Change, John C. Laird [e book reader free TXT] 📗

Sam finished tending to the customer at the end of the bar and ambled on back, his dish towel casually draped over his left shoulder. “So, Andy, you out slumming tonight, or what? No hot date?”

Andrew winced. He didn’t like being called Andy, but since this was his frequent refuge he made allowances for Sam. He looked down, concentrating on standing a quarter on its edge. Fortunately, the counter’s surface was relatively level and the quarter new. It joined two upright companions. “Yeah, Sam, taking a break. Sort of recharging the ‘ol batteries, so to speak.” He attempted a smile at the affable, pot-bellied bartender.

Sam took his towel and began wiping at the worn wooden surface. “I sure wish you’d bring your dates in here more often, it always classes up the place.”

Andrew glanced up and around the dimly lit area. The Riverbend Saloon was your typical ‘shot and a beer’ hangout. A few old Formica tables and beat-up chairs, a long bar with stools, a pool table in the rear and the requisite neon beer signs on the wall pretty well defined the place. A small grill behind the bar at one end could provide a mean hamburger upon request, along with a few other friable items listed on a small chalkboard menu. Of course, there were chips, peanuts and pickled eggs to munch on. He looked back at Sam and they both laughed.

Some of Andrew’s dates occasionally expressed an interest in ‘slumming’, some inner need to visit the seamier sides of the city. The Riverbend was actually in a pretty safe area, but they didn’t need to know that. Its shabby, eyesore exterior and dingy, smoky interior were a novelty to most of them. The often loud and boisterous, ‘lower end’ clientele, the frequent visits by motorcycle gangs—usually innocuous—somehow heightened their sense of danger, and the sex afterward, well, it was never disappointing.

“Sam, hit me with another shot of bourbon and a beer wash. Not any more of that ‘well whiskey’ crap you feed the locals, but some of that ‘Johnny Walker Red’ you keep stashed below.” Andrew wrinkled his nose. “And you might want to tell Mickey to try using his mop a little more aggressively after closing, I think he’s getting sloppy tapping the kegs, the place is starting to smell like sour beer. A smidgen of ‘seedy dive’ ambience is fine, but you don’t want to go overboard.”

Sam laughed again. He had no illusions about his ‘dive’. He went to retrieve the Johnny Walker.

Andrew went back to balancing his quarters. He lived some distance away on the shores of Lake Eire, in a single story condo on the beach. His job as an advertising exec at Montgomery and Fitch paid well. He liked coming here; nobody but the regulars knew him, only a few of which were present on this weeknight.

Andrew fancied himself the real life version of Charlie Harper from the old sitcom ‘Two and a Half Men’. Like his idol, he adhered to the old adages of ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ and ‘slam, bam, thank you ma’am’. Personable, handsome and the consummate ‘skirt chaser’, he was the envy of all his single friends. Still, he sometimes wondered…no…he just needed a break was all, nothing to think about. He returned to balancing his quarters. When he couldn’t keep them on edge, he’d call it a night.

The tinkling of the bell over the tavern’s front door—reminding Andrew of some hole-in-the-wall gift shop—interrupted his reverie. He glanced over as a short, attractive brunette entered, took off her three-quarter length belted coat and sat down at the end of the bar near the door. As she settled in she scanned the room, noticed him and offered a tentative smile before hastily looking away.

Andrew quickly evaluated. She was thirtyish, short hair, small breasted in a pale lavender blouse, nice legs below her dark skirt. She appeared out of place in the seedy bar. He sipped his drink, debating, weighing the pros and cons. As usual, the pros won.

He aimed one of his balanced quarters in her direction and gave it a gentle flick. It rolled straight and true until it collided with a Styrofoam bowl of peanuts situated on the bar near her. She looked at it, him, and smiled. He picked up his drink and walked over to her. He held out his hand. “Hello, my name is Andrew.”

She took his hand. “I’m Abigail, Abby for short. What’s with the quarter?”

“Well, I was going to ask ‘a penny for your thoughts’, but considering the rate of inflation since the idiom’s origins in the Middle Ages, I figured the price had to be up to at least a quarter.”

She gave a small laugh, “My, my, aren’t you the urbane gentleman. Idiom, Middle Ages, inflation? A little unexpected vernacular for this type of place.”

He gave her his sheepish, boyish look. “Well, you’ve discovered my secret. This college grad likes to hang out on the seamier, dark side; my haven from the more sophisticated and complicated corridors of life.”

Abby gave another look around the dingy establishment before refocusing on him. “Well, your secret is safe with me, Andrew. And a quarter will do the trick. I was just wondering what I was doing here and if I should order a drink.”

“My treat, what’ll you have?” he asked.

