[story] nothing more than a conversation in a bar
author: untrainedviolin (untrainedviolin)
She was drunk, that was all it was. You wouldn’t have believed a word of what she said, sober or not, and neither would I. I didn’t, by the way. It was just too weird to be believed.
Downright crap if you ask me.
But anyway she was pretty, and she would have slipped my mind entirely (even with her drunken ramblings I would’ve forgotten her, though they were the weirdest I’d ever heard), if it hadn’t been for the boy afterward.
I could have imagined him, though-hell, I could’ve dreamed her up too, God knows what Mikey slipped me in the restroom, and God knows why I smoked it.
But anyway she came after Mikey went, with a new girl on his arm, me sitting there drowning myself and memories of Sarah in whiskey and Tequila Rose (not necessarily together). So I was alone at the table. The entire place was half-empty and I was the only one on my side of the room, apart from a wailing jukebox. (It was playing The Velvet Underground’s Sunday Morning, I remember that.) She walked in, which I didn’t notice, and sat at my table, which I did. And her first words to me were, "Jack? What are you doing here?"
I tossed back what was left of my drink irritably. "Sorry. Guess again."
"Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else." She looked chastised, and I lost some of my initial annoyance. Now that I looked at her more closely, I realized I thought she was quite attractive, and I hoped it wasn’t just the haze of whatever I'd smoked talking. She wore a floral print dress (to a bar?) and her brown hair curled nicely and she had green eyes. Sarah was a blue-eyed blonde, stereotypical as they come, and that was why I felt inclined to talk to this girl. Sarah also didn’t wear floral print if she could. Said it made her look fat. (It didn’t.)
"You look like him, you know," she said, propping her chin on her wrist and sounding wistful. "Jack."
"Who the hell is he, anyway?"
She shrugged. "It’s complicated. Do you mind if I join you?" And without waiting for my answer she turned, flagged down a passing waitress, and asked if they had a peach-and-lime daiquiri. I resigned myself to yet another refill. It looked like I was stuck with her, no matter my plans earlier on getting faced alone this night.
"What is your name, by the way?" she asked, turning back to me.
"Leo," I answered, giving her the first name I could think of.
"Mmm. Hi. I’m Rachel."
"In my experience, girls named Rachel do not walk into bars mistakenly identifying people," I told her.
"You must have a very limited experience, then," she said.
"The task of widening it falls to you." The waitress arrived with my drink-not hers-and I raised it to her. "To mistaken identity." It's safe to say at this point that I’d ingested several fingers (do you call it fingers?) of whiskey and more than a few shots of tequila. Add to that the smoke ghosting around my system, and, well, let’s leave it at that. I tried again. "Who is Jack?"
"I don’t feel up to telling it to a stranger."
"What are you here for then? It can’t be the company."
She shrugged. "You look like him, is all."
I grinned. "You must introduce me to him, then. So I can tell him what a sexy bastard he is."
That at least made her laugh. "Please, don’t. His ego is huge enough as it is." At last the waitress came over and plunked her drink down in front of her, and Rachel thanked her with a smile. She sipped her drink while I shut up, and she stared at me. "He’s my boyfriend."
"Jack?"
"Yeah. But I like I said, it’s sort of complicated. I only see him around this time. Once a year, always during fall."
"What, seaman or something?"
She shrugged. "I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what he does the rest of the year. All I know is he just shows up on my doorstep around this time and off we go, until he disappears just before December."
"Sounds suspicious."
Rachel narrowed those green eyes at me. "He’s the last person I’d expect to get mixed up in anything illegal."
"That’s what all the girls say."
"Well, that’s what I believe." She took another gulp of her drink, this time a great long pull that nearly left it half-empty. This seemed to encourage her, and she leaned forward. "Between you and me, Jack is really weird."
I hadn’t been counting on this when I'd walked out my door earlier this evening. "How weird is he?" I asked, playing along. I wondered whether I’d end up taking an intoxicated Rachel through the streets of the city while she mumbled confused directions to her house. God knew I’d been through it before.
