Twenty-Six
Thankfully, the Walleye Tavern isn’t as crowded on Tuesday night as it had been on Friday. I could have eaten dinner with my family or called Becky. Another possibility was eating alone in the cottage. I have groceries. However, after two days at the hospital surrounded by family, as Julie came in and out of consciousness, sitting at the bar, drowning my erratic thoughts in whisky and cheeseburger grease holds the greatest appeal.
The customers, those still here after nine at night, are sprinkled throughout the restaurant, filling a few booths along the wall and sitting at a scattering of tables. They’re preoccupied with their own lives, eating, drinking, and solving the world’s problems. For the moment, the pool tables are quiet, the balls no longer colliding and the green felt glowing under the colorful Tiffany-like lights.
The whisky I’ve already consumed continues to settlemy nerves. The alcohol allows my mind to wander as the lyrics of an old Reba McEntire song infiltrate the stuffy air. Sipping my most recent refill, I let the words reverberate through my thoughts. She was eighteen years old on the outskirts of New Orleans when her mother dressed her up and told her to be nice to the gentlemen and they’ll be nice to her—Fancy.
Turning my head, I peer around the bar.
This isn’t New Orleans, yet I wonder how much has changed over time.
I’m not insinuating that any Blue Gil mothers would dress their daughters up for prostitution, but after hearing Hank’s thoughts on Marty, maybe there’s a fundamental truth to the lyrics. Everyone wants more, more than they have, more than they imagine. Fancy, in the song, ends up living in a Georgia mansion and a New York penthouse.
The girls in Blue Gil, though not exclusively here, think they want more.
Sexism is alive and well. It was what Becky said.
As I sip more whisky, I wonder why people aren’t satisfied. Why would a young girl like Marty want another woman’s husband? Why would a married man like Craig make moves on an underage girl?
I look down into the nearly empty glass wondering who the victim is or if the assessment of right and wrong isn’t as simple as all of that.
I was young and believed I deserved the attention of a married man more than his wife. At the same time, he was older, if only a few years, and was in a position of power. Maybe it was all wrong and right doesn’t exist.
Looking back, that’s a hard concept to justify.
Unjustifiable.
“Another one?” Theo asks as he eyes my nearly empty glass.
“What’s it like to stay here?” I ask as I smear the salt around my plate, flattening the remains of a fat French fry. I look up and clarify. “Here, in Blue Gil.”
His blue eyes skirt around the bar before he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, his tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. “It’s home. Sometimes when people leave and come back, they think they’re better than those of us who stayed.”
“Or maybe people who stay think they’re better for sticking it out?” I offer.
“Hmm.”
“Why would leaving make someone better than sticking it out?”
“Wouldn’t you be the one to answer that?” he asks.
“I don’t think that I’m better, but I can’t help how other people see me. I never could.” I finish the last drops of my whisky and hand the empty tumbler toward him. “I think I quit trying.”
It takes a few seconds, but finally Theo nods as he reaches for the glass. “Maybe that’s it.”
I look at him quizzically without replying.
“We all do it,” he says, “work to show that we matter. It’s a never-ending need to prove ourselves.” He picks up the bottle of Maker’s Mark and pours another double into my glass.
I tilt my head and force a grin. “What do you need to prove, Theodore Morton?”
“First, that I’m not my dad. Also, that I’m not the shy, skinny kid you remember from algebra, and lastly, that I can make this place a success.”
I can’t stop the smile that creeps across my face as I stare at the way his shirt stretches over his wide chest, or his bright blue eyes under a mop of wavy chestnut hair. Yes, sexism goes both ways. “It looks like you did it.”
“Why, because I work out?”
“Because if you were shy, you wouldn’t be doing what you do,” I say, “working here every night?”
