Rochester, New York
December, 1996
Wendy and Peter wait patiently for me at the Penfield Tavern. They each nurse a long-neck Corona as they share subliminal messages with passers-by. A thought crosses Peter’s mind and spreads through the bar. It gently rocks the happy-hour crowd like a light breeze over a wheat field. A blonde woman with the blue spiked heels stretches out on a satin couch; a snake slinks slowly around her neck and between her breasts. She’s reading Kafka through winged sunglasses studded with jewels.
“My numerous legs wave helplessly before my eyes,” she misquotes while playing tongue games with the snake.
Her couch is set on a polished marble pedestal in the midst of the circular bar, but no one seems to notice. Everyone behind the bar nimbly avoids her while shuttling drinks to anxious customers. Waiters and waitresses alike ignore her completely. Peter stands up on a stool and straps on a black mask. He dives over the bar, does a summersault in mid flight, and lands at the foot of the pedestal.
“K., you have come at last,” the blond woman says. “Bring me a Manhattan. With a cherry. A large cherry.”
Peter grabs the drink from a passing waitress. He casually tosses it over the bodies of the woman and the snake. Their forms mingle and vanish in an explosion of green smoke. The pedestal crumbles leaving a mess behind the bar which is quickly and quietly swept up by one of the waiters.
“I just had the wildest idea,” says Peter.
Wendy takes a long drag off her Camel filter. “You must have, the way you were studying that blonde.”
“I was wondering if she'd ever read The Metamorphosis.”
“What on earth made you think of that?”
“Don’t know. It was just a thought.”
Wendy makes a sour face through a thick haze of smoke. “Some thought. Very Kafkaesque.” She centers her purse on the bar and after a few moments of patient searching, finds a tube of lip gloss, a small compact mirror and a hair scrunchy. She pulls her shoulder-length hair back into a pony tail and refreshes her lips in layers of shocking red gloss, the color no doubt intended to contrast her auburn hair and direct attention away from what she considers an altogether too pronounced, aquiline nose.
Peter watches the ritual with some interest, changes the subject. “So where’s Bacon?”
Wendy makes small adjustments to fit of her business suite, which clings tenaciously to her Rubenesque figure. “I don’t know. Late meeting I think,” she says. She finishes her Corona, carelessly tosses the empty bottle on the bar and looks anxiously around for a bartender.
“Excuse me.” She barks over the crowd noise and waves excitedly at the nearest bartender. He stands with his back at the crowd, intently rinsing out beer mugs.
“Excuse me. Hello!” she says again, louder with more wasted hand waving. “I’d like to order a drink here if you don’t…”
The man spins around before she can finish. Placing two large hands wide apart in front of her, he leans forward until inches away from her face. “Yes, may I help you?” he says in a voice somewhere between a growl and a purr.
His sudden appearance, like some dark angel, leaves her breathless. She looks into his dark eyes, follows the sharp contours of his face and the effortless flow of his shoulder-length hair, waiting to hear his voice. He leans closer still; she feels his breath hot on her face.
“I know what it is you want,” he says, breathing every word. “You want a tall Coors draft.”
Wendy thinks a moment. Her waiter waits silently. She watches the delicate part between his lips, hoping for more. Finally, and with an exhausting effort she says, “Light, a Coors Light. Yes please.”
“Of course,” he whispers. Without taking his eyes off her, the man centers a frosted pilsner glass under the tap nearest Wendy and draws a tall draft beer. Foam overflows over the top of the mug down his hand. He slides the glass in front of Wendy who takes it as if handling a consecrated Host. Their hands touch briefly and she notices his ring—a large, square onyx flanked like altar boys by tiny, glowing rubies.
“God, your ring is so beautiful,” she says looking into his piercing, black eyes.
Wendy stares into the frothing orb now growing and overflowing her glass. Peter glances over, puzzled at the copious amount of foam spilling over the bar, and now running onto the floor. Still, Wendy stares into the ever-growing head, studying each bubble as a universe of its own. She wipes away a small tear and looks at the bartender. He produces a string of pearls and places them around Wendy’s neck. She sets her drink down on the bar and clutches the pearls, holding them to her heart. The foam rises in great waves from her drink and soon sweeps across the entire bar and floor. Annoyed customers kick the stuff away, but generally go about their business. Her bartender spreads his arms wide and in that space there appears a vignette of floating worlds and tireless lovers chasing them.
“Try to imagine that there is the but a single moment in your life. Now—nothing before, and nothing after. No past and no future. Can you see it in that way?” Wendy nods. “Good! Then ask yourself, ‘what would I do now?’ Do you know the answer?”
He turns away, pulls a small rag from under the counter, and carefully wipes up the excess foam from Wendy’s beer.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says. “Put this on your tab?” The spell suddenly broken, it takes her a moment to understand the question.
“Yeah, sure,” she says. He nods then turns to other customers at the other end of the bar.
Peter looks askance at Wendy. “I saw the way you looked at that bartender.”
“He was cute,” she says much too loudly. “Nice ass, so sue me!”
I slide down the sheet of ice that was once Interstate 490 and into the Penfield Tavern parking lot some thirty minutes late. The Friday night happy-hour crowd and towering snow banks forces me to park my mini-van down the street, but at last I run the gauntlet of raised drinks and find Peter and Wendy zealously guarding their bar-stools like nervous cats over a fresh kill. Peter gives me a slap on the shoulder; Wendy a small hug and friendly kiss on the cheek.
“Well it’s about damn time!” she says in her phony scolding voice. “Buy me a drink.” I pull my wallet from my pants pocket, realizing in mid-pull that I forgot to stop at the ATM and have nothing but a week-old grocery store receipt.
