If You Leave Me, Can I Come, Too?
Mike Lee
Top Tony Delgado and Arthur Reed entered the Cedar Door. At one-thirty in the morning, it was packed with the local late-nighters. After struggling through the inebriated masses, they spotted a dent near the wait station. As they stepped forward, Arthur felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of his jacket. He looked to see who did the pulling as he was brought aside.
“Hey there, honey,” Sherry purred. “What’s shaking?”
“Make me feel better,” Arthur said. “I am in hell.”
Sherry scooted over. “I’ll try. Have a seat.”
He sat on the empty stool beside her. He looked for Top Tony. He had already wandered over to the far corner of the bar and was chatting with a blonde whose face Arthur didn’t recognize, probably an old one-night stand ready for another go-round.
Arthur leaned as Sherry nudged him, pushing a beer in front of his hands.
“Drink up,” she snickered. “Cheers, honey.”
“You are certainly the cheery sight.” Arthur caressed the cool glass of his pint of Bass before putting it to his lips. Then, slowly, he downed a third of the pint before setting it on the scratched and stained wood.
Sherry was protective of her femininity. If he just met her tonight, Arthur would have assumed she was just another debutante fresh out of the oilman’s ball--which she once confessed she was. That Sherry once was a debutante made her latest admission about her teenage years confusing to Arthur.
Sherry enjoyed wearing costumes and preparation; she took dressing up as a severe event with defined goals in mind. Why she didn’t transfer her effort into other aspects of her life was just one of the many off-kilter aspects of Sherry’s character that continued to mystify Arthur. Unfortunately, this only reminded him of what little he knew about her.
The black and white striped mini-dress she wore was appropriate for bar crawling. But, instead, he focused on a single silver bracelet on her right wrist next to her wristwatch. Sherry only wore the item because it had belonged to her grandmother.
It was the little things that mattered in the presentation. Arthur remembered that first night when she picked him off the street.
Dropping his hand to her thigh, Arthur slipped his fingers toward her crotch. Sherry sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers.
“Sometimes, you make it very hard for me to really want to know you.”
“Sorry.” Arthur slid his hand away, letting it drop between them.
Sherry picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes. She absently took the swizzle stick between her teeth, biting down on the plastic. She parted her lips and, with her tongue, slid it seductively from one side of her mouth to the other. Using the tip of her tongue, Sherry lifted one end so that the other end rested against her nose. Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic and blew hard. The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass. It stood straight up for a brief moment then dropped to one side.
Arthur grinned, “Nice trick.”
“I’ve practiced. However, I’m learning to twist the thing into a knot in my mouth.”
“I only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.”
Sherry tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes. “Says a lot more about the company you keep, Arthur.”
“I’m not so sure, considering how you are dressed.”
Automatically Sherry got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt. She sat back down, blushing.
Sensing her discomfiture, Arthur tried to assuage her. “I was only kidding, Sherry. You look fine.”
Sherry replied, flustered. “You’re making me self-conscious.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur gave her a mock salute and returned to drinking his Bass.
Her mood suddenly changed. “I like being a girl,” she giggled. “I can get away with everything.”
“I bet you can,” Arthur mumbled.
The bartender snapped his towel against the stainless steel bars of the wait station a few feet away from them.
“Last call!” he bellowed, causing several barflies to begin their predictable chorus of pitiable groaning.
Sherry flicked her wrist, glancing at her watch. “Fifteen until two.
Not bad.” She ordered another gin and soda.
Arthur leaned back and signaled he wanted another ale. He turned to Sherry. “I have come to really like this place. The bar must be paying the cops a lot to keep the bar open this long after two.”
“I wouldn’t think much of that. After all, it’s only forty-five minutes over. The beverage control people aren’t that dishonest.”
“They sell themselves too cheaply.”
