Normal Circumstances
Author's Note:
So here's a draft of the story I wrote in response to the little contest I had on my blog. I'd sure appreciate feedback. I'm not totally thrilled with it, and it's certainly no magnum opus, but I don't hate it. And the narrator does end up doing something I would never do, under normal circumstances. :-)
Normal Circumstances
I wouldn’t have done it under normal circumstances.
Hell, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have even been in that place to begin with. I hadn’t been in a bar in years, and that night I was tired from a meeting that had gone late. But when my Honda issued its death rattle and coasted to the highway’s shoulder, still nearly two hours' drive from home, I discovered that I’d forgotten to charge my cell phone. Again. The Spotlight was back just a few hundred yards, and looked to be the only place open for miles.
It didn’t look particularly threatening from outside-just a squat building with a brick façade and worn wooden door. Budweiser and Coors signs flanked the entrance. A motley assortment of cars and trucks half-filled the parking lot. As I paused outside, I worried about what kind of place it was. Sports bar? Gay bar? Biker bar? But when I finally pulled that door open and stepped inside, I discovered it was something much, much scarier.
Karaoke bar.
A couple dozen people were clustered around vinyl and chrome tables. At the opposite end of the room from the door was a small stage backed by a shiny gold curtain. A blonde woman in jeans a size too small was screeching her way through “Dancing Queen.” Another woman and two men sitting near the stage enthusiastically cheered her on. The whole place smelled of fried onions and spilled beer, but it seemed clean enough, and, behind the long bar to my right, the bartender was giving me a friendly smile. And really, what other options did I have?
The smile didn’t falter when I explained my situation and asked to use the phone. “No problem,” he grinned. He had one of those goofy, sort of endearing gaps between his front teeth. I called my friend Melissa. Sure, a long drive in the middle of the night is a big favor to ask, but I figured she owed me from two months earlier, when I’d taken care of her obnoxious sheltie so she could spend a week in Hawaii with her boyfriend. And she knew I thought this boyfriend was a royal jerk, which is why she barely grumbled before agreeing to come pick me up.
“Got a while to wait for your ride?” asked the bartender.
“Couple hours.” I may have sighed a bit melodramatically. I just wanted to be home in my own comfy bed.
“How about a drink? On the house, ‘cause you’re having a rough night.”
It was a nice offer, but I never know what to order unless there’s a drink menu, and I always feel like some sort of backwards idiot because of that. But I would also feel like an idiot sitting in a bar for so long with nothing to drink. Besides, the blonde on stage had been replaced by a guy with a mullet, mangling something that might have been a Bon Jovi song. And there was no way I was going to endure that without alcohol.
“Thanks,” I smiled back. “What do you recommend?” Christ, that felt almost like flirting. I hadn’t flirted since college. And yeah, my divorce went through nearly two years ago, but I’d assumed I was permanently out of the market. Isn’t forty too old to flirt? And Happy Bartender Guy wasn’t even my type. Not that I was even sure what my type was, actually.
He moved to the other end of the bar, and returned a moment later with a golden-colored glass of, uh, beer, I guess. “It’s an IPA,” he said. I nodded like that meant something to me. “I think you’ll like it.”
I took a sip. It was bitter, but he was right-I did like it. I thanked him and turned toward the tables, trying to decide where to sit.
“And, hey…” I looked back at him. “If you get bored, you can always take a turn or two on stage.” His smile stretched even wider, but I just shuddered. Singing in front of a crowd. I’d rather gnaw off my right arm.
I clutched that beer-uh, IPA-and headed for the table closest to the door and, not coincidentally, farthest from the stage. I wanted to face the door so I could see Melissa when she arrived, but I thought it would be sort of awkward to have my back towards the performers. For a while I sipped my drink and watched the people take their turns on stage. They all seemed to be having fun, which mystified me. One guy could actually carry a tune, but he made up for that with some really embarrassing choices in musical selections. What kind of grown man wants to croon along with Miley Cyrus?
