Handsy

Handsy.

1 Joe

I’m one bill away from shutting down.

I dropped the stack of envelopes on the scratched up wooden bar next to my accountant, Grady. He shrugged his narrow shoulders and then swiped a strand of gray hair off his glasses. I wanted to brush off the layer of dandruff from the shoulders of his crumpled brown suit. Grady had come with the place when I inherited it two years ago. He gestured toward his empty beer mug so I refilled it from the tap.

What about your family? Could they help... Grady began, but I cut him off before that conversation could go any further.

No.

Why don’t you try catering to a better clientele? I’ve gotten you every deduction I can from all the non-profits who use the place. But, radicals like Food Not Bombs and those Wingnuts Anarchists people don’t have the money to support a bar like this. Grady sighed and shook his head. He knew what my reaction would be to that statement. Yeah, their members didn’t have a ton of cash, but I believed in the same causes they did.

Grady, I’m not going to stop supporting them, so forget about it. I placed the frothy mug in front of him and smacked the counter with my hand. Look, maybe I just need to own up to the facts. Mannox was turning tricks on the side to keep this place running. It’s never going to turn a profit, and my hustling days are over. Plus, I promised him I’d keep my junk in my pants. Though, trust me, I fingered the stack of envelopes, it’s tempting.

You know I would never tell you to go back to that, um, lifestyle, but… Grady held his hands out, winked, and gave me a sly grin. The old man was a perv and had on more than one occasion let it be known he’d be more than happy to pay for my unique talents. If I were ever to go down that road again it would definitely not be with him. He looked like an overworked used car salesman, with zero style, taste, or sense of humor.

If I decide to sell, would you help me out with it? I groaned, then put my face in my hands. Because me and numbers aren’t exactly good friends, know what I mean?

The thought of selling the place was painful. I was from the country, and when I’d first moved to downtown Richmond, The Broadway Cafe was the bar of choice for picking up closeted dudes willing to pay for my services. At first it had been easy money, but then gay marriage happened. Fuck me, but when everyone started coming out of the closet, it killed my damn business. Hell, I was a screaming liberal, but I occasionally found myself cursing the Supreme Court for that decision.

Of course. I’ll do whatever you need. Grady finished his beer and stood. I’ll stop by next week and hopefully by then you will know what you need to do. Oh, and I’ll try to bring some of my pals around for a drink in a day or two. You’re a good kid, Joe, and I’d hate for you to lose this place. Grady glanced at the stack of envelopes in front of me, sighed, then stumbled out.

The Broadway Cafe had a peculiar history. It opened in the 1950s and became a watering hole for local lesbians. Then as time went on, it became a gay men’s bar that hit its heyday back in the 70s. It hadn’t been redecorated since that time either, and it was filled with ancient disco lights and kitschy clutter. When the original owners retired, they sold it to Cliff, who’d hoped to get out of turning tricks for a living. By then the bigger gay clubs had ruled the city and the Broadway Cafe became almost a joke. Since I’d taken over it served the odd derelict, college kid, or starving political activist.

I’d been in love with Cliff, known as Mannox by everyone else. He’d taken me under his wing, even hooking me up with some excellent clients. But he’d always kept me at arm’s length, never allowing me or anyone near his heart. It was only after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that he opened up about his feelings for me, but by then it was too late. In his will he left me all he had, under the condition I put a halt to the prostitution. The only way I could get it up for my creepy clients at that point was with the help of little blue pills, so letting my dubious career go was a no-brainer.

I desperately wanted to keep the doors of the Broadway Cafe open. Not because it made money, but because every object in the room had a little piece of Cliff inside it. We’d never had time to explore what we meant to each other. Once he fell ill, it was a matter of weeks before he was gone.

Fuck me. I’m a thirty-year-old ex-prostitute. Can’t exactly put that on my resume. I muttered, then switched on the television over the bar. As usual there was nothing worth watching, so I flipped it to the news. It was the same as always. People hating on the president, the president hating them back, and yet another school shooting.

