THE YEAR OF THE RAT

The counter was clean, still damp from the last weary wipe-down. The clock older than time, suspended on single nail under the single lightbulb where ID’s were checked, showed 10:45 pm. The sun had set on what was a grey January Monday, and the bar was quiet, constant in the dope-sick night. John sat behind the bar at the far end, leaning back in a chair, sipping a glass of ice water, scratching his wrist where the leather strap bracelet made him itch. A soaked regular sat across the bar from him, rambling into her drink and tossing her dark shoulder-length hair this way and that and she relayed to his open ears the ins and outs of her state job. John stared blankly, forlornly across the room, where the color in the air come from. The juke box stood with open mouth, waiting to take in the dollars that would not come that night, and next to it, the vending machine that dispensed lottery scratcher tickets. The colors of the different tickets, the light in the machine itself, shone brightly forth and cast neon halos over the empty tables and chairs in the main body of the bar. Somewhere behind him, the clink and clatter of billiard balls as somebody broke.

            “Twenty-four days,” he said, unprompted, cutting off the woman’s sentence. She looked over at him, not seeming to mind his interruption.

            “Since what?”

            “Since I bought a scratcher.” John said. He rubbed the side of his unshaven face, ran a hand over his oiled hair, slicked straight back on his head.

            “Giving them up?”

            “For New Year’s.” John said, “It was my only resolution.”

            “Good for you.” She smiled, waited a moment to see if he would say more. When he didn’t, she resumed her sentence. The talk continued.

            The door opened and a man walked in. John, grateful for the reason to get away from the endless and rambling monologue of the woman at the bar, hoisted himself out of the chair.

            “How’s it going, Jerry?” John asked as the man made his way unsteadily to a stool in the middle of the bar. The man, Jerry, was a tall, wiry bird with short grey hair, a face aged by time and alcohol, plain clothes that fit him baggily, hands that did intricate, quick little dances, unnoticed by their owner.

            “I’ve been kicked out of two other places tonight for being too argumentative,” Jerry said, his fingers playing the edge of the bar counter like a Steinway, “Good thing you’ll always be here for me.”

            “Always.” John said, tossing a coaster down on the bar and reaching into the chilled case for pint glass, “Usual?”

            “Usual.”  Jerry’s hands picked up the coaster, tried to balance it on the counter. It fell. John turned away, held the glass at an angle under the tap, pulled the handle and watched the amber flow, fill, create a frothy head. He threw down another coaster, placed the beer on top. Jerry’s hands danced a greedy jig towards the glass. His throat moved rapidly as he took the first, the needed draught.

            Slowly, swimming through tepid, sedated waters, John returned to his chair at the end of the bar. The woman had stopped talking, was flicking quickly through something on her phone. John picked up the glass of ice water, held the straw against the side with one finger and sipped, put it down.

            He scratched his wrist where it itched. The vending machine glowed, glowed, painted the air yellow and blue and green and red.

            “Year of the Rat” said the bottom most scratcher ticket. Only one dollar. Just one. John shook himself, stood up, rattled the ice in his cup for something to do. Something.

            The door opened again at quarter past eleven and a new character entered. John glanced up. This was a young man, with disheveled hair and melancholic features. He wore a fawn letterman jacket with black collar and sleeves. John had seen the young man once before, the previous Friday. He’d checked the ID under the single lightbulb. The man was twenty-one years old, had only been so a couple of months. John hadn’t expected to see him again, especially on a Monday.

            “What’s up, man?” John said, “Glad to see you back. What was your name again?”

            The young man looked up with heavy green eyes, eyes that seemed like they wanted to stay on the floor or the bar.

            “Richard,” he said in a low, quiet voice, “It was John, right?”

            “Right. Richard. Good to see you.”

            “You too.”

            “What’ll you have?” John asked.

            “Johnnie Walker, neat. Please.” Richard settled himself on a stool with one space between him and Jerry, who was finishing the last sudsy drop of his beer. John poured the scotch into a tumbler, placed it on a coaster in front of the young man. Richard gave a slight frown and nod of appreciation.

            “Leave it open?”

            “Please, thank you.”

            John took a step back, receded in the fog of his own thoughts. He’d plugged his phone into a portable speaker behind the bar. Wordless blues played out low, sliding steel guitars, nothing but string and soul in the dead night.

