles him, puts the shot glass between her tits and pours it down his throat. It's beautiful and it doesn't look like it could be done better in a movie.
Tommy starts gagging and cusses as he stuffs a five dollar bill into the waitress’ cleavage. He wanders off in the direction of the bathroom.
"I hope he pukes his guts out," Jennifer says.
"Do you think Hemingway puked?" Chuck asks.
"Sure. That's how you build stamina, isn't it?" I ask.
"You two shouldn't idolize Hemingway so much," Jennifer says.
"Sure we should. We're in our twenties. Isn't that right, Chuck?"
"In our time that's what we need. We need another Hemingway."
I fill all of our glasses, including Eileen's in hopes that when she's done doing whatever in the bathroom she'll want to sit and drink some more. I glance at the apartment window across the street and the light is off. The woman is gone.
"I don't know why we talk about him like we do," I say. "I like his writing because it's about natural things. It's about where we belong."
"I think you boys love him because he's a symbol of masculinity and because it makes you feel tough. I mean, do you really think he could survive in our world today?"
"No," I say. "He isn't a symbol and he couldn't live in our time. We don't give a shit about anything but making money, buying things, and creating walls to call home. We're a bunch of soulless assholes. Look at us. The only reason we're here is too drink for free. We sit and bitch about the weight of a politically correct world. And all I really want to do is get drunk, go home, fuck, and fall asleep."
"That's good to know," Eileen says, as she comes up from behind and puts her arms around me.
Jennifer drains her beer then gets up to leave.
"Okay kids. Shit's getting deep, so I think I'll be going. I'm supposed to go running in the morning."
Chuck stands and stretches.
"Yeah, I better get moving too. I have to be at the Cafe early tomorrow to set up. You guys coming down to listen?"
We tell him that we'll be there because we will. We have to stick together in all of this because there aren't many of us left. If there are, they're silent and living alone in apartments across the street from bars. They're coming home late from work, dressing up, putting on something new so that they can go out and dance and drink and look for something that's missing so that they'll have meaning, even if they're alone.
Eileen sits down next to me and begins drinking.
"Maybe I should go home tonight. You know?"
I wonder what's happened in the bathroom to change her mind. If it is Flag Day and the fourteenth of June, I know her period's about two weeks away, but I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about anything because I'm feeling good. The empty glass is warm in my hand and I am full. I think about Eileen driving home to her husband and getting into bed with him. I wonder if he snuggles up to her when she comes home, or if she snuggles up to him. Does he smell all that she's done? The beer, the smoke, the infidelity?
Outside the window, the woman from the apartment is walking across the street. Under the lights, in her white blouse and black skirt, she's looking like some Dark Lady Shakespeare would write about. When she reaches our side of the street, a man on a bicycle nearly plows into her. He has a long, scraggly beard and is wearing a backpack against his naked back. Sticking out of the pack, wavering through the night air is an American Flag. The woman is shocked and scared, and in an instant dictated by nothing but invisible fate, our eyes meet through the window glass. I see she's rethinking everything.
"Maybe sleeping alone will be good," I say to Eileen, as I take another drink.
I hear the door open and some of the bar goes out into the night. I wonder if the shirtless man with the flag has heard anything. I wonder if anyone else along the street outside is awake. If they are, what are they doing? Are they drinking? Watching television? Surfing the Internet? Does anyone read anymore?
Eileen eyes the Dark Lady as she walks into the bar then looks at me.
"I could stay a little while longer," she says.
"No, that's alright. I want to get out of here before Tommy gets back from the bathroom anyway. I don't even want to say goodbye to that
sonofabitch."
All of us walk out together, through smoke, music and laughter. I watch the Dark Lady take a stool at the bar and by the way she moves and sits I can tell she's someplace familiar. I catch sight of Tommy coming out of the darkness. He's wiping his mouth. He's making his way to the bar. I know that once I'm outside, if I turn around, he'll be at her side promising to buy the next round.
*******
kj@kjstevens.com ~ kjstevens73@yahoo.com