Aphrodite A Hucks Place Story

--This is another story in my cycle of stories centering on a group of friends and the bar they frequent over the years. The stories, put together, are a mosaic of their lives and experiences from the late Seventies to the 2000s.

Although the stories don't necessarily have the same narrators and protagonists, and are not necessarily told in chronological order, this story does serve as a followup to my story "I Want to Dance With You Forever," sharing the same narrator and taking place three years later (although it isn't necessary to read the previous story to understand this one.)

I agonized a little about what category to put it in; although there is no hardcore stuff in here it seemed just a little too sex-oriented to be placed in "Non-Erotic," and I decided that "Romance" could just as easily mean the end of one.--

APHRODITE: A HUCK'S PLACE STORY

By

Richard Wark

February, 1984

What the fuck. You know?

Here it is, one of those balmy February days, the warmest February day, they said earlier on the radio, in the last ten years. It's one of those days that prick-teases you into thinking maybe winter is over, even though you know damn well next week it'll be back to ten degrees again and the streets will be covered with the ice from the snow that melted this week. But, just like when you're being prick-teased, it doesn't really matter right now -- you're enjoying the pleasure of the moment.

A wet, warm wind is coming in from the south, turning snowdrifts into puddles; if you look hard enough, you can see wisps of steam coming from the water-covered streets and sidewalks.

I've spent the whole day at work looking out the open window, letting the damp breeze drift in, thinking, hell, the winter wasn't that bad after all and this summer, this summer, I'm going to finally do all the things I put off last summer: get the yard together, fix the cracks in the concrete porch, put up the few pieces of siding that are sitting, lonely and forgotten, along the side of the house -- Lynn and I rent the place pretty cheaply and the landlord deducts any repairs I make, so I could pretty much live there free for the next few months if I do that much. Lynn has been on my ass to get things done lately, anyway, so I'm sure she'll be happy.

I sneak out of work a little early -- today is a testing day and the students have been gone since noon -- and drive home in a good mood, the windows open and rock music blasting into the air around me, cruising home like it was years ago and I was still in high school, with the weekend coming and the next two days at my disposal.

I circle the block an extra time to hear the end of Bruce's "Thunder Road." Finally I pull up to the curb in front of the small white frame house we've been renting for the past year.

As I step down the flagstone walkway that runs from the street through our deep front yard to the house, I'm thinking that maybe it would be a good day to yank out the grill, scrub it down, and invite the guys to a barbecue tonight; after all, it's Friday, right, and nobody has to work tomorrow, so why not get a little crazy?

Springsteen is still echoing in my brain ("You ain't a beauty but aaaayyy you're all right...") as I open the door to see Lynn sitting there on the couch, beer in hand, two empties on the table next to me, staring at me hard with that bloodshot, all-eyeballs look she gets when she gets angry, drunk, and -- I don't know -- really angry. I freeze in my tracks and let the door slam behind me.

"Any beer left?" It's not like levity is going to work, but I try it anyway.

"Fuck you." She puts the beer down noisily and picks up a pack of Newports from the floor in front of her. Next to her on the couch is a black garbage bag filled with her clothes.

I don't move from my place in front of the door. "Do I get to know what I did or do I have to guess at it again?"

"Shut the hell up." She lights her cigarette with a three-inch flame from her lighter and tries to inhale half of it with one long breath.

She isn't always like this, you know.

I move slowly, cautiously, across the room, not wanting to do anything to set her off again, and click off the soap opera that is silently flickering on the T.V. Then I step into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I consider grabbing the beer that I've been looking forward to all afternoon but decide that under the circumstances it would be wiser to settle for a Pepsi. When I get back into the living room the television is back on but the sound is still turned down.

"I was watching that," she says dryly.

"Okay."

We both pretend to watch for a while, me sipping my soda, Lynn alternating between her beer and her cigarettes, every now and then running her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair in a quick, jerking motion; it's a habit she has when she is angry.

I try to replay the last few weeks in my mind. I can't think of anything I've done to piss her off like this. The last month has been pretty good -- things have seemed a lot more solid these days, I guess, considering. Valentine's Day was last week -- Tuesday - and there was nothing wrong with that. We had dinner downtown, went to Huck's, got royally drunk, came home, made love -- you know, all those great Valentine's Day things. Last November, I thought, was finally put to rest.