I glanced down at the empty bar and for the hundredth time that week wished there was a real live customer. Maybe I’d even turn on the music, pretend like I gave a damn about some drunk’s miserable problems. Hell, I might even be able to pay the light bill. Since the likelihood of that happening was slim to none, I snatched a bottle of tequila off the shelf and poured myself a healthy shot and a beer, and sat on the other side of the bar.

Cheers, Cliff.

I raised the glass of tequila and downed it. As usual my face twisted up like I’d eaten a lemon. I hated the taste of booze, but honestly I needed something to dull the ache. Maybe I should just face the facts. Cliff was never coming back, and I needed to move on. I had no real friends to speak of, and Richmond had a bad memory on just about every street corner. I’d been treading water for the last two years. The only good thing I had going was I owned the building, and it was in a prime location, though it was rundown as hell. Whoever bought it would be buying it for the land, demolishing the tarnished old eyesore and my memories with it. Maybe the grocery store behind it would buy it? I’d move to Portland like I’d always wanted to do. Get a real job instead of slinging drinks. Then I glanced up and noticed a familiar face on the television.

Shit. I muttered, then grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

Lieutenant Governor Grayson Carter McElroy has died at age 83 according to a statement from his family. He was the Chairman Emeritus of Confederate Tobacco and known for his philanthropy, including substantial gifts to his alma mater, The University of Virginia. The former politician played a significant role in local and national politics and was known for being a staunchly conservative Republican. After being passed over for the vice-presidential nomination in 1980 with Ronald Reagan on the ticket, he was elected Lieutenant Governor and served for one term. His wife Sarah Louise Patterson McElroy passed away in 1996. He is survived by his son Carter Maxwell McElroy and his wife Catherine Elizabeth, who live in Manakin-Sabot. The funeral will be held...

I switched the TV off, unable to watch anymore. This called for another shot, but before I did that I went to the front door of the bar and locked it. There was no way I could be around anyone after hearing that bit of news. After I poured the tequila, I shot it back and refilled the glass one more time.

Here’s to you, Grandfather. I hope you rot in hell.

2 Luke

When you are done counting down the register place the deposit in the safe under my desk in the back office. I explained to Suzi. I’ll leave it open for you. All you need to do is shut the door, and it locks automatically. It was her first time closing the coffee shop. Normally I took care of it since I lived upstairs, but I had to fetch my paintings from Jackson Ward Galleries so they could show another artist’s work.

Here are the keys. You don’t have to give them back, I’d rather you keep them in case of an emergency. I dropped them in her outstretched hand.

I promise not to mess anything up. Suzi grinned and pocketed them. I had a feeling she liked having more responsibility. She only worked a few hours a week since she was still a senior at Open High School and she also played the cello with the Richmond Symphony Youth Orchestra.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. I need Monday the 26th off. It’s my final court date. Suzi was becoming emancipated, a legal adult though she was only seventeen. Now she lived with Sneaky, who owned the bar next door. After Suzi graduated in June, she’d be working full time at the coffee shop while I bartended next door and pursued my true passion, art.

Is Sneaky going with you to the hearing?

Yes.

Well, if she can’t go I’ll get Josh to cover for me and I’ll go with you instead. I squeezed her shoulder and then she surprised me with a hug. She was a tall girl and had recently cut off the long braids she’d worn in favor of a shaved look that matched mine. Neither of us were very touchy feely, so I knew it was heartfelt.

When Suzi had shown up at work six months ago with a suitcase and her cello in hand, Sneaky immediately took her in. Her religious parents had tossed her out for the sin of being a lesbian. Our friends had chipped in to help. Josh and Serge, who both worked for the Richmond Symphony gave her free cello lessons and passed her a bit of cash to help out. Spencer and Michael, who lived upstairs from Sneaky, made sure she had food in the fridge since Sneaky was always busy at work. Erik, who was a social worker with the Richmond Public Schools, enrolled her at Open High, which was around the corner on Pine Street.

Thanks Luke. You guys have become my family, and I appreciate everything you’ve done. Suzi let go of me and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then a customer came in and I stepped away from the counter. A huge smile spread across her face when she recognized the customer who, apparently, was one of her teachers. How Suzi’s parents could have abandoned such a sweet young woman was beyond me.

