Beneath the glow from the dozens of strands of Christmas lights stapled to the ceiling of Sweetie-O's Bar and Grill, Hack sat on a stool and stared at the mug of ice on the bar in front of him. Water beads slid down the mug and a ring of moisture had begun to spread on the oak. Hack glanced around as he rolled up the sleeves of his faded denim shirt. The only light in the room came from the Christmas lights, two red and blue neon Jax signs, and a pool table light. There were no mirrors behind the bar or anywhere else, so Hack never caught his reflection at Sweetie-O's. He was never reminded of the five inch white scar that started below his left eye, zigzagged down his cheek, and ended at his bottom lip. In the far corner, an ancient Wurlitzer crooned out the acoustic blues of Robert Johnson's Hellhound on my Trail.
"Why does he keep playing that damn song? It's the fourth time in twenty minutes," Hack said. He ran his fingertips over Tandy Newman's initials carved in the wood of the bar, wondering what she was doing tonight. It had been four months since she left him.
"He wants to hear it, Hack,” said Sweetie-O, the fat, full-blooded Chitimacha Indian who ran the bar. “Might be a slow night, but you ain't the only person here." She pointed toward Curtis Portlier, who was sitting with his boots propped up on the pool table in the back of the bar. She walked by Hack, bumping his elbow with her wide hips. Her braided black hair dropped down the front of her shoulders and fell across the enormous swell of her chest. She slid a chipped enamel pot down the counter to catch the raindrops that were dripping through the ceiling. "This rain ever going to let up?"
Sweetie-O's father, Chief Foret, grunted a reply. He sat at the corner of the bar and fed an orange slice to his pet monkey, Fireball. The brown monkey chewed the slice and reached for the crow feather in the beaded hatband of Foret's beat-up Cavalier hat. Foret tipped the brim at Hack and pushed the monkey’s paw away.
"Howdy, Chief."
"Tell me what's wrong with this song, Hack," Sweetie-O said.
Hack stared at the 7-Up that remained in the mug in front of him. "A shitty blues band slaughtered this song on me and Tandy's honeymoon in San Antonio. Four years to the day before she started doing my A.A. Sponsor. Has a whole new meaning to me now." His voice was growing louder and Sweetie-O hushed him.
"You might want to keep your voice down since he’s sitting right over there.”
“I don’t care.”
“Portlier did you wrong," Sweetie-O said with a quiet sigh, "but at least he got you off the shine."
"Cleaned me up real good," Hack muttered. He pushed the 7-Up away. "I don't want this."
Sweetie-O picked a broom from beside the register and started sweeping the tiny area behind the bar. "You want a diet instead?"
Hack took the brown porkpie from the space above his ears and ran his fingers through his thinning blonde hair. An orange peel hit his cheek as he dropped the rain-spotted hat on the bar. He flicked it back at the brown monkey. Fireball shrieked and raised his arms to cover his head.
Foret stood up and smiled at Hack. Deep wrinkles formed at the corners of the old man's mouth. He tucked his white shirt into his loose pants and slowly walked behind the counter.
"That damn monkey has a good arm, Sweetie-O," Hack said as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “Never misses.”
“He has a thing for hats. Takes after my father." Sweetie-O leaned on the counter as Foret picked up the empty tub behind her and started to fill it with ice.
"This was my father's hat," Hack said.
Sweetie-O nodded. "You want new ice?"
"I don't want ice and I don't want a diet 7-Up." Hack looked up at the stuffed one-eyed alligator nailed to the wall behind the bar. "I think I need to call my sponsor," he said lowering his head.
"You should leave Portlier alone," she said. "He’s got his own problems. Plus, you probably don't want him to ruin the other side." She took the tub of ice from her father and set it in front of a big window fan. "Fresh air conditioning," she said as she plugged in the fan.
"I quit going anyway," Hack said softly. He licked his dry lips. A knot formed in his throat as he swallowed. The thirst was carving a deep hole in his stomach. His hands began to shake. "Give me one of your greasy enchiladas."
"And?"
"Make it two." Hack paused.
“And?”
"And I want a goddamn mug of beer, Sweetie-O. Give me a Jax."
"And what about all that therapy you been paying for on top of A.A.?" Sweetie-O rested the broom back against the side of the register. She reached for the beer.
"Cheaper to be a drunk."
Sweetie-O wiped her hands on the stained t-shirt that clung tightly around her stomach and popped the top from a Jax. "Your funeral, Hack."
The concerned expression on her face startled him.
"Customer is always right," he muttered. His eyes began to water as she put the beer on the bar. He tipped the bottle to his lips and paused. The stink of the piss-colored liquid made his stomach churn. It wasn't always like this, Hack thought. Once upon a time, a cold can of beer had been his breakfast of champions.