The only time we weren't together this week was when I was at work and the one night --Tuesday? Wednesday? -- I met up with Mike and Chris at Huck's.

"So, what happened Wednesday?" she says, without looking at me.

"Hm? Wednesday?"

"Wednesday night. When you weren't here."

I look across at her and can see that she is trying to bore holes into my heart with her eyes. Or maybe she's using some sort of brain power to try to make my head explode. "I was with-"

"I know who you were with," she snaps. "She called today."

"What? Who called?"

She leans forward and a breast flops out of her halter. For some reason, at this point, the sight is not erotic.

"Your little girlfriend called -- Sherry or Sandy or whatever the fuck. She said something about Wednesday and asked if you were going to be around tonight. What'd you tell her, you lived with your mother or something? I mean, I don't know who the hell she figured I was." She stands up slowly, pops Lefty back in place, throws her cigarettes into the bag, and gathers it up at the top. "Since you obviously have plans for the night, I'm going to get out of your way."

"Hold on!" I'm tempted to jump up out of my seat, but the desire ebbs quickly and I just stay put.

She whirls around and almost stumbles. "I thought I could trust you. I thought --"

Her whole body shudders and she just explodes with "God Damn it!" in a voice loud enough to be heard by several satellites. She reaches for the half-full beer can and whips it at my head. I duck just in time and can hear it whizzing like a bullet past my ear and exploding on the wall behind me.

She pulls the bag closer to her and shoves her way through the door. I listen as she guns her mufferless green Impala and screeches out into the street.

I don't move until there is silence, which in her case means the car is about a block and a half away. Then I turn, click the T. V. off, pick up the empty beer and Pepsi cans, bring them to the wastebasket in the kitchen, and dampen a rag.

While I wipe the beer stain off the wall, I begin to wonder: who the hell is Sherry?

I go back to the kitchen, throw the wet, beer-smelling rag into the sink with a loud plop, return to the living room, and stretch out on the couch.

# # # # #

Whenever something stresses me out -- if something really bad happens or I'm overwhelmed by shit like work or bills, or if I'm just plain aggravated, I sleep. And that's what I'm doing when the phone rings about two hours later. I snap up into a sitting position and look around the darkened room, wondering what time it is, whether it's early morning or night, what day it is, and just where the hell I am. The phone rings again and everything comes back to me. I'd rather be sleeping.

Any hope that it might be Lynn calling to apologize is dashed when I hear Chris's voice on the line. "Dan?"

"That would be me."

He hesitates for a moment. "Did I wake you up?"

I move the receiver to my left hand so I can open the refrigerator door with my right and grab one of the two remaining cans of Old Style. This morning, I'm pretty sure, there were twelve. "More or less."

"Had another fight with Lynn?"

"Lynn who?" I pop open the can and take my first sip of the evening.

"I figured. Lit told me she was on the phone with Laurie all afternoon. He didn't know what it was all about but she was calling you just about every name in the book."

I go to the back window, the one that opens out right onto the alley -- what yard I have is all in the front -- and let the still-warm breeze into the house. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it."

"Suuuurrrree."

"No, really." I set the beer down and look out into the alley. Kids tend to sit behind my house and drink, talk, make out, whatever, because it's out of sight of the other houses and I really don't complain. There's nobody there right now, though. "So what are we doing tonight?" Stupid question, since I know the answer.

"Heading up to Huck's, I guess. Probably just you, me, and Lit."

I take another swig from the can. "That's all? Where's everybody else?"

"They've all got lives these days. Need a lift?"

The fogginess from my nap finally lifts and I stretch with a loud grunt. "No. I think I can make it all by myself. I'll see you in about an hour."

"Sounds good. Dan-"

"Yeah"

"I'm sorry about Lynn."

"Yeah, I know. You said Lit was going to be up there, right?"

"Yep. Just the three of us."

After a quick, muffled goodbye, I hang up the phone and finally turn on the kitchen light. There's a plastic bag with yesterday's spaghetti in the freezer and I plop the contents into a pot and put it on the stove over a low flame. Then I head back to the living room, switch on the lamp, turn on the T. V., and doze off again for a few minutes until the smell of burning pasta wakes me up.