Waves of heat reflected off of Cary Street as I got into my ancient Jeep. I’d bought it used when I was nineteen, and now that I was thirty, I knew it would probably kick the bucket soon. Problem was, I had no idea how I would afford a new car. I’d spent my life savings buying Percolate from Josh and Sneaky, and while it brought in steady money, I was still living paycheck to paycheck.

As I put the key in the ignition, my phone buzzed. The owner of the Jackson Ward Gallery messaged me to let me know Melissa Sturgeon, the artist who they were showing next was already there waiting for me to remove my unsold paintings. I was supposed to have done it yesterday, but one of Sneaky’s bartenders hadn’t shown, so I filled in. Also, I didn’t want to face the disappointing truth.

None of my paintings had sold.

I started the Jeep and reluctantly pulled out into traffic, embarrassed to face Melissa. We’d gone to art school together at VCU, and we used to be friends. Actually, that was wrong. We were still friends, but I avoided her. She had something I wanted, and it pained me to admit it.

Success.

Melissa had cracked the art world code, made a fantastic living entirely with her exquisite prints while my work was still unknown. And she deserved it, had worked her ass off, yet I still couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was so bad about my work. I’d sold two paintings in the last year, and one was to Michael Reynolds, Sneaky’s brother. Granted, that one sale had paid most of the rent on Percolate that month, but I felt like it was a pity sale. The other painting was a portrait commission I’d lucked into, so not really one of my original works.

Of course Melissa had to be standing in front of the gallery. Damn it, I hated being jealous, but I was. She was holding a beer in each hand, her brightly painted lips stretched into a smile.

Luke! I’ve missed you so much! She handed me a bottle, kissed me on both cheeks, and then pulled me onto the wooden bench in front of the gallery.

Oops, sweetie, hold still. Melissa wiped my cheeks with her fingers. I guessed she was brushing off the remnants of her candy-apple-red lip color.

What have you been up to? I asked, unable to meet her eye.

When we first met she wore the art school uniform everyone else did. Thrift store clothes, combat boots and a generous dash of patchouli. Now she was head to toe eclectic designer threads. Expensive black linen slacks and jacket with a bright yellow t-shirt that had Che Guevara’s face in red ink stamped on the front. I glanced down at my combat boots. The left one had duct tape holding it together, while her boots were shiny and red to match Che Guevara’s mug and her lips. I’d given up the patchouli in favor of homemade lavender soap I bought from the chicken lady in Oregon Hill, while Melissa had a hint of the Chanel No. 5 I remembered from Mom.

I flew in from Portugal where I had a showing at the cutest little gallery in Lisbon. I’m only in RVA for a week and then I’m off to New York to take part in some design thing, can’t remember what that’s about. She ran a hand through her platinum hair and put her arm around my shoulder. I love your paintings! How are things going for you?

Damn it, just for once I wanted to jet off to Europe, or brag about my gallery opening in Tribeca. I racked my brain for something I’d accomplished that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Since my only successes had been non-art related I ignored any mention of my paintings.

Well, I bought a coffee shop in Oregon Hill called Percolate. It’s doing well, and I still bartend at Sneaky’s. My left eye twitched.

Oh my God, how is Sneaky? I haven’t seen her in ages. Melissa’s voice had taken on a polished lilt. When we went to school together she’d sounded more like a Joan Jett wannabe. Then it struck me. Why the hell was she showing her prints here instead of some place bigger, more glamorous?

Sneaky’s doing great, and so is her brother, Michael. I murmured, then gathered up my courage to ask what was really on my mind.

So, what are you doing showing your work here? I mean, with you exhibiting all over the world, why this tiny gallery in Jackson Ward? I asked, a sick kernel of hope that she’d been faking her success building inside my chest.

Genevieve is my sister-in-law. Melissa referred to the gallery owner. She asked if I would help her out, said she hadn’t had a good opening in months. She paused then muttered,  Oh, shit. I’m sorry. At least Melissa had the good grace to be embarrassed at her slip. I sighed and gave her a rueful grin.

Don’t be.

I pushed myself up from the bench and lurched inside with her following along behind me. I knew it wasn’t her fault that my paintings sucked, and she was genuinely a nice person. But damn, I wished she wasn’t there