Bad Fruit |
Issue 15
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The light the bar door hanging open off the sidewalk cast across the paving stones was all that remained of any life left still on the dark street. In the evening it was bustling, but late at night the cafes and restaurants were closed and the workers gone, and those that lingered worked a very different occupation that now, at so late an hour, was quite profitable. The woman entering the bar knew that it was late, and although she was already with a man she feared he was not entirely trustworthy and could try to leave without paying, and so had convinced the man, withholding her fear, to add another woman.
“It smells like death in here,” the man said. “Wait awhile,” the woman said. “It’s not so late.” “I’ll be dead too by then.” The bar was one narrow room. A counter ran along the right side. There were stools at the counter. On the left were two tall tables with empty stools around them. They sat at the one nearest the door and saw the barman at the counter, near the back wall where the light from the orb bulbs hanging above the other end of the counter faded. The man rapped on the table. “Give me a beer.” The barman, leaning his elbows on the counter and talking quietly to a bundle of feathers barely visible in the low light, looked over. He went to draw the beer. The man rapped again and called, “Two beers.” The bundle glanced over and they caught the raccoon eyes and blood red lips. “Believe our luck,” the man whispered to the woman. The barman came over and set down the beers. The man handed the barman a large note. “Something for her, as well,” he said. The barman returned to the counter and said something to her. She looked over and smiled and they saw the hollow cheeks, wrinkled skin and missing teeth of an old woman. “What are you smiling at,” the man said to the woman with him. “Our friend.” “She has no friends.” “She has the barman.” The barman came with their change. “Your friend?” the man asked him. The barman said nothing and went back to lean his elbows on the counter in front of the old woman. The bar was empty except for them and the barman and old woman at the back of the room where the light from the orb bulbs faded. “She’ll be here all night,” the man said to the woman with him. “It’s late. No one else will work, not with her corpse here.” The man selected two more large notes, left his wallet on the table, and strode up next to the old woman at the counter. She moved on her stool as he stopped. “Some shots,” he said to the old woman and barman. They did not reply. “Three tequilas,” the man said. The barman turned to grab the tequila bottle and the man whispered close to the old woman, “No one else will work, not with your corpse here.” The barman poured the shots and the man handed him a note. The barman went to make the change. “Drink it,” the man said, lifting the shot to the old woman who took it, sipped it and then set it down. “And then get out.” He slid the other note under her leg and returned to his table without his change. “You would think she’d be tired,” the man said, sitting down. The woman shrugged and sipped her beer. “What does she want to still do that for?” he said. “How should I know.” “How does she do it?” “Much the same I imagine.” “But who would pay for that?” “There are always some.” “I wouldn’t pay for that. That’s disgusting.” “Not to everyone. She’s only old.” “She’s not old,” the man said. “She’s dying. Look at her. She must be very poor.” “I would say less poor than before we arrived,” the woman said. “But more dead.” The woman said nothing and sipped her beer again. After a time, the man said, “She must be seventy years old.” The woman nodded. “I swear she’ll never leave,” the man said. “It must be three in the morning. What kind of time is that for an old woman?” “She doesn’t seem tired.” “But no one else will work here if she stays. Who would want to work next to the smell of death?” “She may live a long time still.” “For what? She’s old. I’m not old. What’s she got left? What use could a little more time be?” “You don’t know, the last of it might be the best for her.” “No one wants that. Better to go out young and with everything still intact. At that age you’re ruined, illusions shattered.” “Not always,” the woman said. “And besides, it could be better that way. Look at her. She doesn’t look unhappy.” “I’m sick of looking at her.” The old woman laughed into her feathers. She glanced over at the man and woman, and then quickly back. The man shot both his and the woman’s tequila. He broke the woman’s grasp and went over. “Another,” he said. “Enough,” the barman said, with parental severity. “Water.” “Barman,” the man said. “Another.” “No. Only water.” The barman turned his back to him. The woman watched the man straighten up. He leaned in close to the old woman and said something. The old woman’s hands went to her face. He stayed there. Then something happened that the woman was not quite sure of, and the old woman screamed. Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark; the woman had a hard time keeping up. She caught the man’s arm and, shrieking, finally succeeded in bringing him to a stop. “Did you really do that?” They were stopped between two orbs of light in the dark street. “She was just going to keep it,” the man said. “You’re fucked.” “Anyway, it’s late. I’m tired of waiting.” “Waiting? We could have gone somewhere else.” “You said that’s where the best are. She should have gone to the corner.” “That’s not safe.” “No, it’s not,” agreed the man. “I’m only short on time and money. I can’t stay out all night like some people.” “It’s past four in the morning, and you’ve got your money. What are you saying?” “I’m saying I’ve got a life.” The man was smoothing out and patting his clothes. Across the street, passing through the orbs of light, were two women. They talked with their faces close. “I’ve got a home to get back to.” “And what have you got so important at home?” the woman said, watching them. “It’s not your concern what people do or don’t have.” “You have a home, money, and you’re a man. It is my concern.” “And what are you so missing?” “Everything but money.” “You would have everything I have if you didn’t do what you do.” “No. I’m not a man and I’ve never had a real home.” “Shut up and go away.” “I’m from the street,” the woman said. “Like all those without a home. With all the women who have to risk the night.” “Tonight is over.” “You’re wrong,” the woman said. The man had backed away from her. She stepped forward. “It’s not just a matter of having money or being a man. Every night we stay out knowing that we have nothing to return to.” “There’s plenty of holes to crawl into.” The man’s shoulders raised. “You don’t get it. That’s not home. There is a place that can only be reached between people. It’s comfortable and yours. You have it all to yourself.” “Get away from me,” the man said. “I can’t,” said the woman. When the woman came to, he was gone and she was alone between two lights in the darkness. It was late and he had hurt her, and she was cold and crying and had nothing to show for any of it. She began to walk. She did not know where to go. The street was empty and she thought it would be nice to have somewhere she could lay down comfortably. Yes, somewhere comfortable and all to herself. That’s all you need. A good, quiet, comfortable sleep, with no one to share it. You don’t have to share it. Certainly you don’t have to share it. Nor can you need to share it. Because then you are afraid. What was she afraid of? It was not the street, nor men. It was a loneliness. That’s all it was and a comfortable sleep and all to yourself was the thing for it. All people were lonely, but she knew that loneliness. It came from people, and those who knew it knew that it was only a thing and that having something that was yours alone was what it needed. That could not be taken. It was yours alone. It was comfortable and could not be touched and only you had it and as long as you had it then it was only a loneliness and it was like anything else. People were lonely. The street was lonely. The dark was lonely. The bricks were lonely. The light was lonely. The whores were lonely. The dark was lonely. The old woman was lonely. The light was lonely. The man was lonely. The dark was lonely. The barman was lonely. She laughed to herself and entered as the barman was putting up the stools on the counter. “We’re closed,” the barman said. “I’m alone.” “Come on.” The woman sat on the stool the barman had taken back down. He poured two glasses. They touched glasses and took a drink. “It’s comfortable and nice to have it to yourself, but where’s that woman gone?” the woman said. The barman did not answer and only drank from his glass. It was early in the morning and he was closed. “You left something,” he said. The barman reached under the counter and laid a wallet in front of her. The woman laughed as she looked at it. It was full of money. |
Benjamin Ebert is an American realist writer based in London. His published work can be found in Barely South Review, Nonbinary Review, Samjoko Magazine, Vocivia Magazine and others. Benjamin writes people, how they live and talk and treat each other, hoping to make known the realities they face.
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