Storyteller (the story - teaser)

STORYTELLER

“Black cats… unlucky, that’s what they say about ‘em.  Don’t let one cross your path.” The old man was almost faced-down in his drink...  “They say, if one steps in front of you, just turn around and walk th’ other away.  Whatever you do, don’t look back!”

“Harry, what the hell is he talking about?”  Someone shouted from the other end of the bar.

The dust covered bottles that lined up in front of the mirror had long forgotten how to reflect their sharp staggering images. The mirror itself was covered in a brownish yellow film from years of heavy smoke and the occasional thrown drink.  There was a crack that splintered from the bottom, across the last third of the mirror and out the top.  If you looked at it just right, tilting your head a little to your left and squinting your eyes slightly, it looked like an old woman hunched over, in silhouette.

The bar was long and ran the length of the room. Three tables, each one had a matchbook under one leg for balance, with mismatched chairs were lined up along the facing wall. There was barely enough room for a man to walk between the tables and bar stools.  Maybe this was done on purpose.  It stood to reason that you could get shit-faced drunk and still be able to stagger upright to the loo without once losing your footing.

Tess was a regular here. An attractive woman, she never seemed to sit on her stool, but rather perched there; her long legs pooling over the edge of the seat.  She came in about ten every evening to mingle with the other well established members of this lonely loser’s club.  She always left alone.

Marv and Al were roommates living in the apartment above the tavern.  They came in every night for exactly four beers each before politely excusing themselves and heading upstairs.  It had been decided years ago that the two were much more than roomies, though it was never confirmed.

Burt was a large man.  He held court every night at the far end of the bar.  His seat was sagging from years of abuse from his ample backside.  It was also the only bar-chair in the place, made of imitation black leather, with a swivel!  He expounded on a multitude of trivia without much debate. It wasn’t like Burt to ever sit quietly and listen to the jabber amongst the other barflies. He was a book of useless information.

There were several others who would stagger in on their way to another bar two blocks away.  There seemed to be a tavern on every other corner in this part of the city and the drunks would work up a thirst meandering from place to place. Eventually they would have to find a comfortable spot to lie down and snooze it off.  Park benches were definitely out of the question, as were sidewalks; loitering was breaking the law.  However, on cold winter nights, it behooved a sotted soul to be carted off to the pokey for the guarantee of a warm shelf to lie on and a dried up cake donut with black coffee in the morning before they were shuffled back out onto the streets.

I was a newbie.  Not new to drinking, just new to this part of town.  This made my third visit to Harry’s Hangout on the corner of Hample and McArdle Street. This tavern didn’t look much different from any other on the north side of town, but those others didn’t have Tess.

I was put out of the house by my, now pending, fourth ex-wife.  Jobless and unmotivated, I managed to set up temporary housing at the shelter several blocks away. “Getting on my feet.” I assured the man at the reception desk of what was once a cozy hotel lobby before becoming the Saving Souls Mission.  Yeah, right.

My first wife ran away with my best friend, my second with my sanity, the third with her best friend and the fourth was making away with my soul.  I didn’t have anything else to save.

The only thing I made away with was two plaid shirts, one pair of jeans and one pair of underwear.  I managed to get my shoes but totally forgot about socks.  The young lady I was with that night barely got out alive.

“Black cats? What does this guy have against black cats?” the question on everyone’s mind was finally thrown out there by someone at the bar.

The old man at the far table looked like death warmed over.  He kept up his sermon on black cats all evening, stopping long enough to throw a glance Tess’ way.

Who wouldn’t want to look at her?  She was stunning and definitely out of place here in Harry’s Hangout.  Still, she didn’t really seem all that interested in me or anyone else here.  Try as I might to make conversation she always gave me the standard two or three word answers.  Definitely, not interested.

Harry hobbled his way down to Burt and replaced his empty bottle with a new cold one. Without so much as a word, Harry picked up two quarters from the bar top in front of Burt.

Turning to make his way back down the length of the bar to the cash-register he looked up at Marv and answered, “I have no idea, he’s been babbling about cats for two weeks now!”

I asked Harry what the old man’s name was.

“That’s Charley.” He grunted. “He must have got hold of somethin’ bad about two weeks ago.  He came in here one morning shakin’, eye’s lookin’ a little crazy, and talkin’ ‘bout some kinda shape-shiftin’ he saw the night before out back in the alley.”

Something… bad?  Did I hear him right?

“Drugs?” I asked.

“That or somethin’ worse.” Harry chuckled.  “He was never nothin’ but a drunk so far as I know, but the story he told me was outta-this-world! Must be drugs or the man’s brain just shorted out!”

“Superstitions!” Tess spoke out from behind her Gin-Rickey with a slice of lime.

Charley froze and stared at Tess for a moment then looked down.  Did I see a hint of fear on his face?

“Something about a black cat, a woman, drums, and then she just vanished into thin air!  Bam! Gone!” Harry shook his head, “I dunno, it was some sort of hallucination if you ask me.”

“Is the whiskey goin’ bad?” Al suggested.

“That man’s insides are pickled in cheap alcohol!” laughed Harry.  “It ain’t the whiskey… no, this ain’t nothin’ of the drinking variety.”

I looked over my shoulder toward the man slumped down in his chair.  Charley.  He seemed like any other drunk I’d ever seen, maybe he was just misunderstood.  Lord knows I was misunderstood.  We had something in common, so I ordered two shots of the cheap stuff with beer chasers.  I had a story to listen to…