Love Songs

I came up with an idea for a story that I thought would make a really interesting novel.  After some research, I started fleshing out characters and the fictional southwestern small town it would be set in.  And then, of course, as with many things in life, I set the story idea aside when things got hectic, to be contemplated at a later date.

I renewed my interest in the idea recently, mostly by trying to take some of the townsfolk and build short stories around them for my Intro to Fiction class.  I thought about telling the entire story through short stories - arranged in no particular order, giving you snippets of these people's lives.  I'm still playing with the idea, but I'm leaning a little towards a novel format again.

Anyway, I have a few of the stories I've worked on and I'd love some feedback.  I've come to realize that I'm pretty bad at writing endings, so I'll definitely be looking for help with that on most of my short stories.  Also, if you catch anything that isn't clear, or anywhere the basic mechanics are off, please, please, please let me know!

Also...just picture Jeff Bridges as Art, when he pops up in the story.  Trust me.

Love Songs

It wasn’t quite right, but it was all she had to work with. The jukebox was about half a century out of date and, by now, you were lucky to get it to accept your quarter, let alone find a song you might actually enjoy. Most of it fell into the country western genre, of course, because what kind of self-respecting southwestern dive bar would provide any less? But the songs were probably twice Shauna’s age, plus a few decades, and, of those, too few were Grand Ole Opry classics. Whatever came close to being, quote-unquote, contemporary, was more or less crap. The rest was 80s pop and some classic rock, with a few perfect gems mixed in with the jumble of trash.

Shauna had come stumbling into North of the Border (and meant it) for the first time about four years back. She’d grown up in this God-forsaken town and spent too long avoiding the place after long high school nights to have never wandered in for the free food and live entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights. But, by the time she could actually sidle up to the bar and order something, Shauna had been off to college, rushing towards the end of her life as everyone back home knew it.

When the ground finally fell out from beneath her, way up in Albuquerque, and she’d come tumbling back down to Marleybone, the very first place the disgraced ex-homecoming queen visited was the bar. People had acted surprised to see her. They’d pretended not to notice the bags under her eyes or the ones in her balled fists, and no one had said a word when she kicked back what looked like anywhere from three to seven OxyContin pills from a baggie in her bag pocket. She’d chased those down with a shot of the house’s best whiskey. She was obviously an old pro at this. And, aside from being a little mellow, a little unsteady on her feet, a little hazy-eyed and slow of speech, the patrons of the North agreed that it was good to have Shauna home. A song had been on the jukebox that night, one she’d never heard and didn’t think she’d ever hear again.

The very next day, he’d come back. She’d refused to see him, holed up in her parents’ house with her stash of his stolen pain medication and a bottle of Grey Goose. She had been hoping she’d die, eventually, sooner rather than later, so she wouldn’t have to hear him anymore. After two days of talking to her locked door, always explaining and never – not once – apologizing, he’d left her, alone but alive. This time, the whispers said, he was gone for good.

Shauna had wished she could disappear just like that, and just as permanently. It only took her a few more weeks of trying too hard to realize her wish wouldn’t be granted. Her luck had run out.

North of the Border became a part of Shauna’s downward spiral. She popped in now and again for her first few months back in Marleybone, after shifts at the local supermarket, sometimes sneaking in a few drinks in the afternoon on break or between errands. She got the shittiest hours – almost two full years at the place, and they were still making her work too many early mornings and weekends. Not that it really mattered, not anymore. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, regardless of Wagner’s dictatorial scheduling.

But, whenever she went into the bar, whether for a binge hours long or for just long enough to realize that she preferred to drink alone, she never once approached the jukebox. She would bitch and complain about the crowd’s bad taste in music, talking anyone’s ear off about how much she hated Loretta Lynn. The barkeep, without fail, would start bitching right back that Shauna should get off her skinny ass and change the music if she hated it so much. But Shauna never did. That didn’t mean she had to stop complaining, though.

She refused to come in after nine on Fridays and Saturdays, too. Because that was when they gave the jukebox a break and let local bands take the stage. Sometimes it was Open Mic Night; sometimes they got some quality entertainment. Regardless, it never failed to remind her of everything she was trying so desperately to hold onto. It was just another reminder that she was losing it all.

Shauna left her house at seven-thirty-five on the dot on one particular night, years after she’d returned, and all because she’d heard the whispers start up again earlier in the week. Someone had been talking about it in the break room; she’d heard it echoed while mopping up a milk spill in aisle five. She had paused, leaning nonchalantly on her mop and wishing for a glass of something hot and numbing, and listened to the talk with her eyes shut tight. As the old crows swapped details, she could hear the song in her head, loud and clear, the same as the last time she’d wandered into North of the Border on a Friday night and heard him singing it.

