Lady
Lady
by Sam Ford
Kale Shaw was drinking a Sam Cougar Black on the rocks at this shitty bar on North Highland and Hollywood. When the bartender removed the bottle from the back of the shelf it was covered in dust. Kale Shaw was impressed they had his bourbon. He hadn’t had one poured for him since Amarillo.
He’d come up from Bullhead City that morning, making stops in Needles, Barstow, and Bakersfield. He’d been hauling power tools for a national company, and was finally relieved of his load in downtown L.A. The chicken coops had been tough on him through 40 West as well as the border patrol in Arizona, something Kale chalked up to the “post 9/11 era”. Whole thing made him wanna’ scratch his balls and spit in the wind. He considered himself a cockroach. Figured if the Taliban or whoever the shit decided to drop a bomb, he’d still be eighteen wheels and a frown through the whole cotton-pickin’ ordeal.
This particular stretch had started in Knoxville, and once West Texas showed itself, the road really started to work on him. Nothing but blinding white sky and crushed Maverick 100’s. Black coffee and a lot lizard or two, one of whom turned out to be a man. (When Kale saw the bulge, he pulled out his blackjack and started screaming like an infant.) The dry western air always tied his throat in knots and made him tired. He missed Tennessee. He figured he’d settle in for a spell once he got back. Maybe find a good gal to lay him down and cook him brisket. He’d take care of her too. Kale was confident he knew how to take care of a woman in all the right ways.
He’d rented a room at The Vagabond on Sunset, and the bar had come recommended by the dude at the desk. A part of him just wanted to get a bottle and hole-up in the room watching videos, but he liked drinking it down in strange places, watching the locals bark at each other, occasionally find himself using his fists.
The place was pretty sparse. A few men sat alone up at the hardwood, each of them wearing soggy eyes and wet, pursed lips. Real pros. The kind that never wanna’ go home and haven’t formed a complete sentence since they were in grammar school. There were a couple of tables that were occupied by groups of hip-looking kids. The kind that wanna’ drink amongst the open sores and scraps of society in an attempt to earn some sort of life credentials. They sat in silence for the most part. One of them might say something from underneath his neatly cocked hat and the others would either nod or grin or ignore it.
Kale Shaw took down his glass of brown in one tilt and knocked on the shitwood to indicate his desire for another. The bartender, an oversize man with a shaved head and a handlebar walked over, a bar rag slung over his shoulder, a toothpick jammed between his teeth.
“The dirty bourbon, right?”
“Make it neat this time,” Kale said.
The bartender grunted and moved off.
Kale pulled out his black Zippo. It read: Road King / 100,000 Mile Club / Keep On Truckin’. He lit himself a Maverick, tossed the soft pack on the bar, and placed the lighter on top of it.
The bartender slipped the liquid into Kale’s empty glass. Kale stared at him while he did so, wondering what sort of creatures lived inside that mustache.
“Five,” the bartender said.
“Run me up a tab,” Kale offered. “I ain’t goin’ no where just yet.”
“Five,” the bartender repeated.
Kale wondered at exactly when they got off to the wrong damn foot. He pulled out a roll from the frayed pocket of his blue Dickies and peeled off a five and a single. The bartender wiped his nose, picked up the money, and lumbered away. Kale elected to nurse this round as he didn’t feel like seeing the bartender again for a while.
The front door swung open and decent looking, well-built blond walked in. She had big strong legs and thighs that men like Kale Shaw would consider throwing on the grill and serving with mashed potatoes. Her face was twice with make-up, but it didn’t matter. She was sexy and full. Her lips were so damn big you could sleep in them. They were painted fire-engine red, and as Kale drank his Cougar, he wondered how his joint would look dressed in that color.
A few of the other patrons turned to look at her. They stared and mused in that long lost chickenshit way that lonely men do, their sad eyes slipping off their faces like icicles as they took in her chest and lower half. She sorta' grinned to herself and flipped her hair back. Her high-heels were like gunshots as she stepped across the floor and saddled-up next to Kale Shaw at the goodwood. Kale took a tug on his long Maverick. He tried to Steve McQueen it a bit, but it came off a bit more Robert Vaughn than he would’ve liked.
The bartender moved in across from the woman. His tongue came out and he ran it across his lips like a gila monster.
“Whaddaya’ need, miss?”
