Bars 3.1

     I stomped up the stairs. The bar had been crowded and lively and dark. It was in the basement I think and I was leaving. As I reached the streets the two bouncers nodded at me as the third checked IDs. I’m not sure how I missed the machine that was scanning and projecting people’s faces on tv screens.

     Well fuck, there were at least three cop cars. Four, four cop cars. The street was full of people. I couldn’t see their faces but they were in dresses and pants and collars. Two officers stood right next to me. They both stood wide like statues. One held the leash of a German Shepard the other had his thumbs hooked into his bulletproof vest. I’d imagine they both had crew cuts.

     “I think she went to the City Tavern,” I said. I pointed across the street to what seemed to be another bar. There was a porch and a line of people. I stepped into the street.

     “We need to find Aidan,” my friend said. She was a girl and a friend from high school. Three of us had gone out, Erica, Will, and I. We were all friends from high school. I was moving away in a month and we had wanted to do something that got us out of our houses and intoxicated. I saw my fourth grade teacher in line and gave her a hug. She smiled at me and asked when we’d be going out again.

     Earlier that night I had a few beers and Erica picked me up. We stopped at a liquor store and then we stopped at the convenience store that Aidan was managing. Aidan had dropped out of college our freshman year. His maroon branded cap covered his pale brown coif. He was very pale and the fluorescents lights altered him. He shifted about the store and his eyes darted about quickly. I thought he had been mad at me for a week and I didn’t think we’d get very far asking him for a ride.

     “My phone’s broken. What’s up?” He said as he rang up a woman’s Coke and gum. She had a tattoo on the back of her shoulder of birds flying away. We asked him if he’d pick us up from the bars after work.

      “Sure but my phone’s broken. I can’t reach you.”

      “Well how about we meet you at the bookstore at 1 am.” There was only one bookstore in this fucking town.

     “The bookstore is a bad spot. I’ll find you.” Then he went back to stock the milk gallons.

      I had given up on the girl. She had left with her friends after all even though I had just received a text she was at The Tavern. A shimmer of dresses running up the stairs. What time was it? 1:32 am. Got to find Aidan. Will had joined us in the street. He’d been denied. Not for his ID but for wearing basketball shorts. He was short and stocky and his arms waved around when he was drunk. Erica held onto him. They mumbled something about pizza. I told them to go and that I would find our ride.

     I circled like two bars. I think it was two bars there seemed to be a division between the outside and the inside. The night was closing. The bartenders leaned on the counters and some counted singles. The people were beginning to pair. The men leaned their ears down to the dresses they were talking to. I walked back out onto the street, away from the police and the throng of post grads and grads and working people. I checked my phone out of habit. The air was warm and the skin outside my t shirt hummed. My underwear had ridden up throughout the night. I tugged at the back of my jeans and stuck my phone in my pocket. I looked up. On the street corner was Aidan. In a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. He was scanning the line for the tavern. The orange street lights warmed him his skin and the neon sign from the bar glowed green across his white t shirt. It was a pretty visible location he had chosen, there weren’t many people on that end of the street. He was comfortable alone. He stood straight almost leaning back on the heels of his boots. His shoulders were not rounded like mine

     I grabbed his elbow and we walked past the bright lights of the cop cars to find Erica.

Bedroom 2.2

     I remember the light reflecting off the wall as having a mute orange glow. Which can’t be true, I know which lamp sat on the floor next to my bed. It was a Walmart desk lamp with a cheap plastic covering and a white incandescent bulb. I had it pointed towards the wall below my double bed. I had never had a double bed before and had just gotten a thick brand new blue comforter for it.

     I sat sideways at the foot of the bed with my body pillow behind me. The walls were to cold for my exposed skin. The opposite wall was bare but for a laminated Irish Writers poster. An English teacher in high school gave it to me. She was a kind Italian woman and I hung it mainly as a joke.

     My computer created creases on the inside of my legs where the metallic edges rested. To my right was my college-issued desk. It was covered in loose papers and a novel I hadn’t touched in weeks. To my left was my roommate, leaning against my shoulder.