“Like everyone in this town,” Sherry replied sourly. She had a low opinion of the locals, finding them lazy and without motivation to make anything of them. However, this was a hypocritical sentiment coming from her. After Sherry gave up college during one semester, she eventually became an office manager for a small law firm. Unfortunately, the perimeter of her success in this town was as wide as a thimble, consequently making it easy for her to pass judgment on others. This betrayed her lack of confidence in her own abilities. Privately, Sherry admitted she was stuck on a treadmill. She did not know where to go with her life. As a result, Sherry procrastinated on making any decisions involving her day-to-day concerns. It wasn’t because she was lazy. Instead, Sherry’s problem was that she was scared.
She had good reason to be. Her life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles. This sentiment grew from the old saying that you start to limp when one walks with a lame man. What held Sherry back were her father’s accomplishments, which cast a long shadow--not only over Sherry--but also her siblings. Sherry was resentful of how he constantly measured his children against the yardstick of his success.
Instead of doing anything about it, she complained to her diary. She rarely attempted to please, even in childhood, and grew up living life as she saw fit. What didn’t help her cause was that the old man encouraged her to do just that. He was more than willing to let Sherry do whatever she wanted. He believed that no matter how one’s road is circuitous, the movement was adequate as long as you indicated. What he missed was the part that involved personal growth.
Having that blind spot was figuratively true. Despite his age, experience, and level of achievement Sherry’s dad remained a spoiled rich kid with a chip on his shoulder. Yet, despite the problems lurking amid the debris of Sherry’s string of failures, the two were close.
Although Sherry lacked her father’s drive, she shared his general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions to strangers.
However, Sherry lacked self-confidence in some areas she made up for with arrogance in others. Sherry didn’t look around for excuses despite her inner discontent and lack of follow-through. Again, it was that detachment she had inherited from her father, a force that enabled her to see beyond clichés and go straight to the heart of the matter, which was to ignore her situation beyond getting to work on time, making enough money to be a happy cash-only consumer and having enough free time to spend wasting her life away. Unlike Arthur, who had both, she had half-formed, hazy dreams of the future but little desire to sculpt them into recognizable form. This wasn’t due to the general burn-out of a misspent youth and newly minted adulthood, although, on the surface, one could reach that conclusion.
Instead, Sherry behaved in this manner from the time she reached sentience. She was content in the present instant and only sparingly worried about her personal future.
There was something about this that Arthur found engaging, mainly because Sherry’s general demeanor favored loyalty but no commitment.
Therefore, she appealed to Arthur’s instinct for emotional seclusion. They occasionally coupled with a faithfulness one could mistake for a solid relationship if not for the layers of denial both wrapped themselves with. One called the other usually but once a week, twice rarely, and three times only because there were good shows that particular week at Liberty Lunch. Both did not sleep with others; both had become so drawn in and unpleasantly cranky that it was easier to rely on one another than be serious. They bluntly admitted that they were convenient.
The accidental development of their friendship also prevented that. This was long in coming, considering the desperation to which one ran to the other.
Both were wanderers in their own minds, which meant they avoided having to admit what would be evident to others. Getting to that point would take some time, however. So it was no surprise that their effortless relationship was inexplicable to observers, especially those close to them. Gossip about the multitudes of oddballs who had overwhelmed Austin since its founding did not interest them.
They were themselves alone. While both realized that, Sherry and Arthur were not close in their minds to taking logical steps toward admitting their commitment to one another.
Arthur only thought of himself, mainly his need to be a success. Arthur always had a problem with being too literary, too goddamn intellectual for the local papers--that is if he bothered to turn in his assignment. But, on the other hand, some people considered him a rather good writer.
However, this translated to very little money and even less ego gratification. Arthur didn’t even bother with the pretensions of skillful angst. Instead, he waited tables and hung around the house, nauseated by life but willing to go along for the hell of it. The writing was not even on the level of a part-time job. Instead, it was at the nebulous stage between that and a hobby.
Arthur grinned at his own depth. I’m forced to walk a tightrope, he thought. Logocentricism is such fun.
Sometimes he realized that he was too full of himself. Arthur behaved like a narrator, a passive character amid people he held in contempt; detached, unaware of the real feelings behind other people’s actions. He learned to slap his interpretations on situations like posters on the wall, gluing them carefully and walking away without figuring that there was more to it than the easy obvious.
