She walked quietly through the unfamiliar landscape, the streaks of California sunset long gone to the night. Dejectedly, she found herself circling the same four blocks, again and again. She laughed bitterly thinking, 'I guess I'm the kind of person can be lonely just about anywhere.' She didn't feel unsafe here, but she felt an enormous separateness she'd not once felt before.
She had long since memorized the layout of these four blocks despite at no time observing the names of the streets. It was a deli here, a Laundromat there; a stereotypical cityscape. The solitary thing out of place, therefore, the lone thing of interest to her was a dimly lit bar, cigarette smoke seeming to ooze from every crevice of the brick building.
The flickering neon sign above the door read 'harlie's' since the C seemingly was long ago burnt out, adorned with an equally blinking cocktail glass, sloshing side to side. She observed it in passing many times. It didn't seem a particularly lively place nor dangerous, exactly the conditions she needed, yet she walked by once again, not ready to face humanity quite yet.
As she continued around the blocks, she pondered exactly the circumstances that had brought her here, to this place. It was classic escapism, really. Life in the Midwest had been dull and dissatisfying, so like any other misguided youth; she sought refuge in the great Unknown. She didn't regret her decision, not really. She only wished she had thought things through before she ended up sleeping on the beach without a friend in sight.
'Maybe,' she thought pulling her leather jacket tighter; despite the heat, 'it's time I made a friend.' Finally, she had made her way back to 'harlie's' and stood facing the smoking building , facing down her fear. She stepped forward and pushed the squealing door open. She felt eyes probing her visage and felt acutely aware of her Converse, leather jacket and red jeans as she sat down at the bar.
She looked at her surroundings a moment, noticing that hardly anyone in the place was under 60 and every few seconds someone hacked, with an evident smoker's cough. Though the faces around her didn't seem inherently unfriendly, it was clear that her presence was an unusual sight to them. The fingers of her delicate hand suddenly became quite interesting.
She looked up at the sound of a throat clearing, before her. She gazed upon a kindly looking woman, her hair bluish and bushy; her face wrinkled with age. Her eyes crinkled in an uncertain smile.
"Hey there, dear," she said in a scratchy, southern tone, probably thanks to the cigarette smoke, "what'll it be?" She stared back blankly. She actually thought she was allowed to just sit.
"Uh, I-I'll have a beer, please," she told her, mentally facepalming herself, she hated beer. At the sound of manners, the elderly barkeep audibly breathed a sigh of relief, before turning on the tap to fill a glass.
She sat the sweating glass in front of her before a rotund man with a large beard called, "Tracy, can I get one for the road?" You could practically smell him from down the bar.
Tracy filled a glass with water and placed it before him.
"Now, Murph, we both know you've had enough," she told him firmly, "now drink this and get on home." She liked Tracy for this. Murph grumbled but did as he was told.
She took a sip of the beer before her and winced at the bitter taste. Tracy laughed, turning to the bottles before replacing the beer with something red and fruity looking.
"I didn't think you looked like the beer type," she told her, "what's your name, girl?"
She sipped the drink, smiling at the milder taste, "my name's Abbey."
"Pretty name," Tracy said sweeping a rag over the bar, "short for anything?" Abbey laughed. This was a common misconception.
"Nope," she told Tracy, "just plain old Abbey with an 'E'."
"Nonetheless," Tracy said, smiling as Abbey took a gulp of her drink, "you're not lookin' for that fella over there, are ya?" She flicked her thump towards a booth in the back corner.
A man sat a beer bottle in hand, all by his lonesome.
"No," she told Tracy, "just kind of stumbled in," Although, she could see why one might think so, like her, he wore a pair of black Chuck Taylor's and a leather jacket, both of which were much nicer than hers.
Recognition hit her.
However, I think I know who he is," she told Tracy, idly stirring her drink with a straw.
"A friend of yours?" Tracy asked already preparing another red drink.
"No, he's pretty famous, actually?" Abbey told her downing the fruity concoction.
"For what?" Tracy asked disbelievingly, placing the finished drink in front of Abbey.
"He's the drummer of a band called Green Day," Abbey told her knowledgeably, in a hushed tone.
"Green Day, huh? I think my granddaughter likes them," Tracy replied, quite loudly.
At the mention of Green Day, the man tensed up. Abbey knew why, of course. One could never be careful enough with the eyes of publicity awaiting your ever failure.
Tracy also seemed to notice his sudden intensity because she added in a conspirator's tone, "I think he's shy." 'Far from it,' Abbey thought, although his calmness was disquieting to her.
"So, is this Green Day any good?" Tracy asked Abbey in a hushed voice. Abbey found herself wondering if Tracy had nothing better to do as Murph tipped his hat to her and lumber from the door, leaving Abbey noticing the sudden lack of patrons as the jukebox began a lonely sounding tune.
She nodded to Tracy emphatically, "I like them a lot."
"How about this drummer?" Tracy nodded his way, "should I be worried?"
Abbey laughed.
"He used to have quite the wild streak," she said, "but he seems pretty tame, now. I also like him a lot." Tracy grinned and sat upon a tall stood on the opposite side of the bar.
"That man looks old enough to be your father," she said with a chuckle, cleaning a glass with her rag.
Abbey shrugged. She knew Tracy's words were true but could not explain as she thought over everything she knew about him and endeared him to her. Tracy smiled warily and patted her hand.
"You're crazy about this man, huh?" She asked Abbey, knowingly. Abbey nodded rapidly, embarrassed over her transparency.
"He has no idea I exist, though," Abbey admitted, wondered how her train of thought so hastily changed.
"Ain't nothing wrong with admiring from afar," Tracy told her with a grin, "what's his name?"
"T-Tré," Abbey told her suspiciously.
"Tré!" Tracy called suddenly. Abbey's cheeks flushed red. Tré too looked taken aback by the sudden recognition of this old biddy.
"You've been nursin' that bottle a long time," she observed in a sharp tone, "Why don'tcha come get another?" Tré sat stunned a moment before nodding and heading towards the bar. Abbey's mouth hung agape a moment before she remembered her manners. Tracy smiled and grabbed a bottle from beneath the bar.
Tré came to stand beside Abbey, still looking bewildered. Tracy held the bottle over the bar towards him, and as he reached forward she let go and sent it to the floor where it smashed to pieces
"Clumsy me," Tracy laughed, "I gotta go get a towel from the back. This is Abbey; keep her company, will ya?" She rushed away before either of them could object.
Tré smiled and sat on the stool on Abbey's other side.
"Clever old gal," he said to Abbey with a laugh.
"W-what do you mean?" Abbey asked him nervously.
"She had a towel in her apron," Tré said bursting into laughter, tickled by this observation. Abbey laughed too.
"So, Abbey, huh?" He inquired, his light-blue eyes piercing her green ones. She nodded feeling her cheeks redden at the sound of her name on his lips. He held out his hand, and she took it, finding it surprisingly soft.
His blue eyes twinkled in the dim, smoky light. "I'm Tré Cool but I guess you already knew that."