I Know She’s In There!
As the knocking got more persistent, I glanced toward the door. Light streamed through the glass block, indicating that the sun had come up.
I’d been at Paul’s Place since early evening the night before, showing up barefoot and irritable. I drank nearly non-stop; it hadn’t occurred to me to sleep. The cocaine kept me going, and I’d been busy paying for it downstairs.
Now I sat at the bar flanked by Paul, Rich, and two very old men who, I suddenly realized, probably lived at Paul’s Place. Maybe underground. Those men were always at Paul’s.
I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to go into a dark corner, crawl up, and die with a can of beer by my side.
Someone yelled outside, like a kid on a distant playground. It had never occurred to me that Larry would care what I was doing. But now he was banging on the door as hard as his biker fist would allow.
From inside the bar, the sounds were distant and muffled, no more threatening than a fly buzzing in my ear. If I hadn’t recognized the rumble of the Harley, I wouldn’t have even guessed it was Larry.
The building was a concrete jungle; Larry couldn’t have gotten in if he’d come with a sledgehammer.
From a long, long way away, I heard distinctly-Larry’s voice say: “I know she’s in there! The fuckin’ car is out here!”
I’d forgotten about the car. With its racing stripes, it was hard to miss. In the empty lot. At this tiny bar in Wall, Pennsylvania.
Paul spoke first, not even looking up from where he was mixing himself a drink behind the bar: “Just ignore him. He’ll go away.”
I considered this. It sounded like a good plan. “He has to go to work,” I said.
I didn’t move.
The banging got louder. Larry had apparently found a large stick and was whacking the sides of the establishment with all the force he could muster.
Again: like a fly. What he needed was a brick.
Suddenly it occurred to me that he might find one. Or maybe he’d pulled out his knife and was brandishing it like a movie villain. Maybe he’d borrowed somebody’s gun.
I started to panic. My heart started to beat a little too fast, my head started swimming. It was probably time to go.
Larry turned off his motorcycle. The familiar rumbling stopped.
We sipped our drinks. I wished I’d done more cocaine, then I wished I’d done less. I reached over the bar, refilled my beer, and chugged it.
We waited. The sounds got louder, though still not loud. It went on for five minutes, ten, maybe twenty.
Finally the banging stopped. It was deathly silent. I breathed.
Then Larry’s grumbly voice came through, loud and clear, as though a microphone had been set in front of him. It was coming from the front door, directly through the keyhole: “Just tell her to come out so I can see her. I just want to know she’s fuckin’ okay.”
I glanced at Paul, still silent, who nodded.
I grabbed my cigarettes and walked to the door. I opened it and there was Larry, old and pathetic, standing lamely outside. He reached in and grabbed me, pulled me outside, hugged me tighter than I liked.
Larry held me away from him, staring. “Let’s go home,” he said. “You can’t fuckin’ drive.”
“Okay.” I hopped on the back of the bike, still in bare feet.
Larry dropped me at home, then went to work. I went to bed.