"Damn it!" I nearly fall on my ass as I stumble into a pothole. Why do I insist on wearing such high heels when I go out? I lift my foot out of the pothole, my ankle pulsing.
"Shit, my foot's all wet." It's raining again. It always rains here. I dig into the bottom of my snake embossed clutch, scrounging for one last cigarette. As I shuffle through the contents of my evening bag my fingers begin to recognize the shapes, the smooth cylinder of my lipstick case, the rounded metal of the loose change swimming at the bottom. I hear a package of mints rattling furiously as I rip through my purse in desperate need of that cigarette. My hand stops for a moment as I discover a string of condoms inside, about five according to my quick estimate. How many men was I planning to fuck tonight?
"Ah, thank God, I found it." My emergency smoke, I always take the first cigarette from the pack, and hide it away for just such a situation. I place the cigarette between my lips and scan the city around me. The streets look like liquid tar from the constant drizzle. The neon sign from the sex shop across the street casts an orange glow into the air. I light my smoke and take a hard drag. The sweet toxins fill my lungs. It burns a little and I feel alive again.
As I toss my head back and blow smoke into the air, I read the sign above the darkened door in front of me. "Hung Wae Low", the most notorious bar in the city, as famous for it's stiff drinks as it is for it's mafia associations. The hipsters started frequenting the place for the irony of the name and the bad Chinese food. Even I couldn't help but snicker a little as I gazed at the sign. But. I'm here for the stiff drinks and a good fuck. At least the drink is a sure thing.
I take one last drag from my cigarette before squashing it under my stiletto. I lift and press my breasts together. I'm not exactly blessed in that department, but thank God for pushup bras. I tug and smooth the wrinkles of my green tube dress across my tight waist. I work hard six days a week in the gym for this stomach and I'm proud to show it off. I tug the dress a little more across my backside. Men like my ass; it's round, full and strong. I toss my long wavy, brown hair and wet my lips. I'm ready for action.
As I turn the doorknob, I'm hot to make a first impression. I pull the door towards me and my eyes adjust quickly to the darkness. As I shut the door, I gaze up the stairwell leading to the bar. It's a steep incline with a narrow passage. The outlying walls are thick with blackness, but through the shadows I can see a handrail. The air is scented with a spicy perfume of tobacco. I'm hypnotized by the fog of smoke rolling toward me, and I wonder how many drunks have cracked their heads open while stumbling down these stairs at the end of the night.
I begin to make my way up the staircase and I hear a low hum of music and laughter. It grows louder and clearer with each step. I tell myself to be careful, I don't need a repeat of the night's previous fall. Finally I reach the landing at the top of the stairs. It's quite a climb even for someone as fit as me.
I recognize the song on the jukebox. It's Johnny Cash, "Cry, Cry, Cry". Seems appropriate considering my luck in love lately. As I scan the bars patrons, I try to guess who picked the song, it's a game I like to play sometimes. At the bar sits an older man with a tight, clean, gray beard. He wears a plaid shirt with mother of pearl buttons and his hair is fixed in a pompadour style, thick with styling wax. He drinks Old Grand Dad straight. I don't know his name, but I see him here a lot. He's here when I arrive and here when I leave. He never says a word, just smokes his cigarettes and sucks down glass after glass of whiskey. Sometimes he lets out a snort of a chuckle, what he's laughing at I don't know, perhaps his personal thoughts. Maybe he chose the song, but tonight I don't think so.
My eyes zero in on the group of hipsters crowded into the back corner booth next to the pool table. They've got a game of sloppy nine ball going. They're playing for quarters, but they act like sharks. The truth is they're too drunk to give anyone a run for their money. I'll bet they chose the song. Hipsters love Johnny Cash. Not that I mind, I can recall many a night of knockin' back a few shots while listening to him tell his stories.
As I make my way to the bar my eyes wander about the rest of the room. Other than the kids, the old man and myself, the place is empty. I approach the bar and my favorite bartender greets me.
"How's it goin' tonight Trudi?" I've asked her this question a hundred different times; the answer is always the same.
"We had a ruckus in here earlier. Mike had to throw some drunks out on their asses, couldn't hold their liquor. Them kids in the corner are what's left of 'em." Her voice is raspy and rough, like she's two smokes away from a tracheotomy.
"Thanks for the head's up, I'll be sure to steer clear of them." I tell her with an empathetic tone.
"What ya drinkin' honey, a cosmo?" She barks.
"No, not tonight. Makers on the rocks."
"You got it." She grins at me with a snaggle-toothed smile. Tudi is like one of those women who spends most of her life serving up slop to truckers, tough as nails with a pinch of sugar. She's strong enough to kick out the riff raff but sweet enough to keep the regulars comin' back. I guess you'd have to be working here. Trudi brings back my drink, and I hand her the last bit of cash from my purse. I tell her to keep the change. It works out to be a three-dollar tip, way more than the standard for a drink. She works night after night in this hellhole; I figure she deserves something for her troubles.
"Thanks honey!" She chuckles a little as she slide down to the other end to finish her side work. I cozy up to the bar and take a seat adjacent to the old man. I glance over just in time to see him nod his head towards me. I nod back with a half-witted smile and quickly turn back to my whiskey. As I lift the glass and take a swig, I begin to think my chances of getting laid tonight are out of the question.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, a dim match flame catches my attention. I turn to look and observe a shadowy figure of a man sitting alone in the corner booth. I squint my eyes as I struggle to see any detail. He lights his cigarette and takes a drag. The glowing embers expose the details of his form. He's dressed in a black long-sleeved t-shirt tight enough to reveal the strength of his upper body. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, revealing the colorful tattoos scrawled across his forearms. His hair is dark and neatly groomed with well kept sideburns. They extend to his jaw line, accenting his sharp features. His face is thin with well-defined bone structure. His eyes are dark; yet seem to flash a little.
As he blows the smoke from his lungs, his eyes stay fixed upon me with intent. He leans into his gaze and takes another drag. My stomach jumps into my throat as I wonder what he wants. His eyes never leave me. He smashes his cigarette in the ashtray and stands to cross the barroom floor. He's headed straight towards me.
"Oh God, here he comes!" I fumble in my seat trying to over-come my nerves. As he approaches I take a big gulp of my whiskey, hoping it will calm me. He slides into the seat next to me; I keep my gaze forward and pretend not to notice him. I feel his eyes less than six inches from my body fixed like a laser beam. I can't resist any longer. I turn to acknowledge him. As I face him, his hand is already extended with an open pack of cigarettes.
"You look like you could use one of these." His voice is like gravel.
"Actually, I could, I smoked my last one just before I came in here." I'm feeling more confident as I place the cigarette between my lips. He strikes a match and leans dangerously close to light my smoke. As I puff away, I gaze up at him with a schoolgirl come-hither stare.
What are ya drinkin'?"He gruffs.