            “Can I get another?” Jerry’s loud, grating voice broke the moment, shattered it suddenly. John shook himself, brought himself back into reality. He was at work. There was still three hours left on the shift. He had to pull himself together.

            “Sure, Jerry. Another of the same?”

            “Same, same, same.” Jerry was shaking his head, his face getting closer to the bar with every word. He brought it up suddenly, with sweeping ark. “Look at this guy, John.” Jerry’s hand danced towards Richard, “Looks sort of like Vanilla Ice, doesn’t he?” John smiled noncommittally, took the pint glass from Jerry. He thought about just pouring right back into it, but he needed enough glasses to make a full load for the dishwasher. He put the glass aside, pulled a new one from the case, filled it at the tap.

            “With his wispy hair and…” Jerry’s voice had a drunken hitch, “his stylish jacket.” John placed the beer in front of Jerry. Jerry picked it up, drank, held it up towards Richard.

            “You have a very stylish jacket, Vanilla Ice.”

            “Thanks.” Richard said, a half smile in the corner of his mouth, “It was my granddad’s.”

            “No shit?” Jerry had picked up his beer, moved over so that he was sitting on the stool next to Richard.

            John went back to his chair, sat down. The woman still had her phone out, but she wasn’t flicking through it anymore. Just staring at the screen.

            “You need another?” John asked. She looked up.

            “Mmm…” she glanced at her empty glass, “I think I’d better have a water. I have to work tomorrow.”

            John moved away, filled a glass with water, put a straw in it, slid it across the bar. The woman took, sipped, was quiet.

            “It’s tough being us…” Jerry said, loud and leaning on the shoulder next to him, “What did you say your name was?”

            “Richard.”

            “It’s tough being us, Vanilla Ice.” Jerry held up his bear glass. Richard clinked his tumbler halfheartedly against it, drained his drink, stood up.

            “Closing out?” John called.

            “Stepping out for a smoke.” Richard said.

            “You want another?”

            “That’d be great.”

            The sliding door that let out onto the smoking area caught, like always, and gave, like always. Through the little window at the end of the bar, John could see Richard leaning against the wall, watched him fish a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jacket pocket, fumble one into his lips. The lighter flickered to life, cast Richard’s face in sudden orange and black contrast.

            Jerry slurred something about Vanilla Ice into his beer. John leaned his hands on the bar, shut his eyes for a moment.

            His wrist itched. He didn’t scratch it. He rubbed his face. The vending machine showed him twelve different lottery tickets. Over it, on the flat screen television, that day’s Power Ball numbers danced in blue and yellow.

            It was half past eleven. Two and a half more hours.

            The woman at the end of the bar stood up, stretched herself, walked across the room to the vending machine. She put a ten dollar bill into the machine, waited while it relinquished a ticket. She brought it back to the bar.

            “Hey John, you have a penny?”

            John stared at the scratcher ticket, sitting by the empty glass. Twenty chances to win. Three bonus shots. Up to ten million dollars. He licked his lips. They felt dry, course; sandpaper lips.

            “John?”

            “Hmm?” John looked up. She was staring expectantly at him.

            “Do you have a penny?”

            “Oh.” John fished in his pockets, had nothing. He walked across the register, sprung it open and pulled out a penny.

            “Thanks.” She took the penny, began scratching the winning numbers with nonchalance. John leaned on the bar, close enough to see.

            It was all he saw.

            Somewhere, somewhere else, somewhere far away, billiard balls clicked. Somebody mumbled something to someone else. The slider opened, shut. Footsteps, and Jerry’s voice vanishing into the haze of white noise all around.

            And, loud and clear, screaming into John’s ears through megaphones and microphones, the scritch scratch scritch of that holy penny, taking away the magic material that covered the numbers.

            “John?”

            The woman’s winning numbers were 10, 03, 45, 21, and 23. She uncovered the first row. Nothing. The penny moved easily to the next line, liquid and languid between the painted nails. The fingers contracted and relaxed, quickly, lightly, easily. Graceful motion, and the numbers showed and their coverings fell away in fine powder.

            “Johnny boy.”

            The woman uncovered a 22. So close.