     The light on the wall could not have been orange but perhaps the walls were a light tan and the light was so dispersed I couldn’t tell the difference. She must’ve already taken her glasses off; I could see them on the windowsill at the head of the bed. Above them the plastic blinds were folded and cracked. My eyelids tapped together and as the edges of my vision went dark I could still see a tuft of her long blonde hair curl towards my face.

      I had asked her to leave but she was already asleep. This had been going on for weeks.

    Later that month she would storm out crying, only to return for the glasses she left on the windowsill. I had kept my eyes closed when she came back in.

     Later that life she would say hello and not much more. After my girlfriend and I broke up she became friendlier again. She would get drunk and ask me about my post graduation plans. We would talk on the path well behind our friends as we walked back from illegal swimming holes. I pray she never texts me again.

     But the night with the orange light bouncing off the wall, she stayed. I closed my laptop and placed it on top a pile of textbooks on the desk. I arranged my pillows and turned off the lamp on the floor. I could still see the room; the blue public safety light outside bounced off the snow. Cold air hovered in by my head. Those days I would often wake up sweating. One of my roommates kept turning the dial on the thermostat up. I had left Kathleen where she had curled up like a dog warming by a fire. Now she adjusted herself, turned all the way around to lay her head on my chest. She did not open her eyes. She was not wearing a bra. It was at least 2 am.

     I looked down at her. Under the light her smooth white skin was like water rolling underneath the boardwalk. I slid her hand off my chest and then slid the comforter solely onto her small bird-like shoulders. 

     I had only athletic shorts on. The hair on my chest was coming in thin and uneven. I rolled to my side and went to sleep.

Bedroom 2.1

     I remember the light reflecting off the wall as having an orange glow. Which can’t be true, I know which lamp sat on the floor next to my bed. It was a white bulb, a desk lamp with a cheap plastic covering. I had it pointed towards the wall below my double bed of which a new blue comforter stretched across.

     I sat sideways at the foot of the bed with my body pillow behind me for support. The opposite wall was bare but for a laminated Irish Writers poster my English teacher in high school gave me. She was a kind Italian woman and I hung it mainly as a joke.

     My computer created creases on the inside of my legs where the metallic edges rested. To my right was my college-issued desk. It was covered in loose papers. To my left was my roommate, leaning against my shoulder.

     The light on the wall could not have been orange but perhaps the walls were a mute tan and the light was so dispersed I could not tell the difference. My eyelids tapped together and as the edges of my vision went dark I could still see a tuft of her long blonde hair curl towards my face. She must’ve already taken her glasses off; I could see them on the windowsill at the head of the bed. The plastic blinds were broken.

      I had asked her to leave but she was already asleep. This had been going on for weeks.

    Later that month she would storm out crying, only to return for the glasses she left on the windowsill. After she left I had to laugh.

     Later that life she would say hello and not much more. After my girlfriend and I broke up she became friendlier again. She would get drunk and ask me about my post graduation plans. We would talk on the road behind our friends as we walked back from illegal swimming holes.

    The light reflected orange against the walls and I put my laptop on the desk next to me. I reached down and turned the light off. Light from the blue public safety lamp bounced off the snow and sneaked into the bedroom. The window was open a crack, I had been waking up my hair damp with sweat. 

     She was still laying there, curled up like a dog by a fireplace. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked back at her. Her pale skin turned blue in the light. It was smooth, white skin. It reminded me of the ocean water beneath the boardwalk. 

     I decided to lay down and go to sleep. I left her the comforter.

The Red Haired Girl and Her Dog 1.2

    I had never seen the girl before. I had been living in this piece-of-shit college apartment for four months and no one had ever been visible. It was the week before commencement. The circuit breaker in the apartment kept failing and I had to climb down into the basement every few hours and reset the switch. The final step of the basement stairs was just a plank of wood stacked on a pile of bricks.