“Jack straight with a cherry,” she said. Her voice had seen a million cigarettes.
The bartender bit hard on his lower lip, chuckled, and moved off.
The blond turned to face Kale Shaw. She had big eager breasts and big floppy blue eyes. And those bright red lips curled like two huge snails in the sun.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Kale said, knocking off his spirit and lifting the glass for another as the bartender returned with the lady’s drink.
“My name’s Lady,” she said to Kale.
“Okay,” Kale said. He could feel his heartbeat in his neck. As much as this goddamn dance annoyed him, a part of him loved it. Half lion, half gazelle. And all foreplay it usually ended up being.
“What do you do?” Lady asked.
“Whatever’s payin’,” Kale said, finding the McQueen he was looking for. “Mostly drive a rig outta’ Tennessee.”
“Trucker?”
“Sure.”
Lady made her decision right there. Then she said: “I like truckers.”
“I’ve met a few.” Kale was working it good now. He thought of a puppy he’d adopted when he was ten.
“Can I borrow that?” Lady asked, her finger pointed at Kale’s Zippo. She unsheathed a clove from her purse and put it to those lips. Brown on red. Kale got tingly. He lit the cigarette, let his eyes rest on hers for the first time. She dropped a little wink on him and eased her body back in the barstool.
“You on the road?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Kale said, wondering if he had any Trojans left in the glove-box.
“Is it hard?” she asked with zero subtlety.
Kale picked it up and ran with it: “Depends on how rough or gentle the country gets. I like it both ways depending on my mood.”
“Where did you come from today?” she asked, dragging from the sweet sweet square and letting the exhale soak the bar with its damn candy scent.
“Bullhead City,” Kale said. “Arizona border.”
“That’s not so far is it?” Lady said.
“Not so far,” Kale said. He found her eyes again. They were fixed on him. A falcon across the interstate. Kale appreciated that.
“I like Hollywood,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, picking the cherry out of her glass and crushing it between her semi-yellowed teeth.
“Everybody’s lonely and in pain and the only way they know how to deal with it is to find themselves stuck in evenings like this.”
“I like Hollywood too,” Lady said. “You never know when your long lost darlin’ daddy’s gonna’ be sitting at your favorite bar waiting for you to show up. Why else do you like Hollywood?”
“I like it ‘cause I don’t belong here. And I like bein’ where I don’t belong.”
“So do I,” Lady said.
Kale raised his glass to toast Lady and drank the lowdown dirty brown down with one tilt. He looked at the bartender.
“Make it rain again, friend,” Kale growled. The bartender farted gently and moved off.
“Where are you staying?” Lady asked Kale.
“Don’t ask that yet!” Kale barked. The bourbon was starting to prod at him now. Muddy up his mind with history and bad times. He thought of his father and mother. Daddy with the scowl and the 3 A.M. entrance, his heart sick with futility, his 80 proof breath enough to kill a small animal or child. Mommy with the concern lumped in her throat like a pile of horse manure, her never-ending apron, her acceptance like a tired politician.
“I don’t want to hear you ask about conclusions yet,” Kale mumbled. “I’m sorry I’m just...I wanna’ stretch out the good thing here with you now.”
“It’s okay, darlin’,” Lady said. “You’re pretty sensitive aren’t you?”
Another sloppy rocket came bursting out of Kale: “You a man?!”
It was loud enough to catch an ear or two. The bartender glanced over, slipping his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. Lady shifted in her seat. She rolled Kale’s state over in her mind. Then she grinned.
“Make it neat this time,” Kale said.
The bartender grunted and moved off.
Kale pulled out his black Zippo. It read: Road King / 100,000 Mile Club / Keep On Truckin’. He lit himself a Maverick, tossed the soft pack on the bar, and placed the lighter on top of it.
The bartender slipped the liquid into Kale’s empty glass. Kale stared at him while he did so, wondering what sort of creatures lived inside that mustache.
“Five,” the bartender said.
“Run me up a tab,” Kale offered. “I ain’t goin’ no where just yet.”
“Five,” the bartender repeated.
Kale wondered at exactly when they got off to the wrong damn foot. He pulled out a roll from the frayed pocket of his blue Dickies and peeled off a five and a single. The bartender wiped his nose, picked up the money, and lumbered away. Kale elected to nurse this round as he didn’t feel like seeing the bartender again for a while.