Even though I knew Melissa was still 100 miles away, every few minutes I looked over my shoulder at the door.
Sooner than I expected, my glass was empty. I figured I wasn’t going to be driving anyway, and headed to the bar for a refill. I paid this time, and the bartender was just as cheerful as before.
A few people more people came into the bar, and now most of the tables were occupied. Seemed I’d stumbled on a local hotspot of sorts.
When my glass was drained, I paid for a third.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had more than two drinks. I was definitely a little drunk. And with 36 ounces of liquid in me, I had sudden interest in finding the bathroom. There it was, to the left of the bar, and of course I received a big smile as I walked there and back.
The performances were definitely feeling less painful. I barely even winced over Celine Dion.
I was staring at the stage, fiercely involved in an internal debate over more IPA, when I felt someone looming over my shoulder. I swung my head around.
“Mind if I join you?”
Suddenly, I was sure exactly what my type is. About my age, maybe a couple years younger. Average height, slim waist, upper body slightly on the muscular side. Spiky, honey-colored hair. Blue-green eyes with smile crinkles at the edges. Little dimple in one cheek. And, oh God, was that a British accent?
I’m not sure how I responded, but he nodded pleasantly and then walked to the bar. I tried not to watch him walk away. Nice jeans. When he turned back a few moments later, he had a full glass in each hand.
“Looks like you’re ready for another,” he said, and put one of the glasses on the table in front of me. Then he sat in the chair to my left and took a long pull from his own glass. He smiled at me. His teeth were very white and there was that dimple.
“Thanks,” I said. Four expensive years of college and that was the most intelligent response I could think of. Not knowing what else to say, I grabbed my IPA and gulped a good part of it down. When I looked back up, he was still beaming at me.
“I’m Jack.”
“Hi, Jack. I’m Karen.”
“So, Karen, you’re a big karaoke fan?” He cocked his right eyebrow. I’d always envied people who could do that.
“Umm, no. My car broke down. I’m waiting for my ride.”
“Seems like you’ve been waiting a while.” He nodded towards my collection of empty beer glasses.
“She’s coming from Pleasanton. That’s where I live.” I’m sure he was just fascinated with my conversational skills. But between the alcohol and, well, him, I considered myself lucky to be managing complete sentences.
“How about you?”
“My house is about two miles down the road.” Oh, no. Did he think I was angling for an invitation?
Quickly, I said, “No, I meant, are you a big karaoke fan?”
There went that eyebrow again, and he chuckled. “No, not really. But I needed a break from marking exams, and like I said, this place is close to home.”
“Marking exams?”
He told me he was a high school chemistry teacher. My high school chemistry teacher wore pocket protectors in his white button-down shirts and made lame jokes about moles and Boyle’s Law. I’d have liked chemistry a whole lot more if he had had sea-colored eyes and nice abs.
I asked Jack whether he enjoyed teaching. “Yeah, I do,” he said, and related a couple of stories about the kids he taught. They really were funny stories, and well told. But while some part of my brain was paying attention, and even letting me nod and laugh at the right times, most of me was more preoccupied with how he was saying things than what he was saying. Man, that accent.
Then he asked me about my job, and I tried to make it sound like being in HR for a medical practice was remotely interesting, and he pretended like he thought it was, too.
And we sat and sipped, then he asked me whether I was originally from California. “Seems like hardly anyone I meet is actually from here,” he said.
“Actually, I’m third-generation Californian.” Did that sound smug? I didn’t mean it that way. “You’re obviously a native yourself.” God, that was a lame joke.
But he laughed like I wasn’t an idiot and told me he grew up near London. “I came here for a visit and decided I could easily get used to sunshine and redwood trees.”
We sat for a few minutes, watching as the guy with the mullet took the stage again to regale us with more Bon Jovi. We drained our glasses almost simultaneously. Without a word, Jack got up and walked back to the bar-really nice jeans!-and then returned with refills. How many was I up to now? Four? Five? I decided it didn’t matter.