"You know, the way he always shows up just once a year. And when he disappears, I just wake up and there’s a mug of my favorite hot chocolate on the counter, and it’s still steaming, and I just know he’s gone away again, right?" She took another sip of her drink, more modestly this time. "He’s never told me where he goes. We’ve been together-can you call it together?-for three years and he’s never once told me where he goes the rest of the year."
"Isn’t that strange," I murmured. I had stopped listening. The mystery of the disappearing boyfriend no longer interested me; I was now trying to figure out a way to leave. "Is there anyone with you right now?"
Rachel’s brow furrowed. "No."
"Good." I looked out over the other half of the room. Everyone there did not look like they were having a particularly good time. Sunday Morning had long ended, and now a song I didn’t know was playing. I wondered who kept feeding the jukebox. Was there even a jukebox? Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was imagining everything, including Rachel. Who, by the way, had just finished her daiquiri and was now signaling the waitress for another one. "I think you should slow down."
"Should I?"
"Yep." I tried to remember how this had happened. Did Rachel sit down or did I seek her out? Did it even matter? By now I must have been completely high.
"Why am I even telling you this?" Rachel asked me, leaning back in her chair. "I don’t even tell my closest friends this. They don’t even know about Jack. I tell them I’ve always got a lot of things to do during this time of year, and that’s why I disappear so often."
I shrugged. She looked at me. "It must be because you look like him so much. Have I told you what’s the weirdest thing about Jack?"
I shook my head no.
"He turns leaves orange."
I looked askance at her, raising an eyebrow, and she nodded emphatically. "He does. I watched him do it. He was holding a leaf in his hand, one day. He’d plucked it from somewhere, and it was still green. He showed it to me, and he said 'Watch', and I did, and it turned orange." She thought for a bit. "He also knows exactly when it’s going to rain, and snow, and he said he hadn’t seen anything but autumn in a hundred years."
This had gone far enough. "That’s it. We’re getting you home. Can you stand?"
She huffed at me. "Of course I can."
"Can you walk a straight line?"
"Absolutely."
"All right. Go pay the tab at the bar," and I handed her some bills.
She turned, and staggered. I caught her. "See? C’mon, where do you live?"
"East side," she said. She didn’t sound drunk. I paid the tab and we came out of the bar. It was very dark outside now, and as I searched up and down the street for a cab Rachel suddenly straightened in my arms.
"Jack," she said, and I looked where she was staring.
Someone was approaching, and as I squinted, he stepped into the light of a streetlamp.
Jack looked nothing like me. He was taller, for one, and although we had the same brown hair he had eyes greener than Rachel’s. Mine were brown. "So he can turn leaves orange, eh?" I muttered. Rachel ignored me, and Jack stepped toward her with a smile.
"Rachel," said he. "I’ve been looking all over for you. You weren’t at home."
"No, I wasn’t," she said. "This is Leo, by the way. Leo, this is Jack." I started. I’d forgotten I’d told her my name was Leo.
"Hey," Jack said, nodding at me before turning his attention back to Rachel. "Come on. There’s going to be a pretty stiff wind in a bit." He took off his coat and wrapped it around Rachel, who lacked one. Sure enough, a really cold wind blew down the street a few seconds later, and I tucked my face into my jacket to keep warm. It was still autumn, but the weather was steadily getting colder. The wind shook down a shower of leaves from a tree overhead. I could have sworn the leaves were green when they fell-they were green in the light of the streetlamp. But they were the red and gold and orange of leaves in deep autumn when they hit the ground. Jack stood there, with Rachel, with his green eyes, smiling at me. "Brian, isn’t it?" he said. "Thank you for bringing Rachel out."
"I would have brought her home," I said.
