Little coherent, she said, she whispered, she intimated. The myriad ways she spoke and none made sense. Her eyes: dinner plates on which she served tears. Skin like no other bronze, almost orange. She promised to stay, and no one knew who'd asked her to remain. The invitation she presumed caused her to stagger about the room, shouting garbled words. The few comprehensible syllables still followed little logic.
"....pig tits.... fur shit house dick... mac.... principles...."
She took drinks from any table she passed till her arms were filled with scavenged cocktails, an array of straws held in hot pink lips. Some wrong had been done to her, that was clear enough. So no one tried to stop her.
Between the liquor babbling she sobbed like an infant, at times sucking breaths in desperate gasps,
"blarrggg (sob) her hose loose... (sob sniffle) dip pickle.... uuuhhhhh (sob, sob)"
I turned off the jukebox in the hopes it would quell the occasional guttural bellows she'd unpredictably unleash, "TEEERRRREEEEE!" Quiet did not stop her shouting. In fact, somehow it made her louder.
In some way she managed to get a cigarette in her mouth and lit without dropping a glass, which drew attention to the fact she had two already smoldering in one of her tiny fleshy hands. The paper turned dark as her tears dampened the cigarette. Without warning, she dropped the load of glasses in order to ash and scratch her crotch.
"It's a fucker," the first full sentence she managed. .. after the glasses shattered at her feet. I was about to come around from behind the bar at that point, when an equally orange gentleman entered the bar. Wearing no shirt for some reason, despite it being November -- he had the body of a Greek statue and the busted face of a car wreck victim -- he scanned the room. Seeing the sobbing girl he nodded and called in a slur to someone outside, "No prob G. She's in here. Terry. TERRY!" When she looked at him with a dim expression of recognition, he added, "Lets go! It's time to bounce."
As she ambled over, her feet crushing the broken glass to powder, I asked the man, "Is she all right?"
"What's it to you bro?" he asked, spreading his arms wide in the A-typical posture of one daring another to cause trouble.
"Nothing. She's just been crying."
"What? You can't cry in here or something." He advanced towards the bar, towards me.
"Yeah. I mean you can. I'm just concerned."
"Don't. Maybe you should be more concerned about being a faggot than about her."
Recognizing a fight no one could possibly win, I simply nodded. By the end of our exchange, Terry had waddled to the door, having collected a few more glasses on the way. Passing me, she smirked and wrinkled her nose, "Dis place is uh shit hole."
"You know it," her male friend agreed, never taking his eyes off me. I considered telling her not to leave with drinks in hand, but thought it would be easier just to let the two go. He ushered her out the door with a hand clamped on her ass, following shortly after, but not before pointing at his eyes then pointing at me.
I told Alan, the other bartender that night, to get a broom and clean up the broken glass.
He asked, "Why me? Why don't you do it?"
"Because I quit."
"....pig tits.... fur shit house dick... mac.... principles...."
She took drinks from any table she passed till her arms were filled with scavenged cocktails, an array of straws held in hot pink lips. Some wrong had been done to her, that was clear enough. So no one tried to stop her.
Between the liquor babbling she sobbed like an infant, at times sucking breaths in desperate gasps,
"blarrggg (sob) her hose loose... (sob sniffle) dip pickle.... uuuhhhhh (sob, sob)"
I turned off the jukebox in the hopes it would quell the occasional guttural bellows she'd unpredictably unleash, "TEEERRRREEEEE!" Quiet did not stop her shouting. In fact, somehow it made her louder.
In some way she managed to get a cigarette in her mouth and lit without dropping a glass, which drew attention to the fact she had two already smoldering in one of her tiny fleshy hands. The paper turned dark as her tears dampened the cigarette. Without warning, she dropped the load of glasses in order to ash and scratch her crotch.
"It's a fucker," the first full sentence she managed. .. after the glasses shattered at her feet. I was about to come around from behind the bar at that point, when an equally orange gentleman entered the bar. Wearing no shirt for some reason, despite it being November -- he had the body of a Greek statue and the busted face of a car wreck victim -- he scanned the room. Seeing the sobbing girl he nodded and called in a slur to someone outside, "No prob G. She's in here. Terry. TERRY!" When she looked at him with a dim expression of recognition, he added, "Lets go! It's time to bounce."
As she ambled over, her feet crushing the broken glass to powder, I asked the man, "Is she all right?"
"What's it to you bro?" he asked, spreading his arms wide in the A-typical posture of one daring another to cause trouble.
"Nothing. She's just been crying."
"What? You can't cry in here or something." He advanced towards the bar, towards me.
"Yeah. I mean you can. I'm just concerned."
"Don't. Maybe you should be more concerned about being a faggot than about her."
Recognizing a fight no one could possibly win, I simply nodded. By the end of our exchange, Terry had waddled to the door, having collected a few more glasses on the way. Passing me, she smirked and wrinkled her nose, "Dis place is uh shit hole."
"You know it," her male friend agreed, never taking his eyes off me. I considered telling her not to leave with drinks in hand, but thought it would be easier just to let the two go. He ushered her out the door with a hand clamped on her ass, following shortly after, but not before pointing at his eyes then pointing at me.
I told Alan, the other bartender that night, to get a broom and clean up the broken glass.
He asked, "Why me? Why don't you do it?"
"Because I quit."
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