“Shit!” he said cheerfully, settling himself back into his chair. “Why do so many of these people have such awful taste in music?” He waved his glass toward the stage.
“Yeah? What kind of music do you like?”
“The good kind, of course!” There went that dimple again. “Don’t tell me you like this crap?”
The mullet had just begun another chorus of “You Give Love a Bad Name.” I shook my head, and then thought for a second. “Well…but I’ll take this over more Hannah Montana, anyway.”
Jack laughed again, as if I were genuinely funny, and then we both worked on our drinks for a little while. I’d emptied mine again when I realized that I was rather urgently in need of another trip to the bathroom, and, when I stood up, I also realized that getting there was going to be a challenge. But I was flashed another smile from the bartender, made it to the bathroom, and returned to my table, all without managing anything more embarrassing than a slight stumble. Jack was still there, and I picked up my IPA and took another ladylike chug before it occurred to me that he must have bought me more while I was gone.
“Thanks again,” I said, and pointed at my glass.
“Always happy to aid a damsel in distress,” he answered. If I had been sober I’d have snorted in disgust over that comment; even drunk I’d at least have rolled my eyes, but there were those white teeth. And the smile crinkles. And then the right eyebrow. So all I did was giggle. I’m fairly certain I batted my eyelashes, too.
Just then, a new performer stepped in front of the gold curtain. She was a petite brunette and looked barely old enough to be in a bar. She was wearing a white halter top, short denim skirt, and white flip-flops. Her toenails were painted dark red. She started in on a song I probably wouldn’t recognize even if it were sung on-key, and Jack groaned and sank his head onto the table between his arms. He kept it there long enough that I started to wonder if he had passed out.
I sipped and my beer and stared at the patch of skin on the back of his neck, just below his hairline and above the collar of his black t-shirt. I wondered what it would taste like if I licked it. My gaze had wandered to his slightly tanned forearm when I realized he had turned his head and was watching me. He wasn’t smiling now, but the look in those pretty eyes was anything but hostile. I just looked back. It is so unfair when men get long, thick eyelashes.
Suddenly, he was standing. He bent down and laid a feather-light kiss on my lips. I was too stunned to move. Then his grin was back, and he grabbed my hands and gently pulled me to my feet.
“C’mon, Karen. I can’t stand another minute of this wailing.”
And he was pulling me across the floor, so that before I had fully processed that kiss, I found myself up on stage, hand clutched under his on the microphone. His arm was around my waist, which was good, because I’m not sure whether I could have remained completely upright on my own.
I would have been gaping in horror at the bar’s other patrons, all of whom were, of course, staring at us. But just then Jack kissed me again, this time on my cheek, and then he leaned toward the mic and began to sing.
“Darling, you got to let me know, should I stay or should I go…”
His voice was very deep-a baritone, I guess-and really loud. And it was just terrible. He was doing things to that song that surely had poor Joe Strummer turning in his grave.
So I joined in.
When we finished the last lines of the tune, I noticed several things at once. The audience was clapping wildly. Somebody-I’m pretty sure it was the bartender-was yelling, “Encore! Encore!” Jack’s hand had settled slightly southward, so that his hand was now curled comfortably around my hip. And I was smiling so widely my face was hurting.
We were well into the second verse of “Submission” when Melissa walked in the door. I’d successfully argued to Jack that this song was more fun than “Anarchy in the U.K.,” and a really underrated part of the Sex Pistols’ oeuvre besides. He’d let go of my hip so he could do a more active impersonation of Johnny Rotten, but I’m not sure Johnny ever performed while holding Sid Vicious’ hand. And Sid Vicious was never a (nearly) middle-aged lady from California, and he generally had both hands free when he played the bass.
