Before she left me for the Champs-Élysées, Helena had clocked in a good six months at an upper-east side dive colloquially known as Red Rum. Long after it was over between us, I’d find myself stopping by. The food was bad, the beer rank. On more than one occasion, some poor sod got his face separated from his head. Cops, paramedics, the whole jellyroll.

Still, when they know you, they know you. The price was almost always right, the lighting a low and jealous red. Bathroom graffiti sporting some of the more blissful gems ever engraved on plastered walls.

Above all else, though, it was Ruby.

Ruby was a vision from the Windy City who never spoke much about her hopes beyond tending bar. Straight, black bob with trimmed bangs. A body that came complete with black jeans, sturdy legs, and a plain, white tee that gave both men and women plenty of reason to stay for just one more.

“Fake tits,” some would mutter after she served them with a pint and a smile. “Got to be fake tits.”

“No fucking way,” a drunk wingman would counter.

“How’s that?”

“Just look at her face.”

“Are you fucking insane, she’s fucking hot.”

“Take a closer look next time she comes around.”

I would switch stations, ears to the jukebox, and try to get as much domestic into me as last call would allow.

***

For whatever reason, Ruby was always kind enough to let my ego rest. No extraneous flirting, teasing, or counterfeit grins. Didn’t suggest, or imply. No cellophane hopes past our usual late night talks, and that suited me fine. I’d hold her eyes while she spoke. We’d tell stories. The call would come, and down the bar she would go, trolling for tips. Resting her breasts on folded forearms, looking to boost her bottom line .

***

Maybe she didn’t figure me for the kind of guy who wanted to grab her by the hair. Can’t entirely say she figured right. Because the drooling pronouncements of male clientele weren’t entirely wrong; Ruby did have a body built for brash fantasies. But for me, even beyond those spherical eyes  and the bracket of her welcoming smile, there was her face. Round cheeks and forehead a gallery of imbedded pockmarks. Craters and potholes. Scars that would suggest an acne riddled youth, only that wasn’t the whole story.

Wasn’t so long ago that Ruby had been involved in a lawsuit. A major cosmetics line that had failed to mention their beauty cream might prove hazardous for zero-point-zero-two percent of the population. Naturally, they calculated the odds and took their chances. Said odds landed all over Ruby’s face, and the chemical reaction sizzled against her skin like glacial acid. Left behind a litany of scar tissue, even with what little surgery her insurance would allow.

Two years’ worth of litigation proved to be too rich for her blood. Ruby never got close to that settlement. The cosmetic company chewed up her lawyers, spat them out. Mopped the floor with her ruined face. Left her broke and languishing behind the bar of Red Rum.

“How they treating you tonight?” I would ask.

“The same,” she would say.

“Don’t ever change a thing about you.”

“Please. What would this world be like if everyone saw it through your eyes?”

“There’d be a lot more sky.”

She would pour me a pint, on the house, and move on down.

I would sit and drink. Think about the future with carefully hidden nerves, and from time to time, I’d catch Ruby, just staring absently into barback mirrors.

***

We said our goodbyes without realizing it, one hot night in early late June.

I had taken the express up to Eighty-Sixth. Crossed from Lexington down to Second Avenue, cutting through Rupert Park. The sound of live music came at me. Grew louder as I forded the street. Had to step to the bouncer before realizing that Red Rum was hosting a live show.

“Twenty dollar cover,” the bouncer informed me.

“Twenty? This is Red Rum, am I right?”

“Right place, yeah. Wrong night, maybe.”

“What’s the story?”

“Live music. Playing a benefit for one of the bartenders.”

Shit, I thought, flashing my ID. Cancer? Aids? Open heart surgery?

Pushed on through the door and paid the gate.

Right into a tin of sardines. People plastered shoulder to shoulder, barely enough room to lift their drinks. Lit cigarettes dangerously close to neighboring necks, cheeks and eyeballs. Had to fight through the thick stew of bodies and second hand smoke. Rock and Roll some several decibels above its pay grade.

I managed to squeeze against the bar. Leaned over, searching towards the back, where the tables had been cleared to make room for the band. High above their trucker hats hung a wide, white banner, reading:

SAVE THE FACE!

I caught Kieran rushing past, setting down three overflowing pints of Bass.

Called him out.

He nodded, winked. Hair gelled into a bed of perfect spikes. He played favorites, sliding past requests to land at my doorstep. “What’ll it be, Lucky?”

“What the hell is going on?” I yelled over the roar of lead guitar.

“Benefit for Ruby!”

“Benefit for what, what’s wrong with her?”

“Raising money for caustic perjury!”

“Say what!?”

“Plastic surgery!” He pointed to his own handsome mug and traced a few circles. “Raising money to help Ruby fix up her face!”

The natives were restless, no time to let it sink in. “Why!?”

“You’ve seen it! She’s got those scars, wants to get rid of them!”

“That’s not what I—”

“What can I get you, Lucky?”

Fine. “Double Jack, rocks!”

Kieran went to fetch, as I strained to find a face in the crowd.

Saw Ruby sitting further down the bar. Head propped upon her wrist, laughing as she tried to capture her straw, take a good pull of what looked like a blue Hawaiian.

I fought my way to her side.

“Hey, Lucky!” She waved her hand in front of my eyes. “Thanks for making it out!”

Felt her breath on my lips, pineapple and Curaçao.

Speechless.

