Miss Date
By Adam Gentry
“How’s your meal?” Bill asked the customer sitting at the end of the bar.
“Mm. Good. Can I get a,” He stopped as Bill handed him the glass. “Oh, thanks.”
Bill smiled. “Anything else?”
“No. Thank you,” he added, raising his glass.
It was a good night, for a Sunday. The bar was surrounded on two sides by rowdy, cheering football fans. Bill wasn’t much for sports, but when the fans roared, it was hard not to cheer along with them. A few were getting to the bottom of their glasses. Bill grabbed a fresh pitcher, sparing a glance outside. He could see a few crisp leaves still clung to their branches. In the distance lights were softly, shining from warm homes, islands in the dark.
Cheers cut off the quiet, pulling Bill back into the bar. The call came for refills. When Bill arrived with a tray, eager hands reached for the foaming pitcher, ignoring the waters all around it, but he still set them down, just in case.
As he walked back, Bill saw an old friend stepping up to the bar. The man sank into his stool like a sack of potatoes. His hair rose up in curls and tufts, hinting at the wild winds blowing outside. The grizzle on his chin showed how little he cared.
“Hey, Scott. What can I get you?”
“Give me a shot of whiskey.”
Scott snatched the glass as soon as it was full, throwing it down in one gulp. He paused, waiting for the shudder that always came. Then he shoved the glass in Bill’s face, insistent. So Bill filled it again. Scott almost quaffed that one too, but when the glass reached his lips he stopped, sniffing it. Slowly he put the drink back down, looked up at Bill, and sighed. Bill knew exactly what this was. He’d seen it before.
“Give it time,” he said.
“Why? So I can find someone else, waste another six months of my life?” This time he did drink it, wincing again as the alcohol burned. Scott was not a good drinker. Then again, maybe he wanted to feel sick. Bill thought about saying something, but it was clear Scott was determined to be sad. So he poured him another drink and went off to check on the others.
The dinner crowd trickled out. A little later the sports fans followed, already grumbling about early mornings, but Scott just sat there, half-heartedly listening as people shuffled past, nursing this drink because he knew it was his last.
Bill was just about to lock the door when he felt a tug on the latch.
“I’m sorry b--”
“And you should be,” Christie said, gliding through the door and into his arms. “Trying to lock me out.” Her lips pouted for a second before kissing him on the cheek.
“You’re early.”
“Would you rather I was late?”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“I see that.” Her eyes looked past him. “Who’s the all-nighter?”
“Scott.”
“Single again? How many does that make?”
“I don’t keep track.”
“But I bet he does,” she said with a grin.
“No.”
“I wasn’t actually going to ask him.”
“Good. He’s pretty upset.”
“Until he finds another one.” Bill didn’t respond this time.
“Come on,” she said, leading him by the hand, “I’ll help you clean up.” They worked in silence, but Christie’s face said it all.
“Can you believe he’s asleep?” She giggled as she pointed at the form slumped over the bar.
Bill nodded with a wry grin. “He’s got talent, but his neck will hurt in the morning.” Bill gently lifted Scott’s head, slipping a pile of napkins under him. When he looked up Christie was watching, a smile on her face as her cheeks turned red. Bill stepped towards her, his hand riding up her arm; hers gliding down his neck, across his shoulder. As he felt her breath on his lips, Bill couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky he was.
Later, Scott rode out the trip in the back seat of Bill’s car, and then spent the rest of the night on Bill’s couch. “I’m sorry,” Bill whispered as Christie turned to leave, but she cut him off with a kiss. There’d be other nights.
In the morning Scott was gone. He left a small, double-sided note, thanking and apologizing to Bill, explaining and re-apologizing on the back. Reading it over, Bill couldn’t help but laugh. Scott had nothing to be sorry for.
After that Bill didn’t see much of Scott. He called once in a while, but every word Scott said was an answer to a question. Eventually Bill just stopped asking. He felt bad for Scott, but sometimes people just needed to be sad.
