Emily reached under the bar at Joe's. Joe's was pretty nice looking place for a bar on the seedy side of town. It had a lot of dark wood finish and the wall behind the main bar was made up of entirely mirrors, which were all decorated with a fancy trim. On the opposite side was another, smaller bar with an overhang. Toward the back was a small stage. She still had some old, dried out Christmas decorations about.
We had both changed before leaving her apartment. She actually looked respectable…when she wasn't speaking. She had her hair tied back in a long, dark braid and was dressed in black, wearing a popular shirtwaist and skirt combo that was pretty common back then.
I was back to wearing designer clothing, but my black and white striped Pierre de Pitoeff suit with the matching blouse, hat, and scarf were last year's news, but no one I was dining with that night noticed or cared.
"I'm getting a good jass band to play a couple days a week." Emily said reaching under the bar. I sat on a stool watching her get ready. She made some soup and sandwiches and they'd been ready for almost an hour. George was late, obsessing with work as usual. Sonny was raiding the kitchen.
"Does he always do this?" I asked of George.
"He's more of a freeloader than I am…and that's no easy feat." She glanced at the kitchen doors.
"No, I mean George."
"George…" she paused, "yeah, lately." She sighed and shrugged. She dug for more soda. There wasn't much drink selection at Joe's anymore not that alcohol was illegal. We didn't say anything for a while. George wasn't the same man he used to be.
Emily popped her tenth stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth since we'd arrived at the bar. As soon as one lost its flavor she took another one.
"What's with all the gum?" I asked.
"Oral fixation," she said, "my dad thought he make a few minor attempts at turning me into a lady so to get me off of smokes so he got me to chew gum."
"And?"
"I still smoke a pack a day and am now addicted to chewing gum as well. So I guess dad failed at that."
"He turned you into a better American consumer."
"That he did," Em agreed, "now Philip Morris and Wrigley's are a few bucks richer every week thanks to me…Juicy Fruit?" She offered.
"No, not really a big fan of fruity stuff unless its juice." I said. "I like the Doublemint better."
Emily reached under the bar again and dropped a pack of Doublemint in front of me. I smiled and pulled out a stick. A crash of pots came from the kitchen. Her expression hardened like when George was mad at her. If they had been related I'd say she was taking after him.
"Sonny!" she yelled as pushed open the swinging doors. "Get the fuck away from that! You're gonna destroy the entire God damn bar!" I heard from within.
I got up and walked around out of boredom. I pulled my hair down from its two, tight buns and pulled my scarf off.
My hair fell loose at my shoulders, my curls we're withered from being brushed and pulled back. It fell in a wavy mess and I shook it out trying to run my hands through it but it was so tangled. Sometimes curly hair could be such a pain.
I looked up to see George standing in the doorway. At first he was covered in shadows but when he stepped I could see his face better. He looked at little tired when I saw him hours earlier. Now he looked half-dead.
"How long have you been standing there?" I asked him.
"Just a minute or so." He said softly.
"You're late. You should have been ages ago." I gently chided him. I just realized how tired I sounded.
"I'm here now and not I'm leaving." He was always running out when duty called lately. Emily had complained before. Even if he kept his plans he didn't keep them for long.
"You promise?"
"I promise." He smiled, pursing his lips. There was a short silence. Usually our silences were very comfortable. This time there was a hint of awkwardness, but it was probably the circumstances: George and work, me dropping in all of the sudden, Emily and Sonny fighting in the next room—although that last part was pretty commonplace.
Emily burst out of the kitchen, both doors flying open and smacking the wall. George and I jumped. Sonny sheepishly followed behind.
"Where were you?" She folded her arms. He didn't respond and just stood there staring at her. "What?" Another five second went by.
"Somehow I expected profanity in that last statement."
"Very funny. Sit down. I gotta reheat our God damn food." She huffed and whirled around back into the kitchen.
"That's my little girl." He said putting his hand over his heart.
I rubbed my face and yawned. Em sure knew when to storm in at the right moments.
