Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

Inside, the bar was shaped like a horseshoe, and tall, round tables lined the walls. People — a mostly younger crowd — cluttered together. Gray, hazy smoke floated above their heads. Although everyone appeared engaged with one another, the scene was like an elaborate pantomime as the loud music seemed to render them all mute and silly. Kyle looked for a stool at the bar, but quickly gave up and began to press his way across the room. He descended three steps into another room, which was quieter. People sat at tables littered with empty bottles and glasses. No sooner than Kyle found a seat at a corner table, a slight waitress, with her midriff exposed, came up and asked him what he would like to drink. He froze for a second, as if surprised that someone had spoken to him.

“Vodka and tonic,” he said.

“House okay?”

“Sure.” He smiled at her, but she left without looking at him.

A young man carrying a black bus box began to clear off Kyle’s table.

“This yours?” he asked several times.

Still smiling, Kyle responded “No” each time and watched the young man as if he were the entertainment.

Shortly, the waitress brought him his drink and offered to start him a tab.

“Sure,” he said.

He sat back, resting one arm on the table and the other on the wide chair rail. Although the room was open and square — completely exposed in a glance — oval security mirrors were perched in each corner of the ceiling. The floor was made of hardwood. On some evenings, the tables and chairs might have been carted away and the room used for dancing; or more likely, it had been used for dancing in the past, before the bar area had expanded and took over the space.

Sitting behind Kyle was a young man in a sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Occasionally, when he spoke to his friends, he leaned back in his chair and lightly bumped Kyle. This gesture apparently gave Kyle the excuse to glance at their table and grin. Across the table sat another young man and a girl who seemed too young to be in a bar. Her hand rested partly upon his forearm, a lover’s subtle touch. She was the only one to notice Kyle’s interest in their group. She smiled at him a few times, but then simply began to lower her eyes whenever she caught his gaze. By the time Kyle finished his second drink, he sat turned around in his seat, like a member of their table.

They appeared to be college students, perhaps studying philosophy, theology, or literature, because their conversation skirted rapidly over several related and bleak topics.

The young man in the sweater mentioned The Book of Job , and Kyle began to smile and nod, evidently appreciative of this new reference.

“At least, he had a shard of pottery to scratch his sores,” the man said.

“Yes,” Kyle said suddenly. “That’s why his wife told him to curse God and die.”

Everyone looked at him now.

“What’s that?” the student asked.

“Because he probably had a boil on the tip of his cock. A woman needs to be fucked, you know.”

“No doubt.” The other young man, the boyfriend, raised his glass and drank, to toast Kyle’s comment.

“And that’s why the whole thing is hog shit,” Kyle said, leaning his arm on their table.

“Watch it, chief,” the first student said as he slid his chair away from Kyle. Even so, the young man seemed mildly amused.

“God told Satan, ‘Do whatever you want; just don’t kill him.’ Right. See?” Kyle said. He focused his eyes mainly on the young girl. “So Satan put a boil on his cock, but he didn’t neuter Job because later on Job was able to have another family. See. He had hope because he still had juice in his ball sack.”

“Alright now.” The young man in the sweater gently started to lift Kyle from the table by the shoulders of his sports coat. “You made your point.”

“But do you get it?” Kyle asked quickly. “It wasn’t a good test.”

“I’ve read Hemingway too.” The young man turned around, to dismiss Kyle.

“Fuck Hemingway,” Kyle blurted.

“Relax, chief.”

“What did I tell you?” the boyfriend said. “You can’t talk religion.” There was something pleasant in his smooth face. He had a sort of leisurely charm, a nonchalance that seemed well-adapted to making people feel comfortable.

Kyle suddenly glared at him and said, “It’s not just talk; that’s why.”

“You’re a well of wisdom,” the boyfriend responded, which Kyle appeared to regard as an insult.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

But then the waitress returned, and Kyle turned back to his own table and ordered another drink.

“And give me their bill.”

“Don’t do that,” the girl said, speaking for the first time; she was looking up at the waitress.

“Sure,” Kyle said. He also addressed the waitress. “I got it.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the girl said.

Without a word, the waitress walked away, obviously not caring one way or the other.

Kyle muttered something.

“Watch it, chief,” the first young man said quickly.

Kyle sat and brooded. Although his glass was empty, save for the ice and a lemon wedge, he held it in both hands.

“He’s right, though,” the boyfriend said. “It’s an existential problem. ‘Repent,’ Christ said when He was questioned about suffering, just as God told Job. The answer to the problem of pain is a call to action, a way of living, a practice — not just a bunch of talk.”

“Talk, talk, talk,” Kyle said into his glass.

“Words, words, words,” the student responded in an English accent, and the girl giggled now, as if her lover were not only charming but clever and witty too.

Apparently bemused, Kyle looked at the group as though they were offensive and gross, a glistening knot of cartilage and skin.

“Go eat your white bread,” Kyle said, and they laughed.

“It’s past your curfew,” he added.

“It’s past your limit,” the student responded. The girl was watching him; she seemed to adore the very sound of his voice.

Kyle’s face contorted. If he at first loathed the group because they had shut him out, now it was plainly the girl’s affection that further stirred up his disgust. Kyle turned his gaze from her to the smoothfaced young man.

“Go fuck your whore.” He snarled.

Their laughter and grins ceased at once.

“Excuse me.” The boyfriend started to get out of his seat as the girl clutched his arm. “You’ve got a problem.”

“Stop,” the girl said. “He’s drunk.”

The young man stared steadily at Kyle, who suddenly seemed very calm, as if he were now a mere observant and the situation had nothing at all to do with him.

“You’ve got a problem,” the boyfriend repeated.

“Relax, chief,” the other one said, even though Kyle was relaxed. In a quirky gesture, the young man rolled down the sleeves of his sweater and then pushed them back up again. He was the most agitated, unsettled; his friend stood rigidly poised before the table.

“Apologize, fuck face.”

“Stop,” the girl said softly, trying to soothe him. She gently tugged his arm.

Other people began to watch the commotion.

“Sure,” Kyle said, looking down at his glass.

“Did you hear me?” the young man demanded.

“Sure. I was just—” Kyle began to say. “Why not repent?” His voice sounded meek and tired. He still didn’t lift his head to meet their eyes. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just thinking that you might like her bald cunt.”

There was a brief moment when nobody reacted as Kyle sat all alone, dejected, and somber. If the boyfriend simply faded away, Kyle probably wouldn’t have noticed or cared. But all at once, the young man leaped onto Kyle, knocking him to the hardwood floor and toppling Kyle’s table and chair. The glasses crashed. People gasped and scuttled. At first, Kyle seemed lifeless, while the young man grappled and pummeled his limp body. “Fucker, fucker,” the boyfriend kept repeating. Then a strange sound escaped from Kyle, as if he were some kind of deformed creature that was shocked and scared, and whose only recourse was to bellow. The young man stood up and staggered a few steps backwards. The incident had lasted only a few seconds, and the group of students was already gathering their things and heading away. Someone set the table and chair right, as the waitress squatted and began to pick up the broken pieces of glass and place them on her tray. Kyle remained curled up on the floor. The bottom of his sports coat was turned up over his head. Although people looked down at him, nobody touched him. He was whimpering.