At 26, Arthur found nothing wrong with the terminal waiting room of fame. There remained an amount of faith and hope--probably misplaced--left in him. He believed more patience and a dash of luck, and he was out of here--likely to another level of ennui.
Perhaps he had lost touch with himself. His life was one big party of characters for the last five years. Though it made up for going nowhere, this party in his mind certainly had its faults. He resolved to be more understanding of his surroundings. He had too, now that he had this extraordinary power to manipulate--this little magic of his always ready to use at his fingertips.
“Hey Arthur, what brings you here?” Arthur turned around.
“Hey, Bozzo.” Larry Bozzaterri leaned drunkenly against the stool next to Arthur, casually shaking a glass in his hand, sloshing its contents on the floor.
“You are drunk.”
Bozzo let out a hearty laugh, more disturbing than humorous. “You ain’t whistling Dixie. I’m fucked up.”
“That you are,” Sherry smirked, then turned away to order another round.
Bozzo stood unsteadily then began to slip away from the barstool.
Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Thanks a lot,” Bozzo drawled. He righted himself against the back of the stool, shaking his head uneasily. “Man, the room is spinning.”
Arthur let go of Bozzo’s shoulder. “That happens often. You need to be more careful.”
Bozzo protested. “I only had three margaritas,” he whined.
“Like I said: be careful. The bartender substitutes Everclear for Triple Sec in those things.”
Arthur noticed that Bozzo’s cheeks had become flushed despite the dim light. Bozzo drew in a breath and exhaled, choking. “Oh man, I ought to go home.”
He dropped his hand from the stool and took a step back.
“Uh-oh.” He clutched his stomach.
Arthur warned him. “Go to the bathroom, Bozzo.”
Bozzo was sweating, shifting in that direction. Then, with a jerking movement, he started quickly walking away.
Arthur wheeled back to the bar, giggling. The guy sitting on the other side tapped him on the shoulder.
“If that bastard puked on me,” he said, his breath reeking of Bombay Gin. “I’d have stomped him to China.”
Sherry gave him a nudge. Then, referring to Bozzo, she asked, “Where do you know that guy?”
“I work with him at the restaurant.”
“Before you arrived, he hit on me.”
“I admit he is vulgar like that.”
“I’ll say. The man needs to wipe his ass.”
“Now I’m the Invisible Man,” he said.
“What did you say?” Sherry’s eyes were half-lidded from drink and the heavy pall of cigarette smoke.
“It is the song playing.”
Arthur reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He let out a snicker. “Maybe I’ll have the barkeep play something truly maudlin like Red, Red Wine.”
Sherry picked up a pack of matches from the bar and lit it for him with one hand.
“That’s a good trick,” he said.
Shyly, Sherry smiled. “Learned to do this when I was working at that off-shore oil platform.”
He watched as the bartender switched cassettes into the stereo. Then, when the strains of the Beach Boys’ Sloop John B’ came on, he snarled. “Oh joy, they’re playing my song. I feel so broke up I want to go home.”
“Arthur, you sound really down.”
“Thanks for finally getting around to asking.”
Sherry’s mouth formed an O. “Sorry. But I truly am interested.” She let the words slip between them and then added: “Try me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it here. This isn’t the place.”
“Sure.” Sherry reached for her handbag. “Drink up. It’s almost closing time anyhow.”
“Just when the buzz is going good,” Arthur whispered, feeling more downcast than when he entered the Cedar Door. He turned to look for Top Tony. After a cursory search for him around the barroom, Arthur realized that Top Tony probably had left with the blonde. Satisfied, he got up out of his seat, picked the bottle off the bar, hiding it behind his jacket. Arthur would see Top Tony in the morning.
The shadows grew taut around him, reaching out to tighten around his wrists.
Arthur looked at Sherry, wondering if he should flip a coin.
“So,” he whispered. “Want to get some ice cream?”
