Deviations (2 page)

Chapter 1

Almost every day, for hours
at a time, I sit no more than fifteen feet away from Wayne, but I hadn’t
noticed he’s going gray. He’s maybe forty, a ponytail hanging halfway down his
back, a rubber band a couple of inches south of his collar. Looking at him now,
I see that most of those gray hairs are a foot and a half long. Some things get
past me.

I’m not going to ask him about the gray hair.
That’s because I really don’t give a shit. I realize that makes me sound like a
bitch, which I don’t think I am. It’s more that Wayne and I don’t have that
kind of relationship. Our relationship is very streamlined.

Wayne is here from five o’clock until two. That’s
my assumption, anyway, based on me never being here earlier than five or later
than two, and always seeing him here. I’m talking about weekdays. I’m never here
on weekends, so I can’t say. Weekends there’s too many locals—guys, wives,
girlfriends. Pitchers of beer, nachos, cheese. They watch sports, whooping and
high-fiving and being all social. I prefer weekdays. More of the business
crowd. Some are IT and marketing guys from one of the industrial parks nearby.
But a good half are the guys in town for business just for a day or two. They’re
the good half.

Wayne notices me when I come in. I can tell
because his left eyebrow goes up. Just a little. I’m pretty sure nobody else notices.
He’s saying welcome, or at least he’s acknowledging me.

I head down toward the end of the bar. I don’t
exactly have my own stool, which would be pathetic. But ninety percent of the
time, I end up on one of the last two stools. It’s just a coincidence that the
whisky bottles are down at that end. I choose that end because it stays dark.
The other end is near the door, which has a northwest exposure, and with the
sun not going down till almost nine this time of year, the alternating bright
and dark as people come and go strobes me out. So I like the dark end, and if I
sit at a little angle to the bar, it doesn’t zap my brain so bad. Plus it sends
a negative signal to anyone who’s thinking of coming over. This discourages the
more casual hunters. Another positive.

One thing I like about Wayne is that he never wants
to talk to me, and he’s good with me never wanting to talk to him. Of all the
bartenders I’ve known, Wayne’s the least affected by bullshit TV shows and
movies. He doesn’t think it’s his job to make a fuss over the losers seated in
front of him. He doesn’t even think it’s necessary to offer a comment about the
weather as I climb onto the wine-red stool. That’s very unusual here, where
everybody is super friendly. In a superficial way, of course. Here in Montana,
you’re crumpled on the sidewalk from your heart exploding, the first thing the paramedic
says is, “Hey, how’s it going?”

Wayne understands that if you wanted to talk with
him, get to know him, relate in a personal kind of way, you’d hang with him
when he’s not working. The two of you would be out at the reservoir, maybe in a
sixteen-foot boat, drifting along with a couple poles in the water, hoping you don’t
catch anything. Then, when things slow way down, he’d say, “Lose any shingles
when that wind came in Tuesday?” Then you’d say, “Nope.” That would be a
meaningful interchange. Because if after he asked you that question you just
sat there, looking at the water but not saying anything, that would mean you
had something on your mind and didn’t want to talk, or you just didn’t want to
get into shingles or windstorms. So he’d know to just let it be.

But if he asked you that question and you shook
your head real slow, like that was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard, and then
maybe you added “Asshole,” with each syllable distinct like a separate word,
that would be a whole other kind of comment, and it would be up to him to
decide whether to pursue the topic.

At the bar, when he’s working, that’s not really
the best occasion for talking. For one thing, it puts him in a tight spot.
You’re discussing roof shingles and someone comes in and sits down. Wayne’s got
to decide whether to go over and take that person’s order, which would be rude
to you, or keep talking to you, which would be rude to the new person. For
another thing—and this is the bigger thing—who gives a shit about shingles? You
weren’t sitting in your house, nothing to do, ready to toss a brick through the
TV screen if you see one more pretend judge pretending to listen real close as
one moron accuses another moron of blowing off last month’s rent—and you think,
I need to survey a representative sample of citizens in town to find out if any
of them lost any shingles in Tuesday’s windstorm. That’s not the way people
act, at least not anyone I know.

