A Night At The Club

Fiction by Steven Alexander

 

            It was once said that divinity is the complete pursuit of nothing.  I happen to know this for a fact simply ‘cause my Daddy used to tell me.  He’d spin his little nuggets of  wisdom during those long, hot and sticky nights in the dead of summer, while he just sat on the porch drinking whisky from a flask.  Garrulous and stoic, he liked to tell me lots of things, not many of which were particularly insightful or useful.  Considering how he never really did anything for me, just spoke lots of rhetorical nonsense, I think I turned out all right anyway.  Not much he ever spoke of stuck with me like that quote about divinity.   Nothing is more true than that.  I still believe that to this day and for twenty years, it seemed right.  I always liked to think of the life I lived as divine.  It was an aspiration that my young mind held, an ideal of life that I clung to without really knowing anything,  but that’s how youth works, anyway.  At least, that’s the only thing I can think of right now anyway, I reckon.  I guess it’s cause my mind is cluttered and I need a smoke. I don’t really know why I or anyone for that matter starts smoking, but I know why I keep doing it.  It relaxes me, and when you’re as neurotic as I am, you need every kind of relaxing agent you can get.   I fished a crumpled pack out of my pocket, and peered into the wilted soft-pack. 

“Damn,” I thought,  “only five left, and I know Horace is gonna want one.” 

I shook one out of the pack and lit it with a match.  Predictably, Horace asks me for smoke.  I smiled, and begrudgingly throw him a dried-up smoke.  He sends me back that damn grin of his and I give him a smile back.  You just can’t help yourself with Horace.  He has an easy way about him, which probably explains why we’re friends.  Everyone who knows him calls him Harry.  People like that All-American brevity things with names.  I’d even call him ‘race sometimes.  Whatever.  But he’s always Horace to me.  All I can tell you is that never in my life will I ever forget Horace McManus.  I used to idolize Horace when I was younger, but there comes a time when your idols become blazingly human right before your very eyes.   I could pinpoint that moment when my life kinda turned around, to use a cliché, and I finally saw Horace in a way that I’ve never seen him before.  I saw him as a fallible man, not just the smooth operator I always thought he was. 

 

So, it was a decent summer day with beautiful blue skies and a few clouds, and like normal, we were sitting on a log, down near the old train tracks, right next to Richmond Creek.  The water felt good; cool under my toes as I waded in.  Horace just sat on the log, smoking and smiling.  Even in the hot July heat, Horace still maintained his cool.

            “Let’s go,” he finally says.

            “Allons-y!” I reply.

            Now, jumping into a boxcar is pretty easy for Horace.  He’s lithe and nimble.  I’m big and clumsy, but of good spirit, I guess.  I, of course,  stumble getting into the car.  He doesn’t even take the cigarette out of his mouth as he calmly alights into the train.  I finally haul myself into the rustic old car, huffing and puffing.

            “Well, finally, Clumsy.  You made it!  Good job!” he remarks with a small laugh.

            I smirk at him and he grins right back.  He can have his prowess.  It makes him feel better and lord knows Horace could use the soul bolstering.   He was raised pretty poor,  just outside of town in an old house.  It’s been in his family forever but it’s in pretty shoddy repair.  His father is a traveling dictionary salesman.  It may sound like a destitute man’s job, but he makes good money.  He just spends it on booze and hookers.  Horace, however, is just a good guy.  Well-read and versed in formal and casual customs, so it’s a lot of fun to go places with him.  His savvy and charm are needed to balance my wit and disdain.  But he doesn’t notice; he’s pretty humble about himself.  That’s fine, because if he did, he wouldn’t be Horace.

            Horace ambled around the boxcar, checking it all out as the train rumbled to life, and slowly ambled down the tracks.  He finally sat in the corner of the car, and resumed smoking his cigarette.  I glanced around, taking in the sights.  The boxcar was beat up, like most railcars.  Still, it was relativly new and made of fragrant wood, not like the newer cars made of steel that seemed to infiltrate the yards these days.  It doesn’t take long for the wear of the rail to infiltrate the wood, though.  It was filled with hay bales, making the stereotype complete.  I loved it, clichés and all.    I took a gander around and noticed we weren’t alone in the car.  There was a girl and guy sitting over on the other side of the railcar.  I elbowed Horace, and he looked over as well.   We nodded in cordial fashion at the couple.  Horace smiled.  The girl immediately seemed to blush.  How the hell does he do it?

