As he nursed his beer, Frank saw Larry’s eyes perk up. Lawyer was looking at the front entrance. He watched Larry get off his barstool and weave through the mingling hordes toward the entrance. Watched Larry greet a pony-tailed, ear-stud-wearing guy and exchange a few words.
Which meant, Frank surmised, that before too long the three consortium members would be bouncing around the club like electrified pin balls.
No problem, Frank thought. He knew how to pass the time in a bar. Had ten long years of practice. One thing he’d learned was that last call comes to everyone, eventually. And hearing the words in his head, smiled to himself, realizing he’d unintentionally created a metaphor for death.
The last call for alcohol: A moment that seemed to be a mini-death for many of his customers over the years.
He ordered another Bud from the fast-moving bartender, Frank thinking the speed business had to be big at the Neon Cactus. Seemed like everyone working here was on some kind of stimulant, judging by the tight jaws, the pinned eyes and the rapid, non-stop motion swirling around him like a sandstorm.
Any bar person knows that amphetamine is the lifeblood of a club like this.
He took a sip of the fresh beer and looked up at the TVs stretching along the bar back. They were all closed circuit, showing various sections of the club on a changing, seemingly random basis. Cameras set up all over the place so people could see themselves on television.
What would be next, Frank wondered, TV shows with regular people doing mundane, everyday things?
God help us all if it comes down to that.
Still feeling tired he had another unsatisfying swig of beer and returned his gaze to the screens.
He saw Larry walking out of the bar with the ponytail guy.
Another screen captured Bryce and Clayton on the second level chatting up some women. Who, judging by the body language, weren’t buying into the young heirs’ line of bullshit.
But it’s only a matter of time, Frank thought. Those guys’ sweat smells like money for Christ sake. And there’s always someone willing to climb on board the money train, if only for a short ride.
It was another part of our celebrity-worshiping culture—people seemingly craving to get close to something above their own stature in life.
Frank didn’t have that problem. At this moment his lowly stature was comforting,
But he did kind of wish he was back in Minnesota.
But shit, California beckoned ahead of him like a sparkling oasis.
And that was worth waiting and perhaps suffering for.
Good things come to those who wait.
That’s what they say, anyway.
Then the band started up with one of his favorite songs, “Honky Tonk Woman,” and he went back to scanning the screens, hoping to be a voyeur into the antics of the Rancho Deluxe Trio.
He’d cut himself out of the herd like a maverick steer.
A few minutes later he saw Larry come back in alone, his jaw set in that familiar cocaine-goin’-round-the-brain angle.
His eyes jumping from one screen to another, Frank followed Larry’s path up to the Gold Dust Twins on the second-level.
He watched Clayton and Bryce follow Larry outside.
Gonna be a long fuckin’ night, he thought.
He had another swallow of beer and wondered what time the bars shut down in Scottsdale.
Closing time.
Hotel-motel time.
You-don’t-have-to-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here time.
Get-the-fuck-out-of-Scottsdale time.
But staring at the television screens would have to do for now.
(To be continued)
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