Story in progress. Hey! I may be 'done', done enough to end it! July 7, 2023. I'm still tinkering but, the basic story's done!

"Broken Places Bar & Grille" copyright June 13, 2023 by Gary E. Andrews.

1. Ernest Hemingway said something.
He said,
"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places."

Well, here I am, third day in a row, three o'clock in the afternoon, perched on a bar stool at the Broken Places Bar & Grille.

I feel useless, used up. June 30, 2023. I slough off that... idea. It's easy to... get... down. I've been... having those... existential... thoughts, I guess, for... a while. You... you start to wonder what your life's about... sometimes. You don't always figure it out. Sometimes you just figure out a little bit of something, and have to push, psychologically, beyond that... that time, that... moment in life. I've learned not to take it too seriously. When I was about twelve I was depressed. I had the presence of mind to wonder why. I kind of... walked through my life, family, friends, school, free time in the woods and by the river, and decided there was no reason for it, that it was 'just a thing', and it would pass. I felt immediately relieved of it! That fascinated me. I still get down, and with good reason. Life can be... oppressive... unsatisfying at times, and you can find reasons... justifications for... being down, so you find reasons to... let it pass. So... anyway...

Two job interviews this morning, had two more this afternoon. No promises. Still, I should have gone on home and just... did something.

One more interview tomorrow, Saturday. I could make some phone calls, set up some interviews for next week.

But... aw hell! It's Friday. I might as well... I might as well...

Might as well what? Three o'clock. I ain't startin' out a Friday night of partying... am I? ... at three o'clock? I look down at my clothes. I guess I could. I dressed for the job I want, carpenter, better clothes than I would actually wear to work, jeans, pullover shirt, newer work boots.

But... here I am, at the Broken Places Bar & Grille no less. Ain't nobody ever in this place, day or night that I've seen, but workin' men who don't want to go home yet. A guy I worked with, the foreman, brought me here for lunch early Wednesday, like eleven o'clock, which I knew was weird, but, ya do what the boss wants to do. He told me all about their Angus burger and tomato soup on the way over. The more he talked the more I wondered at what a marvelous place this must be. Laugh out loud! Wa'nt nobody here but us two, at first. Some more people came in as we were leaving. She fries up a mean Angus burger, monster! Big ol' patty, slice of Vidalia onion, mustard. He had a fishtail sandwich that looked good too.

Then, as we were leaving, we're out on the big wide sidewalk walking back to the truck, and I'm thinking about why the sidewalk's sixteen feet wide all down this side of the block, and he tells me we're getting laid off. Suddenly, the world's problems move down the list below mine. I'm getting laid off.

Not him, but me and two other guys. The job we're finishing up, well, he and a couple men can finish it up. And the company doesn't have another one for us to go to. So much for a recovering economy. It's... uneven. Some sectors, some cities go up while others go down. Economies are always in transition. I just happen to be working for a company going down. When we got back to the job site he told me to clock out. Payday's Friday of next week.

I remember feeling sick, having eaten that big ol' burger, and coffee. I never drink coffee. I read somewhere that caffeine leaches minerals out of you. And you're already mineral deficient because plants can't 'make' minerals; they have to find them in the ground. After harvesting roots and leaves and fruits and vegetables away from the same piece of ground for a hundred years we've depleted the mineral content. So... anyway... That's who's sittin' on this bar stool today. And yesterday. And the day before, when the world ended.

He had to park down the block so we're walking by all these vacant buildings, and that... yeah that probably figured into my depression. Big wide sidewalks, a good sixteen feet wide, like maybe at one time there were a lot of people walking here, and all these stores were... somebody's entrepreneurial venture, hope, optimism, positive they could make a living here, and did... for a while. Now... me and empty buildings, dreams dried up and blown away in the noonday wind.

I'm gonna finish this beer and...

What the hell!?

Something just slammed into the front door! Big ol' kawhump!

Bar maid's headin' down behind the bar with a goddamned shotgun! I don't know where she got it from but it sure didn't take her long!

She steps out from behind the bar down there by the door, comes out kinda sideways, gun up, and she's leanin' and peepin' out that diamond window in the door where the white sunlight glares in!

"I'll... be... damned!" she says.

Uh oh! Uh oh! What? What?

What the hell? She didn't say it like she's surprised; more sort of... slow, word by word, disgusted, 'I'll... be... damned!".