            Horace continued to grin, then turned back around to face me.  I was sitting on the edge of the doorway, hanging my feet out of the door, as if I was trying to graze the pebble ridden ground below the tracks.  Horace took a seat next to me, and slapped my thigh as he plopped down. 

“Jimmy,” Horace inquired with a playful tone, “let’s say, to us, on this fine summer day, that we just say `Fuck it All Horace!’  And we live like kings of the boxcars! Ride the rails till the country sets sail?”

            “Horace, that’s our credo, man,” I replied, playfully.

            “I know, I know, brother, but, lemme ask you honestly, son: can you dig it, ya know?”

            “I always do.”

            “Right on, Brother!” he exclaimed with zest.

            “Always,” I breathed.

            Horace slapped his knee and grinned to himself.  He fished an old cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with his Zippo.

            “Damn, Jimmy.  We’re gonna have some fun tonight, ain’t we?” asked Horace.

            “Shore are, Horace,” I said calmly.

            “Well then, I’m glad I got you to jump IN the train this time.”

            “Hey, you’ll never let me live down the one time I fucked up, will you?”

            “I would, if it wasn’t so damn funny!”

            “Right, right.”

            “Aw, bro – come on!  What else are we gonna do for each other?  I’m here, as my job, as my vocation, to provide you with entertainment and self-examination and expression!  Come on, Jimmy!  Can you dig?”

            “Yeah, yeah, Horace.  You know you’re a wind bag, right?”

            “Yeah, yeah, buddy.”

            “So, we ride up, and on to the Bay?”

            “Hell yeah, catch the sights and some good music?”

            “That’s the plan right?”

            “Right on, can you dig?”

            “Of course!”

            “ I can dig, too boys,” came a soft voice from behind us.

            From the other side of the boxcar, she sauntered into our view like a soft summer breeze.  Wearing a black sundress with red flowers all over it, Her black hair and brown eyes held our gazes in captivity.  She glided over and sat down with us.  She smiled, and deftly pulled out a silver cigarette case.  With a small, fluid snap, she pulled out a cigarette.  I reached for my matches.  Horace’s Zippo was quicker than I.  She lit, inhaled and nodded a gesture of thanks and then spoke.

            “Hello!  I’m Viola, boys.  Nice to meet you.”

            “I’m Horace and this is Jimmy.  Pleased to meetcha.” Horace piped.

            “Nice to meetcha, boys.  So what’s goin on? Where are y’all headed?”

            “Not much, “ I said. “Just heading on down to Kendeson’s Bay.”

            “Cool.  Me and Jake…” she started.

            “Jake’s that drink of water standing over there, right?” Horace interrupted.

            We all craned out necks to the guy standing over by the hay bales.  Tall and pockmarked, his greasy black hair hung low over his eyes.  His clothes belied the usual train jumpers uniform – they were mostly clean.  He glared at us while he puffed on a cigarette.  I was waiting for the embers that callously fell from the tip of his smoke to light the hay, but it never happened.  He just glared venomously at us, and especially Horace.  It made me a little stiff, but Horace still maintained that exuberance he always had.  Even Viola looked non-chalant about Jake.

“Yeah, that’s Jake.  We’re headed for Vicksburg.”

“Nice town.  A lot of hip people.”  I said.

            “Yeah, I guess.  It’s Jake’s choice this time.  He’s never hopped a train before.”

“Really?  I mean, I couldn’t tell by his fancy clothes!” I said sarcastically.

“He’s not that bad.  He just needs more experience,” she retorted strongly.

“Right,” said Horace, “and a change of lifestyle, for sure.”

“Whatever,” she replied, “Who cares?”

            “Right.  Anyway, that’s too bad, really.  We’re gonna go to the Royal in Kendeson’s tonight.  Jackie Parceour is playing there, “ I said.

            “Yeah, I mean, it’s really gonna jive tonight, baby!” said Horace with a smile.

            “Seriously?  Right? That’s Parceour’s only performance up this way, ain’t it?” she asked.

            “Yeah,” said a surprised Horace, “It’s gonna smoke.”

            “I should go,” said Viola.

            Horace looked at me.  I stared him right back in the eyes.  We were both impressed with her knowledge of such things as Jackie Parceour.  We were going to have so much fun tonight.  Maybe more, now, though.