***
Dinner was fine. The conversation wasn't as lively as would be expected. Everyone was tired. Half way through some regulars popped in, a stocky one, Pat, and a little skinny one, Jeff, both around the same age as Sonny and Emily.
"We're closed guys." Emily told them.
"We know," said the stocky one, "just had to stop and sit. We've been hauling these ashes since Battery Park."
"Ashes?" said Emily.
"Battery Park?" said George.
Pat pulled out a bottle of beer that he had been sneaking under his coat.
"Old Walter Ginsberg just died while he and Mrs. Ginsberg we're moving Downtown after he retired so Mrs. Ginsberg decides she wants to go back to West 55th street and pays us two dollars to go get Walt."
"Walter Ginsberg died? The barber?" George seemed pretty shocked.
"I know, shame." Pat nodded.
"No, I was surprised he was still alive." he said.
"How old is Mrs. Ginsberg?" Emily asked.
"More than dirt," Pat smiled, "but the boys and Walt still had a fun trip on the train, didn't we Walt?" He patted the urn.
"That's all of him?" Sonny inquired.
Jeff held up another, slightly larger urn.
"What crazy person trust you two with the remains her beloved and ceramic?" Emily folded her arms.
"Someone as senile as Mrs. Ginsberg." Jeff said as he sat down.
"And look old Walt looks great. Not a scratch on the potter—shit!" Pat dropped the urn and smashed to the ground along with his beer.
There was dead silence through the room. Everyone stared at Walter Ginsberg's beer sodden ashes in awe and horror. The only motion was the blinking of eyes. Young Pat was as white as the cheap paint on the broken urn. Nobody dared moved.
"Holy Jesus, Pat…" said Emily, "you dropped Walt!"
"I dropped Walt…" Par repeated distantly.
"Not only that but you drenched him in something you're not even supposed to have." Sonny pointed.
"Nobody panic. We'll just…clean him up." said George.
"How? The urns smashed!" Pat cried.
"Well, gee, who did that, Newton?" Emily said.
"I didn't mean to!"
"And Mrs. Ginsberg knows he's coming in two urns!" Jeff added.
Pat looked around for anything…anything at all that could possibly help the situation. He reached down into his pockets all he had was some change and a pack of cigarettes. He looked at us. During his silent and desperate search his eyes fell directly on me. He watched me as I thought hard, thinking about the broken urn and the muddy ashes like everyone else. When I noticed him I stared right back into his eyes, searching for ideas. Pat didn't look into my eyes. He concentrated on my right hand as I drew my cigarette out of my mouth with my index and middle fingers. I lowered it down to the ashtray and gave it a gentle flick, tapping the ashes into the tray. Pat watched them fall with growing excitement and his eyes lit up in an epiphany.
"What?" I asked.
Pat clenched the pack of cigarettes in fervor. "That's it! Ashes!"
"Cigarette ashes?" I said doubtfully.
"They don't look right." Jeff said.
"Yeah, the ashes you want are a fine dust not flaky chunks." George explained.
"Mrs. Ginsberg can barely see anyway. Why don't you just fill it with dirt…I can't believe I just suggested to replace the remains of a human being with dirt…" George shook his head.
"We'll all be dirt eventually." I said.
"Thanks for the insight, Rose." He said with a little edge in his voice.
"Who's gonna help me here?" Pat lit up and was now smoking over an ashtray. "Got anything bigger than this?" he asked Emily. Jeff and Sonny joined him.
Emily stood staring at them, arms folded. "Even I'm not that stupid." She said. People often mistook Emily for being immature. In simple terms she was just crazy and seldom reliable. But this she didn't see it working or a profit for herself.
"This is a farce." I said looking on at the three whiz kids smoking over the ashtray.
George sighed and looked around. "Are you ever going to take the rest of the Christmas decorations?" he asked Em. He gestured to the pine roping still hanging off the small bar.
"Why? It keeps up the holiday spirit."
"It's February. And they're brown."
"Does this look good to any of you?" Pat held up the ashtray.
"It still looks like the remains of Mr. Chesterfield and not Mr. Ginsberg." George grinned sardonically.