Mike Lee
Top Tony Delgado and Arthur Reed entered the Cedar Door. At one-thirty in the morning, it was packed with the local late-nighters. After struggling through the inebriated masses, they spotted a dent near the wait station. As they stepped forward, Arthur felt a set of fingers wrap around the lapel of his jacket. He looked to see who did the pulling as he was brought aside.
“Hey there, honey,” Sherry purred. “What’s shaking?”
“Make me feel better,” Arthur said. “I am in hell.”
Sherry scooted over. “I’ll try. Have a seat.”
He sat on the empty stool beside her. He looked for Top Tony. He had already wandered over to the far corner of the bar and was chatting with a blonde whose face Arthur didn’t recognize, probably an old one-night stand ready for another go-round.
Arthur leaned as Sherry nudged him, pushing a beer in front of his hands.
“Drink up,” she snickered. “Cheers, honey.”
“You are certainly the cheery sight.” Arthur caressed the cool glass of his pint of Bass before putting it to his lips. Then, slowly, he downed a third of the pint before setting it on the scratched and stained wood.
Sherry was protective of her femininity. If he just met her tonight, Arthur would have assumed she was just another debutante fresh out of the oilman’s ball--which she once confessed she was. That Sherry once was a debutante made her latest admission about her teenage years confusing to Arthur.
Sherry enjoyed wearing costumes and preparation; she took dressing up as a severe event with defined goals in mind. Why she didn’t transfer her effort into other aspects of her life was just one of the many off-kilter aspects of Sherry’s character that continued to mystify Arthur. Unfortunately, this only reminded him of what little he knew about her.
The black and white striped mini-dress she wore was appropriate for bar crawling. But, instead, he focused on a single silver bracelet on her right wrist next to her wristwatch. Sherry only wore the item because it had belonged to her grandmother.
It was the little things that mattered in the presentation. Arthur remembered that first night when she picked him off the street.
Dropping his hand to her thigh, Arthur slipped his fingers toward her crotch. Sherry sighed, twisting the swizzle stick between her fingers.
“Sometimes, you make it very hard for me to really want to know you.”
“Sorry.” Arthur slid his hand away, letting it drop between them.
Sherry picked up her glass and rattled the half-melted cubes. She absently took the swizzle stick between her teeth, biting down on the plastic. She parted her lips and, with her tongue, slid it seductively from one side of her mouth to the other. Using the tip of her tongue, Sherry lifted one end so that the other end rested against her nose. Closing her mouth, she bent the plastic and blew hard. The swizzle stick flipped away, landing in the glass. It stood straight up for a brief moment then dropped to one side.
Arthur grinned, “Nice trick.”
“I’ve practiced. However, I’m learning to twist the thing into a knot in my mouth.”
“I only heard of that, never saw anyone pull it off.”
Sherry tipped her head, shaking her bangs from her eyes. “Says a lot more about the company you keep, Arthur.”
“I’m not so sure, considering how you are dressed.”
Automatically Sherry got up from the barstool and dropped her hands to adjust the hem of her skirt. She sat back down, blushing.
Sensing her discomfiture, Arthur tried to assuage her. “I was only kidding, Sherry. You look fine.”
Sherry replied, flustered. “You’re making me self-conscious.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur gave her a mock salute and returned to drinking his Bass.
Her mood suddenly changed. “I like being a girl,” she giggled. “I can get away with everything.”
“I bet you can,” Arthur mumbled.
The bartender snapped his towel against the stainless steel bars of the wait station a few feet away from them.
“Last call!” he bellowed, causing several barflies to begin their predictable chorus of pitiable groaning.
Sherry flicked her wrist, glancing at her watch. “Fifteen until two.
Not bad.” She ordered another gin and soda.
Arthur leaned back and signaled he wanted another ale. He turned to Sherry. “I have come to really like this place. The bar must be paying the cops a lot to keep the bar open this long after two.”
“I wouldn’t think much of that. After all, it’s only forty-five minutes over. The beverage control people aren’t that dishonest.”
“They sell themselves too cheaply.”