            “Lemme go talk to Jake, okay?” she said hesitantly.

            She got up and walked back over to Jake, who still stared into the air with a sense of malice.   Those kind of guys always are with these kinds of girls.  She spoke in hushed tones, while he looked pissed.  He really looked way too normal to be riding trains.  He looked like his biggest worry was that he might stain his precious college sweater.  What a douche-bag.

            “Man.  She seems cool,” said Horace whispered to me.

            “Not bad, I said.  She seems to like decent music,” I interjected.

            “We all know that is a mark of quality,” he said with a grin.

            I smiled and punched him in the shoulder, playfully.  We glanced back over, where Jake seemed livid.  He paced in an agitated circle around the car screaming unintelligible words.  I assumed I didn’t understand him because he was just below my IQ level.  Viola later told me he was from Germany originally, and he swore in German when he was pissed.  I laughed.  Suddenly, Jake swiftly pounced upon Viola, all while still screaming at her.  In an instant, Horace was moving faster than I had ever seen him before.  He managed to pull the guy off her, and spun him around to confront him.   He looked like he was almost crying.  Horace sheepishly looked the guy, and shrugged – he didn’t expect this response.   So, Horace just  asked him if he was “okay?” Jake responded with a sad, yet disdainful grunt.  Horace let him go and Jake responded by punching him in the gut.  Now I don’t like seeing my friends getting tossed around by strangers, so I ran into Jake, head down and arms braced, with full strength.  I slammed into him hard, and he kind of lost his balance.  He teetered and fell over.  I laughed at my less-than-graceful maneuver, but he suddenly began to roll on the floor.  He rolled and then rolled right out the door of the boxcar.  My jaw dropped and I looked up at Horace and Viola.  We all ran in disbelief to the edge of the car.  He had fallen off the car into the stream running parallel to the tracks.  From his wet perch in the stream, he shook his drenched hands at us and cursed, in German, of course.  I looked at my companions and suddenly, we all just laughed.  When Viola told us he was German, Horace laughed and asked what he screamed before he jumped on her.

 

            I awoke with a jostle and I pulled out my weathered notebook and began to write.  The sounds of Horace and Viola’s conversation gave way to curiously savage breathing, which I was all-too familiar with.  I did spend all my time with Horace.  I pushed the pencil harder to the paper to try harder to try and ignore the sounds of their groping and kissing. But even my writing dwelled on them, even if I tried to write about it indirectly.  It was so typical of Horace to meet a girl and be in her pants in five minutes.  Personally, I don’t see what’s so important about that.  Why is sex so important?  I couldn’t answer that.  I couldn’t answer why I was jealous, either.  I didn’t matter.  Is it some kind of condition where you’re supposed to feel jealous, because it’s desirable to have a wanton effect on the opposite sex’s sexual morals? Was I jealous that Horace made women desire him? I guess it’s just a male thing to desire the ability to charm every member of the opposite sex.  I have other interests such as music and writing.  They sustained my needs and my soul just fine.  I tried to reason things like that to myself, yet I was still always a little jealous.  Even such intelligent men, like I believed myself to be, could fall prey to jealousy that springs from desire, a weak human emotion.

 Their panting built to an odd climax, and although they were trying to be quiet, the rough animalistic sounds they produced hit my ears like an out of tune string quartet.  Soon I smelled the familiar smell of smoke.  I smiled, relived that I didn’t have to deal with it anymore.  At least Horace was happy with himself.  Viola seemed cool too, even if she just fooled around with my friend after throwing her old lover off of a train.  It was weird, but I had seen stranger things.  Horace and I had been around.  Now I just tried to remember that we were going to see some good music in a good town, with a strange woman. 

            “Hey, man.  How’s it goin?” asked Horace as he walked back over to, galloping non-chalantly.

            “Oh, just fine!  I think I’ve really hit a good nerve with this latest piece.  I think it’s some of my finest writing ever,” I said.

            “Really?  What’s the hullabaloo on this one, eh? Jimmy the great!”

            “It’s titled ‘How to get Laid in a Boxcar Using Only One Word,” I joked.

            Horace laughed and said, “Fuck you, man!  Ha!  You’re just jealous, right?”

            I chuckled and shook my head.  We were about to continue our ribald conversation when from behind us, she spoke.

