I was twenty-one with a bullet in my brain.

Doing time at The Bishop. Served by the best, buyback every fourth drink. Picking juke box songs with impunity. Staring into space over shots of Jim Beam, gray shades tapped into glass ashtrays.

Hustling tables at an Upper East Side five-star, taking orders from old money.

“Guests,” I muttered.

“What’s that you said?” Finley asked. Parked himself across from me, wiped the counter down.

“I said, Guests.”

“Why?”

“That’s what they got us calling customers now. Guests… Welcome to my house. Make yourself comfortable. Let me bring you some food, some good wine. Now give me money and go away, I’m expecting more guests.” I polished off another Budweiser. “What a duplicitous fucking world.”

Finley turned to a neighboring barstool. “You responsible for him this evening, Nelligan?”

Mister Danny Nelligan gave it some thought, shoulders hunched beneath his suit.

“It’s ok to say no,” I told him.

“What the hell,” Danny said, a little drunk himself. “Let’s get the kid a few more, see if he puts on a show.”

“Had a front row to the last one,” Finley said. Served a couple of cold ones and a double barrel of Beam. “I laughed, I cried. I threw him out of the bar.”

“You cut me off,” I amended.

“Cut you loose, baby.”

“When was this?” Danny asked.

Finley and I replied in unison: “Slice of pepperoni and a dead albino.”

Our bartender went to field a pair of Bombay Martinis.

Danny raised his glass. “To our jobs.”

“Servicing without the sex.”

“To Fox News and the Oceanic Grill.”

“Catering to the needs of the rich on the backs of the needy.”

“Sláinte.”

Down the hatch.

“Lucky,” Danny grimaced. “I’ve made a decision about you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m getting you laid.”

“Again, thank you, Danny. Not gay.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I have my standards.”

“Says the queer New York liberal working for Fox News.”

“My friend just walked in. Ana.”

I sniffed, took a pull of my beer.

“She’s quite the little number,” Danny continued. “Check her out. She’s at the end of the bar.”

I nodded, eyeing a soccer match up on the flat screen. “I know Ana.”

“You’ve met?”

“Kind of.”

“When was this?”

“Slice of pepperoni and a dead albino.”

“All this happened on the same night?”

“You should know. You were there.”

Danny searched his hard drive.

“And that,” I said, “is what we mean by kind of.”

Danny leaned in. Breathed into my ear. “Ana thinks you’re hot.”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“She’s an editor at FHM.”

“How is that even an argument?”

“When I pointed you out, first time…” Danny nudged me with intoxicated finesse. “She damn near lost it. When I told her you were twenty-one, she told me, I could suck his cock so good, make him come, and I bet he’d still be hard as a rock.”

The thought wasn’t a bad one. I kept the contents of my jeans to myself. Lit a cigarette. “Women like that don’t care much for guys like me.”

“Women like what?”

I took a drag, exhaled. “Elegant professionals. Yorktown is sick with them, and I can’t say I care much for their crowd. All wandering over from the east side Cosmopolitan belt. ”

“Please don’t blow smoke in my face, Lucky.”

“Please don’t blow smoke up my ass, Danny.”

A cluster of Manchester U fans erupted with jubilant cheers. Slammed pint glasses onto the counter, arms aloft.

Danny’s body played the buoy once more. Leaned in. His covert theatrics rang loud in my ear. “I’ve seen her pussy.”

“Jesus, Danny. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“My mother loves me just the way I am.”

“Finally, a homosexual with an original story.”

“It’s shaved.”

“Come again?”

“Her pussy,” David gushed, mashing his vowels together. “It’s beautiful. It purrrrs.”

“Interesting bit of trivia about your mother, there, thank you –”

“Ana. Ana Banana. Your banana inside Ana.”

“Buy me another fucking drink.”

“I’m tired of seeing this young, good looking, talented individual stumble out of here alone every night.”

“Introduce me sometime, I’ll show him the ropes.”

“You want to be published?”

“Yes.”

“She’s an editor at FHM.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You could slip her one of your stories.”

