Scott Nicholson - Curtains

In that instant, I had seen plenty. Pain. Anger. And unless I'm a bad judge of character, which I'm not, a touch of crazy as well.

"Odd place to do business," I said, with practiced carelessness.

"I'm looking for somebody." His voice was grave-dirt.

"Ain't we all?"

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly his hand was on the bar, palm-down. The back of his hand was a roadmap of blue veins, lined with tiny creases, and wiry black hairs stuck out in all directions. But what really caught my eye was the fifty-dollar bill underneath.

"Bartenders see things, know things," he muttered under his breath.

It was an occupational hazard, all right. I saw lots of things and knew things I wouldn't tell for twenty times that amount. But a fifty didn't walk in every day, and a G-note never did. I nodded my head slightly, to let him know I understood.

His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

I smelled something. Smoke. I ran out to rescue the pot roast and was just sliding its black carcass out of the oven when my wife and daughter walked in.

"Order out for pizza?" I asked in greeting.

We ate the pizza, then I plowed ahead with the story. After a couple of pages, I was fighting for words, torturing myself through painful paragraphs, dangling from the cliff-edge of plot resolution like a sixth-grader's participle. What do I do with these people? I needed some fresh ideas.

After work the next day, I stopped down at Rocco's Place. Rocco was a short, paunchy Italian who was born into bartending. He wasn't a close friend, but I figured he was fair game as a model for my story. Marco. Rocco. Close, but he'd never know the difference. He probably dangled from the cliff-edge of literacy by a thin rope anyway.

His bar was much cleaner than the one in the story, but this place was too sterile to make good fiction. Readers wanted fantasy, not reality. They got plenty of reality. They got plenty of hard-backed chairs and plastic potted plants, scores of vapid muzak melodies piped through polyester speaker grills. I sat in one of the hard-backed chairs and ordered a beer.

"You that writer fella?" Rocco set a frothy brew in front of my face.

I was surprised. I didn't make a habit of telling people I was a "writer." I didn't wear tweed jackets with leather elbow patches or chew thoughtfully on a thick maple pipe. I might be crazy for trying to write, but I wasn't insane enough to advertise. But it was also nice to have my humble accomplishments recognized.

"I've published a little," I said, trying not to swell.

He wasn't looking at me anyway. He was wiping down the bar that was already so shiny customers were afraid to set down their drinks.

"Fella was in looking for you."

I stopped in mid-hoist, sloshing a little sticky liquid on my cuff. Who would look for me in a bar? I wasn't Hemingway. I could barely afford this beer, much less becoming one of Rocco's house fixtures.

"Big guy. Kinda mean-lookin'."

I laughed. "Let me guess. He thinks I'm messing with his wife, right?"

"Some people don't think it's funny. Especially certain husbands." His words were clipped and he kept his eyes down. "You're an okay guy. Don't spend a fortune, but ya never cause trouble. Been known to tip."

I was wondering if he was waiting for me to grease his palm, perhaps with my measly pocket change. But he continued.

"I know it's none of my business. But I thought I'd give you some advice, friend to friend. Keep an eye out for him. He's the dangerous type. Seen 'em before." He nodded to the perfect round bullet hole that was the only blemish in the clean silver glass of the bar mirror.

I played along. "What did he look like?"

"Beefy guy, black hair, black like licorice kinda. Weird eyes, a color you hardly ever see. And he was wearing a big yella raincoat, and we ain't had rain for a week."

Karen must have put him up to this. She must have read my work-in-progress and planned this little joke. Surely she didn't think it was me that was having the affair?

I paid Rocco and left him to wipe up the ring my half-empty mug had made. I ran the three blocks home and went into the study to re-read what I had written last night. Sweat was pooling under my arms and my scalp was tingling, the way they always did when I was lost in an unfolding plot, only this time my intestines were unfolding along with it.

His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

I was staring at that fist, that big hunk of ham that looked like it could smash a city bus. I waited for it to relax, for the little muscles to stop twitching. When it was back in his pocket, leaving the bill, he said, "Wimpy little smart-assed writer type. Shifty-eyed know-it-all, been in here with a tall blonde. You woulda noticed her. Green eyes. Legs all the way down to the floor."

I had noticed, all right. Some hoity-toity wiseacre getting a looker like that, and us lonely bartenders paying through the nose for our company.

"What of 'em?"

"The fifty's for you. A fringe benefit of knowing things. And it's got a twin here in my pocket."

"Knowin' is cheap, but sayin' ain't."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a greasy smile slip across his face.

"Double or nothing, then. The double's for forgetting you ever saw me."

"Saw who?"

He laid another three fifties down on the bar. I eyed the joint in the mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then I swept the money away with my towel and had it in my pocket, where it would stay until I caught up with Leanna tonight.

"Lives three blocks down. Number 216 East."

He stood up, making an awfully big shadow on the scum-stained bar. Then the shadow, and the man in the yellow slicker, were gone. I felt sorry for that weeny little guy. Any minute now, he was gonna hear a knocking on his door The words danced in golden orange on the black screen of the word processor. Bad writing. A little too much Spillane and Chandler. The story had gotten away. Time to dive in, chop out its heart. Where to begin? Better finish reading it first.

A pounding on the door interrupted my thoughts.

— knocking on his door, then he's going to hear a yell, a crazy voice of phlegm and bitterness The crazy voice that was outside the apartment door, yelling "Hey, scumbag, open up or I'll bust the door down"; yelling "I'll make you pay for all the misery you caused"; yelling "Nobody's going to mess around with my wife, especially some snot-nosed fancy boy like you."

— kicking at the door with those big heavy boots, reaching inside that canary yellow slicker, grabbing a fistful of cold gat And the boots were on my door, making the hinges groan under the splintery strain.

— busting through and standing over the poor little loser, who's lookin' up at his killer, beggin', pleadin', offerin' up money he ain't got and prayin' to a God he don't believe in And the man in the yellow slicker is standing at the study door, holding a gun, his reddish-gold eyes blazing with insane hatred. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. It's like a Stephen King story gone south, without the plot twists. Writer's character becomes real and comes to get him. It's been done too many times. Too trite even for me.

But the smell of metal and tension is too real, and the door is hanging like a wino from a boxcar.

— and he's sittin' at his little writing desk with his wimpy finger over the "delete" button, all he's got to do is press it and the man will go away. But he can't bring himself to do it. His work is too precious, too IMPORTANT to wipe out.

I take two hot slugs to the head, feel my brains begin their awkward eternal journey to the study wall. In its last moment of awareness, the ruined cerebellum searches frantically for a tidy ending, some way to bring the plot to completion, only it's much too far gone, much too hopeless, and the curtain of darkness…no, the veil of shadows…no, the wall of nothingness descends…