Happy Hour

Happy Hour

It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.

“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.

The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.

The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”

“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.

“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.

“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.

“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”

“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.

“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.

“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.

His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”

I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.