The front door swung open and decent looking, well-built blond walked in. She had big strong legs and thighs that men like Kale Shaw would consider throwing on the grill and serving with mashed potatoes. Her face was twice with make-up, but it didn’t matter. She was sexy and full. Her lips were so damn big you could sleep in them. They were painted fire-engine red, and as Kale drank his Cougar, he wondered how his joint would look dressed in that color.
A few of the other patrons turned to look at her. They stared and mused in that long lost chickenshit way that lonely men do, their sad eyes slipping off their faces like icicles as they took in her chest and lower half. She sorta' grinned to herself and flipped her hair back. Her high-heels were like gunshots as she stepped across the floor and saddled-up next to Kale Shaw at the goodwood. Kale took a tug on his long Maverick. He tried to Steve McQueen it a bit, but it came off a bit more Robert Vaughn than he would’ve liked.
The bartender moved in across from the woman. His tongue came out and he ran it across his lips like a gila monster.
“Whaddaya’ need, miss?”
“Jack straight with a cherry,” she said. Her voice had seen a million cigarettes.
The bartender bit hard on his lower lip, chuckled, and moved off.
The blond turned to face Kale Shaw. She had big eager breasts and big floppy blue eyes. And those bright red lips curled like two huge snails in the sun.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Kale said, knocking off his spirit and lifting the glass for another as the bartender returned with the lady’s drink.
“My name’s Lady,” she said to Kale.
“Okay,” Kale said. He could feel his heartbeat in his neck. As much as this goddamn dance annoyed him, a part of him loved it. Half lion, half gazelle. And all foreplay it usually ended up being.
“What do you do?” Lady asked.
“Whatever’s payin’,” Kale said, finding the McQueen he was looking for. “Mostly drive a rig outta’ Tennessee.”
“Trucker?”
“Sure.”
Lady made her decision right there. Then she said: “I like truckers.”
“I’ve met a few.” Kale was working it good now. He thought of a puppy he’d adopted when he was ten.
“Can I borrow that?” Lady asked, her finger pointed at Kale’s Zippo. She unsheathed a clove from her purse and put it to those lips. Brown on red. Kale got tingly. He lit the cigarette, let his eyes rest on hers for the first time. She dropped a little wink on him and eased her body back in the barstool.
“You on the road?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Kale said, wondering if he had any Trojans left in the glove-box.
“Is it hard?” she asked with zero subtlety.
Kale picked it up and ran with it: “Depends on how rough or gentle the country gets. I like it both ways depending on my mood.”
“Where did you come from today?” she asked, dragging from the sweet sweet square and letting the exhale soak the bar with its damn candy scent.
“Bullhead City,” Kale said. “Arizona border.”
“That’s not so far is it?” Lady said.
“Not so far,” Kale said. He found her eyes again. They were fixed on him. A falcon across the interstate. Kale appreciated that.
“I like Hollywood,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, picking the cherry out of her glass and crushing it between her semi-yellowed teeth.
“Everybody’s lonely and in pain and the only way they know how to deal with it is to find themselves stuck in evenings like this.”
“I like Hollywood too,” Lady said. “You never know when your long lost darlin’ daddy’s gonna’ be sitting at your favorite bar waiting for you to show up. Why else do you like Hollywood?”
“I like it ‘cause I don’t belong here. And I like bein’ where I don’t belong.”
“So do I,” Lady said.
Kale raised his glass to toast Lady and drank the lowdown dirty brown down with one tilt. He looked at the bartender.
“Make it rain again, friend,” Kale growled. The bartender farted gently and moved off.
“Where are you staying?” Lady asked Kale.
“Don’t ask that yet!” Kale barked. The bourbon was starting to prod at him now. Muddy up his mind with history and bad times. He thought of his father and mother. Daddy with the scowl and the 3 A.M. entrance, his heart sick with futility, his 80 proof breath enough to kill a small animal or child. Mommy with the concern lumped in her throat like a pile of horse manure, her never-ending apron, her acceptance like a tired politician.
“I don’t want to hear you ask about conclusions yet,” Kale mumbled. “I’m sorry I’m just...I wanna’ stretch out the good thing here with you now.”
“It’s okay, darlin’,” Lady said. “You’re pretty sensitive aren’t you?”
