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“Don’t you dare,” he says, and hands me a bar rag. “Put that on the stool. I don’t want you bleeding all over my furniture.”
I spread it out and sit down. He sets an empty beer mug in front of me so I can drop the pieces of glass inside. I pick them out of my face, my arms, and my scalp. All over. It doesn’t take long before the mug is full. A second later there’s a shot of bourbon by my elbow.
He says, “Nothing changes, does it? You in here covered in blood and drinking until you’re stiff.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to go straight home.”
“No problem. Sandman Slim fucked up is what brings in the customers. You’re doing me a favor. Not yourself, but I’m cool with that.”
“That makes me your happy hour.”
He smiles.
“And I don’t even have to put out snacks.”
I down the drink and he pours me another.
“Seriously though, what the hell are you doing to yourself? You sit in that weird house all day, then you finally come by for a drink for the first time in how long looking like you’ve been boxing a buzz saw.”
“Ghosts. I was boxing ghosts.”
“Tell me you won at least.”
“I’m not dead.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
“I’ll be healed up by morning.”
“Your coat won’t.”
The sleeve Stein grabbed is almost torn off. There are a million little holes from the glass, and the collar and cuffs are shredded.
I ask Carlos, “Know a good dry cleaner?”
“I know a good coat shop, you cheap bastard.”
“Give me the name before I leave.”
“I’ll write it down for you. Just, please, don’t touch anything.”
He moves off to serve other customers. As I nurse my drink, I become very aware that people are sneaking up behind me and taking bloody selfies. A shy girl barely old enough to be in here nervously holds out a coaster and a pen at me.
“If you don’t mind . . . I’ve been coming here for weeks hoping to meet you . . . would you . . . sign this for me? If that’s okay.”
I stare at her for a minute. Every inch of me is sore. The palm of my right hand is sliced open from where I was protecting my eyes. I’m pissed about losing twice in a row to a bunch of dead people too dumb to stay dead. Plus, my coat is ruined. I’m about to tell her no when I get a look at what she’s wearing. It’s a tourist T-shirt with i ? hollywood on the front, only she’s used a Sharpie to color the heart black, crossed out the “I,” and written “Fuck” over it. Her shirt is the first thing that’s made me laugh in a while. I push the pen out of the way and take the coaster. Set it on the bar and press my thumb onto it, leaving a big, bloody print on top.
“That work for you?”
She beams at me and speaks slowly.
“That. Was. So. Metal.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Cool shirt, by the way.”
“Yeah? I could make you one.”
I hold up a hand to say no.