“Like everyone in this town,” Sherry replied sourly. She had a low opinion of the locals, finding them lazy and without motivation to make anything of them. However, this was a hypocritical sentiment coming from her. After Sherry gave up college during one semester, she eventually became an office manager for a small law firm. Unfortunately, the perimeter of her success in this town was as wide as a thimble, consequently making it easy for her to pass judgment on others. This betrayed her lack of confidence in her own abilities. Privately, Sherry admitted she was stuck on a treadmill. She did not know where to go with her life. As a result, Sherry procrastinated on making any decisions involving her day-to-day concerns. It wasn’t because she was lazy. Instead, Sherry’s problem was that she was scared.
She had good reason to be. Her life was a seemingly endless series of stumbles. This sentiment grew from the old saying that you start to limp when one walks with a lame man. What held Sherry back were her father’s accomplishments, which cast a long shadow--not only over Sherry--but also her siblings. Sherry was resentful of how he constantly measured his children against the yardstick of his success.
Instead of doing anything about it, she complained to her diary. She rarely attempted to please, even in childhood, and grew up living life as she saw fit. What didn’t help her cause was that the old man encouraged her to do just that. He was more than willing to let Sherry do whatever she wanted. He believed that no matter how one’s road is circuitous, the movement was adequate as long as you indicated. What he missed was the part that involved personal growth.
Having that blind spot was figuratively true. Despite his age, experience, and level of achievement Sherry’s dad remained a spoiled rich kid with a chip on his shoulder. Yet, despite the problems lurking amid the debris of Sherry’s string of failures, the two were close.
Although Sherry lacked her father’s drive, she shared his general detachment from the mundane aspects of life and ambivalence about leaving good impressions to strangers.
However, Sherry lacked self-confidence in some areas she made up for with arrogance in others. Sherry didn’t look around for excuses despite her inner discontent and lack of follow-through. Again, it was that detachment she had inherited from her father, a force that enabled her to see beyond clichés and go straight to the heart of the matter, which was to ignore her situation beyond getting to work on time, making enough money to be a happy cash-only consumer and having enough free time to spend wasting her life away. Unlike Arthur, who had both, she had half-formed, hazy dreams of the future but little desire to sculpt them into recognizable form. This wasn’t due to the general burn-out of a misspent youth and newly minted adulthood, although, on the surface, one could reach that conclusion.
Instead, Sherry behaved in this manner from the time she reached sentience. She was content in the present instant and only sparingly worried about her personal future.
There was something about this that Arthur found engaging, mainly because Sherry’s general demeanor favored loyalty but no commitment.
Therefore, she appealed to Arthur’s instinct for emotional seclusion. They occasionally coupled with a faithfulness one could mistake for a solid relationship if not for the layers of denial both wrapped themselves with. One called the other usually but once a week, twice rarely, and three times only because there were good shows that particular week at Liberty Lunch. Both did not sleep with others; both had become so drawn in and unpleasantly cranky that it was easier to rely on one another than be serious. They bluntly admitted that they were convenient.
The accidental development of their friendship also prevented that. This was long in coming, considering the desperation to which one ran to the other.
Both were wanderers in their own minds, which meant they avoided having to admit what would be evident to others. Getting to that point would take some time, however. So it was no surprise that their effortless relationship was inexplicable to observers, especially those close to them. Gossip about the multitudes of oddballs who had overwhelmed Austin since its founding did not interest them.
They were themselves alone. While both realized that, Sherry and Arthur were not close in their minds to taking logical steps toward admitting their commitment to one another.
Arthur only thought of himself, mainly his need to be a success. Arthur always had a problem with being too literary, too goddamn intellectual for the local papers--that is if he bothered to turn in his assignment. But, on the other hand, some people considered him a rather good writer.
However, this translated to very little money and even less ego gratification. Arthur didn’t even bother with the pretensions of skillful angst. Instead, he waited tables and hung around the house, nauseated by life but willing to go along for the hell of it. The writing was not even on the level of a part-time job. Instead, it was at the nebulous stage between that and a hobby.
Arthur grinned at his own depth. I’m forced to walk a tightrope, he thought. Logocentricism is such fun.
