The Alphabet of Regret: Y is for Youth

Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Alphabet of Regret: Y is for Youth

Glass by glass, Benny Ostrogoth was reversing his position on drunk women.

“I dunno,” the drunk woman said, her head dipping briefly down to the bartop, “You’re funny – and kind of cute?”

“Kind of, yes,” agreed Benny. He made a circular motion over the bar with his index finger, the universal sign for two more of the same.

Drunk women, Benny was coming to realize, formed a vital part of any bar’s ecosystem. They took in desperation and, by an invisible chemical conjunction, emitted a faint aerosol of hope. Eventually they would wear away – and sometimes the reaction would catalyze explosively, a tangle of limbs and breath and a hastily snuffed out light – but then, Benny figured, so would he.

“What do you do?” the drunk woman said.

“I’m a young man from the motor trade,” said Benny. “Care to keep an appointment with me?” He flipped a card out from his palm.

The woman’s name was Sheena, of all things. Out of habit she kept it in reserve, partly because giving out her name in these situations was like dropping a key into a man’s palm, but also because most men, ever since her preteen years, would start singing a few lines from Morning Train. She was beginning to find that fewer and fewer people were making the connection, which meant that the bar’s demographic was tilting ever younger, while she was rooted in the same spot.

So far no one had ever sung Sugar Walls for her. So there was something to be grateful for.

She looked at the card: a heavy rectangle of paper, gold embossed script, a logo watermarked into its centre.

“You sell cars”. Sheena gathered up the fresh drink in one hand and tipped some of it down her throat.

“You should drop by some time. Any time”. Benny kept the card out, clamped smoothly between index and middle finger. Sheena plucked it from his hand with her nails and dropped it into her purse.

“I don’t just sell cars,” he said.

She watched the heavy drops of alcohol and syrup roll down the slope of her glass. A cone on a stem. Whatever this evening brought, it would need more cones, more stems, more talk.

She lifted her glass to the bartender and gestured in Benny’s direction.

“My name is Sheena,” she said.

Posted by Palinode | Permalink