The food is overcooked but I wolf it down anyway, figuring that if I'm planning on drinking tonight -- and I sure as hell am -- I'd better get my stomach full. I finish about ten minutes into a made-for-T.V. movie about a woman who discovers her husband has been cheating on enough beautiful young women to fill a small town and decides to get back at him by sleeping with all of their husbands. I turn the set off, put the dish in the sink, throw the now-empty beer can into the garbage, and head into the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, showered, dressed, and about as refreshed as I'm going to be, I step across the lawn to my car, the last can of beer in my hand. The evening seems to be even more warm and humid than the day was and I can feel the perspiration on my forehead and arms already. With Lynn gone, for however long, I feel strangely lighter, as if I am forgetting a coat or something. Something is just off kilter.

As I put the key into the door, I hear girlish voices off to the right. Jenny, the teenager who lives next door to me, is sitting on the curb in front of her house with one of her friends -- I think her name is Trudy or something old-timey like that. They must be talking about sex or drugs or rock and roll because they become silent when they notice me glancing at them.

Jenny, petite, redhaired, and all of eighteen, looks up at me sheepishly. She is wearing excruciatingly tiny shorts and I can't help letting my eyes rest on her outstretched legs a little longer than I should. I can see her blush under the streetlight.

"Hi, Mr. Rigors," she says in a tiny voice. I smile at her and wave as I get into the car and pop open the beer. Even from my students, I still find it a little strange to be called Mister anything. I shut the door, turn the key, take a long draught from the can -- I'm feeling a little badass all of a sudden -- and try to peel out into the street.

# # # # #

"So you think you guys are done for good this time?"

Chris and I are sitting in our usual stools at Huck's, at the end of the U-shaped bar farthest away from the double wooden doors. Chuck, the owner and sole bartender, is a few spaces away, on the other side of the bar, hunched over in conversation with some chesty red-headed girl I've never seen before but who seems very excited about the idea that she is finally old enough to drink. Rack up another one, I guess, for the old guy.

Directly across from us is Denny Manners, sitting where he usually sits, drinking Old Style out of a can with an occasional break for a shot of Jack Daniel's. Every now and then he mutters "Fuck!", slams the bar with his fist, looks around to see if anybody has noticed him, and goes back to his beer.

Chuck turns to him, shouts "Shut the fuck up, asshole!" like an actor reciting his lines without much enthusiasm, and goes back to his conversation. Man at work.

I tap Chris's arm and point. "Look at this guy."" Chuck's prowress at picking up far younger girls is legendary around the bar. "I swear I want to be a bartender in my next life."

Chris's question is still hanging over us like a dark cloud. I finally answer his question. "Yeah, it probably is. Permanent."

"That's what you said last time."

"Things are different. That was before the whole Ray thing."

"I know." Chris lights a cigarette. I wave my hand in disgust. He shrugs and breathes the smoke in my direction.

I stare across the bar to the dirty window with the neon sign that once, long ago, said "Chuck's Place" but became "huck's place" when the "C" was broken some time in, I guess, the Sixties.

"The thing is," I go on, "I didn't do anything. Really. I don't know any Shelly or Sherry or --"

"What do you think happened?"

One of the heavy wooden doors opens and Lit walks in. He glances around the bar, waves, hikes his pants up over his tremendous belly, and heads for the bathroom. The curly blond hair sticking out of the back of his blue baseball cap is dark and wet with sweat, as is the front of his shirt.

I bring the mug to my lips and take a long, slow sip. "I'll tell you in a minute."

We have Lit's beer ready and waiting for him by the time he gets to the stool. He takes off the cap, mops the sweat off his wide brow with his sleeve, replaces it, and sits down heavily. "Hey guys," he manages to say, before his voice is drowned out by the beer.

"Hey. Dan," I say, looking sideways at him.

Lit puts the beer down. "Hm?"

"Didn't you change your name? Don't they call you Dan now?"

Lit looks at me as if I have grown a hairy mole on my forehead with maybe another face on it. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a call for you today. Or maybe for me. Some girl named --"

"Sherry! Shit!" He slaps his open palm on the bar. "I forgot all about that. I forgot to tell you! Shit! Sherry! Is that what the thing with you and Lynn was all about?"

"Something like that."