I'm about fourteen stools from the front door. I's watchin' that pretty girl on the news. I don't have tv at home. I pick up my change, pick up my beer, move back to the hallway that goes out past the restrooms, the women's restroom, marked 'Ladies', anyway. The door at the back end of the hall says 'Gents' but when you open it you're out in a foyer on the alley! I found that out yesterday. She, the barmaid, didn't tell me. Austin, Texas, 2023! If ya go out the front door you can see the State Capitol building down south in the distance.

She's opening the door... just a little... It opens in. It ain't supposed to. Supposed to open out, so folks don't get trapped inside if the place catches fire.

I'm backin' up into the hallway a couple more steps. Gettin' out into the alley seems like my best option. And then run like hell! That door... back door... opens out into a small space and then the alley. We're about in the middle of the block so running left or right will probably work for me! I'm watchin' the action at the front door, thinkin' about the back door, distracted by the tv turning it over to the other blonde girl for the weather.

She pulls it in, open wide. The glare of the afternoon sun fills the dark room with a hazy light.

There... on the ground... in the little... entrance foyer there... is a rumpled bit of clothing... and some blonde hair... short cut...

It moves!

The barmaid puts her right foot under the torso, flips the body up off its belly onto its left side.... a... military maneuver... rolling over a body in the field. I see boobs. It's a woman! Now I'm really scared.

The barmaid steps in, to the other side of the doorway, back against the door, passes the gun to her left hand, turns to look back at me, gestures back across her body with her right for me to come there! The shotgun's angled down at the floor. I start slowly in that direction, quicken my pace as she gestures more urgently.

"Set 'tis gun on 'na bar!" she commands, swings it up to point at the ceiling! "Don't touch a' triggers!" she commands. She hands it to me pointing up. I do it!

I take the gun, beer still in my right hand, barrels across my right wrist, my left hand on the stock, nowhere near the triggers, try not to touch my fingerprint pads on it anywhere, set it gently lengthwise on the bar. I have to let go my beer, set it on the bar, to use both hands to lay the gun down, free that hand to slide out from under the barrels. I look back at her, waiting to see what's next.

"Help me pick 'iss up!" she says, bending to take hold of the limp mass at her feet, not 'this woman' but 'this'.

'...pick 'iss' up? This? What... is... this?

"I cain't lift 'er!" she says. "My back won't take it. Can you get 'er?"

Get her? Do we have to 'get' her. Isn't this where you call 9-1-1 and let law enforcement and medical type people 'get' her?

She steps back across the doorway, turns with her back to the door jamb. "Put 'er in 'at second booth." She points with her eyes and left hand. She twists back into the room, points at the... body... with her right arm. I glance at the booth, back at... the... the body.

I haven't moved. I don't know if we should...

"Com 'on Candy!" she commands, and I move. I step out. I straddle the body. She's dirty... side of her face... her arms. Her facial expression is tormented, frowning brow, lips tight, then open, then tight again, murmuring, emotional.

Laying against the wall of the entrance space is a bicycle. The girl's right foot is up on the sprocket. I pick the bike up with my left hand, push it so her foot falls down, off, push it out on the sidewalk, kickstand down, turn back to the girl. Her skirt is up in the back. She's wearing black bicycle shorts under it. Cars are going by. My truck's across the street. I think about makin' a run for it!

I step back in across the threshold, turn, roll her by her shoulder onto her back, and lift her by her shoulders, her torso, to sit up. Her legs flop over, cross at the ankles, to accommodate what I'm doing with her upper body. I run my arms up to my elbows under her armpits. I smell her sweat, mixed with... What is that? ...strawberry something. She doesn't stink like a homeless person, unwashed for weeks; just... sweat.

Eww! A little... vomity breath. Eww!

She's saying something. I don't know what.

I lift her to her feet, but she's got no legs under her. She doesn't weigh much. I just drag her back and over to the booth. I turn to my right, try to sit her down in the seat. Her damned forehead hits the the table! Ouch! [naughty word removed]! Sorry kid!

I roll her onto her back, use her legs to push her head closer to the wall. It bumps! Sorry kid! About half her calves stick out beyond the seat.

I stand up, step back. The room darkens a bit. I look to see the barmaid go out. The room lightens again. I look back at the kid. The room darkens again as she comes back in with the bike, seems real dark again as she closes the door. I take another step back.

Place stinks of stale beer. I'm breathing heavy, not so much from exertion... kid don't weigh nothin'... but... wondering if we shouldn't be callin' an ambulance, the police, instead of... draggin' 'er in like this.