“For Him Magazine don’t have a goddamn fiction column,” I spat, snubbing my cigarette. “And if it did, here’s the kind of ditty they would publish.”

I yanked at a nearby napkin. Flattened it and sent my pen on a rampage. Didn’t notice Danny getting up. Didn’t notice him walk across the bar. I did take the time finish my beer, just as he returned with his catch.

“Lucky…? This. Is Ana.”

Ana stood before me in a black dress, fitted to her slender form. Cut short at mid thigh. Mesh stockings, legs generously dipped into a pair of black leather boots. I had the good sense to skip her breasts, b-cups already committed to memory, and took in her aquiline features. Olive skin. Brown eyes. Shoulder length hair parted down the middle, making a valentine of her face.

Her smile was all regards, cool and self-assured.

“Lucky was just writing a story for your publication,” Danny said. He snatched the napkin off the bar, thrust it against Ana’s shoulder.

She rotated the submission a few times, before settling. “My name is Chad,” she telegraphed, Australian accent struggling with my hieroglyphics. “I woke up one day and bought a copy of FHM because I’m a pussy, too gutless to buy porn. I like reading about tools, cars, and weight lifting. Then I jacked off while thinking about my favorite action hero…”

Ana’s eyes met mine.

I waited, overplaying a hopeful smile.

“I told you he was a genius,” Danny said. He forced her into his barstool, landed a quick kiss. “Have fun, you two.”

He stumbled away.

Left us sitting side by side.

“I left my drink at the end of the bar,” she said.

“Want another?”

I didn’t think she would say yes. “Dry martini. Smirnoff, with a twist. Up.”

I put in our order.

Finley took a quick time out. Tried to make sense of the scenario. Gave it up with an impeccable mix of vodka and vermouth for the beauty. Beer and a shot for the village idiot.

Ana lifted, drank without spilling a drop. “Nice story you wrote there.”

“Wasn’t finished.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Chad date-rapes a girl from work, then goes to watch the Super Bowl with his bros…” I took down my shot. “Then he fucks his bros.”

“Wow.”

“I’ve been to Australia. It’s nice.”

“You’re trying to distract me from how completely loathsome you are right now.”

“A time traveling clown with gigantism and Cornish game hens on his feet couldn’t distract you from my loathsomeness right now.”

“That’s one hell of a clown.”

“Did I mention he has Cornish game hens on his feet?”

“A few times, yes. You can stop now.” Ana helped herself to my pack of Marlboros. I gave her a jumpstart. Her lips plumped, and she sighed. “Danny tells me you’re a loser.”

“Verbatim?”

“You think you’re some kind a writer?”

“I think lots of things.”

“Still in college?”

“Part time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Trust-fund baby?”

“My grandfather left me just enough money to get through it. So, yeah. Guess he trusted something.”

“Trusted you to get blitzed in a bar every night?”

“Every penny spent on booze has been proudly earned by the good creditors at Sears Mastercard.”

“When’s the last time you got laid?”

“I’m a virgin.”

“What?”

“Nope. You believe everything you read in the papers?”

“I don’t know it’s not true.”

“You don’t, but you do.”

“When what you really meant was I haven’t been laid in forever.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t, but I do.”

I stood from my seat. Leaned up against the bar. Hoping to add a few inches over her. “So Danny says I’m a loser.”

“Yeah.”

“Know what he says about you?”

“That I have a fantastic pussy?”

I chose to sit back down.

“You must really be desperate,” Ana said.

“How you figure?”

“All this talk wasted on a woman who will never sleep with you.”

“You mean Danny?”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

“Says the boy who tells me the magazine I work for is a publication for miscreant date-rapists.”

“I don’t know what regular rapists read… Harpers, maybe?”

Ana let loose with an abrasive, high pitched laugh. Tried to drown it with the rest of her Martini.

Damage done, I let myself enjoy the moment. “You must really be desperate.”

“You’re the one that’s going to have to buy me another drink.”

“Not a problem.” I signaled for Finley. “Long as you pay for it.”

“I can see this is going to be some fucking night.”

