Chains (aka an unedited short story I wrote in 2011)

“Nice guy, this one,” she mutters dryly under her breath, shooting a knowing glance in my direction. The balding Jeff from “Hawt Sprangs, Arkansaw” has been gradually losing his mind for the past hour-and-a-half in his attempt to charm my new friend Gwyneth into going home with him for the night. She isn’t having it. My eyes linger on her sardonic grimace, and I smile stupidly at what I believe to be a shared secret between the two of us. We have only just met, but I am already enjoying this too much. I actually feel for the poor fool as his wagging tongue circles the top of his Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy in search of any misplaced drops. He shakes a finger in our direction and tells us that he is going to get another beer, but to “stayrawghtwhereyouare, ‘cawse I’ll be back.” Gwyneth draws in a stifled breath as he walks away and lets it explode into a husky howl as soon as he’s out of sight. “Let’s go play pool,” she says to me.

The scene is surreal. I’ve never been to this part of town before, and I hardly recognize any of the faces that float in the shadows around me, watching, waiting. I can almost taste the lust in the second-hand smoke that seeps into my nostrils and makes its way into my virgin lungs. I can smell it in her sweet perfume. I can see it in all of the greedy eyes around the room that sicken me and remind me of my own. We are all tainted now.

I don’t know much about Gwyneth apart from what I can see in this low-lit bar. She wields a half-empty bottle of Evan Williams in her right hand and a cancer stick in her left. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette and never wanted to until now. She makes black lungs look desirable. She waves me over to where she is standing and I move in close to hear whatever it is she wants to tell me. I can’t get close enough.

“You wanna go outside and have another cigarette with me?” she asks. Chain-smoker, is the initial thought to pass through my brain. She speaks with the allure of a savior and the unassuming violence of a rip current. She has both arms raised at eye-level and her hands cupped softly around my ear. Even in the dim lighting I can see the host of scars that line the insides of her forearms. The raised, discolored strips of skin dance around a tattoo of R2-D2. I reach for the arm and run my fingers slowly over the brand.

“I, ah…don’t really smoke,” is all I can gather the sense to reply, “but I’ll go out and sit with you while you do.” I don’t even know what I’m doing here, but I can’t leave.

I grab what’s left of my Jack and Coke from the edge of the bar and it reminds me that my head is spinning. I follow Gwyneth outside toward a bench that appears to be a slight trek down the street. She notices that I’m struggling to keep my blue patent heels moving in the right direction, so she takes my hand and holds it captive for the remainder of the walk.

We eventually arrive at our destination and take our respective places at each end of the icy black metal. I sit silent, scanning my muddy brain for small talk that won’t give me away. Don’t say anything strange, I beg myself. Think about what you say before you say it. I watch Gwyneth pull a tightly rolled cylinder from a wallet-sized silver case. She fumbles through her leather bag for a few seconds before turning to me with an apologetic look in her deep-set, foreign eyes.

“Well, fuck. Got a light?” she asks. “I must’ve left mine back at the bar.” It just so happens that I keep a lighter in my coat pocket. I’m not sure why.

“Yeah, of course.” My stomach flutters at the ridiculous notion that I might have somehow saved the night. “Here, let me help.” I pull the cheap plastic device from my pocket and lift it to the thin, coiled paper hanging loosely from one corner of her lips. I give it a couple of flicks with my thumb before the tiny flame appears and illuminates the outline of her face against the black canvas behind her. I trace her sharp jaw line with my eyes as she drags deeply. Her gaunt features highlight the Adam’s apple protruding from the center of her elongated neck and her once-quivering hand begins to steady as she pulls the fumes deeper and deeper inside. The troubled lines disappear from her forehead, which softens into a pillow of relief.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “It’s a spliff.”

“A what?” I’ve heard this word before. I think they say it in Europe.

“A spliff!” Now she’s laughing. Oh God. I feel like a contestant on any given game show, the one for whom the audience suffers a special concoction of pity and second-hand embarrassment.  I missed the first question.

“That’s why we had to come outside. See, it’s half marijuana, half tobacco,” she explains, pulling the novelty from her mouth and holding it to my face. “Here, try some.” I’m torn. Ultimately, my fear of authority makes my decision for me. The straight-and-narrows that plague her arms haven’t got anything on my moral straightjacket.

“I shouldn’t,” I say, embarrassed. I have an urgent desire to change the subject so that she doesn’t have time to ask me about why I’m not taking her up on her offer, but I don’t, and she doesn’t. Instead, we sit in comfortable stillness for a while, like a couple of old friends who don’t need words to enjoy the company they share. For the first time since I can remember, I don’t feel the pressing need to lie. I don’t need to conjure up a false laugh if a joke falls flat. There’s no obligation to simulate normal conversation by tossing in fillers about the weather and the calorie count in the pumpkin spice latte I had this morning. I’d forgotten how this feels.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” I say aloud, not really so much to Gwyneth as to myself. I feel her glance sideways at me in the darkness.

“Where ya going?” she asks in a voice that is simultaneously motherly and child-like, causing a flood of warmth to melt over me, like the first day of springtime sun succeeding a savage winter.

“I’m not sure. I’m just wandering.” This is the truth, and I decide not to say anything more.

As if by some divine cue, I hear Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel” begin to blare from the speakers all the way inside the bar. I can’t help but to grin, and I throw a peripheral peek in Gwyneth’s direction to note whether she is doing the same. I am taken aback to find that her full lips are pursed into a coyly amused smirk. Her soft shoulders begin to sway...left, right, left, right. She is hypnotic. Instantly, as if an idea has grabbed her by the forearms and yanked forcefully, she lurches from the bench and proceeds to thrust her hips from side to side, and then back to front, in classic Elvis Pelvis form.

“Welllll, since my baby left me…” She is clutching a pretend microphone now, twirling without direction in euphoric self-abandon.

“Dance with me, dahhhlin’!” she exclaims in the Gwyneth version of what is probably intended to resemble the dialect of The King himself.

“Oh, I don’t really know if—“ But it is too late. She has me by the hand for the second time tonight and is giving me no other option but to move to the rhythm of the music. I find myself cackling for the silliness of the moment. Soon, we are both roaring wildly, each of us taking turns sending the other into a slingshot of a pirouette straight into the forsaken one-way street.

“I’ve been so lonely baby, well, I’m so lonely…” We are both singing now, causing more of a ruckus out here between the two of us than probably everyone combined there inside the bar. But I don’t care.

“Where you will be…

You’ll be so lonely baby,

Where you’ll be lonely,

You’ll be so lonely you could die.”