Edward Lee - The Black Train

That’s it!

He plucked the hand off and put in her lap. But she was still silently laughing.

“Come on, Lottie. What’s so funny about this guy Sute? He’s, like, the town fool?”

Lottie slugged more beer while roving her hand in a circle.

“You’ll tell me later?”

More rapid nods.

Collier frowned. He knew it was his own flaw, though—his intent curiosity. Why can’t I forget about all this bullshit and just finish my book? That’s what I’m here for, not gossip.

Nor was he here to revel in all this lust. He tried to glance around inadvertently, but anytime his eyes fell on an attractive woman, his crotch tingled. It got to the point that he forced himself not to look anywhere. He pretended to peruse the cased uniforms on display but even this he couldn’t do without catching a glimpse of someone. Eventually he pointed to a case of Confederate double-breasted frock coats. “Lots of uniforms here,” he said, if only to not sit in silence.

Lottie tapped him on the shoulder, looked right at him, and mouthed I love you!

Somebody please shoot me, Collier thought. He struggled for anything to deflect his unease. “So, uh, are you, uh, sure you don’t want something to eat?”

You! she mouthed and grinned.

He pretended not to understand. I’m dying here. His next errant glance fell on her foot in the too-big shoe, which she was still anxiously rocking.

Even her ankle was attractive. Even the vein up the top of her foot seemed erotic.

I need help! I need a counselor!

Relief emptied on him when Dominique reappeared behind the bar. She’d removed her brewer’s apron, sporting full B-cups and a trim, curvy figure with wide hips and a flat stomach. The plain attire—jeans and a white cardigan—only augmented her unique, radiant cuteness. She seemed to repress a smile when she saw who was sitting next to Collier. “Hi, there, Lottie.”

Lottie waved energetically, and gulped her beer.

“How’s the wort?” Collier asked.

“Yeasting nicely. It’s for the next batch of Maibock.”

“I’ll have to try that after I’ve notated the lager well enough.” He watched her washing barley dust off her hands in the triple sinks behind the bar. She’s just…absolutely…adorable…

Lottie’s hand opened on his thigh and pressed down. Collier almost flinched until he saw that she was just pushing off his leg to get off her stool. She’s faced! “Here, let me help you.” He stood and got her to her feet. She grinned up cockeyed at him; the top of her head came to his nipple. She mouthed something and made hand gestures, then turned and clopped away in the big shoes.

“I guess she wants to leave now.”

“I think she just wants to go to the bathroom,” Dominique said.

Collier watched the tight buttocks clench with each drunken step. “My God, I hope she doesn’t fall,” he muttered. “Maybe I should help her.”

“Probably not the best idea,” Dominique replied. Now she was polishing some slim altbier glasses. “She’d pull you into the bathroom with her. She’s a card, all right, but I guess you’re realizing that.”

“You have no idea.” He retook his stool and sighed.

“The poor girl’s so messed up. And you shouldn’t have given her a beer; she can’t even hold one.”

Collier saw that Lottie’s big pint glass stood empty.

“She’ll be a handful getting back to Mrs. Butler’s place, just so you know in advance.”

He nodded grimly. “I’ll get her out of here. Hopefully she won’t pass out in the ladies’ room.”

Dominique laughed. “That’s happened a few times. She’s actually a very nice girl and handles her problems well… except when she drinks. You’ll see.”

Collier caught the attractive brewer grinning. Oh, boy. With no apron now to cover her upper chest, Collier’s eyes were rioting to stare. Don’t stare! He almost bit down on his lower lip. And don’t drink any more. You’re drunk! The need to make a good impression overwhelmed him, but now he knew that if he even talked too much, he might slur his words.

“Care for one more?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had a few too many already,” he admitted. “If I had one more, I’d make an idiot of myself in front of you. I wish I had your moderation.”

“You should’ve seen me in my younger days.” Another interesting remark. I’ll bet she was an animal. As for the “younger days” comment— How old can she be? She can’t be much more than thirty. When she polished the next glass, he noticed that all of her fingers lacked rings.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

“I’d really like to talk to you some more,” Collier braved, “but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Do you work tomorrow?”

“All day till seven. And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier.”

“Oh, no, call me Justin.” She gets off tomorrow at seven. Ask her out, you pussy! that other voice challenged. But even in his heavyweight-lager buzz, he knew that would be the wrong move.

“Here’s your check, Justin.” She had his bill in her hand.

Collier fumbled for his credit card, then exclaimed, “No!”

She ripped it up. “But this one’s on the house.”

“Dominique, please, that’s not necessary.” Collier got the same treatment in a lot of pubs, mostly from owners wanting mention on his show.

“And, don’t worry, I’m not trying to bribe you for a good review. It’s just nice to have you here.”

“Well, thanks very much. But I’m pretty sure that I want to put your lager in my book, if you don’t mind signing a release form.”

“Oh, of course I don’t mind, but wait until you get your secondary impression first.”

What an overtly ethical thing to say. She smiled at him again—a reserved yet confident expression. The cross at her bosom shined like her teeth. “Actually, it was a bribe for something.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A picture, for our wall.” She pointed to several autographed snapshots: some sports figures, a horror author he’d never heard of, a soap opera star, and, yes, Bill Clinton.

“I’d be happy to pose for a picture, just not tonight, please. Tomorrow, when I’m sober.”

“You got a deal, Mr.—Justin.” Dominique glanced aside. “Here comes your charge.”

Lottie limped back between some tables, the perennial nut-job grin on her face. She’d lost one of the overlarge high heels. What a nightmare, Collier thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Collier rushed to Lottie and turned her toward the door. “This way, Lottie.”

She objected, pointing behind.

“No, no more beer for you. Jesus, Lottie, your mother’s going to think I got you drunk.” He shouldered her out the door, an arm braced about her waist. She clipclopped along on one foot bare and one shoed. She appeared to be giggling in silence. Crossing the street was so cumbersome, Collier stopped, pulled off the remaining shoe, and threw it in the bushes. “They’re too big for you anyway. Lottie, you only had one beer! How can you be this drunk?”

Her finger roved through his hair; then she tried to put the other hand down his shirt.

“No, no, none of that! We’re going home!”

In the parking lot he heard from a distance, “Hey, there’s that Prince of Beer guy with that drunk girl!”

Shit! He fumbled at the passenger door.

“Let’s go ask him for an autograph!” a woman’s voice shrilled.

“Get in!” He dropped Lottie in the car like a couple of grocery bags, then huffed around, assed into the driver’s seat, and sped off. He thunked over a curb— Idiot! —then realized he hadn’t put his lights on. He thunked over another curb, then almost hit a corner mailbox searching for the headlights knob. This fuckin’ car! Finally he snapped them on and veered onto Penelope Street.