Finley stopped by just long enough to fuel his bewildered eyes. Took our orders and stumbled down the bar on shipwrecked legs, wondering if we weren’t all just a few minutes away from the end of the goddamn world.

***

We could have done some damage at The Bishop that night. Could’ve shut that place right on down.

Instead, ‘round one o’ clock, Ana killed her drink and announced that she was going home.

“Where’s home?” I asked.

“I live right next door,” she said. “Just have to go up the block to Dwayne Reed. Pick up a few things.”

I was eight shots deep. Barely managed to wave as she walked away. I took a look down the other end of the bar, spotted a drunk asleep at the wheel. Old man, clock ticking.

“Time traveling clown,” I muttered. Made short work of my beer. All set to order another, when Ana called out from the entrance.

Holding the door with an impatient boot.

My tab wide open, hemorrhaging half my tips for the evening.

I glanced over to my smiling bartender… “Finley.”

“Go have some fun.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“Fuck off, Luck. Now.”

I fucked off.

Took slow, unassuming steps to the exit, where Ana awaited. Hips shimmying as she straightened her dress.

“Drugstore?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms. “What of it?”

“Escort?”

“Sure.”

Third Avenue was coated with a thin layer of frost. Nighttime temp down to twenty-nine. I offered my arm. Ana hooked on, and we made our way down to 94th. A group of fleece-knit bros shared astonished sentiments as they stumbled past. Ears adjusting from another night gone clubbing. One of them asking in an unintentionally loud register, HOW THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?

I glanced at Ana, seemingly untouched. Mouth perched in a thoughtful scowl. Brown eyes carrying on hidden conversations. Decided against repeating the question.

Ana instructed me to wait outside.

I did as told. Lit a cigarette. Watched the smoke conspire with crystal breath. Across the street, a tripod dog loped into a pool of streetlight, then disappeared into shadow.

“Is that Pogue?” I murmured.

“Is what Pogue?” Ana was back beside me.

“Doesn’t matter. Get what you needed?”

“Yeah.” She held up a plastic bag “Twizzlers. Love Twizzlers.”

“Me too.”

“How fucking nice for us.” Ana took my arm once more, led the way.

Her building was on 95th and 3rd, at a diagonal from the thirty story mausoleum I called home. She disengaged. Boot heels clicked against red brick, ass swaying towards the revolving door.

I was two steps behind.

She turned, flashed a smile of defiant pearls. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m coming upstairs with you.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t think, Ana,” I said. “Ever.”

“Good boy.”

She motioned for me to follow.

Getting into the elevator didn’t present any problems, and the door slid shut with ease.

***

FHM made for some easy living.

A sterile, modern kitchen looked out over her spacious living room. Ana hit the switches, let a little light into our lives. Light bulbs buried into the ceiling, humming in low tones.

“Do you like wine?” Ana asked.

“I am wine.”

“Go sit down.”

I slipped off my shoes. Tiptoed to the white shag, pinned beneath a stout, glass-top coffee table. I took a seat on the floor. Propped my back against the couch, cushions a light grey. Stretched my legs. A large screen television stared at me from across the room, entertainment center taking up the entire wall.

Ran my fingers along the fibers beneath. Remembering dune grass, and a cat named Sandy.

Noticed a silver ashtray just within reach.

“Mind if I smoke?” I called out.

“Please do.” Ana emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of red and a set of industrial sized fishbowls. “Hope you like merlot.”

“As a friend, sure.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“These swank surroundings have lulled me into a state of indifference.” I lit a cigarette, handed it over. She stuck it between her lips and poured us both a healthy dose. I lit one for myself. She lowered herself onto the couch, left thigh brushing against my cheek. We brought our glasses together in a silent toast.

Things were different now.

“Can I show you something?” she asked.

“Please do.”

Ana stepped nimbly across the room. Opened a cabinet and came out with what appeared to be a blank VHS tape. She stood next to the television. Tape held to her chest. Fingers tapping either end. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Is it funny?”

“It’s… something.”

“Go on.”

“So, back in Australia, I was… well, kind of looking for a way to break into show business. You used to be into film for a bit, right? Went to NYU for a year or so?”

