Ray had no idea why she was walking
through the door of Breaker’s Bar. It was as if she’d stuck
out her hand and it had pulled all seventeen years
of her skinny body along with it. Inside
the smoke hovered over the pool table
like a bad mood and the waitress sucked
on a broken fingernail. Ray hesitated long enough
for the bartender to notice her flat
chest and blue skin and ask for her ID.
I been workin’ at a diner since I was fifteen, she said.
DOB, said the bartender. I need your DOB.
I didn’t come to drink, said Ray, I need to know where
is this place? Ray pulled a piece of paper
from the watchband under her sleeve
and handed it to the bartender.
He looked at a picture of the Barbizon Hotel
and said: Never heard of it.
For girls, said Ray. It’s for girls to spend the night.
Stevie put out her cigarette – mashed it hard
just in case it forgot who was in control.
Out of business, she said carving an X in the ash.
Ray looked through the stench of stale beer
and saw a girl, not much older than she was,
sitting all slurry in the corner.
The bartender nodded in her direction.
Talk to my old lady, he said. She knows why water falls.
The busboy sidled up to the bar, a case of scotch
hoisted on his hard, brown shoulders. The bartender
looked in the busboy’s eyes and begged for a smile.
The busboy turned toward the waitress who was making
change from the cash register in her cleavage and ran
his tongue across his teeth. The waitress flipped
the busboy the bird and put her hand on top of the bartender’s.
Two beers with Tequila chasers, she said, and one
White Russian – rocks … could you puke?
The bartender pushed the waitress’ hand away
and nodded like it was okay for Ray to talk to Stevie.
Stevie could feel Ray approaching her. She tipped
her chair against the wall, put her head back and closed her eyes.
The Barbizon went out of business years ago, she said – you need
a youth hostile … not to be confused with a hostile youth,
she mumbled for her own amusement.
Ray put her knapsack on the floor. It had been twelve hours
since the Greyhound and still … she didn’t miss the farm.
Go home, Kid, said Stevie squeezing her can of beer
just enough to make it crackle.
Ray shrugged and pulled out a chair.
You get kicked out? asked Stevie picking at her chin.
Kinda, said Ray putting her elbows on the table.
Kind of? said Stevie.
Kinda like it was run aways or live with Mrs. Potts.
Stevie wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear about Mrs. Potts.
My daddy died. Left me to her, said Ray.
She beat you? asked Stevie lowering the front legs
of her chair. Ray squirted some ketchup on her index finger
and said: Only with her stupidity.
Stevie laughed quick and hard. I had one of those, too, she said.
My mother married it when I was twelve. Used to read
Chaucer over and over like he wasn’t going to die
until he understood it. I used to tell him:
Some things aren’t supposed to make sense. Chinese,
she said lighting her last cigarette, I might as well have been
speaking it. You want something to eat?
Maybe a Coke, said Ray.
No, I mean, food. Something to go with the catsup on your finger.
Ray liked how with Stevie there was no bullshit.
Coke is food, she said. Leastways where I come from.
Stevie wanted to ask where that was. She liked
the way Ray was so calm. Reminded her of her pet rock.
Where I come from Coke is food when there’s rum in it, said Stevie.
Coke’ll disintegrate a spoon, said Ray, licking the catsup off her finger.
Stevie looked at her boyfriend making eyes at the busboy.
You learn something new every day, she said.
Ray tore the advertisement for the Barbizon Hotel into pieces,
dropped them one by one on top of the X in the ashtray.
Stevie couldn’t get over Ray’s skin. It was this weird
kind of blue – like her blood was just about to stop.
Course, said Ray, you gotta leave the spoon in overnight.
Stevie touched Ray’s hand … more out of curiosity.
Right, she said as Ray raised her eyes. Overnight.