“You know, sweetheart, why haven’t we ever hooked up?” Frank said to Christy as he reached for pretzels that Art had just put upon the bar. “I mean, I take offense. I haven’t had a chance to disappoint you like all the rest.”
“Well, Frankie, I don’t think it’s so much you would disappoint. In fact, I’m almost certain you’re the good time and heartless prick you write about upon that page. And I mean, also, like, I do have some standards.”
Frank had to laugh at that one.
“Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I seen the last few victims. Wow, that Wally guy seemed like a blast. Of course, maybe he was just looking for the Beaver.”
Christy simply shook her head, looking at her always charming and seldom sober friend.
Frank and Christy had known each other for a while. They met at a signing and for some odd reason, even after shared drinks and exchanged phone numbers, had somehow remained friends—to Frank’s disappointment—without benefits.
“Whatever are you implying, darlin’?”
Christy just looked at her friend. “You can’t pull the act with me. I know how serious you were about her, you know. I mean, any woman that snags you has got to be special.”
Frank hated when people saw past the façade. He had been portraying it for so long that, sometimes, even he lost track of the real man behind the persona.
“Nurse, another round.”
The large bartender made his way over.
“Hell, Frank,” Art said as he poured yet another Beam and Coke. “You know, it’s been so long since I saw you, I almost forgot what a total prick you were.”
“Aww, did you miss me, you tubby bastard? Shit, you know I couldn’t resist coming to stare at those beautiful bitch-tits of yours. What size are those hairy melons?”
“Thirty-eight C. And if you think they’re great, you should see my cock there, Hemmingway.”
Frank and Christy both cracked up at that one.
“I will pass there, two-tons-of-fun. But if ever I’m desperate and near a truck-stop, I will look you up, sweet-cheeks. By the way, how is your part-time job going?”
“Pretty good. How’s the writer’s block? Oh yeah, read your last masterpiece.”
“Wow, I’m surprised, being it didn’t have any pictures. And you also have my sympathy. But, sorry, no refunds, asshole.”
Art just laughed. Frank put money in the tip jar as he returned his attention to his better-looking companion.
“Wow, you’re so popular,” Christy said as she took another sip from her over-priced Margarita. “It’s amazing they even serve you with how you talk to everyone.”
“You know, sweetheart, I have to admit it was a nice change of pace with Laura. Almost reminded me of my days with Susan—I mean, minus the knockdown, drag-out fights and other Hallmark shit.”
“Yeah, that Hallmark shit can be nice sometimes, huh, you old fart?”
“Hey, I’m not that old. It’s not like I can be your daddy or anything. I mean, I can if you want me to be. Hey, whatever floats your boat. I never judge. This is the circle of truth after all.”
Christy cracked up.
“You wish, you perve. God, you’re so fucked up. No wonder I like you. You’re almost as twisted as myself.”
“Yeah. So what do you say we get a room, order some room service, maybe pour a few more drinks, and do some shit even National Geographic hasn’t documented yet?”
“What, short on cash, or are all your rent-a-gal-pals booked up for the night?” Christy shot back, playing with her drink’s straw as she shot him that ever-so-devilish grin.
“Oh, you’re in the mood for some friends-with-rented-benefits? Hell, sweetheart, what’s your pleasure? How about we call up two cheerleaders and call it Sports Night? Go team!”
“Wow, and here I always had you pegged for the whole catholic schoolgirl uniform type.”
“No, sweetheart. I was more into the nuns deal, but I’ve always had a thing for chicks in habits. But it’s hard to find a costume shop that stays open twenty-four hours here on the Outer Banks. Fucking dark ages here, I tell you.”
“God, I hold sympathy for your neighbors,” Christy replied. “Hey, is that cute dog of yours still alive.”
“Yeah. I keep leaving him locked out of the house, but the bastard never gets the hint to run away.”
Christy jokingly popped Frank as they laughed and continued to share drinks as the night inevitably drew to a close.
When Christy departed, Frank remained to close the bar. He sat there, listening to music, trying not to reflect on all the shit he’d much rather forget. He hadn’t checked his phone. He didn’t want to get that bullshit notion to reach out to someone whose ship had pretty much sailed off into the horizon. But here he was, drinking in the same hotel bar where he and Laura had spent more than a few exquisite nights lying in a darkened room, the ocean’s natural music playing through the night, with her in his arms.
There was something in not maintaining the act, and something within her, that he never truly found with anybody else.
The wild hair and even wilder soul.
Sometimes, the shit we can’t fathom holding onto to begin with is fucking ironic in how it kills us just same when it departs.
“Frank, the bar’s closed, buddy. You know how it goes. You don’t have to go home, but…”
“Yeah, I fucking know, Art.”
Frank didn’t need to say anything more than that. He just walked out into the parking lot and stood there, waiting for a cab.
Heat lightning illuminated the sky and gave promise of an ever quickly approaching storm.
He thought of the bullshit that faced him in the long night ahead. Alone, as he ought to be, and how that old fart, Ernest, penned it best when he wrote:
It’s always the nights that get you.
No truer statement had ever been penned than that.
But Frank had to think it was those gentle souls, wild women, and memories of those ever-so-thick bare asses that surely would run a close second—and damn sure worth the mention as well.
Frank would return to his pages and downward spiral. He felt in his pocket, felt the box that held the ring. He quickly tossed it out into the parking lot for another sap to find and hopefully pawn.
He wished them well. What was in the cards is always uncertain, but death’s a promise and the hangovers are aplenty.
Frank was thankful for the detour from death’s steady course.
Here’s to dark waters and uncharted skies.
Frank Murphy was upon the page. Laura was upon the winds. Salt water, like tears, tastes bitter, vibrant, and sad all the same.
And thus, so in life, we have come to the chapter’s close.
John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review and Black
Shamrock Magazine. His work has been published in Schlock Magazine, San
Pedro River Review, Punk Noir Magazine, Fixator Press, Fearless
Poetry Zine, Piker Press, and The Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is always unfiltered.
Check out John's
prose-poetry collection: Death Rattle & Roll @ https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/john-patrick-robbins/death-rattle-roll/paperback/product-q46ej8.html?page=1&pageSize=4
Check out John's various
e-zines:
The Rye Whiskey Review
@ https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/
The Abyss E-zine of
Horror @ https://theabyssmag.blogspot.com/
Crossroads Literary
Magazine @ https://thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com/
Mignight Magazine @ https://midnightmagazinepoetry.blogspot.com/
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