I took a cautious sip of wine. “Something like that.”

“Danny said you dropped out because you thought that if you stuck around, you might have to make certain… concessions.”

“Didn’t want to spend my life with my tongue up someone’s ass.”

“Interesting way to put it.”

“How would you put it?”

She rested the tape beneath her chin. Fingers tapping against her cheeks now. “I guess that’s exactly how I’d put it.”

“Then I guess I promise not to laugh.”

“Good.”

She turned on the TV. Fed the VCR a late-night snack. Leaped back to the couch, grabbed her wine, and sat down.

“You can lay your head on my leg if you want,” she said.

I did as I was told.

Her thigh was lean, impossibly warm beneath those black stockings.

Without meaning to, I gave her knee a light kiss.

She ran her fingers though my hair, once.

The screen flashed a color test, white captions reading TCN-19.

Station identification gave way to a cheap, poorly lit set. At a news desk sat a chiseled man in a suit. Tan skin matching pastel walls. Beside him sat Ana, an earlier prototype. Her blue, sleeveless sweater eagerly clutched her tits, turtleneck holding her in a woolen choke hold.

“It’s o’ seven in the am,” the chiseled one informed me. “I’m Chad Everett.”

“And I’m Vanessa Stone,” the alleged Ana chimed in. Hyper vigilant smile sewn on her face as she plunged ahead. “We’re live from Sydney, where the temperature’s an easy thirty, though not as easy as Team India might have liked yesterday at Nehru Field.”

I spat some Merlot back into my glass. “What the fuck?”

Ana kneed me lightly in the face. “You promised.”

I silenced myself with another pour.

For the next twenty minutes I was treated to a barrage of inexplicable analysis. Rugby, Cricket, Soccer; all held together by dubious prattle and unfortunate, seemingly impromptu puns. Topped with both personalities signing off for the morning.

Color test.

“Well?” Ana asked. “You going to make fun?”

“No.”

“I almost wish you would.”

“Wasn’t what I expected.”

She reached for the remote, shut it down. “What were you expecting?”

“What with the introduction you gave…”

“Yes…?”

“Doing things you weren’t proud of in order to break into show business.”

“Ohhh…” She stretched herself out on the couch, limber body taking up the entire length. “You thought maybe you’d get a chance to see me on some cheap soundstage, surrounded by a dozen or so cocks coming on my face.”

I shrugged. “I got the cheap soundstage part right.”

“You really thought I was going to show you a porno.”

“I don’t know what I thought.”

“Sorry the humiliation wasn’t as grand as you’d have liked.”

“You humiliated yourself just fine.” I shifted, slung my arm over her shins. “Though I wouldn’t have minded seeing that other thing I thought.”

“I know.”

“Thank you for showing me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“An end to all games.”

“Meaning?”

“I like you when you’re honest.”

“Mm…” She smiled. “Be honest with me, then.”

I moved my hand from her boots, caressing my way up to her thighs. Fingernails catching along her nylons. “You have spectacular legs.”

“And that’s your big confession?”

“I’m admitting I’d like to get more familiar with them.”

“Yeah?”

“Very much.”

The city rooftops peered in from the frame of a panoramic window.

“I’m going to bed,” she said abruptly.

And then she was off the couch. Ducking into a hallway, out of sight.

Nothing to suggest she had kicked me out. I had half a bottle of wine and a nearly full pack of cigarettes at my disposal. Why not stay a while? Sit in this magnificent living room and smile. Grin stupid disappointment and regale the skyline with tales of once and future failures.

“Who gives a good shit?” I said, and downed my glass.

Time passed.

Three tired thoughts away from taking off, when Ana materialized out from the hallway. Grey sweatpants hanging low along her hips. White tank top, nipples firm despite central heating.

“Hello,” I said… “Ana went to bed.”

Ana picked up a remote from atop the TV. Pointed it at the stereo and clicked.