"Let me guess. Tandy Newman," Sweetie-O said matter-of-factly.
“Am I that easy to read?”
“She’s the only thing that would bring you back to the bottle, Hack. You’re a fool, boy.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Well, I always knew she'd never stick around here. New York City is a better place for her. A person can disappear there."
Hack lowered the bottle. "Why am I always the last to know about my own life?" His gaze focused on the three brown moles above her right eye. "At this rate, I'm going to find out I’ve died when I read my own obituary."
"You would if this town still had a newspaper." Sweetie-O tossed her wet towel over her shoulder. She smiled. "Quit acting surprised. She ain't like us, Hack. Her eyes say it all. Like when she's talking to you, she's not really there at all. She's someplace else. Know what I mean?"
“Isn’t it enough that she divorced me? Can’t I still see her?” He brought the beer back to his lips. "Besides I used to like that look."
"Exactly."
Hack chugged the beer, then put the bottle back on the bar. The nausea had subsided, but his fingers still shook. "That look of hers drove me wild," he said as he put his hat back on.
“You were wild about something all right.”
“God, I miss her. We had a lot of fun, you know.” He smiled and remembered the first time he had seen Tandy. It had been at the town's annual Fourth of July picnic. It was the hottest day of the summer and the humid breeze brought no relief. Tandy caught his attention the minute she arrived. Her tight blue shirt somehow stayed dry while she danced in the shade of a large oak tree. Hack remembered her turning the radio up to blast a Charlie Feathers tune. One of his favorites.
"You listening, Hack? I said cover your ears!"
Hack blinked and focused on Sweetie-O's chubby face. She was pointing at the jukebox. Robert Johnson was on again.
"What the hell’s up his ass?" He turned toward the jukebox as Shepard Flagg, the tallest man Hack had ever known, came into the bar whistling. Flagg gently tugged Fireball's tail as he passed Foret. He waved to Piney Smalls, who was shooting pool balls with Portlier in the corner of the bar.
"Tandy's just a rambler. A dog without a home," Sweetie-O said as she bent over a table and wiped it down with a wet rag.
Flagg, his skin sun-browned the shade of a cured tobacco leaf, passed Hack and stepped behind Sweetie-O. He wrapped his hairy arms around the big woman and held her to his oil-stained Dickies, then he winked at Hack as Sweetie-O slipped a crisp five-dollar bill from his grip. He stared at the bottle in front of Hack and whistled low.
"Uh-oh. Looks like someone fell off the wagon tonight. Oh well, get us another round up in here." He laughed as he dropped his shapeless Stetson on the bar. "Old Hack and I have some drinking we need to do tonight." He slapped Sweetie-O's rear and watched her walk toward the counter. “Get Piney one, too.”
“What about Portlier?”
“He can go suck an egg for all I care.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying for years," Hack muttered as Flagg took the stool next to him.
"How many you up on me? Three? Five?" Flagg pointed at the Jax, then scratched the thin layer of stubble on his chin.
"First one in three months." Hack spun the empty bottle. "Next subject?"
"This about that South American beauty of yours?" Flagg cracked open a peanut shell and popped the nuts into his mouth.
"Nope," Hack said slowly.
“Liar.”
“One of the best.” Hack nodded as Sweetie-O placed their drinks on the counter.
“I heard she got a part in an off Broadway play.”
“Go to hell,” Hack said. He turned and watched as Flagg cracked another shell.
“It’s all true, my friend.”
“Who told you?”
"Chief."
"Now, who’s the liar? Chief hasn't said a word since '75, the night he wrestled with Ol' One-Eye." Hack nodded toward the alligator on the wall.
“You actually believe that story?” Flagg laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "Chief talks when he has something to say. When he does, you ought to listen." Flagg threw the peanut shell on the floor and reached for another one.
“I ain’t ever heard him talk.”
"You ain't ever heard him talk because he thinks you're an idiot. He doesn’t talk to fools."
"I’ll never see her again, Flagg." Hack pushed his hat back from his forehead. "She’ll never come back and I can't go chasin’ her either. What with the antique store and the old lady to look after."
"You mean your mother," Flagg corrected him.
“She’s lost her marbles.”
“With or without marbles, she’s still your mother.”
"Yesterday I caught her trying to leave the house without no clothes on. The only reason I'm here tonight is 'cause she passed out watching Sanford and Son."
Flagg gulped his beer. "That's a good show. She must really be getting bad."
"I ain't never going to get out of here. Never."