Melissa had to stop at fast food places twice on the way home so I could use the bathroom. She kept throwing me very strange looks, but she never once complained as I hummed loudly all the way home. I had the agenda from that afternoon’s meeting clutched in my hand, but I was smiling at the back of it. There was a phone number scrawled there, and, underneath, Call when you’re ready for our next performance. --Jack
So here's a draft of the story I wrote in response to the little contest I had on my blog. I'd sure appreciate feedback. I'm not totally thrilled with it, and it's certainly no magnum opus, but I don't hate it. And the narrator does end up doing something I would never do, under normal circumstances. :-)
Normal Circumstances
I wouldn’t have done it under normal circumstances.
Hell, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have even been in that place to begin with. I hadn’t been in a bar in years, and that night I was tired from a meeting that had gone late. But when my Honda issued its death rattle and coasted to the highway’s shoulder, still nearly two hours' drive from home, I discovered that I’d forgotten to charge my cell phone. Again. The Spotlight was back just a few hundred yards, and looked to be the only place open for miles.
It didn’t look particularly threatening from outside-just a squat building with a brick façade and worn wooden door. Budweiser and Coors signs flanked the entrance. A motley assortment of cars and trucks half-filled the parking lot. As I paused outside, I worried about what kind of place it was. Sports bar? Gay bar? Biker bar? But when I finally pulled that door open and stepped inside, I discovered it was something much, much scarier.
Karaoke bar.
A couple dozen people were clustered around vinyl and chrome tables. At the opposite end of the room from the door was a small stage backed by a shiny gold curtain. A blonde woman in jeans a size too small was screeching her way through “Dancing Queen.” Another woman and two men sitting near the stage enthusiastically cheered her on. The whole place smelled of fried onions and spilled beer, but it seemed clean enough, and, behind the long bar to my right, the bartender was giving me a friendly smile. And really, what other options did I have?
The smile didn’t falter when I explained my situation and asked to use the phone. “No problem,” he grinned. He had one of those goofy, sort of endearing gaps between his front teeth. I called my friend Melissa. Sure, a long drive in the middle of the night is a big favor to ask, but I figured she owed me from two months earlier, when I’d taken care of her obnoxious sheltie so she could spend a week in Hawaii with her boyfriend. And she knew I thought this boyfriend was a royal jerk, which is why she barely grumbled before agreeing to come pick me up.
“Got a while to wait for your ride?” asked the bartender.
“Couple hours.” I may have sighed a bit melodramatically. I just wanted to be home in my own comfy bed.
“How about a drink? On the house, ‘cause you’re having a rough night.”
It was a nice offer, but I never know what to order unless there’s a drink menu, and I always feel like some sort of backwards idiot because of that. But I would also feel like an idiot sitting in a bar for so long with nothing to drink. Besides, the blonde on stage had been replaced by a guy with a mullet, mangling something that might have been a Bon Jovi song. And there was no way I was going to endure that without alcohol.
“Thanks,” I smiled back. “What do you recommend?” Christ, that felt almost like flirting. I hadn’t flirted since college. And yeah, my divorce went through nearly two years ago, but I’d assumed I was permanently out of the market. Isn’t forty too old to flirt? And Happy Bartender Guy wasn’t even my type. Not that I was even sure what my type was, actually.
He moved to the other end of the bar, and returned a moment later with a golden-colored glass of, uh, beer, I guess. “It’s an IPA,” he said. I nodded like that meant something to me. “I think you’ll like it.”
I took a sip. It was bitter, but he was right-I did like it. I thanked him and turned toward the tables, trying to decide where to sit.
“And, hey…” I looked back at him. “If you get bored, you can always take a turn or two on stage.” His smile stretched even wider, but I just shuddered. Singing in front of a crowd. I’d rather gnaw off my right arm.
I clutched that beer-uh, IPA-and headed for the table closest to the door and, not coincidentally, farthest from the stage. I wanted to face the door so I could see Melissa when she arrived, but I thought it would be sort of awkward to have my back towards the performers. For a while I sipped my drink and watched the people take their turns on stage. They all seemed to be having fun, which mystified me. One guy could actually carry a tune, but he made up for that with some really embarrassing choices in musical selections. What kind of grown man wants to croon along with Miley Cyrus?