Leaves gave way to snow, and cold sweat as people spent their days digging out driveways, and their nights at Christmas parties. Then New Year’s came, and went, and everyone fell back into old routines. Sports fans sat along one side of the bar, backs to the wood as they watched a game. A good time to step away, grab a quick dinner, Bill thought. He’d almost slipped away when someone called his name.
“Billy!” Who was calling him? Looking around, no one seemed to be facing him. No one’s drink was getting low. “Billy!” It was coming from the front of the bar. He turned, and there was Scott, a silly smile on his face. He walked up and clapped Bill’s hand between his own, shaking like a boy on Christmas.
“Great to see you,man.”
“You too,” Bill said, prying his fingers out of Scott’s grip. “How’ve you been?”
“Great. Just great. How about you?” Scott spoke quickly, as if he was in a hurry. Every time Bill answered a question, Scott jumped in with another one. As they spoke, Bill guided Scott to a table. They talked about the holidays, seeing distant relatives. Scott spent it skiing in upstate New York with friends. Bill had driven to Maine to visit Christie’s parents.
“I’m kind of glad it’s over,” Bill said. “I mean it was fun, but now I can catch my breath.”
“So no plans this weekend?”
“Scott, I’m not going out this weekend. I just want to relax and spend some time with Christie.”
“Bring Christie along.”
“She’s not gonna wanna go to a bar.”
“This isn’t a bar. It’s a museum after dark. They bring in bands and caterers.”
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
Scott’s eyes drifted as he tried to deny it. He was so easy to read. “Her name’s Kaitlin,” he finally admitted. They met at a party on New Year’s. They started talking and ended up missing the ball drop. After that it was late brunches, long phone calls about nothing in particular. “We just…work.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, sort of. Whenever we get together, it’s always casual.”
“And this time it’s a date?”
“I don’t know. Maybe…but if you guys come--”
“It could go either way.” What Scott really wanted was to test Kaitlin. It would be so much simpler to wait and see, but he wanted an answer. He was already pretty sure. He just didn’t want to ask the question.
Bill almost said no, that he was busy, but he didn’t. Scott had a bad habit of falling in love with ideas. This time seemed different.
“All right. I’ll ask Christie.”
Christie burst out laughing when she heard about it. “Isn’t he a little old for chaperoning?”
“He just needs a little moral support.”
“So we’re there to raise morale, or to keep him moral?”
“Please?’ Bill said, giving her a kiss.
“All right.” She kissed him back. “Could be fun.”
The museum parking lot was a mess; cars barely in the entrance sat and waited while others slowly inched back out onto the street. In the end they parked half a mile away, at a closed mortuary.
As he stepped out of the car, Bill felt the chill immediately. The wind carried the cold in through his cuffs and his collar. So with a pace that bordered on brisk, Bill and Christie made their way to the museum, walking up three flights of stairs to the museum entrance.
Inside it was a different climate. The air was thick and warm, like a wool blanket against their hands and faces. People were stepping away from the ticket counter and slipping into the crowd, weaving between clusters of free standing conversation.
“All right. Now all we need to do is find Scott and--”
“Billy!”
“Found him,” Christie said as Scott squeezed past a crowded doorway, grabbing Bill’s hand before he could extend it.
“Thanks for coming. You guys look great.”
“So do you,” Christie said without a hint of sarcasm. Scott’s shirt was a deep burgundy that rippled as light shifted across it.
“Where’s Kaitlin?” Bill asked.
“Oh, right.” Scott turned and stepped back toward the doorway.
“Did he forget her?” Christie asked quietly.
Scott reached back into the crowd, almost falling in himself, and pulled out a young woman in a bright yellow dress. While Scott’s shirt drank up the light, Kaitlin’s dress glowed with it.
“Kaitlin, this is Bill and Christie. Guys, this is Kaitlin.”
“Pleasure,” she said softly, her brown curls swinging back and forth like bells.
“So,” Scott said after a quick pause, “Let’s go check out some art.”