"They're not Chesterfields, they're Luckies, jerk," Pat said, "shows how much you know." George, Emily, and I all exchanged looks. "Got another ashtray or a bowl or something?" he asked Emily.
"I should start charging." Em walked behind the main bar and pushed open the double doors to the kitchen.
Pat placed the ashtray with his still burning cigarette on the small bar and went to see if he could pilfer anything from behind the bar. "Don't even think about it!" rang from the kitchen. How did she know?
"It takes one to know one, doesn't it?" George snickered.
"How does she do that?" I asked.
"She's one crafty little devil. She can smell profit a mile away and she can sense her own."
"I never thought her much to care about money."
"Profit ain't all dollars and cents."
At that moment I could have sworn I heard something fizzing or some such behind me. "Do you smell anything?" I asked George.
"Yeah…I do." We turned around slowly. "Son of a bitch." He annunciated perfectly.
The small bar had caught fire.
"Em!" we called out. "Water! Water! Get water!"
George ran for his coat to stifle the newborn flames working their way across the dead pine roping.
Pat popped open another bottle of beer he had behind his coat.
"Don't!" I shouted.
Sonny, Jeff, and I ran toward him but too late. He had already popped it open and doused the flames—which roared stronger as the alcohol hit it.
"Idiot!" Em yelled running out of the kitchen and jumping over the bar with a pot of water. She threw the water at the fire but it wasn't enough.
"I'm sorry I didn't know!" Pat shouted.
"Now you do, asshole!" Emily growled. "Everybody get more pots!"
Everybody did as she said except for Jeff who stopped behind the main bar to call the fire department.
For minutes we ran in cycle filling up pot and dousing the flames.
"Fill up the big pot that'll get it!" George suggested to Emily.
"It'll take too long!" she yelled, still in a frustrated panic. She threw her hands up in anger. "If my bar burns down you'll be sleeping with Walt!" she pointed at Pat.
"Let's concentrate on the fire, Em!" I said sardonically in a high voice.
Hearing the commotion Buddy Simms from the building next wandered in. "Hey, Dawson!" he called.
"WHAT?!" Em and I shouted as we whirled around.
Buddy backed up, confused—by the fire and by two people answering to Emily's name.
"What's takin' George so long?" Sonny asked.
George came out single-handedly carrying the largest pot Emily had full to the brim. When got in front of the burning bar grabbed a hold of the pot.
"On three…" he shouted, "one…" we swung it back, spilling some water onto the floor and our feet, "two…" again the same, "three!" We heaved it full force at the bar. A wave and then a splash killed most of the flames.
Now that it was small enough George took his jacket and stifled the dying flames. As he dropped to the floor the fire department finally showed up.
"A little late, boys?" George looked up.
***
Midnight
Pat and Jeff had gone home an hour ago. Sonny left minutes ago. Now it was just George and I. Emily was inside getting her stuff and mulling over what to do. From about 10:45 to 11:30 she spent cursing and kicking things around in the kitchen. She had a terrible mouth when she was happy and swears were all she could speak when was angry.
We cleaned up the joint as best we could but it was time to go home. George and I waited on the curb outside IJoe's/I. We wanted to sleep so badly but we decided the honorable thing to do would be to wait for our friend.
"Intense night, huh?" I said.
"We've had worse." He shrugged.
"Not for dinner."
He laughed, "And sometimes I swear Emily could make four letter words sound like poetry…" George sighed.
"Shall I compare thee to a fucking summer's day?" I asked.
"Hey, I've never heard you say that before." He let out a genuine little laugh.
"Sonnet 18 or Shakespeare in general?"
"No, fuck…or a variation thereof."
"Yes, you have." I said.
"No, I haven't." he argued.
"Yes, you have."
"No, I haven't."
"The hospital. 1918."
"Yelling at Holden doesn't count. It's as natural as breathing."
"Yes, but you heard worse than what I just said."
"Like I said," he tried, unsuccessfully to hold back a smile, "doesn't count."
Emily walked outside and locked up. "You didn't have wait." She said.
