Karzan scrawled a diagonal slash through Thursday with the ugly orange highlighter, zipped his old suitcase as far as it would zip, walked to the DIY carwash.
No place to stash his suitcase really, but once he finished his shift refilling soap dispensers and emptying trash he was going straight to the parole office and his ankle monitor was coming off.No way in hell was he going back to that halfway house with its twelve-step meetings and overcooked squares of mystery fish in batter thicker than the cover of a dictionary.
He had never been to Detroit before they transferred him to the “transitional living facility “ out of Ionia.
Fuck, he hadn’t even known he was in Michigan when he stabbed the guy, thought he was still in Ohio.
When his PO recited him the release lecture, quoted the recidivism stats, gave him glossy folders of mental health and employment resources the guy might as well have been a radio in the corner of the office giving the stock market report. Karzan was done with the system.
Time to find a bar.
The first one he walked into was Irish, it had potential, but among the firefighters whose battalion emblems were on the wall were off-duty cops and at least one of ‘em noticed Karzan finished two beers in less than a minute.
Karzan had no clue where he was, an old flip phone he didn’t really know how to use, and a bad temper that was like a starving dog on a chain of three rusty links.
He walked west, least he thought it was west based on the sun, past a black beauty supply place, a defunct gas station with big metal used clothing receptacles, and gang tags that looked Arabic.
Dust blew in his eye, which made him flinch left, which made him walk left. South? He wasn’t sure.
He had a hundred and thirty-seven dollars to drink before he woke up and tried to get a job as a fabricator or MIG welder, stuff he was good at but hadn’t done or even thought of in twelve years, six months, and three days.
A storefront church was on his right, such a shithole it didn’t look like it had a soup kitchen. He wasn’t above a free meal, praise the Lord, to save more money to drink. He had missed his beer and well tequila. Couldn’t drink bourbon, much as he loved it, it weakened the chain.
Looked up and saw a big bridge. Was that the one that went to Canada? He had never been to Canada. Karzan knew the economy was different. Maybe he could get more beer for his American money in Canada. Did they let pedestrians across the bridge? He wasn’t sure, but it was worth exploring.
It felt good to have a goal.
He started daydreaming about Canada, a new life, a different life, until he was nearly under a pale blue sign with red neon AR. The B was out. The peeling pale blue paint on the bricks said Darts... Fo d…Liquo... ncing.
Dancing? Whatever.
He made a hard right through the door, the same sickly pale blue.
The bartender was a brunette, skinny, looked like she was gorgeous three decades and ten thousand cartons of Pall Malls ago.
Her bangs curled severely on her forehead like they were gonna yank her painted-on eyebrows right off her face.
Karzan ordered a beer and one for the only other patron, an older black dude who was wearing two coats on a day that called for none.
Bartender looked at Karzan’s ratty suitcase with a bit of contempt. Karzan realized he would have done the same. Not like they were anywhere near an airport.
Behind her, next to the register, was a large glass jar of hot pink pickled eggs.
Karzan ordered a double tequila to go with his beer and three pickled eggs.
Black guy’s name was Harvard, he didn’t talk much.
Bartender’s name was Pam, and her pistol was tucked into her jeans, just to the left of a sun-faded tattoo that said Jerome in Olde English letters.
Probably her old man, Karzan thought.
Maybe her son.
Maybe the nickname of the pistol.
Nobody she knew of was hiring.
The Lions sucked, would always suck, maybe the Tigers would be good this year.
No, she had never been to Youngstown where Karzan was from.
Would he like another pickled egg? She made them herself, most people got Papa’s Pizza delivered instead.
Karzan was feeling the fourth tequila and the fifth pickled egg.
“Bathroom back there?” Karzan pointed to where the bathrooms in all bars like this were.
Pam nodded.
“Sugar, if it’s a number two, use the employee one in the basement. The one up here don’t flush real good.”
Karzan nodded, and followed Pam’s finger to the stairs next to the ice machine.
A one toilet closet was to the left at the bottom of the stairs.
A ping pong table was in the middle of a larger room. On the wall were a green chalkboard and an old Stroh’s menu board. In little black plastic letters, it said. “You know the Rules”.
When Karzan returned, he had a marker for another beer, courtesy of Harvard.
“ I don’t like owing anybody nothin,” Harvard said.
Karzan thought it was a strange way of saying thank you. He slammed his existing beer and pushed the upside-down shot glass in the well to cash in his next.
“Why ping pong?” he said to Pam. “Why not pool? And what are ‘the rules’?”
Pam made a face, like a smile she thought better of. Karzan noticed a line of pale blonde hairs above her lip.
“We don’t fight here. About nothin’. If there’s a argument, dispute, difference of opinion,’bout anything, you got two choices: You go down and play table tennis to 11, gotta win by two, or you leave and never come back. And we’re the only decent bar for miles. Winner of table tennis wins the argument, even if they’re wrong. And then errybody lets it go.”
“Does it work?” Karzan asked.
“Pretty much, “ Pam said. “The club owns the bar, not too many people in this neighborhood wanna fuck around.”
Pam smiled for real and Harvard laughed from somewhere deep in his gut.
Karzan didn’t ask which club. He thought about it, but it wouldn’t make much of a difference.
He ordered a tequila for himself and one for Harvard.
Harvard turned it down.
“I done told you, I don’t like owing anybody anything.”
Karzan snorted. “Ok, old man, I’m just tryin’ to be nice.”
“I’ll take his,” Karzan said to Pam, though she hadn’t bothered to pour a second one.
Pam poured another shot and put it next to the first one. She gave Karzan a lingering look, but Karzan was looking down, starting to breathe in the realization that he was free, that he could do what he wanted, that he didn’t have to report, didn’t have that damn thing on his ankle.
He was smiling, feeling strong, feeling right. He had to ask Pam if it cost money to walk across the bridge to Canada. But first…
“Harvard, why you have such a problem with owing people something?”
***
Karzan felt the drool on his face first, went to wipe it off but couldn’t.
He was handcuffed.
If he was handcuffed he was still in the back of the squad car. He opened his eyes, but his eyes hurt and he couldn’t see much.
He knew how to get the cop’s attention.
Eyes still closed, he curled his legs into himself, rocked back, and kicked forward, aiming for the plexiglass barrier between the backseat of the cruiser and the cops.
His legs flailed wildly, barely brushing something that made a squeaking sound.
Within seconds a light came on.
Karzan blinked, looking to the left of the light, saw shadows, movement. People?
He was not in a cop car.
His eyes began to adjust.
“Hey.”
It was a female voice.
A shadow leaned in and became a face.
The bartender woman. Pam.
“Hey, hey, Tarzan.”
Pam was holding the pistol in his face. Not threatening him, just letting him know it was there.
He turned to see that he was handcuffed to a pipe in the basement of the bar. The handcuffs were looped through the handle of his suitcase, but the contents of the suitcase were emptied on the dusty gray floor. His clothes were in a haphazard pile, but the folders with the mental health resources were stacked neatly to his left.
“I’m gonna unhandcuff you. You’re damned lucky that Termite and Zip and a few of the boys have been there. The good news is that you’re alive. And you’re really a great table tennis player, even when you’re twelve sheets from Tuesday. And Harvard says no hard feelings. But Christ on a Cracker are you an asshole, and you can never come back.”
It was the picked eggs. Not the ten drinks (5 rounds, right?).
I got a tear in my eye over that there story. Beautifully done...