What Other People - Part 2

The second chapter of a three-part story.

I drove down the lamp lined Division Street with Marianne in the passenger seat as she rifled through a CD case. She was too drunk. She flipped incessantly, unable to locate the album she desperately needed to play for me.

“You’ll absolutely adore the Appleseed Cast,” she raved for the third time, pausing in her search and subsequently losing her place. “You’ll thank me for this later, I promise.”

“It makes no difference to me,” I replied. I was concentrating too hard on not swerving or crashing to worry about what was playing on the stereo. The current refrain of radio static had been satisfying enough during the past five minutes. I could drown my reeling head in the white noise.

She resumed scouring the pages. “It’s just… I know you like Radiohead… and The National… it’s sort of a cross between…” she came to the back of the case once more. “Goddamnit! I know you’re in here,” she railed at the sleeves full of round plastic. “You’re always here.”

She started over again.

Marianne’s mood had improved significantly over the course of the evening. Her naturally discordant personality continued to shine, but the potentially volatile attitude that recent events could have engendered didn’t seem ready to surface. Maybe she hadn’t had time to fully process the implications of being snubbed. Or perhaps she held tenaciously to the hope that the Mark debacle was only a hiccup on their path to reunion. Whatever the reason, the evening had been noticeably absent of any mention of the ex-boyfriend. Now, we were both placidly distracted by the liquid high of vodka and wine. The promise of beer and song to come kept our spirits elevated as well.

“It’s all right if you can’t find the CD,” I assured her, glancing over. “You can play it for me when we get back to your house. Later.”

“No, no. Now,” she said, not taking her eyes from the pages.

“All right… look, I’m almost out of gas, and I don’t want to have to get it when I’m even more wasted, and tired. Is it all right if we stop at the gas station up the street?”

She waved my comment away with one hand. “Go ‘head. Man’s gotta do yadda yadda.” She flipped another sheet, then stopped and looked up at me. “You, know, Emmitt, you never stand up for yourself.”

“What does that mean?”

Marianne pulled a lipstick from her green purse and stared at herself in the mirror through the darkness. She applied it as she explained. “Whenever anyone suggests anything, you go along with it like you don’t have an opinion. It makes you look weak and indecisive. And I know that’s not how you really are.”

I swerved slightly into the next lane, but quickly readjusted. “I don’t usually care what happens. I’m just sort of there.”

“Sure you care. I can tell, at least when you’re with me. You make comments. Your face always betrays your mood.” She puckered her lips at the mirror, then snapped the cap back on her lipstick.

“You’re saying my expression betrays me? I have a bad poker face?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t smile when you’re frustrated. Your eyes get dark and far-off when you feel isolated. When you enjoy yourself, you’re more animated.”

“Those are just my moods, though. They don’t always come from what I’m doing.”

Her voice grew consoling. “Sometimes, though, you end up doing things you don’t really want to, just ‘cause someone else does.”

“Sometimes.”

“When you do that, you’re like a washing machine on a spin cycle. Like you can’t figure out where you are.”

“So what?”

Her tone got hard again. “So tell me what you want. Be more assertive.”

“I do tell you, when I have an idea. It just doesn’t happen that often.”

“No,” she countered. “You say, ‘is it all right if I stop for gas?’ You even have to ask permission for that, and you’re the one driving. Don’t do that shit. Say, ‘we’re stopping for gas, bitch. Deal.’”

“Do I have to say it like that?”

“Nah. Say it your way. But be firm. Girls like that.”

“…is that a joke?”

“Don’t ask! Even if I didn’t intend it as one, that’s what it was for you. Just laugh.”

“All right, all right,” I said, feeling harassed. “Ha ha. Happy?”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“I can’t help it.” We pulled into the gas station.

“Neither could Nietzsche, and he went crazy.”

“He had syphilis.”

As I opened my door to fill the car, she looked me sternly in the eyes. “And you’ll get it too, if you don’t say ‘no’ once in a while.”

I pumped the gas, the crisp black air of evening sharpening my senses and driving out some of the alcohol’s effects. I thought briefly about what Marianne had said. She was right: I did sometimes let things go that bothered me. It was part of what made me capable of my tolerant friendship with her. But it often led me to uncomfortable situations, or circumstances that inwardly I felt were not excellent uses for my time.

I watched the numbers rack up on the display, dizzying in their climb. I became temporarily mesmerized by the tick-tick of the screen. Then the hose jerked with the sudden halt of current, and my brain snapped once more back to attention, this time with a new resolution. I would try to consider my own opinions more and speak my mind more often. As long as I wasn’t being offensive, anyway.

I slipped back into the car, and we were off. We pulled into the parking lot of DeNiro’s Bar and Martini Lounge a few minutes later.

Marianne and I weaved our way across the pavement arm in arm. She was worse off than I, but my own balance was too debilitated to correct hers, and instead I stumbled around in the same ungainly fashion. The weekend crowd choked the entrance with coiling clouds of smokers, furiously puffing so that they could rejoin their drinks inside in as little time as possible. As we neared these patrons, the blue-green neon of the sign above cast sickly shadows upon their faces. They parted for us, slow and inept. I looked around, smiling stupidly. I could see the pockmarks and blemishes, the badly handled makeup highlighted by proximity. From inside, the cacophony of a local band emitted regular squeals and thumps.

Directly in front of the door stood Joe, the bouncer, like the chieftain of some wayward tribe. Despite his bulky shape and intimidating gaze, Joe was a friendly guy who loved to discuss philosophy and quantum physics. In a past conversation between us, he had mentioned Hegel, Bohr, and Aquinas in a single breath, leaving me dumbfounded and impressed. Being a bouncer was a secondary passion, something that his body appeared incidentally designed for. He was nonetheless good at that, too, and took his position seriously.

