Swell Zine: Last Call

After Katie gave last call, a customer--a regular of Katie's--bought her a drink. Katie set the drink down next to her and counted out what she owed the house, aware that this woman was asking her a question. The woman sometimes drank dark beer, or when she had the money, JB rocks with a twist of lemon. When she had too much to drink of either, a set of deeply recessed lines around her startling sea-green eyes, along with a surprising measure of subliminal anger, rose abruptly to the surface. Now it was evident that JB rocks twist, as Katie and the other wait staff called her, had less than usual tonight and was in a playful mood. "How come I never saw you here before?" JB asked Katie.

JB's voice was softly teasing and resonant, a sharp contrast to the harsh angles of her face. She wore ironed blue jeans, and her grey-blond hair in an oddly shaped buzz cut. Katie recounted her tips and drank JB's drink, thinking about this woman ironing her jeans and coming on to her.

Outside, JB dug her hands into her neatly pressed pockets and walked a step behind her. "I could use a place to crash," she said.

In Katie's mind, nothing much had happened that night. The usual drunks, the usual tips, a low energy, half moon hanging in a cloudless sky. Katie was twenty-five with thick, auburn hair she wore long and loose, and a curious, restless nature that had so far had not given her much trouble. Why not? she thought to herself. If there were reasons why not, she was not in the mood for reason. "How long?" she asked her.

In the cab, JB leaned in as she spoke to her. She began a series of stories about herself, relating the various tragedies of her life in her supple, factual voice. At one time, she'd had a hard, unhappy life with a man of questionable sanity who'd once shaved her head while she slept, and once, the other place. From the rearview mirror, the dark eyed cabby silently watched them, smoking cigarettes.

Though JB had an uncanny sense about how people operated, if they were one of the Givers or one of the Takers, she'd allowed herself to be needed by this man. Her problem was being one of the Givers. JB had other categories. There were the Users and Abusers, the Deep and the Serious, the Hip and the Happening, though these sometimes crossed over into the category of the Fakers and the Frauds.

The man was obviously an Abuser, but also one of the Hip and Happening who also happened to be Phony and Fraudulent. She could tell a lot about a person from the first moment of meeting. She could tell for instance that Katie was a Listener, a person to whom people told their darkest stories. If she were a betting woman, she'd say Katie was also one of the Deep and Serious.

Katie laughed, for the sum of her seriousness was a paperback mystery or the occasional Enquirer left at the bar. "I bet you read the future," she said.

JB spoke rapidly, asking questions to which she did not seem to need Katie's reply. What was Katie's threshold for pain? Did she know? Could she say who she was? How far would she go for approval? For love? Living with this man, JB said, nearly made her crazy. Did Katie know what she meant, crazy?

All Katie knew was that JB's questions felt like a game she did not know how to play.

On the sidewalk in front of Katie's apartment, JB touched the small opal ring on Katie's left hand and asked if she were married yet.

An inscrutable smile flashed across JB's face. "Well, I might be a little drunk. You got keys to this apartment, or what?"

Inside the apartment, JB took in the rooms: Katie's one armless chair, her worn, tweedy, brown couch with its earthy Navajo throw, the gun-metal-green table Katie used for a desk, a manual typewriter next to a laptop, bills and papers carelessly strewn over the table and throughout the small second floor flat. In the bedroom, JB sat down on the edge of Katie's bed and kicked off her heavy shoes. "You don't own much. Good for packing up fast," she said.

Katie leaned herself against the dresser, and shrugged. "I'm not exactly the Donald, if that's what you mean."

"I meant nothing, baby. Just an observation on your readiness for flight. I'm the same, you know? There isn't a place I go that I don't check the exit."

JB was between jobs, she said. She brought the paper to one of the local bars each day where she read the want ads, circling prospective jobs with a yellow highlighter. Sometimes, she'd call one of the circled ads, then order another beer and circle another ad. She'd worked as a print press operator, done some technical editing, general warehouse and office work, but none of these jobs lasted more than a few years, a few months. She required very little: her own responsibilities, some respect, a decent buck. Her employers were autocratic, childish, miserly, abusive. Much like the man she'd once lived with. "So unlike you," she told Katie.

JB had other ideas. She envisioned Katie reading the want ads with her between rushes. In the evenings, after work, they'd go home and she would cook. Katie would not have to worry about money. JB's specialty was the Meal Made From Nothing. She would improvise side dishes, a bouillabaisse from mere vegetables or her famous mock meatloaf.

"And no animal rennet. I've seen your pickle sandwiches at the bar. I'll make you the best vegan sandwiches you ever ate," said JB, who had a vision in her mind. She would organize Katie's papers, divide her tips and put them into envelopes for food, the gas bill, the rent. If something were left over, they would go to the movies or to Maxine's for a drink. The women at Maxine's looked somewhat like JB, though their manner would strike Katie as bolder. The leaning into the bar with one knee, the bawdy conversation and unveiled looks at Katie's small hips and breasts, her gorgeous hair and full lips with the hint of lipstick she wore. The way they would look at her would strike Katie as unnerving, thought JB.

They moved into the living room where JB sat down gingerly on the worn couch. "Nice bed."

"Could be worse," Katie reminded her, and made a motion for her to stay put. She went into the bedroom then and changed into her nightgown and robe. She grabbed a pillow off her bed for JB, and thought about changing the pillowcase. She thought about how she was twenty-five and still single, no career, no boyfriend, and in a vague moment of clarity, she saw her life moving forward on its own momentum. She thought about this for a moment, then went into the kitchen and brought out some beers.

JB wanted to know: had Katie had her share of unhappy affairs, dead end jobs, boring lovers, selfish friends?

"Screw the Users and the Abusers, all the Fakes and the Frauds," said JB. "It's the end of the road, Jack. Last call, you know?"

"I know," said Katie. JB watched her move through the three rooms of the apartment, watching the muscles in Katie's calves, watching her slim thighs and hips move beneath the soft fabric of her robe.

Finally, Katie stopped moving, and joined JB on the couch. She could feel JB's intensity, could feel the heat of her gaze, and rumblings of disquiet rioted in her stomach. "You think you know something real about me," she told her.

"I know more about you than you know about you," JB said and without warning, she leaned in and brushed her lips across Katie's. Katie pulled back and stared at her for a moment. Then she rose, feeling a little dazed, and gazed down at the woman as if she expected her to be gone. "What's your name anyway? We call you JB rocks twist at the bar," she said without waiting for an answer.

"They call me Anna. Hey, it's Anna," JB called after her, a vision of Katie's thinly clad hips behind her eyelids as she watched Katie stride away from her and close the bedroom door.

She found a headset and pulled it over her ears, wrapped herself inside the Navajo blanket and let Patsy Cline lull her into a light, restful sleep. In the middle of the night she awoke with a start, her neck and chest soaked in sweat, her heart racing.

At the threshold of Katie's bedroom, she held her breath, a vision of their life in the tiny three rooms closeted in her breast. She laid down by Katie's side, and listened to the younger woman's breathing, slight and sweet, and her own breath came back to her. Katie rolled over and studied her. "Anna," she said, as though testing sound of her name on her tongue. "Anna Banana, what are you doing here?"

Anna reached out, and with the delicate tips of her fingers, touched Katie's hair. "I don't use and I don't abuse," she whispered softly.

S. J. Powers takes her inspiration wherever/whenever it comes. She's grateful it comes at all. Her stories have appeared in Another Chicago Magazine, Facets, Mississippi Review, StoryQuarterly, Happy, West, and elsewhere. She's received two Illinois Arts Council Fellowships and Grants in Prose, and two of her stories have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.