            “Look, Mr. Curious, it wasn’t anything he said or did that made me want him.  I just happened to like his ass, you analytical snob,” she affirmed, “It’s pretty much that simple.”

            Horace shot me a look of incredulity, and I stared back, mystified.  We both stared deeply at her for a moment, and she gazed right back at us.  Horace even stared with a quizzical look, as if he had been deeply wounded.  I mean, insult a man’s charm and you reap the profits of a sad grown man.  It was intense for a moment and then we all just cracked up.  I knew it was gonna be all right.  She was just as crass as us and cool to boot.  We were starting something, the three of us.  We were on a road leading down the path that many of the other great ones had taken.  We weren’t doing anything new, but everything old is new again, right?  Horace was the king of cool and even Viola knew it the moment she met him.  She gave him the ultimate approval of your own cool.  She had hooked up with him, right?  Isn’t that the original seal of approval?  Or maybe she was just so cool, she let him touch her.  Maybe she was the queen of cool, and Horace was lucky to touch her.  Maybe I was being a little to analytical about why people get together.  Never mattered this much to me when a girl gave it up to me.  Maybe my ability as a long-term lover suffered because I only though this hard on other people’s love life’s.  High powered artistic expression and perception is hardest when pointed at the source.

            So we all sat, rode and smoked and talked for the rest of the trip.  Viola said she was from Freemansville and that she was twenty, too.  She talked about all the places she had been to, and people she met.  She was well traveled, and she described her travels in a quiet and loving way.  She was obviously riding on the wind, for she was as lofty as it.  She had a romanticism in her speech that intoxicated me.  Her smile could disarm anyone and I noticed during her conversation, how charming she really was.  She probably got anything she ever wanted from men.  With a pleading, cute-as-pie voice, or a come-hither stare she probably got by in this world.  I wondered why, then, she chose to hang with us.  We didn’t have much to give except for a gift for gab.  I hoped that she was a rare breed, who valued the gifting of thought more than money.  Then I remembered why she had said she was with Jake.  I was about to get cynical, and burst into a tirade, denouncing her and her so-called romanticism, but I couldn’t shake a deep feeling of hope for this girl.  I somehow knew she was of good nature.  I bit my lip and just listened, conflicted.

            The train rolled on slowly, grinding into the day that was fast becoming dusk.  The purple and red hue of the sky still intrigued me and I stared at until it was almost black as coal, with diamonds poking holes in it’s firmament.  Horace and Viola had gone off to do something again (God knows what), and so I still just stared at the sky, listening to their husky noises.  I looked at them once, briefly out of curiosity, and it was odd.  Viola was staring right at me while Horace was kissing her neck.  I was a little disturbed, but I shook it off and keep watching the sky.  I could still feel her eyes on me though, all throughout their little session.  Oh, how warm it could be.  I was moved and shaken.  Thankfully, I felt the wheels begin to grind as the brakes whined to life.

 We were rolling into the Kendeson Bay Yards.  The yards in Kendeson’s were the biggest in the state.  Crisscrossing like a beaver damn, rows and rows of tracks were laid across the landscape as we pulled in.  I could see rows and rows of other trains, some carrying cargo, and some old passenger trains.  I kept a lookout for railroad men who might be perturbed at our presence.  I yelled to Horace and Viola, who finally stopped inhaling each other.  When the train stopped we all hopped off and headed down towards the center of town, anxious to hear the glorious music that was about to fill our senses.  Walking down the tracks, guided by the early evening moonlight,  Viola grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear.

            “Thank you for sharing a real moment with me back there”, she breathed into my eardrum, and punctuated it with a small kiss on my neck. 

            I nodded demurely and kept walking.  I was weak and I was going to lose my soul to this woman, I knew that. I did not care, however.