She hesitated momentarily. “A margarita, I guess.”

Andrew waved Sam over and gave him her drink order, including another Johnny Walker for himself. Sam gave him a wink, a knowing look and departed.

The woman was older than his first estimate. Even with makeup and the soft glow of the ambient light, fine lines were faintly etched around the corners of her eyes and mouth. He now figured her age as somewhere in the early forties, about the same as his. Abby had a few miles on her, a few hard laps around the track under her belt. The hopeful look in her eyes was tempered by past disappointments. There was a faint look of desperation in the furtive glances she gave him.

“So, Abby, what brings you to this quaint tavern?” he asked.

“A friend of mine was having a bachelorette party not far from here,” she said. “It got kind of boring, depressing actually, and I needed a drink. I’m from Grand Rapids, don’t know my way around here very well and stopped at the first place I came to, which was here. I’m in town for the next three days for the wedding…” Abigail nervously prattled on in an obvious attempt to keep his attention.

Pasting on his most attentive look, Andrew occasionally nodded and added comments where he deemed appropriate, but essentially let the woman run on until she slowed, which was well into her third margarita and his fourth whiskey.

Abby filled in Andrew with a short bio on her recent history. Nervous at first, the margaritas oiled her tongue and the words began to flow a little more freely. Seemed she was a secretary at a small firm in Kentwood, divorced, no children—one of the reasons her husband had left her for a younger woman. Abby’s inability to have a child had been a crushing blow to her maternal ego, and her husband abandoning her had been a double whammy, a devastating finishing touch to what had once been a tranquil life. Now, she was back on the single’s scene playing field, not sure what to do, where to look or how to act.

Andrew didn’t like this. He might be a 'male chauvinist pig', but he did attempt to set some guidelines whenever he could. He preferred good-time party girls and the professional, sophisticated not-interested-in-a-long-term-relationship type female, even the occasional high-priced bombshell hooker, but he tried to stay away from the vulnerable, ‘injured doe’ sort of woman.

Still, Abby was attractive, intelligent and had a body that she obviously took good care of. He found her very desirable. Her conversation had dwindled to a halt; she was looking at him expectantly, almost hopefully.

Andrew took another long sip of his drink. He gave her his most charming smile. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Marriott, downtown.” There was not only a look of longing in her eyes, but one of sadness as well. “I probably should be going while I’m still a little sober. Would you…er…like to stop in for a drink? I know it’s not near here, but I’m enjoying our conversation…and I don’t know many people around here…and…ah…”

“Sure, I’d love to. I’ll follow you.”

He hoped her room was on the ground floor; it would be easier to slip out of later. Andrew helped her with her coat and they headed for the door. Just before ducking out into the night with his latest conquest, he turned and gave Sam a wink and thumbs’ up sign.

Andrew walked her to her car, a conservative black, late model Honda Civic. As she folded herself in, he admired the flash of thigh that her hiked skirt revealed. He closed her door and headed for his BMW. Andrew had her pegged. She had passed into the big Four-O’s alone, no children, no husband, no prospects. And now it was panic time. She was desperately trying to find someone to hold onto, someone who would be there the day after, to save her from being alone. Actually, a lot like him in some ways when you thought about it. He decided not to think about it.

#

He fell back on the bed, breathing hard, Abigail collapsing next to him. Their sex had been frantic, almost desperate, their second go-round almost as frenetic as the first. It was if they were using sex to try and fill a vague, ethereal need just beyond their reach.

She was lying with her head on his shoulder, her body molded to his. She was talking, murmuring now. “Maybe we could order room service in the morning, just relax and have breakfast in bed?”

Andrew could imagine the hopeful, anxious look in her eyes. “Sure, that sounds like a great idea.” He was surprised by the pang of guilt that suddenly stabbed at him when he told the lie. Something else below that feeling…maybe, something else…

They talked a while longer before Abby fell asleep. Her head was still on his shoulder, her arm possessively lying on his chest, her leg warmly draped across his groin. Her breathing became deep and regular. It was going to be difficult for him to get out of bed without waking her. Finally, she changed position with an unconscious sigh, rolling onto her side. Andrew waited a while longer, quietly arose and carefully dressed in the dark, his only assistance a sliver of light from the hotel’s parking lot that had forced itself into the room through a slight opening in the curtains.

He tiptoed to the door, partially opened it and readied to slip out into the discreetly lit hotel hallway. He froze when he heard something, a muffled sound, much like a sob. Then another. He hesitated, turned and looked back at Abigail’s still form lying on the bed. She was facing away from him, softly illuminated by the glow from the hallway. Standing silently, he listened. Maybe it was his imagination, but then, a barely audible sniffle.