I honestly wasn't expecting myself to write this. These days, writing has become more or less like extreme constipation to me. I was genuinely surprised at how naturally this chapter flowed for me. Normally, something this length takes several days of beating my head against the desk and procrastination. In the spirit of it all, I've decided to share what I've mentally dubbed "Black Paint and Cherry Wine".
I want to thank you for taking some time to read through this piece of my mind. I don't normally share my writing, so please feel free to leave me a note or a comment. I'd appreciate the feedback. :] That being said, if you are a hater, please go fall in a hole. There's a difference between constructive criticism and being an asshole.
Another thing I'll add is that part of what makes this story so real to me is that it's based in my home county. Most of the locations mentioned are places I could drive you to. If there's enough interest, I'd be willing to go on a little photographic journey to accompany the storyline. Hell, I might do it if only for my own amusement. We'll see.
At any rate, enjoy!
Thin lips compressed as they took a long drag off of a cigarette. The glowing cherry at the tip flared brightly s it burnt its way through the watery lettering stamped on the side. It now read, "Turkish Go-"
Some people didn't care about what they smoked. They'd jump for the cheapest pack on the shelves, or picked whatever happened to meet their flights of fancy. This smoker was not one of them. The only cigarettes that made their way into his pockets were the ones with the faux-gold trim around the edges of the box and the pale, diamond-print filters.
His devotion to the brand was solidified by a rumor that some cigarette manufacturers had started to use nicotine-soaked papers instead of traditional leaf tobacco. The same day, he had ripped apart one of his precious cigarettes to be rewarded with a fragment of something that had defiantly been a leaf in a past life.
That was good news. He would have hated to switch to American Spirits – the traditional cigarette of yuppies. Not that he was far from being one himself. He ultimately decided that he could take the blow to his ego, but not the one to his wallet. Smoking was a costly enough habit without spending nine dollars on a pack of organic tobacco.
He flicked his ash away before taking another slow drag, savoring the taste of it and the bite of nicotine on his tongue. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke vent out through his nostrils, dragon-style. Say what you will about cancer - there was simply something glorious about a good cigarette on a warm spring day.
If somebody were to wander by the derelict boat ramp set on the shoulder of a forgotten backroad, they would have seen the back end of an old black Chevrolet truck parked close to the water. If they intruded further, they might catch the eye of the slender, dark-haired man perched on the flawlessly waxed hood like a gargoyle.
An observant person would notice several things about this man – his narrowed eyes the color of storming waves, the slender brows set into furrows above them, silky hair cropped into an undercut, the dark tee draped over a lithe and muscular torso, and the Camel Turkish Gold cigarette held almost carelessly between two slender fingers.
He lingered there as that cigarette burned itself down to its filter, then lit a second one from the embers of the first. His gaze fixated on the shimmer of sunlight over the cold waves of the lake – looking, yet not truly seeing, lost in contemplation as the sun warmed his body and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair.
Roughly an hour later, he was sprawled across the hood like a basking cat, almost delirious between the combined effects of exhaustion and the comfortable warmth of the black-painted metal beneath him. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, blocking out the light and changing the color of the insides of his lids from red to black.
In the back of his mind, he remembered that he had to work tonight – as if there was any night that he didn't work. The owner of the upscale bar he managed was cordial and not unpleasant to work with, but was perpetually absent, leaving him to shoulder the brunt of the work that went towards keeping the establishment open. Not that he was complaining – managers were supposed to manage things, after all, and his paycheck was compensation enough for the effort he put in.
A weekday like this one shouldn't be too chaotic. It was early enough in the spring to be in the off-season for the tourists that kept the county alive throughout the summer, and the local crowd was fairly sparse. The high dollar amount on their menu was enough to keep the trash in the local dive bars – the typical greasy places with wood paneling, taxidermy fish and deer heads (one with a deer's ass – he didn't believe it either until he saw for himself), and decades worth of black grunge built up in every corner.
The majority of Bistro 44's clientele this time of year consisted of the retired population that nested in their half-million dollar homes on the lakefront and businessman away on oddly-timed sabbaticals. He and his wait staff played the parts that were expected of them; professional, politely engaging, and demure as they ferried costly bottles of wine and salmon dinners across the restaurant. They didn't see their host nearly passed out on the hood on a pickup at noon, their waitress getting shitfaced drunk at a cornfield bonfire, or their chef screaming at the screen in the heat of an online gaming tournament.
People weren't concerned about that. Could they be blamed? Who could be bothered with picking up the tangled skein of yarn of another person's life when their own was just as unraveled? In the end, it was all the same stories, repeated endlessly, tunelessly, until their individuality lost any meaning.
The man on the hood of the truck huffed softly to himself. Be that as it may, this story was his, and it was one that he treasured. While he wasn't an old man, he wasn't young either. Several years ago, he had broken a vicious cycle of self-loathing with the realization that if he didn't appreciate himself, nobody would. Life was cruel. There were many that would not hesitate to tear him down on a nearly nonexistent basis, and many more who simply didn't care either way. In a world where he was alone, it was better for him to be on good terms with himself.