"Fuck!" Lit fumbles in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "I fuckin' forgot to warn you about that! Damn!"

I should be aggravated, but I can't help laughing at Lit's reaction. Chris finishes his beer and places the mug at the edge of the bar. "What's this all about?"

Chuck breaks off his conversation just long enough to refill it and shove it back at him. Then, without missing a beat, he goes back to his little sweetheart.

Lit flicks the lighter and takes a long second to fire up the cigarette. "Lighting it is half the fun," he says. "Anyway, me and Mikey C. went up to the Aces the other night and met these two girls. We started off just kind of screwing around with them I told them I was Danny here and Mike told them he was -- I don't know, I forget the name he used. I didn't want anything getting back here just in case they knew Laurie from the neighborhood."

Chris forces a laugh. "He didn't say he was me, did he?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Lit takes a drag from his cigarette. "This Sherry's friend leaves early anyway, Mike heads home a little later, and Sherry and I close up the place and go to the Pink Cloud Motel."

I shrug. "I don't want to know the details."

Lit flicks the ash and it lands just shy of the ashtray. "Fuck you. You know you do. But anyway, the next morning she asks me for my number --"

"-- and you give her mine because you don't want Laurie to answer the phone."

"Hell, yeah. We're getting married next month. I don't want to screw that up. But--" he slaps the bar again "—damn! I forgot to warn you about it! Shit! I figured you could make up an excuse in advance with Lynn. I figured you could say she was someone from school or something."

"But you forgot."

"Yeah." Lit takes a drink. "Anything I can do? I can give Lynn some sort of excuse. I can figure something out."

I think for a minute. "No, that's all right."

"You sure? You want to beat the crap out of me or something?"

I shake my head. "Appealing thought, but no. There's been more shit going on between us lately. It was bound to happen."

"Still dealing with the Ray thing?"

"Yeah. And a few other problems."

"He hasn't been up here in a while. I hear he's hanging out at the Irish Castle these days."

Ray McKay was one of the guys who first started coming up to Huck's with us, eleven or twelve years ago, when we were just out of high school and had discovered that in order to drink here you only had to be old enough, seemingly, to sit on a barstool.

He was one of our best friends, meeting up with us three, four, five nights a week; with us for Billy's and Mike Kodacki's funerals, with us on our now-legendary trip up to the Point to watch the sunrise, those many years ago; always in the thick of whatever we were doing --until I found out a couple of months ago he was fucking Lynn.

A few years ago, that might not have been a big thing. We switched relationships around a lot. Lynn had been with Mike Kodacki before me; Billy had been with Janie, then Kimmie, then Gerri; Janie and I had been together for about a year -- actually talking marriage - before she moved to L.A.

But this time Lynn and I had been together close to two years and there was a greater sense of sneakiness and dishonesty about it. After Lynn had confessed the affair to me, just before last Thanksgiving, we had split up for about a week until we bumped into each other again at Huck's and she moved her stuff back in a day later. Ray ended up making himself scarce around here. Nobody really saw him any more.

I shrug again. "I really don't care. I wasn't all that faithful myself."

Lit finishes the last half of his beer with a quick gulp and sets the mug down. "I wouldn't count that time with Breanda, or whatever her goofy name was. You were set up."

"Maybe."

The door opens with a blast of wet, warm air and four girls I've never seen before stumble in. laughing. The one who came in first, a girl with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, barelegged beneath a brown skirt, pauses, looks around the bar, and says "Ugh!" which is met with laughter from her friends. They move a little hesitantly to the bottom of the "U", close to the door, I assume, to ensure a quick exit. Just behind them is the bowling table and the unplugged pinball machine. Chuck moves toward them and asks for their IDs as if he is really going to look at them.

"New people," Chris comments, not disapprovingly.

Lit takes his hat off and wipes his forehead again. "I know. I don't know two-thirds of the people up here any more. Where were these women ten years ago?"

"Grammar school." I look across at the first girl, who seems to be their leader. She staggers ever so slightly as she fumbles in her purse for a crumpled bill that she sets down on the bar. While Chuck fills the pitcher, she and one of the other girls move over to the jukebox. As the first girl bends over I gaze intently at the back end of her skirt as it pulls up above her thighs, revealing improbably tanned legs.