"Hell, people always want to leave some place. They always get tired of living in the high end of creation, but they always come back - either by foot or by casket," Flagg said.
"Tandy's something special. I need her. She made this place bearable."
"Dogs do the same thing. What you really need is a good dog to take your mind off Tandy."
"My only friend is a lunatic," Hack muttered.
"Had a dog once," Flagg continued, to no one in particular. "My father said it was a magic dog. He swore it talked to him at night. You know, whole Son of Sam muck. I believed him up until Raymond Bliss popped that mutt with a .22."
"Jesus." Hack grinned as Sweetie-O placed two cheese enchiladas on a paper plate in front of him. "This looks real good, Sweetie-O."
"Careful, Hack, they're hot," she said.
Flagg stared at the enchiladas. "I figured if that dog was smart enough to talk, then he should have been smart enough to know to stop humping Bliss's poodle. That's when I knew my dad was full of shit."
Hack laughed as he took a bite of the enchilada.
Flagg stared at Hack while he chewed. "Dogs, man, dogs. They’re a lot like women. You have to watch their every move and even then you can't believe what you’re seeing." Flagg looked down at Hack's enchiladas again. "You going to eat all that?"
"What about Tandy?" Hack took another bite.
Flagg blinked. "Man, I wasn't talking about Tandy. I was just talking about my dog."
Hack took a sip from his beer. "I thought there might have been some point to your story, that's all."
"Bliss shot him eight times for screwing that poodle." Flagg looked around the bar. "The dumbass killed his own dog before he got a shot into mine. That’s the point."
Hack stopped chewing. "I don't know which is worse, Flagg. Sitting here with this lousy beer in my hand or listening to you talk about your horny dog."
"It could be worse, Hack," Flagg muttered. "You could come into the same town, walk down the same street, into the same bar, see the same faces night after night and not have to say a thing to anyone, like Portlier over there."
"Is he armed?"
"My x-ray vision isn't the same after a few beers," Flagg said with a frown. "Might I remind you, it was your knife that did all the redecorating to your face."
"That's what everyone keeps telling me."
"Hey, let me have a bite of that."
"Here. Finish it." Hack slid the paper plate to him. "I just lost my appetite. You know, that bastard never gave me that damned knife back."
"Gave you that nice-looking scar, though."
"That's not the point."
"Pretty sure he gave you that, too," Flagg said as he crammed a large bite into his mouth.
"It's the principle of the thing. It was my knife. He needs to give it back. I mean, it’s bad enough he stole my woman, but at least I can get the knife back."
Hack turned toward the jukebox as Portlier, a raven-haired Cajun, shoved a dime into the slot, then punched the selection buttons with his thumb. After a series of clicks and hums, the descending notes of Robert Johnson's guitar filled the bar again. Portlier wiped his fat palms on his overalls. His arms were scrolled with jailhouse art. He took a seat on a ladder-back chair next to the pool table and closed his eyes.
"I know what you are thinking, Hack Dolan," Flagg said between bites. "Are you really serious about this?"
"As a heart attack, man."
Flagg shook his head as a piece of the enchilada fell into his lap. "Your funeral, meathead."
“Save it. I already heard it once tonight,” Hack said.
Flagg put the fork down and wiped his hands on his Dickies. An orange peel hit him in the face, and he turned toward Fireball. The monkey screeched and jumped onto Sweetie-O's shoulder. "That rat throws another orange peel at me, I'm going to kick him from here to the moon." Flagg paused and looked down at the enchilada. "Got any hot sauce?"
Hack picked up the beer Flagg had bought him and guzzled it. He carefully put the empty bottle down on the bar. "I'm going to put something else on the damned Wurlitzer." He pushed away from the bar with the flat of his palms, then walked quickly across the cypress boards and stopped in front of the jukebox. The machine was a gift from Sweetie-O's dead husband. Hack knew all the selections by heart. He put a dime into the slot and punched in his selection as Robert Johnson ended.
"Jerry Lee ought to get this place hoppin’," Hack said.
The strong odor of sweat suddenly filled his nostrils; someone was breathing on his neck. He turned on his heels and faced Curtis Portlier.
"You look like hell," Portlier said, focusing on Hack's scarred face. The muscles in his arms tightened as he lit a cigarette.
Hack wiped the beads of sweat from under his nose with his forefinger, and stared at the frosted discoloration that marked Portlier's blue eyes.
The Wurlitzer clicked as Piney coughed nervously and put the cue stick down on the table, then hurried toward the bar and took a seat next to Flagg.
"You like Jerry Lee?" The scar itched as a trickle of sweat dripped from Hack's brow.
"Can't stand the pervert." Portlier blew smoke into his face.