     I had gotten into the habit of eating peanut butter and toast with a mug full of milk in the kitchen, standing and looking out at the backyard. That morning was particularly beautiful and I was surprisingly not hungover. Two or three houses rested behind mine in an upscale slum village in Upstate New York and when the sun set it would catch in the trees.

     It was unusually hot for May and the girl wore short blue shorts.  They were similar to the pair I wore when I went to the lake. Her thighs blared white, almost like they were over exposed. They radiated as she walked. I couldn’t quite make out her face, she was just a little to far away. At her feet padded a Jack Russell terrier. The girl approached from the north side of the lawn and I watched her from the kitchen windows. The old tin spice rack didn’t obscure my view but I had to move around the empty coffee cans to get a good look. I couldn’t tell how old she was. The dog wasn’t on a leash. She must live around here; she’d probably be about 14 or 16 then. She walked like she was older though. She moved slowly, she didn’t rush or prance.

     She made her way to the mailbox and the dog split off and walked himself over to the large sailboat my landlord must have been trying to sell. It was about 30 feet long and had a red stripe down the side. The dog lifted its leg and peed on the trailer. The girl walked with a floating tendency. Her legs stretched out across the green grass. She had curly bright red hair that bounced when she walked. She stood and flipped through the white envelopes but didn’t open any.

     I stood in the kitchen in yesterday’s athletic shorts and a large grey sweatshirt. I had purchased it at a thrift store and when my mother saw it she decided to send me some of my little brother’s old pullovers. I took a swig of milk. I looked at the kitchen, with the ants crawling across the cutting board. The wallpaper of the kitchen was peeling to reveal prettier wallpaper underneath. 

     Out the window the girl called for her dog. I don’t think she called it by name. I took a step closer but still couldn’t quite make out her face. She didn’t smile at the dog as he hustled to her. Before she could turn and go, I went back to the living room with my empty mug to finish my book.

The Red Hair Girl and Her Dog 1.1

    I had never seen the girl before. I had been living in this piece-of-shit college apartment for four months. It was the week between classes ending and commencement. The circuit breaker in the apartment kept failing and I had to climb down into the basement every few hours and reset the switch. The final step of the basement stairs was just a plank of wood stacked on a pile of bricks.

     I had gotten into the habit of eating peanut butter and toast with a mug full of milk in the kitchen, standing and looking out at the backyard. While on the inside the carpet lint gathered in the creases of the stairs, on the outside the lawn was well manicured. Two or three houses rested behind mine in an upscale slum village in Upstate New York and when the sun set it would catch in the trees.

     It was unusually hot for May and the girl wore only shorts. Her thighs blared white like an overexposed reflection in a camera. She wore short blue shorts and a plain white t shirt. At her feet padded a small white and brown dog, a Jack Russell terrier. The girl approached from the north side of the lawn and I watched her from the kitchen windows. The old tin spice rack didn’t obscure my view but I had to move around the empty coffee cans to get a good look. I couldn’t tell how old she was. The dog wasn’t on a leash. She must live around here; she’d probably be about 14 or 16 then.

     She made her way to the mailbox as the dog walked himself over to the large sailboat my landlord must have been trying to sell. It was about 30 feet long and had a red stripe down the side. The dog peed on the trailer. The girl walked with a floating tendency. Her legs stretched out across the green grass. She had curly bright red hair that bounced when she walked. Hair I’d imagine the heroine of a young adult fiction novel to have. She looked down and flipped through the white envelopes but didn’t open any.

     I stood in the kitchen in yesterday’s athletic shorts and a large grey sweatshirt. I had purchased it at a thrift store and when my mother saw it she decided to send me some of my little brother’s old pullovers. I took a swig of milk. I had a milk mustache. I looked at the kitchen, with the ants crawling across the cutting board. I had just cleaned the sink and my 25-year-old roommate had left parmesan cheese all over the cooking surfaces, a little gift to our ant friends. The wallpaper of the kitchen was peeling to reveal prettier wallpaper underneath. 

     Out the window the girl called for her dog. Before she could leave, I went back to the living room to finish my book.