Sometimes he realized that he was too full of himself. Arthur behaved like a narrator, a passive character amid people he held in contempt; detached, unaware of the real feelings behind other people’s actions. He learned to slap his interpretations on situations like posters on the wall, gluing them carefully and walking away without figuring that there was more to it than the easy obvious.
At 26, Arthur found nothing wrong with the terminal waiting room of fame. There remained an amount of faith and hope--probably misplaced--left in him. He believed more patience and a dash of luck, and he was out of here--likely to another level of ennui.
Perhaps he had lost touch with himself. His life was one big party of characters for the last five years. Though it made up for going nowhere, this party in his mind certainly had its faults. He resolved to be more understanding of his surroundings. He had too, now that he had this extraordinary power to manipulate--this little magic of his always ready to use at his fingertips.
“Hey Arthur, what brings you here?” Arthur turned around.
“Hey, Bozzo.” Larry Bozzaterri leaned drunkenly against the stool next to Arthur, casually shaking a glass in his hand, sloshing its contents on the floor.
“You are drunk.”
Bozzo let out a hearty laugh, more disturbing than humorous. “You ain’t whistling Dixie. I’m fucked up.”
“That you are,” Sherry smirked, then turned away to order another round.
Bozzo stood unsteadily then began to slip away from the barstool.
Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Thanks a lot,” Bozzo drawled. He righted himself against the back of the stool, shaking his head uneasily. “Man, the room is spinning.”
Arthur let go of Bozzo’s shoulder. “That happens often. You need to be more careful.”
Bozzo protested. “I only had three margaritas,” he whined.
“Like I said: be careful. The bartender substitutes Everclear for Triple Sec in those things.”
Arthur noticed that Bozzo’s cheeks had become flushed despite the dim light. Bozzo drew in a breath and exhaled, choking. “Oh man, I ought to go home.”
He dropped his hand from the stool and took a step back.
“Uh-oh.” He clutched his stomach.
Arthur warned him. “Go to the bathroom, Bozzo.”
Bozzo was sweating, shifting in that direction. Then, with a jerking movement, he started quickly walking away.
Arthur wheeled back to the bar, giggling. The guy sitting on the other side tapped him on the shoulder.
“If that bastard puked on me,” he said, his breath reeking of Bombay Gin. “I’d have stomped him to China.”
Sherry gave him a nudge. Then, referring to Bozzo, she asked, “Where do you know that guy?”
“I work with him at the restaurant.”
“Before you arrived, he hit on me.”
“I admit he is vulgar like that.”
“I’ll say. The man needs to wipe his ass.”
“Now I’m the Invisible Man,” he said.
“What did you say?” Sherry’s eyes were half-lidded from drink and the heavy pall of cigarette smoke.
“It is the song playing.”
Arthur reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He let out a snicker. “Maybe I’ll have the barkeep play something truly maudlin like Red, Red Wine.”
Sherry picked up a pack of matches from the bar and lit it for him with one hand.
“That’s a good trick,” he said.
Shyly, Sherry smiled. “Learned to do this when I was working at that off-shore oil platform.”
He watched as the bartender switched cassettes into the stereo. Then, when the strains of the Beach Boys’ Sloop John B’ came on, he snarled. “Oh joy, they’re playing my song. I feel so broke up I want to go home.”
“Arthur, you sound really down.”
“Thanks for finally getting around to asking.”
Sherry’s mouth formed an O. “Sorry. But I truly am interested.” She let the words slip between them and then added: “Try me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it here. This isn’t the place.”
“Sure.” Sherry reached for her handbag. “Drink up. It’s almost closing time anyhow.”
“Just when the buzz is going good,” Arthur whispered, feeling more downcast than when he entered the Cedar Door. He turned to look for Top Tony. After a cursory search for him around the barroom, Arthur realized that Top Tony probably had left with the blonde. Satisfied, he got up out of his seat, picked the bottle off the bar, hiding it behind his jacket. Arthur would see Top Tony in the morning.
The shadows grew taut around him, reaching out to tighten around his wrists.
Arthur looked at Sherry, wondering if he should flip a coin.
“So,” he whispered. “Want to get some ice cream?”
