A Woman Walks Into A Bar

by Mark Reep

Zips or Myhalyks or the River Bend, that kind. A scarecrow or two hunched down at the end, watching an afternoon game with the sound off. The bartender’s no youngblood either. The table bears its scars– stains, cigarette burns, the usual– but the pockets are tight, no gimmes. Rolling Rock, she says, if you’ve got it. No glass.

She does her stretches, takes her cue from its case. Racks nine balls and breaks, taking something off, driving the four into the corner.  Plays the rest as they lay. Racks the balls again, breaks.

She’s working on cut shots when the bartender brings another Rolling Rock unasked.

On the house, he says. Pleasure to have you here.

An ageless little guy, fifty or seventy, and he knows who she is. Or was.

Thanks, she says. He lingers. She drinks some beer.

Saw you once at Mohegan Sun, he says. You beat that Black Widow girl four straight games, ran the table on her twice. You took a picture with me, after. Wondered if you might remember.

I’m sorry, she says. It’s been a long time.

Sure, he says. It surely has.

Her leg’s tingling, all the way up. She puts her beer down, does some more stretches.

Heard you hurt your back, he says, watching. Always wondered what happened, after that.

She straightens, shrugs. You’re looking at it, pretty much.

Listen, if you’re lookin’ for a game or two– Probably wouldn’t be no more’n gasmoney, but I could make a couple calls if you want.

She nods. Thanks, she says.

Well, I’ll leave you to it then. You need anything, you holler.

●

The tingling in her leg’s become a buzzing. She puts her cue away, takes her empty to the bar.

Gonna go get off my feet awhile, she says. Be back in a couple hours.

Got a old couch in the office, he says. I catch a nap there sometimes. You’re welcome to.

She looks at him. He shakes his head.

Ain’t like that, he says. Door’s got a good deadbolt. I’ll show you how to lock it, you can stretch out, take it easy.

Somebody calls for a draft. He goes to pour it. Makes change, wipes down the bar on his way back.

Don’t imagine you’re real trustin’, he says. I was you, I wouldn’t be either. Nobody’ll bother you. You got my word.

She nods. Thanks, she says. I appreciate it.

●

Someone’s knocking at the door. It’s dark out. She looks at her watch. Almost nine.

Be right there, she says, and starts getting up.

●

He’s brought a sandwich. Ham on whole wheat, mayo, mustard. Plateful of chips, a pickle. Another beer.

Thought you could use a bite. Nothin’ fancy.

Fancy’s overrated, she says. Thanks.

He turns on the desklamp, surveys a wall of cheaply framed photographs. Takes one down, wipes the glass with his shirttail.

Guess it has been awhile, he says.

She’s chewing, lifts an inquiring eyebrow.

He perches on the sofa’s arm, shows her: Crazy nineties hair, the Black Label vest she’d always worn, those years. Whatever happened to that vest. That skinny kid, all of it still in front of her. No clue.

What I always remember, he says, that last shot, you didn’t watch the nine go in. Everybody standin’ up to see would it get there– Time it fell, you’d walked away, you were already takin’ your stick apart.

I was a kid, she says. I was cocky.

Show me one ain’t. You knew you had it.

Yeah. I did. Well, I was pretty sure.

He likes that. She tells him what Jeanette said when they shook hands: Girl, you just kicked my ass, you know? Surprising her, laughing– What’s your name again?

I was right there, she says. Showing him with a thumb and forefinger: That close.

Yes you were, he says. And you will be again.

She makes a dismissive gesture, drinks some beer.

Hey, he says. You still want it, or what?

Wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t. Dunno if I’m being realistic, though.

Realistic’s overrated. Better finish that sammich ‘fore it gets cold.

●

When she comes back from the ladies he’s gone. She takes the photo down again, studies it. The clips on the back turn easily, and she slips the photo from the frame. It’s been awhile since she signed anything, and she rummages in the wastebasket, smoothes a crumpled envelope to practice on. No words seem right, say enough. She tries again.