He wasn't always successful, but his failures were natural. It would be inhuman to live a life entirely free of self-depreciation. Days like today helped, when he could lose himself in these hidden roads of the county and the bass rumble of his truck. There was just something about driving that felt right in his soul, in the way the scenery slipped past the windshield and the sunlight warmed his shoulder as he held the steering wheel and eased on the accelerator.
His thoughts felt fuzzy in his mind as he tried to stave off the sleep at the fringes of his consciousness. Mind and body protesting, he forced himself into an upright position and lit another cigarette as he clambered into the cab. A glance at the phone plugged into the console confirmed his suspicion that he had lingered at the boat launch for too long. The black truck growled to a start and spat gravel from beneath the tires as it rumbled away.
The boat launch sat abandoned once again, as it usually was. The waves continued to hiss against the shore and the breeze wound its way through the bare branches of the trees as if nobody had ever been there at all.
He had expected the restaurant to be quiet, but he didn't anticipate the complete lack of customers. There was only two other cars in the parking lot besides his truck – a horrible baby blue geo prism and a town and country minivan, both belonging to his employees.
One of them, a lanky looking guy with two-toned blonde hair, waved casually from the bench by the back door, phone in one hand and cigarette in the other.
"Levi! What's up?" he announced as he came within hearing range. Levi's gaze narrowed.
"Your cigarette burnt out." A perplexed expression took over Jean's features as he tried to take an experimental puff, managing to dribble ash on his black dress slacks in the process.
Levi "tch'ed" to himself as he pulled open the back door, biting back a comment about cleaning the ash off before getting back on the restaurant floor. He should be able to figure that out by himself. Then again, his staff never ceased to find ways to amaze him.
He carefully wiped his shoes on the entrance mat, taking note of the flecks building up on the carpeting of the hallway. He turned sharply to push through a door labeled "Employees Only".
Once again, they had not failed to amaze him. Bubbly, upbeat music streamed from a set of speakers atop the glass-front vegetable cooler. Said vegetables were crammed into the dairy cooler, and in turn, a leggy, dark-haired girl was wedged inside the vegetable cooler brandishing a bottle of cleaner and a rag. Another pony-tailed girl was manning the industrial-sized sink, spraying down wire racks with bursts timed to the music. Neither of them seemed to notice his entrance as they launched into the chorus with the grace of cats in heat.
"BECAUSE IT'S NINE IN THE AFTERNOON – AND YOUR EYES ARE THE SIZE OF THE- oh, hey Levi," the girl in the cooler broke off, brushing her bangs behind a rose printed bandanna.
"Get to work! Boss is here!" the brunette at the sink howled, shooting him a face-splitting grin. Levi ignored it, choosing to prod at a half-eaten tray of deep-fried appetizers on the counter next to the sink.
"Sasha, you paid for your food this time, right?"
"Nope!" she retorted cheerfully. Levi crossed his arms, mentally bracing himself for an argument that occurred on a weekly basis.
"Steph found some expired stuff in that basement freezer, so we fried it up instead of tossing it in the trash. It would be wasteful not to!"
Levi's eye had twitched involuntarily at the mention of eating expired food.
"How old was it? It's been a few years since onion rings were even on the menu."
"The bag said 2011," Levi immediately regretted asking. "But it was frozen, so I'm sure it's fine! It was just a little freezer burnt."
He could literally feel his skin crawl and shook his head at the two. "Ugh. Disgusting. By the way, you look entirely too happy to be in that cooler."
The bandanna-d girl waved her rag dramatically. "Adventures, Levi! Experiences! How often do you get the opportunity to sit inside a cooler?" He huffed, already making his way to the back office.
"Exactly!" she countered smugly.
He found himself caught somewhere between irritation and satisfaction. He couldn't get upset over the fact that the kitchen was getting the deep cleaning that it desperately needed, but surely, there had to be a better way of going about it.
Levi locked the door behind him and began his daily ritual. The desktop in the corner was booted up, and the little Keurig machine beside it powered up and began to spit out a steaming stream of aromatic tea. After a cautious glance at the closed blinds, he dropped his jeans to tug on a pair of carefully ironed slacks and pulled on a long-sleeved, black button up shirt over his tee.
It only took a moment to go over the daily mail. He sorted out a few invoices that had yet to be paid, setting them aside to be dealt with later on in the evening.
Mug in hand, he wandered back out into the kitchen, where the two were still in the throes of their mad cleaning ritual.
"Oi, who's watching the front?"
"Connie should be up there. He got voted off the island." the brunette chimed.
The double doors to the restaurant swung open easily at Levi's touch, isolating the clamor from the kitchen as they closed behind him. The tables and bar were both devoid of patrons, as could be expected. Connie had some sort of toned down alternative music playing as he stacked the individual bottles of liquor on the varnished bar, wiping down each one as he went down the line.