"It's alright, kid." George patted her on the back. "It's no problem. Everything else we can do tomorrow…hey you never used that counter anyway." Em cracked a weak smile. It was true. She never used it really. It was more that she torched part of her father's baby.
"Come on," I said, getting up, "let's go home."
We had both changed before leaving her apartment. She actually looked respectable…when she wasn't speaking. She had her hair tied back in a long, dark braid and was dressed in black, wearing a popular shirtwaist and skirt combo that was pretty common back then.
I was back to wearing designer clothing, but my black and white striped Pierre de Pitoeff suit with the matching blouse, hat, and scarf were last year's news, but no one I was dining with that night noticed or cared.
"I'm getting a good jass band to play a couple days a week." Emily said reaching under the bar. I sat on a stool watching her get ready. She made some soup and sandwiches and they'd been ready for almost an hour. George was late, obsessing with work as usual. Sonny was raiding the kitchen.
"Does he always do this?" I asked of George.
"He's more of a freeloader than I am…and that's no easy feat." She glanced at the kitchen doors.
"No, I mean George."
"George…" she paused, "yeah, lately." She sighed and shrugged. She dug for more soda. There wasn't much drink selection at Joe's anymore not that alcohol was illegal. We didn't say anything for a while. George wasn't the same man he used to be.
Emily popped her tenth stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth since we'd arrived at the bar. As soon as one lost its flavor she took another one.
"What's with all the gum?" I asked.
"Oral fixation," she said, "my dad thought he make a few minor attempts at turning me into a lady so to get me off of smokes so he got me to chew gum."
"And?"
"I still smoke a pack a day and am now addicted to chewing gum as well. So I guess dad failed at that."
"He turned you into a better American consumer."
"That he did," Em agreed, "now Philip Morris and Wrigley's are a few bucks richer every week thanks to me…Juicy Fruit?" She offered.
"No, not really a big fan of fruity stuff unless its juice." I said. "I like the Doublemint better."
Emily reached under the bar again and dropped a pack of Doublemint in front of me. I smiled and pulled out a stick. A crash of pots came from the kitchen. Her expression hardened like when George was mad at her. If they had been related I'd say she was taking after him.
"Sonny!" she yelled as pushed open the swinging doors. "Get the fuck away from that! You're gonna destroy the entire God damn bar!" I heard from within.
I got up and walked around out of boredom. I pulled my hair down from its two, tight buns and pulled my scarf off.
My hair fell loose at my shoulders, my curls we're withered from being brushed and pulled back. It fell in a wavy mess and I shook it out trying to run my hands through it but it was so tangled. Sometimes curly hair could be such a pain.
I looked up to see George standing in the doorway. At first he was covered in shadows but when he stepped I could see his face better. He looked at little tired when I saw him hours earlier. Now he looked half-dead.
"How long have you been standing there?" I asked him.
"Just a minute or so." He said softly.
"You're late. You should have been ages ago." I gently chided him. I just realized how tired I sounded.
"I'm here now and not I'm leaving." He was always running out when duty called lately. Emily had complained before. Even if he kept his plans he didn't keep them for long.
"You promise?"
"I promise." He smiled, pursing his lips. There was a short silence. Usually our silences were very comfortable. This time there was a hint of awkwardness, but it was probably the circumstances: George and work, me dropping in all of the sudden, Emily and Sonny fighting in the next room—although that last part was pretty commonplace.
Emily burst out of the kitchen, both doors flying open and smacking the wall. George and I jumped. Sonny sheepishly followed behind.
"Where were you?" She folded her arms. He didn't respond and just stood there staring at her. "What?" Another five second went by.
"Somehow I expected profanity in that last statement."
"Very funny. Sit down. I gotta reheat our God damn food." She huffed and whirled around back into the kitchen.
"That's my little girl." He said putting his hand over his heart.
I rubbed my face and yawned. Em sure knew when to storm in at the right moments.
***
Dinner was fine. The conversation wasn't as lively as would be expected. Everyone was tired. Half way through some regulars popped in, a stocky one, Pat, and a little skinny one, Jeff, both around the same age as Sonny and Emily.
"We're closed guys." Emily told them.