"I know. Thank you for that too." He walked off, supporting Rachel (who, now that I think on it, could not hold her liquor well at all), and it was only when they were gone that I realized he’d called me by my real name, and that I’d never given it to either of them.
the end
She was drunk, that was all it was. You wouldn’t have believed a word of what she said, sober or not, and neither would I. I didn’t, by the way. It was just too weird to be believed.
Downright crap if you ask me.
But anyway she was pretty, and she would have slipped my mind entirely (even with her drunken ramblings I would’ve forgotten her, though they were the weirdest I’d ever heard), if it hadn’t been for the boy afterward.
I could have imagined him, though-hell, I could’ve dreamed her up too, God knows what Mikey slipped me in the restroom, and God knows why I smoked it.
But anyway she came after Mikey went, with a new girl on his arm, me sitting there drowning myself and memories of Sarah in whiskey and Tequila Rose (not necessarily together). So I was alone at the table. The entire place was half-empty and I was the only one on my side of the room, apart from a wailing jukebox. (It was playing The Velvet Underground’s Sunday Morning, I remember that.) She walked in, which I didn’t notice, and sat at my table, which I did. And her first words to me were, "Jack? What are you doing here?"
I tossed back what was left of my drink irritably. "Sorry. Guess again."
"Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else." She looked chastised, and I lost some of my initial annoyance. Now that I looked at her more closely, I realized I thought she was quite attractive, and I hoped it wasn’t just the haze of whatever I'd smoked talking. She wore a floral print dress (to a bar?) and her brown hair curled nicely and she had green eyes. Sarah was a blue-eyed blonde, stereotypical as they come, and that was why I felt inclined to talk to this girl. Sarah also didn’t wear floral print if she could. Said it made her look fat. (It didn’t.)
"You look like him, you know," she said, propping her chin on her wrist and sounding wistful. "Jack."
"Who the hell is he, anyway?"
She shrugged. "It’s complicated. Do you mind if I join you?" And without waiting for my answer she turned, flagged down a passing waitress, and asked if they had a peach-and-lime daiquiri. I resigned myself to yet another refill. It looked like I was stuck with her, no matter my plans earlier on getting faced alone this night.
"What is your name, by the way?" she asked, turning back to me.
"Leo," I answered, giving her the first name I could think of.
"Mmm. Hi. I’m Rachel."
"In my experience, girls named Rachel do not walk into bars mistakenly identifying people," I told her.
"You must have a very limited experience, then," she said.
"The task of widening it falls to you." The waitress arrived with my drink-not hers-and I raised it to her. "To mistaken identity." It's safe to say at this point that I’d ingested several fingers (do you call it fingers?) of whiskey and more than a few shots of tequila. Add to that the smoke ghosting around my system, and, well, let’s leave it at that. I tried again. "Who is Jack?"
"I don’t feel up to telling it to a stranger."
"What are you here for then? It can’t be the company."
She shrugged. "You look like him, is all."
I grinned. "You must introduce me to him, then. So I can tell him what a sexy bastard he is."
That at least made her laugh. "Please, don’t. His ego is huge enough as it is." At last the waitress came over and plunked her drink down in front of her, and Rachel thanked her with a smile. She sipped her drink while I shut up, and she stared at me. "He’s my boyfriend."
"Jack?"
"Yeah. But I like I said, it’s sort of complicated. I only see him around this time. Once a year, always during fall."
"What, seaman or something?"
She shrugged. "I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what he does the rest of the year. All I know is he just shows up on my doorstep around this time and off we go, until he disappears just before December."
"Sounds suspicious."
Rachel narrowed those green eyes at me. "He’s the last person I’d expect to get mixed up in anything illegal."
"That’s what all the girls say."
"Well, that’s what I believe." She took another gulp of her drink, this time a great long pull that nearly left it half-empty. This seemed to encourage her, and she leaned forward. "Between you and me, Jack is really weird."
I hadn’t been counting on this when I'd walked out my door earlier this evening. "How weird is he?" I asked, playing along. I wondered whether I’d end up taking an intoxicated Rachel through the streets of the city while she mumbled confused directions to her house. God knew I’d been through it before.