 

            So we made it into Kendeson’s Bay just after dark.   The musky night air felt good in my lungs and the smells of barbeques and cafés filled my olfactory senses.  This was always a fun town.  Horace and I had come here plenty of times before, mostly to go to the Regal Hall Club; they always had the best musicians playing there.  Tonight was no exception; tonight was Jackie Parceour’s turn.  He could shake a room to its knees with his thundering boogie and soul-jazz-blues.  Tonight seemed funny though; a weird mood hung low over the night.  I just attributed it to the weird way we ran into our new companion, who was walking arm in arm with a beaming Horace.  We snuck out of the train yard and began to walk through a yard adjacent to the tracks.  We passed the house that stood like a lode stone in the front yard, and walked up towards the road.  The old man on the porch waved to us as we jostled past.  We smiled and waved back; his name was Bob Pritchett.  I knew this because once he tried to shoot Horace and me about three years ago when we were cutting through to go to another show in town.  We screamed like girls and I fainted.  When I came to, Horace and he were standing over me, laughing and drinking some whisky.  Horace had made us a friend.  Bob was a hip cat, and a wise old curmudgeon.  He always thought people were gonna mess with him.  He trusted Horace and I though.  That was weird, but typical of ole’ friendly Horace.  Making friends wherever he goes.

            We waved to Bob and  stopped by for a minute.  After exchanging pleasantries, and a few swigs of whiskey, we told him about the show.  He mumbled something about “being too old for that shit” and he told us to stop by afterwards because he’d still be getting shitfaced.  We laughed, said our goodbyes and walked on.  I noticed Bob, who was usually too drunk to notice if even a woman was sitting on his face,  taking an eyeful of Viola’s tender little swaggle.   I smiled to myself as I mused the blatant power of her natural sexual charisma.  We walked a bit further up, till we were in the main part of town.

Kendeson’s Bay was a classic little town, like you’d seen in paintings or something.  Towns like this are just legend now.  I couldn’t ask for anything more picturesque.  Main Street was a small strip, but it was lit up with a lot of Neon.  It looked like a small Vegas.  There were always people walking around too.  In the center of the strip was the Old Paramount Theatre; you could see quality older movies there and such.  I thought the projectionist like to throw on a midnite showing of “Deep Throat” but we could never sneak into those secret shows.  The Kendeson Drug Store was next door to the theatre.  It had an old-fashioned soda counter, complete with the soda jerk who had probably been there since Creation and to boot, the place was open 24-7.  They had booths too, so coffee and food were available after the bars closed, making it a hot spot for after hours drunken fun.   The pawnshop down the street had the hippest neon sign in town, by far.  It was twenty feet long and every color that the neon rainbow offered to you.  It read “Weembley’s Consignment” in a bright Art Deco style font.  It was a work of art, truly.  I didn’t know the history behind the sign, but someone must have loved that place enough to make a sign like that for a pawn-shop. Underneath the neon sign was a hand-painted sign for the illiterate morons of the town that read “Pawn Shop”. I’d been in there a couple times, and I loved that store.  You could always find boss stuff within it’s junk wares.  Outside, the streetlights on the strip were dandy looking too;  they were designed like the gaslights of 19^th century London.  The wrought iron craftsmanship of them cast a subtle glow over the town that gave it such atmosphere.   This was a cool, hip town in the middle of fields for grazing cows.  This was our Eden, our getaway.

 Now, there were only three good clubs in town, and only two of them were bars.  The Regal Club and the Underwood were the only decent bars and music halls.  The Tadpole Tralf was a cheesy coffee house, but sometimes they had good bands.  When we would grace by the establishment, Horace would sneak in a bottle of rum and spike his coffee, get rowdy and get kicked out by “Mama” Larney, who owned the place.   The Underwood was smaller than the Regal, but it seemed to have some weird bohemian integrity that the others didn’t.  The people who played there were always hip, but never too pompous or sellouts.  It was rare to find little holes of integrity these days.

            After grazing down the block and looking around town a bit,  we continued on into the blue night and down towards the club.  It was going to be a spectacular time.  I always liked good live music, and looked forward to seeing the show.  I was distracted, though.  I couldn’t stop noticing the woman who now accompanied us.  Usually, music captivated my soul, but now my thoughts drifted toViola.  I knew I would lose it all for her.  I knew the path, and would willingly walked to my destruction, at the hands of a woman, despite the reasonable pleas that my rational mind would make to me.  I knew in my mind too, that she never really would mean to instill destruction, she was just herself, but curse me, I was not like Horace there.  I couldn’t blow people off, and not worry of what I had done or shake it off if I was hurt.  I had feelings, and emotions that crippled me when they didn’t work out.     I couldn’t be strong, because I was afraid of losing control.  Or more.  Horace just felt things differently too.  Now women, they talk shit.  They say they want men with feelings like I suppose I have, but they always go for guys like Horace – the exciting ones, who make empty promises and ignore most tender things.  It’s because women are just different; they are the supreme liar, motivator, mother, whore, slut and goddess all in one.  And we gladly revel in the destruction they give us; we’ll freely accept that fate.  I wish I knew why, I mused.  She was Satan, and I was following.  The ebb of music became a distant calling drum when I looked at her skin and I felt a pulse rise in my pants.  I melted like the presumptuous fool I was.  I put such thoughts out of my mind, regained composure, and we walked on.  I was silent and they began to notice.