"We know," said the stocky one, "just had to stop and sit. We've been hauling these ashes since Battery Park."
"Ashes?" said Emily.
"Battery Park?" said George.
Pat pulled out a bottle of beer that he had been sneaking under his coat.
"Old Walter Ginsberg just died while he and Mrs. Ginsberg we're moving Downtown after he retired so Mrs. Ginsberg decides she wants to go back to West 55th street and pays us two dollars to go get Walt."
"Walter Ginsberg died? The barber?" George seemed pretty shocked.
"I know, shame." Pat nodded.
"No, I was surprised he was still alive." he said.
"How old is Mrs. Ginsberg?" Emily asked.
"More than dirt," Pat smiled, "but the boys and Walt still had a fun trip on the train, didn't we Walt?" He patted the urn.
"That's all of him?" Sonny inquired.
Jeff held up another, slightly larger urn.
"What crazy person trust you two with the remains her beloved and ceramic?" Emily folded her arms.
"Someone as senile as Mrs. Ginsberg." Jeff said as he sat down.
"And look old Walt looks great. Not a scratch on the potter—shit!" Pat dropped the urn and smashed to the ground along with his beer.
There was dead silence through the room. Everyone stared at Walter Ginsberg's beer sodden ashes in awe and horror. The only motion was the blinking of eyes. Young Pat was as white as the cheap paint on the broken urn. Nobody dared moved.
"Holy Jesus, Pat…" said Emily, "you dropped Walt!"
"I dropped Walt…" Par repeated distantly.
"Not only that but you drenched him in something you're not even supposed to have." Sonny pointed.
"Nobody panic. We'll just…clean him up." said George.
"How? The urns smashed!" Pat cried.
"Well, gee, who did that, Newton?" Emily said.
"I didn't mean to!"
"And Mrs. Ginsberg knows he's coming in two urns!" Jeff added.
Pat looked around for anything…anything at all that could possibly help the situation. He reached down into his pockets all he had was some change and a pack of cigarettes. He looked at us. During his silent and desperate search his eyes fell directly on me. He watched me as I thought hard, thinking about the broken urn and the muddy ashes like everyone else. When I noticed him I stared right back into his eyes, searching for ideas. Pat didn't look into my eyes. He concentrated on my right hand as I drew my cigarette out of my mouth with my index and middle fingers. I lowered it down to the ashtray and gave it a gentle flick, tapping the ashes into the tray. Pat watched them fall with growing excitement and his eyes lit up in an epiphany.
"What?" I asked.
Pat clenched the pack of cigarettes in fervor. "That's it! Ashes!"
"Cigarette ashes?" I said doubtfully.
"They don't look right." Jeff said.
"Yeah, the ashes you want are a fine dust not flaky chunks." George explained.
"Mrs. Ginsberg can barely see anyway. Why don't you just fill it with dirt…I can't believe I just suggested to replace the remains of a human being with dirt…" George shook his head.
"We'll all be dirt eventually." I said.
"Thanks for the insight, Rose." He said with a little edge in his voice.
"Who's gonna help me here?" Pat lit up and was now smoking over an ashtray. "Got anything bigger than this?" he asked Emily. Jeff and Sonny joined him.
Emily stood staring at them, arms folded. "Even I'm not that stupid." She said. People often mistook Emily for being immature. In simple terms she was just crazy and seldom reliable. But this she didn't see it working or a profit for herself.
"This is a farce." I said looking on at the three whiz kids smoking over the ashtray.
George sighed and looked around. "Are you ever going to take the rest of the Christmas decorations?" he asked Em. He gestured to the pine roping still hanging off the small bar.
"Why? It keeps up the holiday spirit."
"It's February. And they're brown."
"Does this look good to any of you?" Pat held up the ashtray.
"It still looks like the remains of Mr. Chesterfield and not Mr. Ginsberg." George grinned sardonically.
"They're not Chesterfields, they're Luckies, jerk," Pat said, "shows how much you know." George, Emily, and I all exchanged looks. "Got another ashtray or a bowl or something?" he asked Emily.