If you go to a bar, you’re there for one of two
reasons. One is the total ambiance, which is a real simple concept. The place
should be dark, so you don’t see anybody and nobody sees you. It should be cool
in the summer, warm in the winter. It should have some white-people jazz in the
background. Personally, I like Kenny G. He plays enough notes to mask what
people are saying, but the notes aren’t so interesting that I want to listen to
them. Perhaps the most important part of the ambiance: Wayne gives me as much liquor
as I want, whatever kind I want, in a nonjudgmental way. I give him money. He
gives me drinks. A streamlined relationship.

The other reason to go to a bar: sex. In my
experience, men are aware of this. So, when they want to get laid, they know to
look in a bar, say, rather than a bookstore. Nothing against bookstores. I’m
sure people are hooking up left and right in bookstores all over the place. But
you’ve probably got a different agenda when you’re trying to pick someone up in
a bookstore: you want to get nailed, then talk about cookbooks or vampires or
whatever. Or maybe you feel your life doesn’t suck so bad if you convince
yourself you were just going to a bookstore and—guess what? You ran into this
really cute guy. That could be it. I have no idea. I don’t go to bookstores.
But it stands to reason that there’s probably something about books in there
someplace.

My bladder is my best body part. I can sit here
for three hours—which I often do—without having to get up. Tonight, I’d been
sitting here about an hour when the first guy came over. With my back turned a
little away from the main area, like I explained earlier, I didn’t see him or
hear him come over to me. That’s a bad sign. It means I smelled him. I can’t tell
one cologne from another. To me, there’s Cologne and No Cologne. I turned
toward him just as he was saying “Mind?” and gesturing to the stool next to me.
I’m pretty fast at deciding whether I mind. Not that I always make good
decisions. I’ve made my share of mistakes, although to be honest I don’t talk
with other women to compare statistics.

Most of the signals this guy was sending were
okay. He was the right age: somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. He was a
normal height and weight, so nothing wrong there. He dressed all right: an
actual suit, some kind of poly blend, but a dark color, no hideous checks or
anything. He had shaved today, a good sign. He wasn’t trying to look like some
twenty-five-year-old jerkoff with three days’ growth. He was starting to go
bald, with the hair in front jutting out like a peninsula that could end up an
island in a couple years. But, seriously, I wouldn’t see him again in two hours.
Why would I give a damn what he’s gonna look like in two years?

When he put his left hand on the bar, just as he was
coming in for a landing on the stool, I checked out the ring finger. No ring, but
I could make out the indentation and the pale skin circle. I don’t have a
problem with him being married. In fact, I prefer it. But this guy wasn’t yet
comfortable with his adultery. Taking off the ring like that—to me that means
he wants me to think he’s single, a good guy, interested in some kind of half-assed
relationship. Or he thinks that’s what I want. Like I care that he’ll be coming
into town every few months for the sales meetings, and maybe we could get
together. I’m not into that shit. If he shows up again in a few months and I’m
sitting here and I don’t remember him from being too gross or pervy, that’s
good enough. But let’s just be honest: I really have no interest in whether the
windstorm fucked up your shingles, if you know what I mean.

“I’d rather be alone, thanks.” It seemed to catch
him off guard, him having most of his ass on the stool. Turning away, I didn’t
catch his expression. The whole thing took four seconds. My version of speed
dating.

Wayne came over and refilled my glass. There’s
none of this “Can I get you a refill?” with Wayne. I’ve never seen him look at
my glass, but he always seems to know. Maybe there’s a system he uses, like if
he sees no more than a quarter-inch left he just comes over and fills it up.
He’s filled it up at least a thousand times, and I’ve had to call him over
twice, three times, max. You’re wondering whether he’s ever started to fill it
up when I didn’t want him to. Can’t recall an instance of that. That’s probably
because if I don’t want any more it means I’m leaving, and, like all competent
drinkers, I tilt my head way back and drain the glass. I don’t take ice, so I
want to be sure to get every last drop of the JD. Another tipoff that I’m
leaving? Probably I’m not alone.