            “Jimmy-boy, “ started Horace, “You’re pretty quiet!”

            “Uh, yeah, I’m just thinking about the show.” I replied.

            She looked at me with that look that only women can give men.  You know, the look when they know that you’re not telling the complete truth, and that in their feminine powers of telepathy, they know exactly what is wrong with you, but they want to hear it from your mouth.

            “Sure, Jim.  It is going to be a good show, huh?” she asked.

            “Sure is, Viola.  Sure is,” I said in a low voice.

            “Well, just loosen up a bit.  You seem tense.”

            “I’m always strung.”

            “He is.  He needs to loosen up, eh?” intoned Horace.

            I frowned.  I hated it when he had to really dig at me.

            “Don’t worry, Jim,” said Viola, “It’s gonna be okay.”

I smiled and nodded.  We continued on down the road till we reached the Regal Music Hall.  Actually, it was an old fire barn that had been converted to a music hall.  Someone had the sense to put a grand looking marquee on the front as well, making the building look a little less antique-country.   The giant marquee had “JACKIE PARCOEUR” emblazoned in red on the front.  I smiled at Horace and Viola, and we walked clumsily inside.  Inside the front door, Mitch, the doorman, greeted us with enthusiasm.  Mitch was a huge man, probably about six-foot-four and close to 400lbs.  He had a smile as wide as Texas, and a heart to match it.  He offered his hands to us, and we shook them with enthusiasm.

“Well, if it isn’t the vagabonds from Kingsville?  Hoppin’ trains, still, boys? And, lo! Who is this lovely woman accompanying these rouges?  She is way too fine to be with you assholes.”

Viola looked him in the eye as she took his hand and said, “I’m Viola and they are with me.”

She stared him in the eyes with a steely glance.  He made a slight face, then a smile crossed his giant visage.

“Damn, boys! She’s a live one!  Well, get on in, Jesus! Jackie’s about to go on…”

She smiled and shook herself in.  Horace grinned and followed, while I shuffled

into the club languidly.   Mitch watched her every wiggle as she walked in.  I smiled and laughed to myself.

 

He wandered off to the bathroom, and I stood, alone, with Viola.  Suddenly, I was nervous again.  She looked at me with those piercing eyes and that smirk.  She pulled out a cigarette from her case, and slowly lit it.  I tried to look around, at the stage, or the dissipating crowd; anywhere but in her eyes.  It didn’t matter; I couldn’t look away.

“Jimmy, let me ask you something,” she said.

I stared, but my closed throat offered no auditory answer.

“Why do you care so much about Horace’s business?”

“Well, “ I stammered, “I don’t know.”

“Good answer.  Sounds like advice given from Zeus himself, really.  For someone who seems so educated, you don’t have a lot of solid answers, do you?”

“Uh,” I stumbled out.

“It’s okay, Jimbo.  ‘I don’t know’ has been the creed for man for thousands of years.  I’ll tell you why, though: truth is, on some level, you are jealous of what he has and what you do not.”

I tried to form an intelligent protest in my mind, but she cut loose again, stopping the flow of my thoughts.

“It’s okay to be jealous, I suppose, it’s an easy emotional tendency, but it is a weakness of character, because in that jealousy, you lose what is most important and loveable about yourself.”

I shook at her words.  They rang true in my ear, but I found myself spitting out the venomous defense.

“Oh yeah?  Then what is so loveable about me?”

She smiled and took a drag of her cigarette.  She moved in closer, and came within inches of me.  Her eyes met mine, and for once I didn’t back down.

“Everything.  Everything about you is able to be loved, and loved well.  Your eyes tell a story of a man who is capable of anything, but it held back by his fears and apprehensions.  I saw it when I looked at you.  You are a man of infinite possibility, but you selfishly hide behind your insecurities.”