Kieran plopped my double down. “Don’t switch seats on me like that, Lucky! Not tonight!”

“Sorry!” I reached into my pocket. “What’s that going to be?”

“Nine dollars!” he yelled in my ear. “Fifty percent of all tips go towards Ruby’s plastic surgery!”

“Corrective surgery!” Ruby insisted.

I settled the argument with a twenty and permission to keep the change.

Done with half my drink before either one could thank me.

***

I managed to keep my mouth shut for a good hour or two.

Tried to enjoy what I could. Oddly enough, it was the easiest conversation Ruby and I had ever shared.

Took care of a few drinks along the way.

Glad to have an excuse to stare.

Must have missed the announcement. Suddenly, Ruby was bounding to the makeshift stage, arm in arm with the lead singer, both boasting their turnout, neither one directly mentioning what we were all doing there

And with a one, two, three, she began to sing her rendition of Wild Horses. Hardly a voice to herald angels, but just right from where I was sitting. Instruments accompanied her with mercifully low riffs. Half the bar didn’t bother to cut the chatter.

Ruby swayed softly before the microphone, eyes closed.

I reached for my drink.

A stranger bumped into me, but there would be no fights that night.

Everyone keeping their features exactly and just right where they were.

***

It was Ruby who suggested we step outside to get some fresh air.

And it was Ruby who suggested we cross the street, get a little privacy on the outskirts of Rupert Park.

I leaned against the wrought iron fence. “When did this whole idea come about?”

“Maybe two months ago, I feel.”

“I really need to get uptown more often.”

“It’s going good, don’t you think?”

I glanced across the street. Another couple wandered out, two more wandered in. “Yeah.”

“Hey…” she sparked a Marlboro Light, offered me one. “You all right?”

I pulled on the white filter. Popped it in my mouth. “So. Plastic surgery, huh?”

“It’s corrective surgery.”

Lit the cigarette, wiped my brow. “Think insurance companies call it elective.”

“You don’t approve?”

“If I could say this without sounding like any other asshole on the other side of the bar, I would. But I doubt I can.”

“Lucky.”

“You’re perfect just the way you are.” I threw the gutters a sloppy smile, quoting, “Just the way you look tonight.”

“You say that.”

“I did just say that.”

“Please. Don’t romanticize my face. It’s not a fucking poem, these are scars.”

“They’re your scars.”

Ruby shook her head. “Not mine.”

“Yes. Whether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t.”

For a moment, I thought that was it. She had that look about her, muscles tensing for a quick exit. Back across the street and into Red Rum, where the band played on.

But Ruby stayed behind. “Got half my face melted, lost all my money trying to make it right. I don’t like being reminded of what I got myself into every time I have to turn to those mirrors to pour some slimy monster his Jack and Coke.”

“You really think changing you face is going to make you forget?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, Lucky.” She took a deep pull, crushed her cigarette beneath her sneaker. “And you’ve never even seen me in the daylight.”

I lifted my head. Took stock of the sky, just to make sure. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

I turned to her. “First time seeing you on the other side of the bar, though.”

She looked around, ran her own reality check. “Guess that’s true.”

“You’re my height.”

She stood close to me. Nose to nose. Swept her hand over both our heads in close approximation. “Yes… Funny thing, I always figured you were taller.”

“Funny is the word for it.”

The floodlight from Red Rum illuminated her face. Unhappy lips, easy eyes. A lunar surface shining bright, lighting the way, giving the animals something to howl about. Every last dent and imperfection putting my memory to the test.

She rested her hand lightly on my chest. “I’m going back in, Lucky.”

“Ok.”

“See you there?”

“In a bit. Just want another minute or so away from the music.”

“Yeah…” Ruby dropped her hand. Smiled. “Band’s kind of shitty, right?”

She gave Second Ave a look left and right, then crossed over.

Back into the largest crowd to ever bother with the likes of Red Rum.

I stayed behind for another five.

Just long enough to pretend Ruby had kissed me goodnight.

***

I walked right past Eighty-Sixth, and didn’t stop for a good hour and a half.

All the way down to Spring Street.

Paused before the welcoming doors of a tiny bodega.

Breathed in a bit of what would soon be mid-June. Figured I had a long, lonely night ahead of me, and why the hell not?

I browsed the magazine rack for the next twenty minutes. Picked out an issue of Hustler. An issue of High Society. An issue of Cheri. An issue of Fox. Another issue of Cheri. Another issue of High Society. Topped it off with a special all-hardcore triple-x edition of Score.

Impulse buy involving the Gray Lady, headline reading Man Shoots 3 In Rampage In East Village.

I dropped my stack at the register.

Put the man behind the counter to be of Pakistani origin.

He gave me a friendly grin and got to scanning barcodes. Porn stars clutching themselves and their lucky friends with vehement ecstasy. Eyes wide, tongues hanging out. Bodies posed, breasts of all sizes standing at attention. He took a moment before tallying the total. Reached for a pack of spearmint gum, and with a sympathetic smile, placed it atop my stack of skinny mags.

On the house.

I returned the gesture with my own smile and flipped through some twenties.

Clutched the bag of pornography close as I rode the N train back to Sunset Park.

Wondering what might happen if it were knocked from my hands.

Artificial fantasies spread out across the floor for all to see.

It’s for a friend, is probably what I would have said.

But it never came up, and I never saw Ruby again.

###

in print: Amazon.com or for fucking free in digital Smashwords.com so long and thanks for all the pish.