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Stages of Contentment
Fiction by David Rochamette
The night was restless, as so many had been since his return.
"Less than a year," he thought "trapped between homes." Jeff
pointed the Ghost towards a local night spot. His car, the Ghost.
Its full name was 'The Ghost of Detroit's Past', coined by his
roommate during one their epic roadtrips, yet another reminder
of a life left behind. The bar was packed as usual and parking
the huge sedan was as bad as ever. "I'm going to get rid of this
beast very soon," an unkept promise he'd made dozens of times in
the past four years. A promise that he knew he could never keep
until the wheels fell off the ungainly monster, the Ghost was a
part of him now. It was one of the few pieces of his life he
hadn't managed to throw away in this past year since he'd come
back home. It still amused him to think of this place as home.
True, he had grown up here, but in the four years since he had
left, the town had changed beyond recognition. All of his good
friends had gotten out like him. Unlike him, they had stayed
gone from this dingy little place. All that remained was a room
in the house he had so desperately tried to escape from all
those years before and the few 'townies' that he was reduced to
calling his friends.
He entered the bar warily, his friends called it 'the Meat Market'.
This was one of his hangouts, no cover charge, no drink minimum.
Dark spots throughout the bar to hide in, plenty of happy people
to buoy his own spirit. Jeff waited with his normal patience while
his ID was checked. He was sometimes hassled about the hair and
beard, and was used to waiting for the confirmation to take place.
The feeling seized him then, forcing him to the bar. It put the
scotch in his hand, dumping it down his throat. Finally the urge
quieted, still present, waiting for an opening. His favorite
corner was empty, so Jeff maneuvered through the crowd and slipped
gratefully into the vinyl armchair. He sat there for about an hour,
aimlessly plunking quarters in the poker machine. Jeff watched
the crowd swirl about in the typical American mating ritual. He
sat listening to yet another band with good mechanics and absolutely
no songwriting ability, flailing away at the current dance hits
that no one would remember next month. It was working though,
already he was getting his courage up for a dance. Soon he would
be in the crowd, moving and talking, the feeling safely caged for
yet another evening.
Not tonight, this night had other things in store. In what seemed
like an instant he was piloting the Ghost out onto the street,
dragging hard on the cigarette in his lips. Jeff was searching
again, a maddening hunt for a quarry he had never found. When he
first passed it, he wanted to accelerate by, as if speed would chase
the demon from his head. This particular demon had a taste for speed
and it wanted him in there. How could he refuse that which had ruled
him for so many years? He had never questioned this strange feeling
that drove him. Jeff merely let it direct him and hoped for the best.
He looked in horror at the door he was about to enter, garishly painted
an unnatural shade of pink. A huge neon sign promising 'girls' three
times over hung just above it, a strip joint. Every facet of his
up-bringing told him to stay out, but the feeling urged him on. With an
effort far more strenuous than anyone looking on might have suspected,
Jeff pulled open the door and went inside. The first thing he noticed
about the place was the lighting. It was much brighter than expected,
even more so than the bar he had just left. The second was the
absence of dark corners, just a row of barstools, nowhere to hide.
Finally, was the lack of diversion, two pool tables, both with long
waiting lists. These provided the only amusement, except of course,
the dancers. No poker machines, no video games, no televisions pumping
out rock videos for the MTV afflicted.
Jeff was sitting on the stool, sipping a warm beer and watching a
game of pool when he noticed her there. Dancing before him, she
moved in the ways he'd imagined they would when he had listened
with a mixture of disgust and fascination to the stories his barracks
mates would tell. She gestured to the hip of her G-string waiting
to be rewarded for her one-on-one performance. Almost robotically
he placed the bill on the still gyrating hip. Finally, with his
dollar secure, she leaned over and gave him a full view before
sauntering away a conquering queen.
He sat on that stool for a seeming eternity. This place which he had
so disdained earlier had somehow taken hold. What's more, the bar
had banished the feeling that had driven him here. "Watch what you
hope for," he thought, "you just might get it."
How long was it? How many hours did he sit on that stool? For the
first time in so long a time, he didn't care about the hour. Jeff
didn't worry about working, dancing or even making conversation.
He just sat there watching them dance, watching her dance. She was
there for him, moving for his pleasure and none other. Yes, he had
to pay to see her dance, but then, didn't you always have to pay? The
only difference here was that he paid with money, no posturing, no
glib remarks. For just a dollar on the hip she was his for a full
song.
The bar itself was a study in pleasure without waste. When a customer
left a pitcher of beer behind it was passed around and everyone's glass
was refilled. "These men," Jeff thought, "didn't come here to pose."
There was no appearance of the ritual that night, just plenty of beer
and unquestioned camaraderie. He knew where he belonged now, for the
first time since his return here, he was home.
The days moved quickly after that, and Jeff became something of a
regular at the bar. He had friends there now and he had her. Every
time he arrived she would be the first to dance for him. They rarely
spoke after that first night, what was there to say at any rate?
Jeff knew and he was sure that she knew, why speak of it and ruin
what they had? When the silence of the dance was so much better than
any words.
The human need of word is a strong one. Jeff soon found himself
wanting to talk to her. He wanted more than the dance, more than
a song. It wasn't so much what it suggested as what it promised. To
him she was an exotic and mysterious dream, now he wanted to wake
and find she was real.
As this new feeling took hold of him, Jeff's trips to the bar became
less frequent. He became sullen when she would dance for other men
and hated them for the dollars on her hips. They symbolized the fact
that she was only ever his for a song. Three minutes, possibly four,
then always sauntering to the next in line. Still his hopes remained,
she did still dance for him as soon as he sat down. Their eyes still
locked as she moved before him each time. "The others are her job,"
he would think, "but I know how she feels about me."
The night didn't seem different at first as he sat down and looked
around the bar. There was Stan and Bill hiding from their wives. Holly
and Candy worked to an old R&B tune as they usually did. True, she
didn't seem to be there but perhaps it was her break. He attempted to
convince himself of this repeatedly as time dragged on, struggling to
keep down the demons who had sensed a chance for freedom. All manner
of evil and despairing thoughts occurred to him as a young looking
blond came over to him.
"What'll it be?" she asked as pleasantly as possible.
"The brunette that's usually here, where is she tonight."
"She's gone man," the blond answered.
"Gone?" He asked, voice going low.
"Yeah she finally got married," she said more bored now than pleasant.
"What do you mean finally?" He asked, a definite sickness in the voice
now.
"Well she was engaged forever," she said, "so do you want a beer or
not?"
He thought of running then, just get in the Ghost and not stop. He
could run from it all, never slow down, just go on forever. Instead,
all he could do was nod a feeble yes. Then a different girl danced
for him and he loved her. Another beautiful soul refilled his glass
from a left over pitcher and he loved her. Then the women danced,
the men watched, and he was home, he loved them all.
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