The young bartender jumped slightly when Levi spoke directly behind him. "How long has it been slow like this?"
"God, you're light on your feet," Connie exclaimed, rubbing the fuzz of his buzz cut nervously. "Eh, last people came in around two. I guess about an hour and a half ago?"
"Hm." Levi crossed one arm over his chest, and took a gauging sip of his tea, holding the mug by its rim as he did so.
Back in the kitchen, Jean had finally brought an end to his infinite smoke break and was in the process of shrugging off his jacket. "Jean. Vacuum all the carpeting, then punch out and go home." Sasha said something snarky about work ethic, and the two broke out into vigorous argument, the tone of it remaining more amusing than confrontational.
Levi retreated to the safety of the office, leaving the door slightly ajar. At some point, the music in the kitchen had been turned down to a tolerable volume, much to his relief.
The office chair creaked alarmingly as he took his seat at the desk, making him grimace. "New office chair" had already been noted somewhere in his logs – it was about time he got around to ordering one. That in turn reminded him that they were running low on toilet paper and paper towels – an order would have to be placed for those too.
He pinched the bridge of his nose before sliding on a pair of rectangular glasses. He refused to call them bifocals. They were gradated reading glasses. They day he wore bifocals was the day he had white hair.
The man in the office took a long drink from his tea before shuffling the pile of invoices on the desk in front of him.
Roughly eight hours later, the invoicing was done along with next month's schedule. The new office chair had been budgeted, along with the delivery of paper supplies. Business had picked up in the evening hours, providing a steady stream of customers to keep his staff busy. Connie worked the bar, Stephanie grilled in the kitchen, and Sasha took care of the tables, Levi stepping in to help her from time to time.
Not long after midnight, the other three piled into the rusting gold minivan on the lot as Levi finished locking up. Sasha waved furiously from the passenger seat and Stephanie revved the tired engine as it pulled away. He followed suit several minutes later, lighting the night's last cigarette as he slid up on the truck's single bench seat.
Somewhere on the way into town, one of the local police had chosen to tail him, not splitting away until he had pulled into his apartment's parking lot. Last October, he had gotten into an unpleasant confrontation when one of them tried to peg him with an OWI after they saw his truck pulling out of the bar's parking lot. Several sobriety tests and snide comments later, after denying the officer his request to search the cab, he drove away with a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt and a burnt-out license plate light bulb.
He couldn't help but feel a little more relaxed as the marked Crown Victoria continued down the road. In a few swift motions, his key was turning in the lock to his apartment and the lights flickered on.
Levi's apartment wasn't fancy by most standards. It had the typical beige carpeting, off-white walls, and varnished wood trim of most complexes. He had done his best to modernize it with furniture like the chocolate-colored leather couch, minimalist desk, and glass coffee table, as well as with the modern art prints on the walls. In the end, it was his, it was clean, and it was comfortable.
As he sunk into the cushioning of his couch, a little tabby cat pranced around his ankles, doing her best to meow and instead emitting her characteristic strangled squeak instead.
He idly scratched at her ear as she tried to climb up on his shoulders, using her claws a little more than necessary. "Hey, cat. You need food or something?" Of course she did. Levi was the proud owner of a bottomless hole. He refilled her bowl in the small kitchenette before stepping into the shower a few moments afterwards, letting the steaming water wash over his body.
Being alone wasn't a horrible thing. If anything, it was comfortable. He hadn't had to share his living space with anyone since the years he went to technical college, when he rented a room from an empty-nester couple. They had been friendly enough, even giving him rides to classes when his pile of shit Ford Focus had broken down, but he always felt like he was infringing on them. It didn't matter that, in reality, he wasn't, but in made him uneasy all the same.
No, being alone wasn't bad. He preferred it. The idea of accommodating another person's habits and peculiarities unsettled him. Even the nights when his various casual encounters shared his bed set him on edge. In the morning, they were greeted with a pile of their own freshly-laundered clothes and a paper cup of coffee before they were swiftly ushered out. There were no hard feelings – it was simply the way Levi operated. In fact, he had already resigned himself to the idea that he would probably die alone.
He had his cat, his job, a good friend he could call on, and a few tolerable booty calls. That was all he needed, right? Right.
He cut off the water abruptly, meticulously drying himself off in the tub to avoid getting any water on the bathroom floor. Tying the soft black towel around his waist, he went about the process of brushing his teeth – twice, just because he had smoked more than usual that day – and combed out his still-damp hair so that it would dry properly. He felt at the soft stubble of his undercut as he locked eyes with the steely ones of the man in the mirror, wondering if it was about time to have it trimmed. He carefully regarded himself for a few more moments, mind churning thoughtlessly, before moving on.
He ended up passing out on the recliner couch with a nature documentary droning quietly on the flat screen TV, wearing just his black yoga pants (so what if his ass looked good in them?) wrapped up in the flannel quilt his grandmother had made him when he first got his own place.
The little tabby wound herself in a ball next to him, purring away in the crook of his knee.