The speakers complied with a violent burst of reggaton. Subwoofers pumped out heavy bass, got the floor trembling beneath me, as Ana began to dance. No stranger to her own body. Hips gyrating as though mounted on ball bearings. Arms raised high above her head. Shirt lifting, midriff exposed with a sly wink from a pierced navel. She turned around, bent down to touch her toes. Fingers kissing white socks, before straightening, thumbs locked into her waistband. Hips still circling the world over, she lowered her sweatpants just enough to reveal a black thong underneath it all.

I could only sit and watch the show unfold.

Captivated.

Confused.

Annoyed.

Happy as I had been in an unforgivably long time.

Poured myself another glass. Lit another Marlboro. Sent my mind spinning.

This went on for a good half hour.

Until the album was over.

Until the wine was gone.

Until the stereo clicked, whirred to a halt with a mechanical cough.

Ana stood at the gateway to her bedroom.

Body resting.

Undershirt transparent with wet perspiration.

Eyes burning in the aftermath.

I put out my cigarette. Waiting.

Ana shook her head, came out of her trance.

“Right,” she proclaimed, accent riding a little more rough than usual. Shot her arm out, pointing directly to the exit. “Now get the FUCK out of my apartment!”

So much for an end to all games.

I arose without hesitation.

Ana escorted me to the door. Slid back the bolt and began to open it.

I planted my palm on the heavy oak and slammed it shut.

She gave it another try.

Instant replay.

“You are leaving,” she ordered, breathing heavily. “Right now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Not until I get my good night kiss.”

Her stance softened. With a sweet, sincere smile, she closed her eyes. Tilted her face up to meet mine. In the three seconds that followed, I realized that without her boots, she was maybe, at best, a good three inches shorter than me.

Her lips were soft, salty with sweat.

We parted.

“Go home, Lucky.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I let her open the door, then let myself out.

Turned for one last look.

Witness to what might have been a grin, spread wide across her face, as she slammed the door in mine.

***

By the time I had hit the bodega and tiptoed my way past the multitude of squatters asleep in the living room, the sky was painting itself a lilac blue.

I unpacked a pair of 22’s. Coronas, the both of them. Popped one of the caps. Sat down at my rickety bridge table. Reached into my jacket, feeling for cigarettes.

Nothing.

Probably still resting on Ana’s coffee table.

“Shit.”

By the time I hit the bodega, bought a fresh pack, and wandered back home, my beer had gone flat.

Three hours later, I was slipping on a tie, stumbling my way to work.

***

It was ten past ten at The Bishop. The joint was jumping, a solid crowd of regulars. Vibrant laughter at every seat. K.C. and the Sunshine Band on the jukebox.

I was three beers and two shots in, when Finley slid on up.

“You work today, Luck?”

“Yeah.”

“Class?”

“Skipped. I don’t test well.”

“Yes, yes. Good. How’d it go with Ana last night?”

Across every television screen, the NCAA was eclipsed with the visions of Ana bent over, touching her toes. “Fine.”

Frances flashed me a wicked one. “Our very own modest mouse.”

I gave him a vague gesture; something between a wave and the black power salute.

“No matter…” He glanced to his right. “Looks like I’m about to find out, any way you want it.”

I followed his lead.

Stepping to the far end of the bar were Danny and Ana. I felt an inexplicable jangle of nerves, surge of endorphins as she sent those eyes my way. Caught mine in a moment of elated recognition.

The boots were back. A warm, genuinely pleased smile illuminated her path. Pure radiance.

“Hey you,” she said.

“Hey.”

I certainly never expected her to draw close and press her mouth against mine. Not so surprised that my lips didn’t instantly melt against hers. Eyes closed, feeling my heart beat as far as my fingertips. No doubts as to how impossibly honest it tasted. Against all odds, this kiss was the real thing. Live and unrehearsed.

The sort of thing that simply did not happen to the likes of me.

The memory of a thousand desperate, solitary nights wailed in protest.

Unmerciful loneliness in its death throes.

A full thirty seconds in the Garden of Eden.

Somewhere amid the whirlwind, we disengaged.

Caught Finley from the corner of my eye.

Floored.

And there was Ana, still smiling. Face still inches from mine.

“Hey,” I repeated.

