The man at the bar had his head down, as though he were trying to translate ancient runes off the dark wood. There was writing there, little words carved in with the vicious, unrounded scratches of a penknife. But they didn’t need translation, as there was only ever one breed of words cut into a bar.
“You done me wrong … and you’ll be sorry someday …”
The man heard the voice warbling above the Memphis State game on TV. He picked his head up and stared at the ceiling as though God were speaking to him. He looked around, but no one else seemed to be paying attention. A young man beside him caught his eye and thus his conversation.
“Good song. You know, only the Blues tells it like it is.”
The young man shrugged, “Who is it?”
The man hit his palms with a busted pack of Marlboros and pulled one out with his teeth. A little red light blinked like the spire of a radio tower and the young man smelled the smoke before he could see it. “It’s the King,” the older man said and took a deep drag. “It’s the King.”
“Elvis?”
“What? No, the other King.”
“Uh … Jerry Lawler?”
“No … dammit, this town has too many kings … need to decide on one … no, it’s B.B. —”
“You can’t smoke in here,” the bartender had stopped in front of them.
“Since when?”
“Since 2007, now put it out.”
“Fine.” Albert snubbed the cigarette on the bar and the bartender walked away. “See what I mean — er, what’s your name?”
“Riley,” said the young man.
“Albert. See what I mean, Riley? Every day they take away another thrill.”
Riley kept his eyes forward, as though the person staring at him in the mirror behind the bar could help.
“Ya married?” Albert asked.
Riley shook his head.
“Lucky man, don’t ever get married.” There was a rap on the bar like the sound of a man putting down a poker chip. Riley glanced down at the ring. It lay next to three drops of beer and looked blue beneath the Christmas lights hanging above them. Albert continued, “See that? It’s not a ring. Just another link in a chain.”
Riley held the ring up to the Christmas lights then put it back on the bar and pushed it towards Albert. “Preaching to the choir.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Just had a big fight with my girlfriend about this.”
“Good for you! Trust me, as soon as you get a ring, it starts.”
Riley nodded and sipped.
“First, she won’t let you go out as much. You start remembering your nights. You never wake up covered in barbecue sauce anymore.”
Riley emptied his glass. He felt a wonderful clarity somewhere just behind his eyes. He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at his glass.
“Then the wife starts cooking ‘healthy’ for you every night and you start losing weight. All the sudden you’re not breathing heavy after walking up the stairs. Plus, you live together, so her smile is always there to greet you after a hard day.”
Riley’s face turned slowly towards Albert.
“Then you gotta accompany her to all these sissy events, ballets and such. All the sudden you find yourself knowing what a pas de deux is! And appreciating the poetry of movement! Then you start feeling all these emotions you didn’t know you had. I tell ya, it’s hell.” Albert shook his head and took a swig of his beer.
Riley didn’t notice that his glass had been filled. He could not take his eyes off Albert.
“Then you know what the kicker is?” Albert laughed in disbelief as he asked it. Riley was unaware that he was leaning in, eyes narrowing. “One weekend, she has to go on a business trip, and you get the opportunity to go out to your favorite bar, just like the old days, and none of it has the thrill anymore! Instead, you just can’t stop wondering what it would be like if she were there! What kind of damn joke is that?”
Both men sat in silence. The buzz of conversation and shuffle of shoes on the sticky floor seemed to hush too. Albert looked at his watch, “I should call her.” He slapped down a bill, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.
“Wait! Albert!”
Albert turned around.
“Where did you buy her ring?”
COLIN SHUMAKE was born and raised in the Mid-South. He says he loves fiction and has been a reader and raconteur his whole life. “By day I work as a health physicist in Memphis smashing atoms together. But by night I am content to smash words together until I get a legible sentence.”
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories will be published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. The Very Short Story Contest recognizes ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The Very Short Story Contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’ newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate.