This won’t buy jack, and so holding up the receipt as evidence, I announce, “Well this won’t buy much!”
Peter looks puzzled. “Let me get this straight. You came out for a drink and didn’t bring any cash.”
His tone catches me off guard, but before I can respond Wendy adds, “Like that’s a surprise. When was the last time that happened. Could it be… last week?”
“And the week before that,” adds Peter.
“And the week before that!” snaps Wendy.
I feel a small wave of panic. “Look guys, what’s the problem? I have plastic. I’ll start a tab.” And no sooner do I pull out a slightly worn Master Card does Peter tear it unceremoniously from my hand, and after a casual glance announce in a loud voice, “Expired, June 1993.” He flings it across the room.
“I have others,” I say anxiously producing a Visa.
Wendy grabs it, “March 1992. Expired!” and tosses it carelessly aside.
As I pull other cards from my wallet, Wendy or Peter grab it from my hand, announce the expiration date and shout “Expired.” Gradually the other patrons join in, echoing the “Expired” mantra in a sort of drunken chorus. Soon there is a small mountain of impotent plastic at my feet and a hostile crowd surrounding me. As they continue the “expired” chant, the hostess works her way through the crowd dragging along a matching pair of fleshy bouncers.
“What seems to be the problem folks,” she asks. The bouncers menacingly rub their fists in my direction in an attempt at intimidation that works.
Some stranger in a suite answers. “He’s broke,” he says waving a finger at me. “Nice way to treat your friends.”
Everyone in my immediate vicinity chimes in, “Yeah.” Some idiot tosses a beer bottle in my direction, just missing my head.
The hostess looks to Peter or Wendy for an explanation.
“This true?” she asks.
Wendy looks away in disgust; Peter nods. The hostess nods back and pushes me into the arms of the bouncers. With Peter and Wendy following, they bulldoze their way through the cheering crowd, out the door and throw me roughly into a snow drift. I cut my lip open on a chunk of ice. Looking up, I see Peter and Wendy turn away and return to the bar. I shake my head in disbelief and listen as the laughter and noise gradually fade away and there is nothing but quiet.
The parking lot, once overflowing, is empty and deserted; the building is in ruins—the once proud neon Penfield Tavern sign lies crippled and broken. The snow melts away, yet all around me there is no sign of life. Even the grass and trees appear lifeless and gray. There’s no sun overhead, only a vague, murky glow punctuated by an occasional flash of lightning and distant, rolling thunder. I stand up and brush the dust off. Feeling my lip, I find that it’s healed.
“Where the hell am I?” I say out loud. The words sound lifeless, foreign, as if I were talking through a rubber hose.
And I can’t remember how I happened to be here or even where “here” is. I decide to explore the deserted building for clues when I sense the presence of someone behind me. Spinning around, I am surprised to see a young woman.
Her face is punctuated by frozen, black lips, and her clothes, tattered and tight around her body, seem lifeless like everything else around me. She seems familiar somehow but she doesn’t seem to recognize me. Around her neck is a strand of pearls. They reflect the dim light and add the only trace of life and beauty in this dark place. She stares at the building, and at me.
“God, this was once so beautiful,” she says while caressing her string of pearls. “They were a present from a long time ago,” she says with a hint of melancholy. “I made a choice then.”
“What choice was that?” I ask.
She looks around her as if I were invisible.
“I’m right here,” I say louder, moving towards her.
“No. No, not here. Not now!” she says in a panic. She drops the string of pearls in the dirt, and runs back into the building. I pick them up and carefully tuck them away in my pocket.
I run after her into the building to the sound of a distant thunder. The inside is littered with the ruins of an earlier time. In the middle of what was once a circular bar stands a broken marble pedestal about three feet high and several feet wide. On top is a black velvet couch encrusted with lichen and mold. An inscription at the base of the pedestal reads, “Memories of the Future. Visions of the Past.” The ‘P’ is chipped away entirely. I run my hands over the inscription in a futile effort of acquiring some tactile knowledge of the strange message. Outside the thunder grows nearer and the flashes of lightning more frequent. A dry wind sweeps through the vacant building, kicking up clouds of dust.
The building growls in protest as the wind picks up, so I decide to leave before the storm breaks and the place collapses around me. As I near the exit, a great flash of lightning and ear-shattering clap of thunder lights a figure standing in the doorway. He stands weaving in the wind, drooling and grinning like a madman, holding plastic credit cards in his each hand, waving them in some sort of bizarre fan-dance, chopping the air overhead.
The man starts toward me, waving his arms in quirky, insect-like motions. His eyes, yellow and swollen flit about tracing the motions of some invisible, deranged ghost. A quick jerk of his head and he centers his gaze on me. And through the madness I remember—Peter and Wendy.
“Jesus Christ Peter,” I say still backing away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong?” he laughs. “Why no. I have plenty of time! Really! I’ll start the tab!”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll start the tab.” Peter takes out his wallet, pulls out a gold American Express card and hands it to the bartender. “You got it last week. Remember?”
“You didn’t bring any cash that time either,” Wendy adds.
“Don’t believe in the stuff. Okay man, your treat. Wendy gets it next week.”
“In your dreams,” she says.
While we wait for Peter to catch the attention of overworked bar staff, I notice the pearl necklace that Wendy is wearing. A glint of light catches one of the pearls and darts across my face, into my eyes.
“God, they’re beautiful,” I say. “Where did you get them?”
“Oh, they were a gift,” she says with a smile. |