Kid's layin' there in the dark now, mumbling something. Barmaid's gone behind the counter, put her shotgun somewhere. I go back and get my beer. Stand there, watching Andrea go down behind the bar to the kitchen, little, narrow kitchen in the back. I'm lookin' over at the kid. I'm callin' her a kid, but she's grown. Her gray skirt's twisted tight around tanned, shapely legs, high-top tennis shoes, slim waist, flat belly. I see her navel... boobs under a pullover shirt. Grown.

Barmaid's comin' 'round the other end of the bar now with a couple bar towels. I see drops of water falling out of one, light reflect off the drops in a trail on the floor.

"Sit 'er up for me!" she says. I come closer, tilt my bottle up and empty it, set it on the table. I reach and take hold of the kid by both hands, pull her up to a sitting position, kinda catch her from falling forward, my right hand on her chest. I lean across the end of the table, bump it, knock over my empty, put my left arm around her neck, hold her up there. Her head lolls, her eyes open unevenly, look at me, independently. She murmurs... something, sounds like, 'My Mom...', smiles. Vomity breath! I lean back, find a position where I can keep her sitting up without being... too close. I reach and spin her legs off the seat to under the table. She brings her arms up, crosses them on the table top to support herself.

"Candy," barmaid says to me, "Meet my daughter, Carryin' On Caryanne!"

I see the resemblance now. Andrea, the barmaid, and I have talked some since I've been coming... landing here the past two days. I came back Thursday after Wednesday's layoff lunch. Had the fishtail. I've looked into her face like I'm lookin' into the kid's face now. Yep. Her mother's daughter.

Andrea begins to dab at the face, around the mouth; looks like peanut butter and jelly, kinda dried up. She keeps dabbing, a gentle hand. Carryin' On Caryanne's face begins to relax, the torment fades, stops murmuring, says it more clearly, "Mom", a pretty face, tan, blonde eyebrows, short, curly blonde hair. I... don't mind... being this close.

"Momma," the kid says, or almost says, slurs like, "Monna, I'm hun'ry."

"I'm gonna get 'cha some chicken noodle soup, baby," Andrea says, keeps dabbing. I don't say nothin' for a long while, just watch the pretty come out from under the dirt. Andrea dabs, murmuring, "Damned kid!" every so often. She washes the girl's neck, her throat I mean, her chest where a couple unbuttoned buttons in her pullover shirt exposes it, where I've held her up with my hand. She dabs with the dry towel.
"Lay 'er back," Andrea says. I take hold of her left hand with my right, slide my left hand from her shoulder down her right arm, take her hand, lay her back. She tenses, kind of lays back under her own power. She starts bringing her legs up to stretch out off the seat again. I assist

"Go behind the bar," Andrea says. "Gitcherself another beer if you want. Can you open a can of soup and warm it up on the stove back in the kitchen?"

"Yes ma'am," I tell her. I'm... at her service now... and wondering why. That impulse to run for the truck is still in me.

I don't want another beer. I pick up my empty, walk away, glancing back, see her washing the girl's hands. I follow the drip trail to the kitchen, reach into the trash can to drop the empty bottle from a short distance. I hate the sound of bottles crashing into bottles in the trash, especially when I'm playing guitar and singing. Wait-staff in bars are indifferent to the frequent noise. I see cans of soup on a shelf, just two-by-fours nailed between the studs of the unfinished wall, the one that makes the hallway that runs by the Ladies to the back door. It's all painted white in here, studs and sheetrock, sheetrock on the hallway side, studs, 2X4 'shelves' here inside. Andrea's purse is hanging on a ten-penny nail, up high. No chicken noodle; tomato, cream of mushroom, bean with bacon. I look around for a can opener, find one, a pot, find one, turn on the electric burner. I open a can of tomato soup, dump in the soup, one big glob. I see a water filter on the faucet in the sink, run a bit of water through it into the can, swirl it, pour it into the pot, put it back on the burner, adjust the heat. Spoon, stir. Can in the trash; 'clink'.

I step to the doorway. All I can see is Andrea's head and shoulders, still there, kneeling by the booth. I go back. Watch the pot begin to steam a little, stir it.

What a day, a day at the Broken Places Bar & Grille.

Last edited by Gary E. Andrews; 10/14/24 04:27 AM.
There will always be another song to be written. Someone will write it. Why not you? www.garyeandrews.com