She pulled back just a bit. “Hi.”

“I wanted to call you earlier,” I said. Wondering where I was going with this.

“Yeah?”

“Bummed I didn’t have your number.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say, Lucky.”

“Yeah…” I nodded, now very certain that my mind had gone AWOL. Unable to accept what I had been allowed to experience, all the perfection that was destined to follow. All rational thought on hold. Ears horrified as they heard my mouth blurt out: “I left my cigarettes at your place and really wanted them back. Had to make two trips to the bodega thanks to you.”

Don’t say that.

Too late.

Ana’s face went dark.

Then it just plain went away. “Fuck you, Lucky.”

She pulled a one-eighty and walked back to the end of the bar.

Left me with a shot of beam and a thoroughly mystified bartender.

“What the fuck just happened, Lucky?” Finley asked.

“It’s a game,” I replied tersely.

“Don’t look like no fucking game, son.”

“It is.” I tossed my shot back, turned in my seat. “Another round, if you would, Finley.”

He did as he was told, then left well enough alone.

I let myself go numb for another two rounds, at least. Even managed to steal a few looks down Ana’s way. Felt the taste of her mouth fade. Lost to a curious, empty tingle, slowly spreading along the surface of my skin.

A group of revelers burst out laughing some ten feet away.

A punchline that never made it to my seat.

Wasn’t long before my shoulder was met with a hearty smack.

I came out of my trance, saw that Danny Nelligan had already nested himself alongside. Considerably less drunk than last night. Wearing his suit with a bit more style than his drunken twin some twenty-four hours ago.

“Howdy-do, Lucky.”

“Evening.” I lit a casual cigarette. “What’s the story with Ana?”

“She had to cut out. Some kind of party FHM is hosting downtown.” He helped himself to one of my smokes. “Said she was going to invite you to come along. I didn’t figure it would be your scene. Thought I’d stick around to hang with you for a bit.”

“She was going to invite me?”

“Said you understood more than you cared to let on. Don’t know what she meant by that.”

“Mm.”

“Said you passed the color test.”

“Oh.”

Finley came by with a fresh beer, and the question on everyone’s lips. “What’s up with Ana?”

Danny blinked. “Why do you ask?”

Finley gave me a respectful look.

I cleared him for the go ahead.

In a few short phrases, Finley laid it all down. So simple, it stung. Set my lids battling against the smoke.

“Huh.” Danny scratched his nose, amiably detached. “She’s a strange girl. I got the idea that you two were pretty much a thing now.”

Finley beat me to it. “What was that, now?”

“According to her, Lucky and her were now, I guess… Kind of seeing each other now.”

Finley and I shared a look.

He held up his hand. “Wait –”

“Wait.” I swallowed, bit down hard on my cheek.

“That means –”

“Wait –”

“That means –”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

I took a drag. “So Ana just broke up with me.”

“Sorry, Lucky.”

“Finley?”

“Yeah.”

I put out my cigarette. “Double Jack on the rocks, please.”

“On the double, son.”

Finley did me good.

I took my double down in a few programmed gulps. Felt the music fade. Televisions growing dim. All senses abandoning me except the ones that had truly overstayed their welcome.

From the far end of the tunnel, I called out for another drink.

“You sure?” Finley asked. “Don’t want the coppers hassling me again.”

“Cops?” Danny asked, still living in oblivion. “When was this?”

Slice of pepperoni and a dead albino.

The night didn’t end with the cops. I wasn’t cut off. No pepperoni, no dead albino. I closed the place down. Last man standing, alone as the clock struck four.

Even had the good sense to settle my tab. Squinting against house lights as I totaled the tip and signed. One last useless glance to the door, before walking through it myself.

Eventually, the frost melted.

Spring came around to pay us all a visit. Flowers bloomed. The sun shone a little more brightly. Trees resurrected, not a trace of envy to be found in that lovely, everlasting green.

The city had erased all signs of winter.

###

stories from a bar with no doorknobs is now available in print at Amazon.

or

stories from a bar with no doorknobs can be downloaded for free at smashwords.com

And I wish the same could be said for me.