triple scotch

Assignment #7:  “Hey, wanna hear a story?”

(I'll admit, this one wasn't hard to write, but really tough to reread.  And, even now, I post with trepidation.  But, I made a long-ago promise to wear my heart on my cybersleeve, so here it is.)

***


“Triple scotch.”  You watch as the liquor disappears in a single swig and one eye trains on you. “Hey, wanna hear a story?”  That eye, rimmed in thick black liner and flaking mascara is joined by its grey twin, which had been squinting in the pleasure-pain of swallowing three fingers of amber fire.  She doesn’t wait for a reply.

“This is the first real drink I’ve had in a long time.  Tastes as bad as I remember.  And I want to remember it all – the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly.  Especially the ugly.  The ugly is where life really lives.  Everything else is sugar-coated nothingness.  All this?” Her hand flies about her person; you grab the hi-ball before it becomes a casualty.  “All this is utter bullshit.  People judge, you know.  They judge before they even know they’re judging.  They pick seats on subways based on your shoes and your hair and the way you hold a newspaper.  They forget that beautiful is deadly.  Another triple.”  You oblige but make a mental note to question a third request.  This time, both eyes squeeze shut.  “What is this, rotgut?  Christ.  Another!  And the good stuff this time.  The stuff behind the glass.”  You can’t be sure if she’s serious.  The big brown bill on the bar has you reaching back for a 25-year single malt.

She stares at the third triple, frowning.  That’s when you notice that this chick is a natural Goth.  Her skin is so pale, it’s almost translucent.  You can’t be sure if it’s makeup or not.  You don’t think so, because you can see the faint bruises along the hairline and her jaw.  A fight?  A huge medallion is resting just under her throbbing pulse.  It looks old, the craftsmanship amazing.  But it’s the stitches along the collarbone that grab your attention.  With her elbows propped up on the bar, you can admire the twin gauntlets on her wrists, just as intricate; an ugly black burn mark flashes briefly as her right arm brings the glass to her lips.  The long leather coat unceremoniously dumped on the bar confirms it.  Definite Goth, with some serious self-esteem issues.  She takes a cautionary sip before draining the glass once again.  “Another.”  You hesitate.  She places a second hundred-dollar bill on the bar.  “Another.  Please.”  You pour.


“So, yesterday I’m supposed to meet this guy.  He promised to be there.  Says he cares.  Says he wants me to come home.  And guess what?  The fucker doesn’t show.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Please.”  One full swallow.  She taps the bar.  You can’t believe that after 12 shots, she isn’t passed out on the floor.  You ignore her silent request.  “He’s more like a stalker.  You’d think he’d be waiting for me!  That after all that proselytising, he’d be reserving his seat.  But no.  Bastard.  What, do I have ask every time now?  Just keep the bottle out here!” You do as she says.  In fact, you’re thinking if you play your cards right, she may soon do as you say. 


“I can’t imagine anyone keeping you waiting.”

“You’d be wrong.  So wrong.  I’m always waiting.  That’s what I do.  I wait and think and react to what happens.  That’s the problem.  I’m tired of waiting.  I’m tired of being judged and found wanting.  I am as I am meant to be, nothing more, nothing less.  Every morning, I sit there like some loser, hoping he’ll pass by again.  Me!  I have people who worship me, and I’m sitting around some diner waiting for him.”  You rethink the self-esteem issues and settle on pain fetish.  Interesting indeed.  She pours herself at least four fingers worth of Scotch, downs it, and pours the next.  You’ve stopped keeping track.  This girl is hot.  “You know what I want?  I want to fuck and get fucked and fuck up other people.  I want to do it and tell him all about it.  That’s his problem.  He doesn’t know what this is all about.  That this life is ugly and that it’s the ugly that keeps us addicted, you know?  It’s the ugly that makes it all worthwhile.  He’s so wrapped up in saving me, he’s completely oblivious to the fact that I don’t need saving.  I like it here.  I like what this place does for me.”  She focuses those silver eyes straight on you and you’re lost.  “Do you like what this place does for you, Alex?” 

There’s really nothing to do but nod. 

“Come on.  Come with me.”  You raise the bar leaf and hold her coat out for her.  There are people who are calling out for you, but really, who cares?  When the hell are you ever going to get a chance to score with a chick this gorgeous and this messed up?  She buttons her coat, picks up the Glenlivet and snakes her arm through yours.  God, she’s tall and her hair is so long, you can only think about it being wrapped around you.

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside a factory.  A quick pulse of trepidation passes through you before she takes your hand and opens a door.  Music floods your ears.  This is a party of serious proportions; the kind you thought died in the last decade.  She pulls you through the writhing crowd and up a set of stairs to a lounge area that overlooks the dance floor.  This has to be the wildest place you’ve ever been: there are people having sex on the bar, dancing naked with each other, licking God-knows-what off each other.  You barely take any of it in before she slams you down on the couch; you drink in the bitter taste of her wet mouth. 

When it’s all over, she slides off you, still in her long coat and takes three lines.  You do the same, thinking to fit in.  Just before your world goes black, a redhead pushes you off the couch to the floor.  You can hear her ask: “Cherry?”

“Hardly.  Just business.”