            “Hey, John. You alright?” Jerry was almost shouting. John jerked himself up, a pained smile forced hastily across his face, as he were covering himself from the eyes of an intruder in his bathroom as he stepped out of the shower.

            “Sure, Jerry, what is it?”

            “I’d like another drink for me and the fucking novelist over here.”

            “Novelist?” John’s eyes fell loosely in the vicinity of Richard, whose tumbler was empty. Richard nodded.

            “I’m buying him a drink.” Jerry said, proud of himself, childlike in his inebriated generosity. John poured another scotch, and Richard thanked him, thanked Jerry, sipped the drink. He was sitting with his elbows on the bar, his shoulders about his ears in a vulturous hunch. His eyes looked far, far away. Jerry was talking loudly into the side of his face.

            “So, your granddad died and your lady walked out on you, huh?” Jerry’s tone was callous, getting mean. John took the glass from him, filled it at the tap. He glanced over at the woman, who was still working on the scratcher. He looked back when he felt the icy tingle of beer running down the glass, over his fingers. John cursed under his breath, shut off the tap and wiped the side of the glass. “Fuck it. Crawl down the neck of a bottle then.” Jerry was telling the side of Richard’s face, “Crawl up into your own ass and die there. Don’t write your book.”

            “I wanted to finish it in time to show my grandad.” Richard said softly, and took a deep swallow from his drink.

            “Nothing you can do about that.” Jerry said.

            John placed the third beer on the coaster. He turned away. The woman had finished all the regular numbers, was working on the bonus spots. She had three of them. If she uncovered the word “win”, she’d get a million dollars. If she uncovered a dollar sign, she’d get 250,000 dollars. The first one showed a horseshoe. Then a treasure chest. She scratched the last one slowly. John leaned unconsciously towards her. She didn’t notice him. The penny flashed, uncovered a clover. Nothing. The woman slid the scratcher aside, placed the penny on the counter.

            “Here’s your coin back,” she said.

            “You got a winner?” John didn’t touch the penny. He didn’t want her to know he’d been watching.

            “No.”

            “Throw the penny away then. Losing pennies are bad luck.”

            “Really?” The woman picked up the penny, turned it over in her fingers. “I’ve never heard that one.”

            “Garbage is right here.” John reached down, picked up a plastic can with a white liner inside. “Toss it in.”

            The woman tossed, missed. The penny fell with a clatter on the floor. John sighed, looking at it, then put the garbage can down on top of it. He pretended to himself not to know it was there. He sat back down in the chair, leaned his forehead on his fingertips, scratched his wrist.

            Two young women walked in, sat by the woman at the end of the bar.

            “What can I do for you?” John asked.

            “I think that’s going to do it for me,” said the woman who had bought the ticket, “I closed out already, right?”

            “Yeah, you’re payed up.”

            “Okay. Goodnight John.”

            “Two vodka sodas with cranberry, please.” The first of the newcomers ordered for both of them.

            “Tito’s alright?”

            “Fine.” The young women settled themselves on the stool, put their heads together, resumed a conversation that had dropped off when they came in. John filled two cups with ice, poured vodka in both, sprayed soda from the hose, found the bottle of cranberry juice.

            “Write your book,” Jerry told Richard, “or quit wasting time. If you’re going to write your book, write it. If you’re going to kill yourself, finish that drink, go home and pull the trigger. I can’t stand seeing a young man like you hanging around in a dead bar feeling sorry for yourself. You and your wispy fucking hair.”

            John put tiny straws into the two drinks, placed them on coasters in front of the two young women.

            “Keep it open?”

            “Yes please.”

            John stood still in the middle of the universe. Everything vanished except the vending machine, standing across the room, facing him down. The lights called to him, beckoned with neon fingers, gentle in the moody January night. The blues played, played, and he saw her across the smokey room, long ago.

            He’d won a few times. Nothing big. Twenty here. A hundred there. One time a thousand.

            What if he just bought one more? One more to prove to himself that it was a waste of time. He’d buy one and it would lose and that would be it He wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. He’d know.

            But he wouldn’t know. There was always a chance, would always be a chance there to dangle succulent red cherries just in front of his lips.

            His tongue ran around his mouth subtly, inoffensively, with resolve. He ran his hand over hair again, felt the oil on the pads of his fingers. He turned around and washed his hands in the tiny but surprisingly deep square sink. The water on his hands felt good. It felt good to be doing something with his hands.

