Harvey Flense sat dejected on his favorite barstool, wondering what he did wrong. The blue girl was gone. She left with abrupt indifference. Cocktails gave his words the confidence to come out but as soon as the slurred sounds hit the atmosphere he regretted them. Wanted to reel them back in. Take a retroactive vow of silence. Run the tape backwards and all you’d hear is gibberish—no satanic backmasking here, officer. I’m tried and true, honest.
He ordered another gin gimlet and Boxy the bartender made him one. Harvey watched him work. Boxy had the hairiest arms Harvey had ever seen. The kind of arms you can comb. Boxy was called “Boxy” because he used to box. His nose was permanently smooshed, held together with flattened cartilage. It made him sound like he had a cold for the rest of his life. His real name was Bernard, like the saint. He’d been a bouncer at Trudy’s Place in his youth. From bouncer to bartender in only twenty years. Boxy was magnificent.
He slid the gimlet toward Harvey and said, “Last one, Harve,” meaning he was cut off from further booze. He ate the wedge of lime and then took a sip of the drink. Boxy really knew how to combine two ingredients and make something truly magnificent.
The woman had settled herself right next to Harvey and he sat there and didn’t say anything for three whole drinks. She was magnificent. Her hair was a frosty blue and she had a silver ring hanging from her nose. A real live beatnik chick. He wanted to talk to her but he sat there and didn’t. The fourth gimlet was the tipping point. He was chewing a lime rind when he turned to the woman and said, “Hey there, gorgeous! My name’s Harvey.”
She collected her things and went to the other end of the bar.
Harvey downed his drink and signaled Boxy for another and that’s where this whole sordid scenario began.
He said, “Hey Boxy…” and forgot what he wanted to say. Boxy waited but Harvey was bereft. Finally Boxy said, “Do I have to take that last gimlet away from you?”
Harvey cupped his hands around the glass in a defensive posture. “Don’t you dare,” he said. His voice was a low growling threat.
“Okay Harvey, take it easy,” said Boxy, backing off.
Harvey slumped. “I’m sorry man. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I never mean anything.”
Harvey lacked the confidence to mess with Boxy, even in a good-natured way. Harvey didn’t know how to kid around in general. Never did. Man, he used to get pummeled in high school for saying the wrong thing. He couldn’t engage successfully with the other boys and couldn’t even talk to the girls. Like, at all. Everything made him nervous. Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD) is what professional shrinks might call it today. Back then it was just obnoxious, inappropriate behavior that got your ass kicked.
He took a long sip of his drink and heard feminine laughter fill the bar. He glanced over and saw that the blue-haired girl was talking to Mackie D’Amato. Mackie was a garage mechanic at Jiffy Lube with stained hands and a double chin who had the gift of gab. People honestly liked him and he made people laugh but they laughed with him, unlike the laughter that Harvey engendered, which was more on the hateful side. Mackie was magnificent.
Harvey finished his gimlet and tried to order another one but Boxy said, No can do. “If you want to stay here you can have a Coke or coffee but I can’t serve you alcohol no more.”
Harvey was staring at Boxy’s arms and noticed something he hadn’t noticed before. “Is that a tattoo?” he asked.
Boxy glanced down. “Yeah. Got it when I was a kid. So?”
“What is it?” He tried to squint through Boxy’s mass of black hair.
“It’s supposed to be Ginger Lynn.”
Harvey tilted his head, staring at the crude drawing of a topless woman. “Who’s that?”
“Porn star from the eighties,” Boxy told him. “It was a mistake. I was friends with a guy who wanted to draw tattoos as a job so I let him practice on me. He paid me in weed.”
Harvey snickered and said, “With all that arm hair she looks like a werewolf.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Boxy came around the bar and put Harvey in a headlock. It happened so fast. “Let’s go, Harve. You’re done.” And he pulled Harvey toward the exit.
“Okay okay,” Harvey said and everyone in the bar was looking at him, especially the blue-haired beatnik chick.
And then Harvey was back on the sidewalk. He adjusted himself and gasped his lungs full of chilly night air.
Then he crossed the street to the Debbie-Mart. He was out of cigarettes. There was a full moon and Harvey paused in the parking lot to admire it. It was so big and clear he could make out more craters than usual. He could actually see the face of the moon, its slightly worried expression. It was magnificent. He’d been joking about the werewolf on Boxy’s arm but now it made sense.
As soon as he entered the Debbie-Mart he forgot everything he’d been thinking about and he smoked on his long walk home, looking forward to passing out in front of the television. Hee Haw would be on soon.
The events of the night would never occur to him again.
Crumbling Asphalt 