Shauna owned exactly nine pairs of what could only be classified as stripper heels, the ones that made these same boys she’d grown up with turn and stare like they were still just a couple of horny high school rednecks, but she’d worn the cowboy boots with the metal soles and authentic spurs tonight. It was a special occasion. She took some amount of pride in her appearance from day to day – pride enough to wear as little as possible to show off the only appearance that anyone seemed to care about anymore – but she’d put in the extra effort for this trip to the bar. She noted the appreciative glances and did nothing about the good-spirited catcalls as she made straight for the jukebox. She was a woman on a mission.

There was something she recognized vaguely playing, but she started slipping in her quarters and hoped for the best. It was a Wednesday. For normal people, that meant a trip to the local tavern was a no-no; it was a slow night. A trio sat at the long bar, watching something sports-related, and the tables arranged across the room were empty, save one couple in the best shadowed corner for swapping spit and secrets away from prying eyes, and a lone old man, who would nurse the same glass of beer for the next two hours without looking for anything more. No one would mind that she’d come in again, except maybe Jack, the bartender. He’d heard the song too many times in the past week – he’d just have to suffer through a few more.

It was a routine, as familiar as waking up in the morning and going through the motions of becoming a presentable member of polite society. Methodically, Shauna would put in her quarter and press the button, put in another quarter and press the same button, put in another and press it again. The song changed and she cursed Journey under her breath – this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She’d been hoarding quarters since his second trip back, the time they’d spent almost a whole weekend together and hadn’t said a word, and all for this. Her stash of coins rivaled only the stash of drugs she kept in the bedside table drawer for emergencies.

When the machine was loaded to her liking, enough to keep her occupied for an hour or two and not break the bank, Shauna took a seat at the bar and ordered herself a gin and tonic. “I’m feeling fancy,” she added, by way of explanation. Jack didn’t care, as long as she had the money to pay her tab, and set the glass in front of her without any more ceremony than usual.

She sat, sipping her drink and contemplating the mottled wood of the counter. The dying strains of the rock anthem were far from comforting, but eventually, the jukebox clicked over to another record. The quiet melody began; Shauna brightened noticeably and glanced at the door, just in case. Nothing – no one. But it was still early.

“I like your twisted point of view, Mark. I like your questioning eyebrows…”

Shauna swirled the slice of lime in her drink, enjoying the tinkling of the ice on the good glass. She downed the rest of the gin, then went back to making music with the ice. Jack wandered over, reaching for the glass to refill it. Shauna clasped a hand over the top of it protectively, shook her head. “Just a beer,” she said.

Jack complied without a word, filling a tall glass and setting it down in front of her. He knew better than to try and take the glass from her again, so he left her to her ice and her fresh beer and turned back to the game.

The trio howled, lifting their voices like wolves on the hunt, and all because some overpaid moron had dropped a ball or not hit it far enough or failed to stop it from getting into a net. The couple in the back came up for air long enough to order another round. The old man thought long and hard about it, and then lifted his glass to his lips and took in just enough to get the taste. The door snapped shut smartly after a new arrival. Shauna didn’t bother to look up; the footfall was all wrong. Eventually, the song started all over again.

Shauna glanced down the bar to her right to watch the exchange between the latest patron and the bartender, once the former had sat and the latter had swaggered over, full of pomp and bullshit. Jack was laughing at something Art Delancey had just said, ribbing the old man about not being as spry as he used to be. Art shot back something equally mundane and routine, then ordered the house brew. Shauna turned back to her beer and took a long draught, pretending not to be simultaneously intrigued and disappointed by his arrival. Right family, wrong man. She glanced up at the heavens, as if to remind the universe that this wasn’t the Delancey she’d been waiting on.

“Hell, is that my Shauna?”

Coming from anyone else, that would have been unacceptable; she wouldn’t have hesitated to hurl the beer glass at the ass’ head, to tell him she wasn’t anyone’s. But Art was different, a good man in the old fashioned sense of the word, and Shauna remembered that, once, she’d thought she loved him, no less or more than her own father, but something along the same lines. A grin cracked through the façade as she replied, “Hey, there, Arthur. Where’ve you been?”

“Where have I been?” he echoed. The room rumbled with his quiet laughter. “Been right here, the whole time, darlin’. Questions is, where did you go?”

“I been right here, same as you.”