Another sloppy rocket came bursting out of Kale: “You a man?!”
It was loud enough to catch an ear or two. The bartender glanced over, slipping his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. Lady shifted in her seat. She rolled Kale’s state over in her mind. Then she grinned.
“Pardon me?” she asked.
“I said: ya’ gotta’ fuckin’ cock?”
Lady laughed. She wanted accolades for her good sportsmanship. And she couldn’t wait to get this drunk ol’ bloodhound home and make him youthful.
The bartender approached them. He ran his thumb and index through his mustache. Kale looked up at him and decided all that was missing was an eye-patch.
“We don’t use that kinda’ language in here, friend,” the bartender said to Kale.
Kale sucked his teeth and slammed his rocks glass down on the bar.
The bartender’s fingers rolled into his palms.
Kale lit a cigarette and cracked his neck west.
The bartender pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it away.
“Hey,” Lady spoke up. “It’s okay. I’m taking him home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” the ‘tender said. “Stay here and have a drink on the house. This piece a’ shit’ll find his way.”
“You don’t understand,” Lady said. She looked at the bartender with a stroke of seriousness. “He’s my brother.”
She helped gather Kale Shaw to his feet and the two made their way, stumbling fumbling, out of the bar together.
Outside, Hollywood Blvd was awash with lights, some of which were pink and neon green and flashing and flashing. Stereo systems ripped through the air, the bass turned up so high it made the palm trees sway.
Traffic was at a dead stop and in the sea of cars there was a cream-colored stretched limousine with the sun-roof open. A gaggle of young teenage girls stood screaming and teasing the surrounding vehicles. One girl pulled her top down. Cars honked. Men hollered. Someone took a picture.
Kale and Lady looked at each other.
“I live in the motel over there,” Kale said, pointing in the direction of The Vagabond.
“Okay,” Lady said.
“Okay,” Kale said.
“Don’t worry,” Lady said, “I’m a movie star.”
“Okay,” Kale said, and they walked off into the night.
“I said: ya’ gotta’ fuckin’ cock?”
Lady laughed. She wanted accolades for her good sportsmanship. And she couldn’t wait to get this drunk ol’ bloodhound home and make him youthful.
The bartender approached them. He ran his thumb and index through his mustache. Kale looked up at him and decided all that was missing was an eye-patch.
“We don’t use that kinda’ language in here, friend,” the bartender said to Kale.
Kale sucked his teeth and slammed his rocks glass down on the bar.
The bartender’s fingers rolled into his palms.
Kale lit a cigarette and cracked his neck west.
The bartender pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it away.
“Hey,” Lady spoke up. “It’s okay. I’m taking him home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” the ‘tender said. “Stay here and have a drink on the house. This piece a’ shit’ll find his way.”
“You don’t understand,” Lady said. She looked at the bartender with a stroke of seriousness. “He’s my brother.”
She helped gather Kale Shaw to his feet and the two made their way, stumbling fumbling, out of the bar together.
Outside, Hollywood Blvd was awash with lights, some of which were pink and neon green and flashing and flashing. Stereo systems ripped through the air, the bass turned up so high it made the palm trees sway.
Traffic was at a dead stop and in the sea of cars there was a cream-colored stretched limousine with the sun-roof open. A gaggle of young teenage girls stood screaming and teasing the surrounding vehicles. One girl pulled her top down. Cars honked. Men hollered. Someone took a picture.
Kale and Lady looked at each other.
“I live in the motel over there,” Kale said, pointing in the direction of The Vagabond.
“Okay,” Lady said.
“Okay,” Kale said.
“Don’t worry,” Lady said, “I’m a movie star.”
“Okay,” Kale said, and they walked off into the night.
for Ballsy, Mama, and Wee
Brooklyn, NY (12/22/06)
posted by Sam Ford | 11:56 PM
1 Comments:
Your diction, simile and metaphor are masterful. For example, the laugh like "the cackle of a scavenging bird." Or, "His tongue came out and he ran it across his lips like a gila monster." Fantastic. And the scene has a great rumbling underbelly, set up so subtly by "the bulge" in the parenthetical. But I must say, as a reader, I long for more story. Bring 'em home, send 'em ten years down the line. That said, you've really got a knack for the realist vignette.
Thanks for putting a link up to my stories, partner.
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