By Graham Haley
The second hand of my watch sweeps continuously as the setting sun’s warmth recedes through the palm trees outside. There are many historic bars on the little island at the southernmost tip of the United States. This is not one of them. The rust spots on the reproduction tin signs are painted on. Ambiance, they call it. The cheap wood bar is lacquered in unidentifiable gunk that has built up in the cracks and crumbling corners. The only nostalgia in this establishment is the bitter reminiscing of regret.
But the mojitos are good. And the little Cuban bartender is looking better all the time. She brings me another cocktail of cane sugar, fresh mint, seltzer, and Bacardi.
“Thanks,” I acknowledge as I pass across a tattered green dollar bill.
She is unimpressed by my lackluster gratuity and scurries back to the more generous patrons at the other end of the bar.
Papa Hemingway said you go bankrupt two ways: “gradually and then suddenly.” I’m pretty sure that’s how most of the shitty things happen in life. I reach for my glass and lift the pleasantly effervescing libation to my lips. The ghost-itch on my naked left ring finger has mostly faded. The sensation is like wearing a hat all day, and then removing it when you get home, only to still feel it pressing in on your head. Bacardi helps, I think.
A pair of wandering shadows cross the bar as new patrons enter through the open front door. I look over my shoulder, almost as an afterthought, and catch something out of the corner of my eye—legs. Long, smooth ones. Attached to a gorgeous brunette with a dark green sundress draped enticingly from proud shoulder to swaying hip. And behind her a dark-haired man with tight, greasy curls.
They make their way brusquely toward one of the wobbling tables in a dim corner of the bar. Before they can even sit down, “Curls” starts berating “Legs.” The lecture continues as the underworked and underpaid server waits in vain to take their order. I can’t quite make out what he is saying, but it’s condescending as hell, and she’s definitely not having a good time.
Prick. I think to myself as I turn back to my drink.
“What did you say, asshole,” he yells, erupting from his chair and charging my way. I guess I didn’t just think it to myself. Shit!
“I called you a prick,” I say matter of factly, turning toward him and trying to prevent the entire world from spinning at the same time.
Before I can fully square up to meet my attacker, I am hit with a sloppy double leg takedown. More of a bad football tackle than a wrestling clinic, but it’s effective. Barstools scatter as we slam to the ground in an unceremonious heep. Sobriety rushes back to my previously inebriated brain. I quickly realize that Curls has no base, and a simple scissor sweep puts him squarely on his back with me mounted on his chest.
The remaining handful of paying customers scatter as the near-empty bar becomes completely unoccupied.
Curls screams a string of unintelligible profanity, and attempts to bench press me off of him to no effect. In predictable fashion, his next move is to roll to his knees and try to stand up. I modify my mount and allow him to roll over easily. Hooks in, hips shifted low, and a seatbelt grip around his upper body.
We fall to the side as my forearm slides under his chin and wraps effortlessly around his neck. The rear naked choke is locked in before he even realizes he is in danger. Elbows together. Compress the neck and squeeze.
My once confident adversary is now an unconscious pile on the sticky floor. I slowly make my way to my feet, limping slightly as I try to vacate the now eerily quiet establishment.
“Thank you,” the girl in the green dress says gratefully.
I involuntarily pause as I notice the last drops of tropical sun fading across her warm skin, and meet her discerning brown eyes for the first time.
Say something, you moron. The right words stick in my throat, unable to escape my freshly busted lip.
“Have you tried the Key lime pie from that little bakery over on Duval Street?” I manage to ask. Her eyes shift down to Curls, still laid out cold, before returning to mine.
“I don’t think I have,” she says with a quick smile. Gradually and then suddenly, I think to myself. Maybe it’s not just the shitty things after all.