Bad Attitude

by Mark Reep

Lose all the good parts of Telan’s walk to work– the hike and bike path, the gorge, the creek crossing– start with a long look down the alley, a small hoodied figure turning in. Next panel, bring her closer, show details: Her hood’s pulled tight, she’s checking her cell. Last panel, she’s at the gallery’s back door, a light’s on inside. Small thought bubble: Crap.

The part of Telan nearly always occupied with these things decides yeah, that works. She closes the door behind her quietly, pulls her hoodie off, hangs it in the entryway. Tells herself: Remember. Make a sketch.

In the ladies’ she looks in the mirror, fluffs what the hoodie flattened. Her bangs are getting in her eyes again, a look she likes but can’t stand, too blink-making. Next drawing she sells she’ll get a trim. Or just do it herself again.

The restroom’s light yellowing her hair the way it does, rendering it no honest auburn but an unconvincing reddish-blonde she might have bought on sale, left on too long. More panels coming to her, looking in the mirror: “Hey,” she says, not loudly. “What?” her reflection says. Leans forward, cups a hand to one ear. Maybe they hear something, turn away in unison. Nah. Too cute.

Checking her boots, wiping mud from one. The basement door’s ajar, lights on in Peter’s office. In the Salon, the computer’s on, a stack of framed pieces on the counter. Black frames, like her drawings– They are hers. A consignment sheet with her name, a list of titles, RETURN in green letters. Kim appears at the top of the steps with a cardboard box, sees Telan, pauses. Kim works weekends, evenings, openings. Not mornings. “What’s up,” Telan says. Trying for casual, unconcerned.

“Hi,” Kim says. She doesn’t look at Telan, puts the box on the counter. It’s empty. “Um,” Kim says, tucks her hair behind her ear. “Peter wants to see you. He’s downstairs.”

For a moment Telan sees how she’ll draw this one too: Hoodie Girl looking stunned and stricken, well-dressed people coming in the front door. Perky Gallery Girl: “Good morning! Can I help you?” Telan takes a deep breath, starts down the stairs.

And so she gets fired. Peter’s got a list, a speech: How all the art majors in town want to work for him, every year dozens of applicants, blah blah. Unfortunately, Telan hasn’t chosen to take advantage of this opportunity. Hasn’t done her homework, gotten to know the gallery’s artists, collectors well enough. Hasn’t gone the extra mile, made the extra effort, tried harder to close sales. And of course– looking at his faux-Rolex– she’s regularly late for work.

“If nine-thirty is too early for you, Telan, I don’t know how you’ll…” Peter shakes his head. “Bottom line, Telan– You’re unreliable, and you’ve got a bad attitude. I’ll have to let you go.”

He waits like he expects her to say something. Telan can’t think what. Her face feels hot. But she finds she can look at him at least, look him in the eye, and she does. He’s calm and self-satisfied behind his big desk, blue eyed and still mostly blonde and probably sure the gray only makes him more distinguished. Leaning back now, not uncomfortable, only disappointed with her choices. Behind him, another of his scribble drawings, this one a big black square of scribble, tangle of barbed wire or pubic hair hung where everyone who comes in has to see it. Telan wants to point, say Peter you know what I’ve always wondered? What the fuck.

His eyes are depthless, empty as a bull terrier’s. What did she ever see in this guy. He turns to his monitor. “You’ll need to find another home for your work,” he says. Mouseclick. “Make sure you sign for it.” Click.

He’s forgotten to ask for her keys. She works them off her ring, tosses them onto his keyboard. Peter flinches, looks up quickly, reddens. Telan smiles. Peter’s face gets redder. He jabs a finger at her: “Telan–” She turns, walks out. Up the steps: Slow down, don’t hurry.

Freakuccino

by Mark Reep

The bus was almost empty, just me and an Asian girl who’d cleaned up some since I’d seen her. She was wearing a too-big T-shirt that said Freakuccino and writing in a notebook. If she remembered me she didn’t say so I didn’t either. Everybody sheds some skin. At the Green Street stop two cops were waiting. One said something to the driver and pointed down the aisle but not at me. She looked up and said, Me? What’d I do? The older cop beckoned. She got up and got off with them. Before the bus pulled away they’d handcuffed her. I wondered who she’d pissed off, who’d made the call.