"You don’t like The Killer?"
"That’s what I said." Portlier stepped closer to Hack.
Hack looked over Portlier's massive shoulder as Flagg put his finger up to his own neck and made a slicing motion. Hack swallowed hard. “Beats listenin’ to anything you’d choose, big man.”
"I don't want to hear this shit. I want Robert Johnson," Portlier muttered.
"Want in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up first."
"Out of my way, Dolan, else I'll slice your lips off," Portlier said as he pushed Hack away from him.
"See, that's what I was meaning to talk to you about, Portlier. I need my knife back." Hack stepped forward again. His head was buzzing and his stomach burned.
Portlier's expression went blank. “You need what?”
Hack continued, "When Flagg and I go out to get us some redfish it really sucks not having a knife. Now, I paid good money for that knife and I would like it back." He felt his throat tighten as he uttered the last word.
"Just like you wanted Tandy back," Portlier grunted.
Hack's gaze shifted down to the ground. He swallowed hard. He felt the sudden urge to throw up all over Portlier.
"You drove her to New York City. You made her leave me," Portlier said.
“She’s better off,” Hack stammered. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that.
“What did you say?” Portlier’s knuckles popped as he made a fist.
Hack looked Portlier in the eyes. "Neither one of us could ever make her happy," he heard himself say.
Portlier's balled-up fist smashed into the side of Hack's jaw. The force of the blow knocked Hack's hat to the floor. Hack heard his jaw pop as he doubled over and spun around, slamming into the jukebox. He felt the pain burn across his cheek and his head throbbed. The record inside the Wurlitzer hiccuped and started over, but Hack could hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears.
"Get away from the jukebox, boys," Sweetie-O shouted. She threw her rag down on the bar and marched over to them. "You ain't going to tear up my husband's gift to me over Tandy Newman's skinny ass. Not today and not ever."
Portlier pushed her back toward the bar. He grabbed Hack by the belt and the back of his collar and slammed him into the wall. Then he stepped toward Hack's crumpled body and kicked him with his size 12. "She left me! Now, I don't have a reason not to kill you," Portlier snarled as he worked the boot again.
Hack slid against the wall to escape the repeated kicks. He grabbed Portlier’s boot and shoved back, knocking him off balance. Portlier’s big frame crashed against the pool table.
“She left both of us,” Hack screamed above the music. “I lost her. You lost her.” He pushed himself back up as Portlier reached into his pocket. He wiped the blood from his nose and spit on the ground. “I just want my goddamn knife,” he said quietly.
“You’ll get your knife. Right in the gut, you runt.” Portlier quickly brought his fist back out.
The flash of a silver blade extending from Portlier's hand caught Hack's eye as two shotgun blasts sounded. Hack covered his ears and threw himself onto the ground as a large part of the ceiling fell on Portlier's head. He tilted forward as the switchback knife fell to the ground and slid toward Flagg. Portlier sank to his knees and fell face-first onto the floor. Through the dust still falling from the ceiling, Hack peered over Portlier's still body.
His mother, Edna Dolan, wearing pink hair curlers in her wet gray hair and nothing else, pointed the twelve-gauge at him. Her sagging breasts jiggled as her flabby arms strained to hold the gun. "Hack Lee Dolan! What in God's green earth ya doin’ to that po’ man?"
Hack stood up with his arms raised.
"Mama?”
“Who else’d be holdin’ a shotgun to your ass?”
“Mama, where are your clothes?"
"I got little use fer clothes at my age. Ain’t ashamed a nothin’, ‘cept fer you."
Flagg picked up his Stetson from the bar and grabbed his beer. "It's been real, Sweetie-O. I'll see you tomorrow night on Family Feud."
"You ain't goin’ nowhere, Shepard," Hack's mother hollered. She turned the shotgun toward him. Her muddy feet slapped against the floor as she moved. "You get him drunk?"
Flagg's face drained to a bright white as he raised his arms over his head. "I'm as innocent as a new-born, Mrs. Dolan. I swear to all that is decent on this green and glorious earth that I am not responsible for his drinking tonight."
"Mama, you’re going to hurt someone.” Hack inched toward her. “Please put the gun down."
"I will not," she said with her bare back to him. Her wrinkled pear-shaped ass shook as she stepped toward Flagg. “You buy him a drink tonight?”
"Come on, Ma. These people don't want to see you like this," Hack pleaded. "You're embarrassing me."
She swung the shotgun toward her son and squinted. "Embarrassin’ you? You? What about me?”
Hack shrugged. “I ain’t never walked into Sweetie-O’s naked.”