"I should start charging." Em walked behind the main bar and pushed open the double doors to the kitchen.
Pat placed the ashtray with his still burning cigarette on the small bar and went to see if he could pilfer anything from behind the bar. "Don't even think about it!" rang from the kitchen. How did she know?
"It takes one to know one, doesn't it?" George snickered.
"How does she do that?" I asked.
"She's one crafty little devil. She can smell profit a mile away and she can sense her own."
"I never thought her much to care about money."
"Profit ain't all dollars and cents."
At that moment I could have sworn I heard something fizzing or some such behind me. "Do you smell anything?" I asked George.
"Yeah…I do." We turned around slowly. "Son of a bitch." He annunciated perfectly.
The small bar had caught fire.
"Em!" we called out. "Water! Water! Get water!"
George ran for his coat to stifle the newborn flames working their way across the dead pine roping.
Pat popped open another bottle of beer he had behind his coat.
"Don't!" I shouted.
Sonny, Jeff, and I ran toward him but too late. He had already popped it open and doused the flames—which roared stronger as the alcohol hit it.
"Idiot!" Em yelled running out of the kitchen and jumping over the bar with a pot of water. She threw the water at the fire but it wasn't enough.
"I'm sorry I didn't know!" Pat shouted.
"Now you do, asshole!" Emily growled. "Everybody get more pots!"
Everybody did as she said except for Jeff who stopped behind the main bar to call the fire department.
For minutes we ran in cycle filling up pot and dousing the flames.
"Fill up the big pot that'll get it!" George suggested to Emily.
"It'll take too long!" she yelled, still in a frustrated panic. She threw her hands up in anger. "If my bar burns down you'll be sleeping with Walt!" she pointed at Pat.
"Let's concentrate on the fire, Em!" I said sardonically in a high voice.
Hearing the commotion Buddy Simms from the building next wandered in. "Hey, Dawson!" he called.
"WHAT?!" Em and I shouted as we whirled around.
Buddy backed up, confused—by the fire and by two people answering to Emily's name.
"What's takin' George so long?" Sonny asked.
George came out single-handedly carrying the largest pot Emily had full to the brim. When got in front of the burning bar grabbed a hold of the pot.
"On three…" he shouted, "one…" we swung it back, spilling some water onto the floor and our feet, "two…" again the same, "three!" We heaved it full force at the bar. A wave and then a splash killed most of the flames.
Now that it was small enough George took his jacket and stifled the dying flames. As he dropped to the floor the fire department finally showed up.
"A little late, boys?" George looked up.
***
Midnight
Pat and Jeff had gone home an hour ago. Sonny left minutes ago. Now it was just George and I. Emily was inside getting her stuff and mulling over what to do. From about 10:45 to 11:30 she spent cursing and kicking things around in the kitchen. She had a terrible mouth when she was happy and swears were all she could speak when was angry.
We cleaned up the joint as best we could but it was time to go home. George and I waited on the curb outside IJoe's/I. We wanted to sleep so badly but we decided the honorable thing to do would be to wait for our friend.
"Intense night, huh?" I said.
"We've had worse." He shrugged.
"Not for dinner."
He laughed, "And sometimes I swear Emily could make four letter words sound like poetry…" George sighed.
"Shall I compare thee to a fucking summer's day?" I asked.
"Hey, I've never heard you say that before." He let out a genuine little laugh.
"Sonnet 18 or Shakespeare in general?"
"No, fuck…or a variation thereof."
"Yes, you have." I said.
"No, I haven't." he argued.
"Yes, you have."
"No, I haven't."
"The hospital. 1918."
"Yelling at Holden doesn't count. It's as natural as breathing."
"Yes, but you heard worse than what I just said."
"Like I said," he tried, unsuccessfully to hold back a smile, "doesn't count."
Emily walked outside and locked up. "You didn't have wait." She said.
"It's alright, kid." George patted her on the back. "It's no problem. Everything else we can do tomorrow…hey you never used that counter anyway." Em cracked a weak smile. It was true. She never used it really. It was more that she torched part of her father's baby.
"Come on," I said, getting up, "let's go home."