And with those words Scott turned and plowed into the crowd, leaving the others to follow in his wake. At first it was a broken beat of darting and stopping, but over time people began peeling off, ducking into galleries and gathering around various paintings. One gallery seemed full of stern faces sitting or standing by stiff wooden chairs. Even the colors seemed muted and bleak.
“The good stuff’s upstairs,” Scott said, leading them towards the stairs. The crowd was thick around a snack table, but Scott skirted around them and headed up.
“Have you ever been here before?” Christie asked Kaitlin as they walked the steps.
“No,” Kaitlin shook her head,” I don’t come down this way very often.”
“Oh? Was it a long drive?”
She shrugged, “Maybe an hour.”
At the top they faced three archways. With barely a hesitation Scott started down the middle one, passing several pieces, sparing only a brief glance as he walked by, until he settled on a massive canvas hanging near a central column. The painting was of a tall pale figure, standing with his back to them. He stood in a brown rocky wasteland, with a crumbling city smoldering in the distance. A red ribbon fluttered loosely around his head, covering his eyes.
Slowly the others gathered around Scott, silently regarding this bleak image.
“Hmm,” Bill said, more to himself. The man, which he certainly was, seemed unusually tall and muscular. Was he really so far away from the skyscraper city? Maybe he was the one who destroyed it. But then why the blindfold?
“I like it,” Christie said.
“But what does it mean?” Scott asked.
“I think it represents the fall of man,” Kaitlin said. “How we stand tall in the face of destruction but refuse to see the truth.”
“Really? Where did you get that from?”
“The title,” she said, smiling as she pointed to a small card at the bottom, “Fall of Man”.
Christie smirked. Scott laughed. Bill wandered on to the next painting, a woman reaching up to heaven, her body slowly transforming into an airplane.
“Obviously a commentary on the loss of humanity,” Scott said in a lofty tone.
“Oh obviously,” Kaitlin agreed, smiling back at him. The title was “Steel Salvation”.
They drifted around the gallery, intently staring at an overgrown garden at sunset, laughing at a series of stick figures made with steak knives. Eventually Bill lost sight of them.
“I think we’ve been forgotten,” Bill said with a touch of injury.
“What ever shall we do?”
“Well, there’s supposed to be a band performing.”
So they walked back downstairs, following the sound of music. The room was dark, with weak lights along the wall, just enough to see a face, if you got close enough. Christie walked out onto the dance floor, turned, and wrapped her arms around Bill’s neck. He swayed from side to side, letting the two of them slowly circle around each other.
Then the song changed, a deep thrum of guitar chords leading a sharp drum beat. Couples spread out, eating up the empty space, and soon it was a whirling storm of heads bobbing and arms spread. The air churned with perfume and heat. After a few songs Christie’s head began to droop, and Bill decided they could both use a dose of night air.
On the way they passed a pair of bartenders and each bought a glass of winter fire. It smelled of spices and rum, but it was good, and cold. Cup in hand, Bill turned to go, and nearly bumped right into--
“Scott?”
“Oh, hey guys.” He smiled, sipping his own drink as he followed them outside. Kaitlin was nowhere in sight.
“So where’s Kaitlin?” Christie asked.
“Oh, well she wasn’t in the mood to dance so she decided to call it a night.”
“I’ll dance with you,” Christie said, snatching Scott’s hand and leading him toward the door. He barely had time to put his drink down before she pulled him back inside and onto the dance floor. Bill followed, at a slow pace, smiling as he watched Scott’s befuddled face disappear into the crowd.
He found them in the thick of it. Christie was hopping from side to side, waving Scott’s arms around as he sluggishly swayed back and forth. She jerked his arm, and he stumbled. She pushed him back and pulled again, until he finally began to move on his own. She let his hands go, but he kept them up, pumping his fist as he spun around.
Christie slipped away, sneaking back to Bill’s side. Bill slid his arm around her waist, resting his other hand against hers. Scott never noticed. He just kept dancing.
The End