She aimed the shotgun above Hack’s head and fired. Another piece of the ceiling fell and hit Portlier in the head. A lengthy groan escaped Portlier’s mouth as more dust settled on his body.
“Mama! Stop it!”
“You stop showin’ yer ass to these people, Hack. You all actin’ pissed at Portlier for takin’ yer woman away when you knew she’d ditch you soon as you all got back from the honeymoon. You got no sense. Just like yer father. Drink and music. Drink and music.”
“Please stop, Mama. We can talk about this later.”
“No sense at all,” she said as she lowered the gun, “and that’s why I left his ass in N’awlins.”
"Goddammit, Ma. This is my friggin’ life! Not yours,” Hack said as he marched toward her. He felt his face flush with anger. “I can be in a fight with the man who stole my wife and cut my face all to hell if I want!"
She slapped him, suddenly, across the cheek. “That’s fer yer goddamn swearin’.”
“Ma, that hurt!”
She slapped him again.
“What the hell was that one for?”
“Fer not listenin’ to me. Only one person caused yer wife to leave you, boy.”
“Who?”
“You.” The stern look on her face disappeared. She dropped the shotgun.
“You’re crazy.”
"Fine, Hack. If that's the way ya want it." She turned away from her son, shuffled out of Sweetie-O's and slammed the screen door behind her.
Hack picked up the shotgun. “Where’s my goddamn hat?”
Flagg cleared his throat. “Fireball’s sitting in it.”
Piney pointed toward the pool table. Hack walked over to the corner of the pool table and nudged the monkey out of the crown of his hat with his shoe. He picked it up and dusted it off. He glanced at Portlier, still covered with plaster, as the big man started to sit up. "Somebody needs to help him home."
“I will,” Piney said as he walked over to the Wurlitzer. He bent down to help Portlier up.
Hack shifted his gaze to Sweetie-O and shook his head. "I suppose I'm good for the damages, Sweetie-O."
Sweetie-O nodded and moved toward the game table. "As long as my Wurlitzer is still working you don't need to worry except about getting your Mama home. You know it's raining outside."
Flagg swigged the last of his beer and rolled the bottle down the counter to Foret. Foret stopped the bottle from falling off the edge of the bar and clucked his tongue.
"I'm sorry you all had to see that." Hack turned his hat over in his shaking hands. "She's not right in the head."
"None of us are right in the head, podna," Flagg said, brushing the peanut shells from his work uniform. "She's just a couple more cards short than the most of us."
Hack headed for the door. He rubbed his thumb against his cheek and nodded at Foret, who held a steady gaze on him, as he passed.
"You want your knife?" Flagg asked, holding it out.
Hack paused and put his father's hat back on his head. He stood in the doorway and gazed into the rain, searching the darkness for his mother's round silhouette. He smelled the wet earth in the sugarcane fields and sighed. "I wasn't meant to have it," he muttered as he stepped out into the rain.
Dark clouds rolled against the gray night sky. A brilliant flash of white light rippled across the sky, illuminating the live oaks on both sides of the dirt road where his mother walked. The heavy drops tagged his body.
Foret stepped out behind him and made a coughing sound in his throat. “Hack,” he said in an even tone.
Hack spun quickly. The hair on his arms stood. He wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact with Foret, so he remained motionless.
"A wise person once told me that you can cry all you want over what life gives you, but there's nothing worse on a man’s head than a hat full of rain." Foret’s words were slow and deliberate, as though he picked them one by one out of a wooden crate. The Indian motioned toward Hack's hat. The rain had already soaked the crown through.
"Thanks," Hack stammered as the rain ran down his chin and soaked his shirt.
Foret held out a blue raincoat. “You keep the coat. I keep the gun,” he said as he took the gun from Hack. Foret went back into the bar, closing the screen door behind him.
"Chief?"
Foret stopped moving. He kept his back to Hack.
"Who told you that, Chief?"
"My mother." Foret clicked his throat. "You idiot."
Hack turned and stared across the muddy road in front of him. Lightning flashed and he briefly saw his mother walking across the railroad tracks. He breathed deeply and felt the fresh air burn his lungs.
“Mama!” he yelled.
She kept walking and had already crossed the tracks. Her naked body was pale against the night. “Mama! Wait for me!” Hack started running down the road toward his mother as raindrops as big as marbles broke against his father's hat.
The plane shot over the Pacific Ocean and turned slightly. Turning back to the window, I looked down. There were piers below; long stretches of wood in man’s attempt to walk on water. The green of the ocean, too. Saw the waves roll against the endless wall of beach. The breakers like white fists against sand. Saw the Pacific Coast Highway, that beautiful stretch of road that runs from one beach town to the next and on up the coast.