For the next hour or so it was just me and Wayne.
Pleasant enough. The sun had gone down, so when the door opened all I saw was dueling
headlight cones in front of the purple sky. Much less disconcerting than the
damn sunshine, which always wants to know why I’m not working or with my family
or something. I never feel that pressure at night: it’s okay to be in a bar if
there’s headlights.

People were starting to leave, so the background
hum of conversation was way down. I could hear Kenny G or whoever. Some kind of
clarinet, I think. I couldn’t make out a melody, but maybe that was me. Three
or four hours on the stool at Callahan’s, I’d probably have trouble picking out
the tune in “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I was at the point where the notes
were colliding and the people were starting to get fuzzy edges around them,
like in that kid’s game, Wooly Willy, where you use a magnet to move the metal
filings around on the fat guy’s face.

I started to feel real bad for Kenny G. After all,
he’s very talented. I mean, it sounds good to me. Still, everyone’s always crapping
on him. Maybe his music is lousy. Or he’s too white, or goofy looking. I don’t
know what it is. But he’s out there, he’s trying, he’s doing his best. I’m sure
of that. And when they make cracks about him, he’s got to be aware of it. It’s
got to hurt. He’s a damn musician. So what if he’s shitty? He’s a person. That
should count for something.

I started to cry, which I do a lot these days,
usually all of a sudden and for no good reason.

Little while later, this guy came over, sat down
on the stool next to me. I had gotten the crying under control. It wasn’t a big
heaving cry, with my shoulders humping up and down and my face all twisted up.
More of a trickle that I could brush away with my fingers. The guy didn’t ask permission.
It was eleven o’clock, and he’d probably been scoping me out for a while, figured
I was a regular.

He held up two fingers to Wayne, who came over and
refilled us both. He turned to me, not saying anything. The light was too low
for me to see his eyes. We drank for a while. “Do you want to go someplace?”

My kind of conversationalist. “Yeah,” I said.

“You know somewhere?”

Yes, I knew somewhere.

* * * *

The two of us drained our
glasses fast and walked toward the door. Wayne gave me a small nod as I passed
him.

“This way,” the guy said as he turned left and we
started down Madison toward his car. The street lights were a little brighter
than necessary. I looked past them to the gray clouds sweeping by in a hurry, flicking
the stars on and off. Nights still got cold around here in May, down into the
thirties, but coming out of Callahan’s with a good three-quarters of a buzz, I
noticed it but it didn’t bother me. The cold was on the outside. Inside I was
fine.

The guy stepped off the curb and clicked the
remote control on his rental. I heard door locks pop up but couldn’t quite tell
which car it was. I watched him walk over to open the driver’s door of a generic
pale blue sedan. He hadn’t come over to hold the passenger door for me. This
wasn’t a date.

I picked the rental papers off the passenger seat
and tossed them onto the dash. Locking the seatbelt, I breathed in the cheap
plastic fumes. The guy started the car, didn’t bother with his seatbelt. “Which
way?”

“Go straight,” I said.

He drove four or five blocks, past the bagel
place, the candle store, a lawyer’s office. “Pull over here, will ya?” It was a
state liquor store. “Double park. Put your flashers on. I’ll just be a second.”
I opened the door. “Jack Daniel’s okay?”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

I ran in. The clerk, a dipshit named Tom with a
short-sleeve shirt buttoned at the neck, saw me and reached on the shelf behind
him for the JD pint. As he rang it up, I put a ten and a five on the counter
and grabbed it before he could slip it into the paper bag.

I directed my guy down a few more blocks, to the
Driftwood Inn, a small independent place that didn’t even make an effort about the
driftwood. Nothing hanging from the ceiling or the walls in the lobby—no fishing
nets or stuffed fish or oars or buoys or anything. No driftwood. Nothing in any
of the rooms, either, not even a cheapo print showing a beach, a boat, or a
seagull. Still, I liked the Driftwood. There were a few hourly places ten bucks
cheaper, but they weren’t real sticklers about health codes.

The guy parked outside the neon Office sign. “I
got it,” he said as he shut the driver’s door. I saw him peel off a few bills
and hand them to the bored woman behind the desk.