"You know, the way he always shows up just once a year. And when he disappears, I just wake up and there’s a mug of my favorite hot chocolate on the counter, and it’s still steaming, and I just know he’s gone away again, right?" She took another sip of her drink, more modestly this time. "He’s never told me where he goes. We’ve been together-can you call it together?-for three years and he’s never once told me where he goes the rest of the year."
"Isn’t that strange," I murmured. I had stopped listening. The mystery of the disappearing boyfriend no longer interested me; I was now trying to figure out a way to leave. "Is there anyone with you right now?"
Rachel’s brow furrowed. "No."
"Good." I looked out over the other half of the room. Everyone there did not look like they were having a particularly good time. Sunday Morning had long ended, and now a song I didn’t know was playing. I wondered who kept feeding the jukebox. Was there even a jukebox? Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was imagining everything, including Rachel. Who, by the way, had just finished her daiquiri and was now signaling the waitress for another one. "I think you should slow down."
"Should I?"
"Yep." I tried to remember how this had happened. Did Rachel sit down or did I seek her out? Did it even matter? By now I must have been completely high.
"Why am I even telling you this?" Rachel asked me, leaning back in her chair. "I don’t even tell my closest friends this. They don’t even know about Jack. I tell them I’ve always got a lot of things to do during this time of year, and that’s why I disappear so often."
I shrugged. She looked at me. "It must be because you look like him so much. Have I told you what’s the weirdest thing about Jack?"
I shook my head no.
"He turns leaves orange."
I looked askance at her, raising an eyebrow, and she nodded emphatically. "He does. I watched him do it. He was holding a leaf in his hand, one day. He’d plucked it from somewhere, and it was still green. He showed it to me, and he said 'Watch', and I did, and it turned orange." She thought for a bit. "He also knows exactly when it’s going to rain, and snow, and he said he hadn’t seen anything but autumn in a hundred years."
This had gone far enough. "That’s it. We’re getting you home. Can you stand?"
She huffed at me. "Of course I can."
"Can you walk a straight line?"
"Absolutely."
"All right. Go pay the tab at the bar," and I handed her some bills.
She turned, and staggered. I caught her. "See? C’mon, where do you live?"
"East side," she said. She didn’t sound drunk. I paid the tab and we came out of the bar. It was very dark outside now, and as I searched up and down the street for a cab Rachel suddenly straightened in my arms.
"Jack," she said, and I looked where she was staring.
Someone was approaching, and as I squinted, he stepped into the light of a streetlamp.
Jack looked nothing like me. He was taller, for one, and although we had the same brown hair he had eyes greener than Rachel’s. Mine were brown. "So he can turn leaves orange, eh?" I muttered. Rachel ignored me, and Jack stepped toward her with a smile.
"Rachel," said he. "I’ve been looking all over for you. You weren’t at home."
"No, I wasn’t," she said. "This is Leo, by the way. Leo, this is Jack." I started. I’d forgotten I’d told her my name was Leo.
"Hey," Jack said, nodding at me before turning his attention back to Rachel. "Come on. There’s going to be a pretty stiff wind in a bit." He took off his coat and wrapped it around Rachel, who lacked one. Sure enough, a really cold wind blew down the street a few seconds later, and I tucked my face into my jacket to keep warm. It was still autumn, but the weather was steadily getting colder. The wind shook down a shower of leaves from a tree overhead. I could have sworn the leaves were green when they fell-they were green in the light of the streetlamp. But they were the red and gold and orange of leaves in deep autumn when they hit the ground. Jack stood there, with Rachel, with his green eyes, smiling at me. "Brian, isn’t it?" he said. "Thank you for bringing Rachel out."
"I would have brought her home," I said.
"I know. Thank you for that too." He walked off, supporting Rachel (who, now that I think on it, could not hold her liquor well at all), and it was only when they were gone that I realized he’d called me by my real name, and that I’d never given it to either of them.
the end