            “It’s about balance.” Jerry slurred to nobody. John turned around. Jerry was trying to balance a coaster on its edge. Richard, the disheveled young novelist, was gone. Ten dollars sat on the counter, Richard’s drink plus a tip. John walked over, picked up the cash.

            “Did he take off?”

            “Who?” Jerry asked as his coaster toppled over, “Vanilla Ice?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Yeah, he left.”

            “He alright?”

            “Who?”

            John picked up the empty tumbler, placed it on the plastic rack with the other dirty dishes. He had almost enough glasses to run the dishwasher.

            “Hey, ladies” Jerry slurred, “Did you see Vanilla Ice?”

            “What?” the young woman closest to Jerry pulled her head out of the conversation to regard Jerry with cautious friendliness.

            “That wasn’t Vanilla Ice,” her friend said.

            “Didn’t he look like him.”

            “Sort of.” The first girl shrugged.

            “I’d better close out, John.” Jerry said, “My wife will be looking for me. I want to get out of here before she does. Have you met my wife?”

            “Yes, Jerry, I have.”

            “Terrible woman. She doesn’t read anything at all.” Jerry said. John ran Jerry’s credit card. It cleared. He handed it over into the dancing fingers.

            “Have a good night, Jerry.”

            “If my wife shows up, tell her I went right.” Jerry said to the whole room, “Can you remember that? I went right.” He burped. “Have you met my wife?” he asked the young women. They shook their heads, smiled sadly at him, mirror images of each other in blonde and brunette. “I’d better go. Vanilla Ice is waiting in the limousine to take fossil samples of my earlobes.” He teetered out of the room.

            John relaxed back into his chair. The women talked to each other so he didn’t have to talk to them. He leaned back, scratched his wrist, chewed the inside of his cheek as he faced off against the vending machine again.

            The clock ticked it’s way to 2:00 am out of sheer boredom. The women, one drink a piece stretched out over an hour and half, tipped poorly and left into the small and dark hours. The pool players were gone. John tried to remember if he’d served them any drinks. He sighed. It didn’t matter. The dishes went through the washer, were put away. They winked in the dim lights, clean and clear little soldiers lined up at attention.

            And there was nothing left to do by two-thirty. John switched off the overheads. He stood for a moment in the darkness. There was nothing left to do. He could go home. Home, where his wife and two children were probably fast asleep. Home, where the kitchen smelled like stale cigarettes and the linoleum would be cold on his bare feet. Where he would take a quiet shower, climb into bed, close his eyes and try to sleep.

            John switched on the single lightbulb. The vending machine cast it’s brightly colored hues across tables with chairs placed up on them, a forest of table legs and neon haze.

            Just one. Nobody would know.

            Nobody ever stuck to their resolutions. There was a ten in the tip jar. His money, to do what he liked with.

            John pulled the cash out of the tip jar, pocketed all of it except a one.

            What was one dollar?  He could drop that on the street and not notice.

            He walked across the room, stood with his hands in his pockets but the dollar folded cleanly and pressed in the palm of his hand, staring at through glass at all his options. Twelve colorful, tantalizing options.

            And the door was an option. That was the thirteenth option.

            Thirteen was an unlucky number.

            Quickly, hardly looking at what he was doing, John fed the dollar into the vending machine, pressed a number. The machine, indifferent even its victory over him, dispensed a ticket. John leaned down and took it.

            Year of the Rat.

            By the light of the single bulb, John opened the cash register, pulled out a shiny, untainted penny. He scratched.

            He scratched furiously.

            He stood alone in the bar for a long, long moment, staring down at the ticket. Then, without a word, he turned and hurled the penny across the room. It hit the window with an impotent plink, clattered to the floor.

            John switched out the light, left the bar, making sure to lock the door behind him. When he got to his car in the cramped parking lot adjacent to the bar, he remembered that he had left the ticket on the counter. He hesitated, his key still in the door of his car. Then he sighed, turned the key, climbed into the driver’s seat. He didn’t care anyway. 

            His headlights swept across a homeless man pushing a cart full of cans and bottles and plastic bags as John steered out of the lot, onto the street, heading for home.