Even though I knew Melissa was still 100 miles away, every few minutes I looked over my shoulder at the door.
Sooner than I expected, my glass was empty. I figured I wasn’t going to be driving anyway, and headed to the bar for a refill. I paid this time, and the bartender was just as cheerful as before.
A few people more people came into the bar, and now most of the tables were occupied. Seemed I’d stumbled on a local hotspot of sorts.
When my glass was drained, I paid for a third.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had more than two drinks. I was definitely a little drunk. And with 36 ounces of liquid in me, I had sudden interest in finding the bathroom. There it was, to the left of the bar, and of course I received a big smile as I walked there and back.
The performances were definitely feeling less painful. I barely even winced over Celine Dion.
I was staring at the stage, fiercely involved in an internal debate over more IPA, when I felt someone looming over my shoulder. I swung my head around.
“Mind if I join you?”
Suddenly, I was sure exactly what my type is. About my age, maybe a couple years younger. Average height, slim waist, upper body slightly on the muscular side. Spiky, honey-colored hair. Blue-green eyes with smile crinkles at the edges. Little dimple in one cheek. And, oh God, was that a British accent?
I’m not sure how I responded, but he nodded pleasantly and then walked to the bar. I tried not to watch him walk away. Nice jeans. When he turned back a few moments later, he had a full glass in each hand.
“Looks like you’re ready for another,” he said, and put one of the glasses on the table in front of me. Then he sat in the chair to my left and took a long pull from his own glass. He smiled at me. His teeth were very white and there was that dimple.
“Thanks,” I said. Four expensive years of college and that was the most intelligent response I could think of. Not knowing what else to say, I grabbed my IPA and gulped a good part of it down. When I looked back up, he was still beaming at me.
“I’m Jack.”
“Hi, Jack. I’m Karen.”
“So, Karen, you’re a big karaoke fan?” He cocked his right eyebrow. I’d always envied people who could do that.
“Umm, no. My car broke down. I’m waiting for my ride.”
“Seems like you’ve been waiting a while.” He nodded towards my collection of empty beer glasses.
“She’s coming from Pleasanton. That’s where I live.” I’m sure he was just fascinated with my conversational skills. But between the alcohol and, well, him, I considered myself lucky to be managing complete sentences.
“How about you?”
“My house is about two miles down the road.” Oh, no. Did he think I was angling for an invitation?
Quickly, I said, “No, I meant, are you a big karaoke fan?”
There went that eyebrow again, and he chuckled. “No, not really. But I needed a break from marking exams, and like I said, this place is close to home.”
“Marking exams?”
He told me he was a high school chemistry teacher. My high school chemistry teacher wore pocket protectors in his white button-down shirts and made lame jokes about moles and Boyle’s Law. I’d have liked chemistry a whole lot more if he had had sea-colored eyes and nice abs.
I asked Jack whether he enjoyed teaching. “Yeah, I do,” he said, and related a couple of stories about the kids he taught. They really were funny stories, and well told. But while some part of my brain was paying attention, and even letting me nod and laugh at the right times, most of me was more preoccupied with how he was saying things than what he was saying. Man, that accent.
Then he asked me about my job, and I tried to make it sound like being in HR for a medical practice was remotely interesting, and he pretended like he thought it was, too.
And we sat and sipped, then he asked me whether I was originally from California. “Seems like hardly anyone I meet is actually from here,” he said.
“Actually, I’m third-generation Californian.” Did that sound smug? I didn’t mean it that way. “You’re obviously a native yourself.” God, that was a lame joke.
But he laughed like I wasn’t an idiot and told me he grew up near London. “I came here for a visit and decided I could easily get used to sunshine and redwood trees.”
We sat for a few minutes, watching as the guy with the mullet took the stage again to regale us with more Bon Jovi. We drained our glasses almost simultaneously. Without a word, Jack got up and walked back to the bar-really nice jeans!-and then returned with refills. How many was I up to now? Four? Five? I decided it didn’t matter.