He towered in front of me. “Evening, Emmitt. Marianne.” His bass voice carried over the throng.

“Hey, Joe!” Marianne cried, a little too gaily.

“You guys all right tonight?”

“Sure, Joe. You?”

“I’m well, thanks, but that’s not what I meant. You both look like you’ve had your fill already.”

“Oh, nooo,” Marianne interjected. “Not even close.”

Joe took a long look at her, then turned toward me. “Listen,” he said. “Normally I wouldn’t mind, but we were raided last night. Apparently there was a complaint. Someone drove out of here a little too drunk. We can be held responsible for these things, and we can’t afford to have our liquor license suspended.”

“I know, I know,” I responded.

“I have to pee, Joe,” Marianne beseeched. “Can I please go pee?”

“Look,” he replied, turning to her with a pained expression. “Go to the bathroom. Then come right back to us.”

“He’s my ride,” Marianne snapped. “Where else would I go?” She slid past, into the dusky innards of the bar.

Once she was gone, Joe’s manner became more confidential. “Emmitt, I can’t let you come in while she’s like that. Not tonight.”

I pondered this development. It occurred to me that this could be an opportunity to assert myself, to push a barrier and see where it got me. “Are you positive there’s nothing you can do? Is Ken around? I could talk to him.”

“Yes, he’s here. He’ll tell you the same thing I just did, though.”

“Do you think I can ask anyhow? Marianne’s had a pretty bad day.”

Joe sighed. “All right. Stay with me, and I’ll get him for you. I can’t promise anything.” He pivoted on one foot and opened the door for me. The crashing of the band on one end of the main bar drove itself like a sledgehammer into my skull. Sweat and strong perfumes hung in the air like stalactites. I faltered slightly in my step, following him to a door adjacent to the bar. It read “Employees Only.”

“Wait here a second,” Joe commanded, and disappeared. As the door shut behind him, I caught sight of Marianne careening through the crowd to my right. I waved, and after a moment of hesitation, she understood and came over. Her hair was strewn haphazardly over her forehead, blackish and shiny in the dull red lighting.

“They gonna let us in?” she asked.

Before I could reply, Joe returned, trailed closely by Ken. Ken had a kindly bearded face that matched his disposition. He regularly drank with his customers, or joked around with the staff. When he laughed, his round belly heaved below the band t-shirts he wore. He reminded me of a deposed Santa Claus. Tonight, though, Saint Nick looked as if he’d had to put Vixen down for rabies.

Marianne spoke up first. “Ken, you’re not going to kick us out, are you? You wouldn’t do that.”

Ken sat himself on a nearby stool. “Marianne, dear. I don’t have a choice. This is beyond my ability to prevent.”

“No, no, Ken. It’s all right. See, we’re already here.”

“Not yet,” Joe interjected. “You know better.” He moved away from us back to the door, but stayed inside. I knew he was was listening to make certain that his employer’s decisions remained final.

Marianne scowled. “Ken, we came all this way. You know us. You know we won’t cause any trouble. We can stay. Nothing will happen.”

“Marianne, honey, I don’t expect you guys to do anything. But look: I have no way of knowing whether there are undercover police here now. I guarantee that there are cops waiting down the street. I have a full house, and every one of these people is a potential liability. So are you, simply by being here. I can’t take the risk of letting you two become worse than you are. You’re more than welcome, any other time – just please understand that tonight is unusual. It’s for your protection, too.”

“How can you say that? We’re okay. We’ll be careful.” Marianne’s eyes turned to lakes, the banks overflowing. “After all I’ve done…”

“It’s obvious that you’re not okay,” Ken replied. “You’re swaying and slurring right now, as you speak. I can’t.”

Marianne tried a new tactic, but was sobbing slightly between her sentences. “I helped you build this place up, Ken. I told my friends… I helped you, and you’re kicking me out.”

Ken’s belly heaved heavily as he sighed. “Understand, please. I’m very grateful for your support. I respect you, or else I wouldn’t be reasoning with you here, now. You’ll always have a place here.”

“No, no.” Marianne was crying unabashedly. A few curious customers were staring at us. I felt I had to do something, so I touched her on the shoulder.

“We can go somewhere else, or home, or come back tomorrow. It’s all right.”
She shoved me away. “No, we can’t! They kicked us out! We can’t…”

“Listen to Emmitt,” said Ken. “He’s making sense – he knows there’s no hard feelings. We’re still your friends.”

“You wouldn’t do this if you were my friend! Never!” She was practically screaming, and half the bar was watching her. She twisted angrily on her heels and strode towards the door. I ran to catch up with her, but she was outside by the time I could react. I shot a bewildered look at Joe, who was still guarding the entrance from the inside. He shrugged at me and shook his head.

Then, before either of us could stop it, Marianne caught hold of the ashtray, a garbage-can-sized receptacle that sat a few feet from the door. She lifted it off the ground and hurled it at the wall of the building. The smoking patrons yelled and scattered as ash, sand, and butts flew in all directions. A short black girl in a tank top who’d been caught in the spray tore in the direction of Marianne.

“What the fuck – fuckin’ whore!”

“What? What? C’mon!” Marianne turned back around, posturing with her arms thrown in the air. I got to her just as Joe, with his inarguably insuperable force, grabbed the other girl. We pulled in opposite directions as they continued to scream at one another. “…fuckin’ – rip out every one of those extensions!” rang in my ears.

I dragged Marianne away. She was too winded, drunk, and upset to resist much. Behind us, Joe called. “You just ruined it for yourself, you know!” She gave him the finger, then gave up and followed me.

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