been calling you that all night.”
“I knew you were smart.” The foot had clouded over. He took a few more hits, offered her some, though he knew she was done, and stubbed it gently in the ashtray. For a dumb moment he thought about giving it to her, like a take-home prize.
“Why do you save all these papers?” She motioned to the stack of Westwords on the floor by her feet, then bent down and grabbed one off the top, started flipping through it.
“I don’t. I just haven’t dumped them. There’s a difference.”
“Rancid Audio,” she read. “Jam session blasts Bluebird.”
He didn’t know why, actually, he still had them. He’d found his apartment a couple weeks ago. It was okay, just north of Denver, in a high-rise called Meadow Acres. Utilities included, steam room, gym. Like a permanent hotel. It was furnished, which was good, because he’d left everything. Which was only fair.
“Dear Diva, My lover fell asleep during sex again. I’m starting to take it personally.”
It felt strange, after a shift, going home to unfamiliar things. The furniture was old, plaid with wood trim. There was a lot of it, but for some reason the place still looked empty. Or maybe it just felt unreal. He hadn’t told anyone that he and Steph had split up. He hadn’t told Lena.
“This is funny. I like the Westword. I think I’ve read this one. Do you ever read the personals? Do you have a girlfriend?”
What Denny wanted was to go inside. He needed the cash. It wouldn’t be so bad, to throw back a few more, to talk stats with the regulars. He could still watch the game. Things’d calm down the second half and he’d have a little time. Even if he didn’t have time, he’d watch. And anyway, what good was it to sit here? Like a loser just sitting here. A crazyman. Denny had a flash then, of his old man, at the kitchen table by the TV, over a yellow legal pad, copying Scripture in crazyman handwriting, the a’s and o’s like little squares, nothing curving, no mistakes. If Pop ever gets a job, he’d said once to his mother, we should buy a Xerox machine. And his father had given it to him for that and it’d felt good, actually, because it got his father up and out of that chair. Because for once they weren’t all of them just sitting there, waiting.
“Single straight-laced Jewish male seeks same. Naughty schoolgirl seeks dom to fill my every hole.” JJ looked off, like she was counting.
Who cared if Lena expected it? He didn’t care. And Marna, he thought, it was possible that she would come back, that she was even around here somewhere, chewing her blue gum, holding on to those few minutes of safe, of deciding—Do I go back in? There was only power in it if you did, Denny thought. If, eventually, the answer was yes.
“I almost forgot,” JJ’s voice broke in, “where I was. You know.” She put the newspaper down. “Hey. Aren’t you curious?”
“No.”
“No, listen. I was thinking. My name.”
“You’re high.”
“What it stands for. Most people ask what it stands for. Don’t you want to know?”
He shrugged. “If you need to tell me. If you have to unload or something.”
JJ licked her lips, then touched them with a finger, like she was checking they were still there. “I can’t go back in.”
“Sure you can.”
“Sure I can.” She giggled. “But look. Are my eyes red?”
“Yeah. But who cares. So are everyone’s.”
“They’re all stoned?”
“Just relax. It wears off. Christ, you only had two hits.”
“I lost track.”
Denny flipped on the radio. Found the money show where they told you the end of the world was coming in a few months. People called in about bomb shelters and stocks and gold. They gave you a number where you could turn all your savings into coins.
And what would he say if Steph finally picked up? One day, waking up, he had made the decision. I can be single again. I can be alone. You feel a certain way, then get it in your head that there’s an answer. That one big change will lead to another. And of course it does—that’s the surprise. How a bill becomes a law. How a thought becomes your life.
Denny snapped off the radio and turned to the new girl. “Well,” he said, “well, Miss Poli-science-fiction, well, JJ.”
She stared back at him, all watery-eyed, her hair in her face, like she was imagining she was beside a pool somewhere.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Time’s up.”
“Up? How?”
Denny paused. He tried to think of something to ask her, something she would know the answer to. He couldn’t think of what it was.
3.
“Pitcher of Coors,” Lena called out again.
Denny poured a pitcher of Bass, started a round for the regulars.
Thanks a fucking lot. As if it was her fault he was back there. Meanwhile, the new girl came up and took the Bass pitcher from the mat in both hands, like it was a flower pot. Christ. Lena ducked behind the bar and got her own pitcher. As it poured, she waited until Denny glanced her way, then reached above the register and tore down a page of newspaper tacked there—the article about Keith’s award. She balled it up and whipped it at Denny, hard. “Prick.”
“The bartender is a prick,” she told 19 when she gave them the pitcher. She tended to her section, falling into the mindlessness of it, taking orders, serving food. She gave wet-naps to 32 for their wings. Freshened their Sprites.
What really made her sick was this: when everything was said and done, Marna would return and it would be like nothing happened. She was down the street doing shots or toking with the alley freaks—it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. Her divorce was official—she’d made sure everyone knew it was coming by marking it on the office calendar and crossing off the days, one by one. And, sure, why should something little like a Super Bowl get in the way of Marna’s fun? She’d be back, if not in the next hour, then for her next shift, a Lucky hanging from her mouth, her hair unwashed. She’d be buzzed on something, her eyes artificially bright. Hey guys what’s up? And the regulars would be talking about it to no end—and Colleen behind Marna’s back and Keith as a joke, like it was cute. And Denny’d most likely let her have it for making him miss his goddamn game. But that would be it. Another entry for Lily’s journal. Marna wouldn’t be fired. She could torch the place and everyone would say, Oh well, it’s Marna. Business as usual.
Lena didn’t hate her. Everyone thought she did, but she didn’t. At least not before tonight she didn’t. There was a big thing for a while, when they worked Tuesday nights alone together, where people would come in just to see them argue. Later Lena found out that a couple of the regulars were making bets on who would start something first. And yeah, sure, they bickered—Lena didn’t let Marna get away with her usual lazy shit—but it was blown way out of proportion. In fact, Lena had gone over to Marna’s a few times for drinks and even had a copy of her apartment key—though that was because Marna kept locking herself out. Her space-cadet husband—ex-husband—slept through anything, and before they made the key, Marna kept crashing at Lena’s. Would get up in the middle of the night and eat all of Lena’s good food.
When Keith came to the bar for drinks, Lena said, “You should know where she snuck off to, wanna clue the rest of us in?” He didn’t react, just kept moving. You could tease Keith about almost anything, but not about his crush on Marna. Frankly, it was getting hard to take. Like that cartoon where one character