“Nah. Not the same.”

Shauna considered and had to admit that he was right. Her silence was enough of an invitation for the older man to stand and slide down the bar, taking the stool beside her and glancing her over with an almost clinical, appraising eye. There wasn’t anything in his eyes like there was in the looks of the baying wolves at the end of the bar – this was concern, a little confusion. Meanwhile, the couple in the shadows rose and left the bar, onto greener pastures.

“You’ve been keeping to the ranch,” Shauna noted after a comfortable lull in the pleasantries and good-natured teasing. She couldn’t keep the tiny note of accusation from her voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m old,” Art replied, scratching his head with a sheepish smile. “I watch my TV and read my newspaper and eat the healthy horsecrap my wife puts in front of me. I’m part of a long-standing tradition.”

“You should come into town more often.” She hated how it sounded like she was begging. The song started all over again. She hesitated, listening for the opening line, then continued, “I’m lonely over at the supermarket. And we miss seeing you around. Most we get now is you wavin’ from the driver’s seat of that ugly old station wagon of yours.”

“Hey, now, that wagon’s been good to me,” Art shot back, offended. “Not my fault my son took my truck and went off to God knows where, doin’ only God knows what.”

“I see that kiss me pucker forming, but maybe you should plug it with a beer…” 

Shauna took another long gulp from her glass, aware of Art’s eyes on her the way she might sense some wild dog sizing her up, trying to make heads or tails of her before it struck. She didn’t comment on it, or the song, or how bad the beer was tonight. The door slammed shut, welcoming another small group of local parents for a stolen night out on the town in the middle of the week. A few of them greeted Art and, amiably enough, Shauna. There were murmurs of “just one drink, just one,” drowning out the music as they arranged themselves near the makeshift stage at the back of the barroom and called to Jack for a round of Jack Daniels.

“Before you kiss me, you should know…” 

Art Delancey lifted his head and raised his glass, contemplating the golden brown liquid inside. He set it back on the bar and half-turned to Shauna, avoiding her eyes as she avoided his. “How long you been waiting this time, kid?” he asked, his voice quiet. It was a touchy subject; everyone in Marleybone knew that. But he probably knew it best.

“What are we doing in this dive bar? How can you live in a place like this?” 

“Oh, let’s see,” Shauna said. Her finger followed the swirls of the wooden planks that made up the counter, as she thought back to Aisle Five, mopping up a spill and hearing his song in her head, set to the back beat of gossiping old women. “About five days now.”

“Mm.” Art didn’t sound particularly happy about the set-up, but he was sympathetic. He took a sip from his glass; Shauna mimicked him. The middle-aged mothers, sitting with their husbands at the back, cried out in laughing protest when the men suggested tequila shots, hurricanes, white russians. They said the Jack had already gone to their heads. They asked for appetizers to sop up the alcoholic mess in their bloodstream.

“Feels like a lifetime,” Shauna admitted softly, her hands clasped around her beer glass. It was half full – half empty, to her reckoning – but, suddenly, unappetizing. The effort of raising it to her lips didn’t seem worth it anymore. Too much could happen between now and then.

“Oh, it has been.”

Shauna looked up, startled. Art was smiling, small and gracious, at her, nodding a little, as if he understood her exactly. She didn’t doubt that he did. Left without a response, she leaned back on her bar stool and glanced at the jukebox, nodding subtly in time to the rhythm of the song. “Not much of a love song, is it?” she said with a sheepish smile. “Not sappy, anyway, like I guess it should be.”

“Well, shit,” Art exclaimed. He set his beer down so hard on the bar that some of it splashed over the edge and ran down his fingers. “A love song ain’t the lyrics or the sound or anything technical. It’s not the damn genre. It’s the times it reminds you of and the way it makes you feel.” He held her eye for a beat or two of silence, then turned resolutely back to his beer and took on the air of a wise old sage. Beer glass raised to his lips, he paused and added, “And that’s a love song.”

“What a coincidence – your papa was a rodeo, too.” 

The very next night, the second to last she would wait for him, he came back. She wouldn’t wait longer than a week from first hearing his name; it seemed like he almost knew that now. And, like clockwork, three nights later, he was gone again. Mere moments after he left, Shauna sat alone in her designated room at the Tumbleweed Luxury Apartments, contemplating a drink, contemplating a smoke, contemplating something destructive and permanent. But, since she probably had the tolerance to survive anything by now, and she had the next few months to live through before she got to look forward to his arrival again, she contented herself with sitting back on the lumpy sofa and listening to her own patented brand of love song.