My feet, like my thumb, start moving of their own accord. I’m finding my keys, getting in my rental Mercedes. Before my brain catches up with my body, I’m sitting in Nog’s very full parking lot. I didn’t even change clothes.
Oh, well. Not like the locals have much of a fashion sense anyway. I kill the engine and make my way to the…front? Back? The building is a lone brick structure that I’d have thought was abandoned if it weren’t for one neonOpensign near this wooden door.
Heavywooden door.
I open it and feel like I’ve immediately gone back in time. Smoke billows out from actual cigarettes being smoked indoors. And cigars, probably. And some marijuana, definitely.
I cough and wave the fumes from my face but it’s not so bad, really. There are a few garage style windows up high on one side. They’re open and fans are running overhead near dangling Christmas lights and garlands. Of course.
I scan the room for her. Just to make sure she isn’t riding her bike home in the dark. That’s all. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Friendly thing. We’re…friends?
She’s basically standing in the way, on the land you need to bulldoze to finally beat the Rockfords, man, get it together!
Still, if she dies in a bicycle accident it will throw the town into a tailspin and could affect my construction timelines. Taking an interest in her is self interest. Right. Sure. Yes.
“Steven,” I say, ignoring my annoying self.
“Glory to God, he’s wearing a t-shirt!” Someone yells.
“Wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it myself!” Maxine, I think, cries out.
“I see it, alright!” Some other elderly woman adds.
What is it with women past a certain age and the unabashed ogling?
And it’s not just them. The entirety of the town, all here in this bar at this moment, turns to look at me. There is whistling and cat calling. Steven is standing and clapping. Everyone, buzzed and seeing a moment to seize, piles on.
“Where’s your tie?”
“Do you feel naked?”
“You have calves!”
“How much did that shirt cost?”
“Alright, alright, point taken,” I say, trying to wave them off. Still, my eyes scan. She’s not at any of these tables. Tyrone is here, Ron, Carl, Shelley…is she…on a date somewhere?
My chest constricts under my now-famous t-shirt. I rub at the odd sensation. Perhaps I need a drink. I find the bar through the haze, along the side of the room.
Harper?
“Unbelievable,” I say as I storm across the space. “You tend bar, too? When do you sleep? If it’s about money, we can—”
“I’m just helping!” She says as she pours a beer from one of the taps in front of her. The room is rowdy. Men are calling out drink orders, leering, slurring their speech as they call her name.
“Helping?”
She shrugs, “Angela got the stomach bog. Bug! Stomach bug.”
“And no one else in town can help? It has to be you, every single time? You’re still in your uniform, did you even eat dinner?”
“She only hadss a couplea chicky fingerss!” Someone who should be cut off answers me.
Because people are turning to watch. I guess I am making a spectacle, almost yelling. Harper frowns at me, confused at my anger. She’s not the only one. I feel all the eyes on us, even while James spouts off trivia questions on a mic in the corner.
I try to calm myself and say, “Your dog keeps getting out.”
Your dog keeps getting out? You’ve negotiated with some of the best lawyers in the Northern Hemisphere and this is the best excuse you’ve got?