I stared at her, soaking in her words and realizing at the time she was totally right.  My brain began to shift, wondering how I could actually apply her knowledge to my neurotic mind.

“And furthermore, Horace is a good guy.  He’s nice and funny, but he’s also easy and fun in the moment.  I have fun with him and there’s nothing wrong with fun.  You’re not like that.  Horace is….. simple, I suppose. Uncomplicated.  Choosing ‘simple’ is easy, see.”

I stared her right in the eyes and said, “So why go easy?”

“Because worthwhile ‘causes’ like you always end up buried in their fear and neurosis.   I can’t deal with it anymore.  When guys like you finally become men, they are the greatest people to be with.  But until you let it go, you’ll be miserable, and place blame on women like me, because you’re afraid.  I like you, Jimmy, probably better than Horace.  But in a situation like ours today, I couldn’t choose you because you couldn’t deal with it.”

I stared, hard – crestfallen at the floor.  My body relaxed as I felt the response form in my brain and flush towards my vocal chords.

“You’re right,” I said plainly.

“I know,” she responded firmly.

I smiled and laughed a tiny chuckle.  She did too.  I looked at her angelic face, a face I considered the mask of a demon once.  Her smile was genuine.  I leaned in carefully, swallowing my fears and gently kissed her lips.  She flexed hers to mine, and supported my lips with a supple kiss.  It was small and honest.  I took my lips away, and looked at her.

“Thanks, really.  For all I think I know, I can see I don’t.”

“It’s okay.  Nobody’s perfect.”

“Letting go is hard.”

“But it makes your life better.  Trust me,” she said, and looked my in the eye.

 “I suppose we should actually be friends.  I think I could learn a lot from you,” I said, hopefully.

“Me too.  I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship,” she chimed.

She grabbed my notebook deftly, and scribbled something in the corner of the front page.

I took it back and looked at it. 

            “That’s my address and my phone number.  Promise to keep in touch, Jimbo,” she said with a smile.

            “I will.  I promise – I swear,” was my reply.

            She hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek.  After releasing me, she quickly turned around, and  ran out of the club, obviously avoiding Horace again.  I stood, awed by the honestly and depth of the conversation I just had.  She had really touched me, in a way that she didn’t with Horace.  She gave me more than a sticky fumbling in the corner of a railcar, and maybe I had to see the worth in that.  She had reached me, through my cynicism.  I smiled, and turned around to find Horace.

            Horace was up by the bathrooms, leaning against the wall and talking to a little blonde co-ed.  She smiled, and her curly hair hung in child-like ringlets around her chubby face.  She laughed at most of what Horace said as he flashed his smile.  I walked up next to him.

            “Hey! Jimbo!  What’s happening?  This is Kari!” he exclaimed.

            The blonde giggled and shook my hand.

            “Harry tells me you’re a writer, huh?” she asked in a bubbly voice.

            “Uh, yeah, yes I am.”  I replied.

            “Oh, neat-o!” she exclaimed.

            Horace grinned at me.

            “Hey, where’d…. uh, ya know, go?” he asked signaling the spot where Viola had been.

            “Took off,” I said easily.

            “Eh, too bad.  Neat girl.  Anyway, I’m gonna catch breakfast at the pharmacy with Kari.  You wanna come?”

            “Nah.  I’m gonna ride home and do some writing, I think.”

            “Okay, man.  Woow!  Helluva show, too huh?  Well, buddy, see ya later.  Get home safe, okay?”

            “I will.”

            I shook his hand, and left him there talking to the girl.  I walked on through the pleasant town, which was darker now that the businesses had shut off their lights.  I shuffled by Bob’s house; he was passed out drunk on the porch, effervescent smile still locked on his weathered face.  I smiled to myself as I thought of the crazy day that changed my life.  Horace would always remain the same, but I had the potential to grow.  I decided to use that potential from now on.  I realized, finally, that Horace was Horace, and I was myself; I needed to worry more about what I had and who I was, than what he was.  We were all human, stuck together on this merry-go-round called life.  Horace was just a man, capable of the same mistakes I was.  I needed to stop worrying, and start living. 

            I rode home silently on an empty box car, writing in my notebook.  The moon lit my pages and guided my pen as I scribbled notes about the evening.  As I turned the pages, I swore I could still smell Viola’s perfume, incensed between the tattered pages of my notebook.   I smiled, and kept writing.Hhh