“Shit!” he said cheerfully, settling himself back into his chair. “Why do so many of these people have such awful taste in music?” He waved his glass toward the stage.
“Yeah? What kind of music do you like?”
“The good kind, of course!” There went that dimple again. “Don’t tell me you like this crap?”
The mullet had just begun another chorus of “You Give Love a Bad Name.” I shook my head, and then thought for a second. “Well…but I’ll take this over more Hannah Montana, anyway.”
Jack laughed again, as if I were genuinely funny, and then we both worked on our drinks for a little while. I’d emptied mine again when I realized that I was rather urgently in need of another trip to the bathroom, and, when I stood up, I also realized that getting there was going to be a challenge. But I was flashed another smile from the bartender, made it to the bathroom, and returned to my table, all without managing anything more embarrassing than a slight stumble. Jack was still there, and I picked up my IPA and took another ladylike chug before it occurred to me that he must have bought me more while I was gone.
“Thanks again,” I said, and pointed at my glass.
“Always happy to aid a damsel in distress,” he answered. If I had been sober I’d have snorted in disgust over that comment; even drunk I’d at least have rolled my eyes, but there were those white teeth. And the smile crinkles. And then the right eyebrow. So all I did was giggle. I’m fairly certain I batted my eyelashes, too.
Just then, a new performer stepped in front of the gold curtain. She was a petite brunette and looked barely old enough to be in a bar. She was wearing a white halter top, short denim skirt, and white flip-flops. Her toenails were painted dark red. She started in on a song I probably wouldn’t recognize even if it were sung on-key, and Jack groaned and sank his head onto the table between his arms. He kept it there long enough that I started to wonder if he had passed out.
I sipped and my beer and stared at the patch of skin on the back of his neck, just below his hairline and above the collar of his black t-shirt. I wondered what it would taste like if I licked it. My gaze had wandered to his slightly tanned forearm when I realized he had turned his head and was watching me. He wasn’t smiling now, but the look in those pretty eyes was anything but hostile. I just looked back. It is so unfair when men get long, thick eyelashes.
Suddenly, he was standing. He bent down and laid a feather-light kiss on my lips. I was too stunned to move. Then his grin was back, and he grabbed my hands and gently pulled me to my feet.
“C’mon, Karen. I can’t stand another minute of this wailing.”
And he was pulling me across the floor, so that before I had fully processed that kiss, I found myself up on stage, hand clutched under his on the microphone. His arm was around my waist, which was good, because I’m not sure whether I could have remained completely upright on my own.
I would have been gaping in horror at the bar’s other patrons, all of whom were, of course, staring at us. But just then Jack kissed me again, this time on my cheek, and then he leaned toward the mic and began to sing.
“Darling, you got to let me know, should I stay or should I go…”
His voice was very deep-a baritone, I guess-and really loud. And it was just terrible. He was doing things to that song that surely had poor Joe Strummer turning in his grave.
So I joined in.
When we finished the last lines of the tune, I noticed several things at once. The audience was clapping wildly. Somebody-I’m pretty sure it was the bartender-was yelling, “Encore! Encore!” Jack’s hand had settled slightly southward, so that his hand was now curled comfortably around my hip. And I was smiling so widely my face was hurting.
We were well into the second verse of “Submission” when Melissa walked in the door. I’d successfully argued to Jack that this song was more fun than “Anarchy in the U.K.,” and a really underrated part of the Sex Pistols’ oeuvre besides. He’d let go of my hip so he could do a more active impersonation of Johnny Rotten, but I’m not sure Johnny ever performed while holding Sid Vicious’ hand. And Sid Vicious was never a (nearly) middle-aged lady from California, and he generally had both hands free when he played the bass.
Melissa had to stop at fast food places twice on the way home so I could use the bathroom. She kept throwing me very strange looks, but she never once complained as I hummed loudly all the way home. I had the agenda from that afternoon’s meeting clutched in my hand, but I was smiling at the back of it. There was a phone number scrawled there, and, underneath, Call when you’re ready for our next performance. --Jack