The Outsiders
by Justin Holt


He toes the bar, tilts to his left, unleashes a deep bass note in ass trombone as he stretches his arms skyward, and plops down on the still-warm stool.

“Pabst.”

Larry, the bartender, a man with no sign of a neck, just shoulders like an oak mantle, nods. He reaches beneath the counter, retrieves a dripping can, pops it open, and sets it down in front of the new guy.

“Bob.”

“What?”

“Name’s Bob. I haven’t been the new guy in four goddamn years.”

“A buck.”

Bob reaches into his paint-stained pocket, yanks a wad of cash free, peels off a sweaty bill, and sets it down on the bar. Larry grabs the bill between his thumb and index finger and walks away.

Bob turns to his right where Wolf, a man who loves plaid, sits. Bob looks him over.

“How do you put up with this shit?”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Christ. I come down here to get away from nagging. He keeps this up and I’m finding another goddamn hole in the wall.”

“You’ve been saying that for four years.”

“And here you sit.”

“I’m just saying is all. I’ve about had my fill.”

Twelve men stare ahead into the wall-length mirror, watching each other drink another night away, sip-by-sip, minute by hour. Out of instinct, from time to time they tilt their heads towards where the televisions used to hang. Only the steel arms that once held them remain, flexing with nothing to show for it.

“You have to admit. He’s gotten more articulate through the years.”

“Articulate? Ha! Wolf’s been hitting the crosswords again.”

Behind them the door creaks. Everyone turns in unison. The premise of a bad joke enters. The guy on the left is six-footish, fat, in tight blue jeans, black shoes with shiny buckles, and a coat that comes to his belly button. The other looks like the guy who said, “Da plane! Da plane!” at the beginning of Fantasy Island. His pants hang over his shoes, and his coat’s down to his knees. They decide on two stools at the end of the bar. Everyone watches as they sit. Nobody says a word.

“Hey! Mack! Can we get a couple of drinks or what?”

Larry takes his time walking towards the two outsiders.

“What’ll it be?”

“Cosmo. And a Stoli with cranberry.”

“Ha!”

The big guy looks down towards where the voice came from. Silence settles back into place.

Larry hovers in front of the two outsiders, giving them a chance to redeem their order.

“Any day, Mack.”

Larry shakes his head as he walks away. He reaches beneath the counter and grabs three bottles so full of dust the clear liquid looks gray. He pours each of them at random.

“Where’s the fucking music in this place?”

The little guy’s voice sounds like he’s just huffed some premo helium.

Nobody answers.

“Hey! My friend here asked a fucking question.”

Twelve heads turn together towards the two strangers.

“Where’s the fucking music?”

The second time around the little guy’s voice sounds even more like a balloon-sucking addict.

Bob stands up.

“First off, there ain’t no goddamn music. Second off, watch your goddamn mouth.”

As the big guy begins to pry himself off of his stool Bob takes a step towards him. Before he can take another Bob’s shoulder is grabbed, and he’s set back down. The big guy settles back into his stool.

“Jukebox met its end four years ago. Impaled by a chair leg. What a damn mess that was.”

Wolf plays the role of peacemaker.

“And in four fucking years you couldn’t get the fucking thing fixed?”

Bob starts to stand back up.

“Hey!”

Again he’s pulled down by the shoulder.

“It got fixed a couple times. A chair leg here, a television there, it never lasts long.”

Wolf looks only at his drink as he speaks.

Larry sets two glasses in front of the big guy and the little guy.

“Ten bucks.”

“Fuck you, ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks.”

The big guy reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a silver money clip that’s stretched to its capacity, and he pulls out a five and throws it at Larry.

“You get five.”

“Ten bucks.”

The big guy takes a sip from his glass and then spits it out, some of which soaks Larry’s left sleeve.

“Give my five back.”

The little guy spits out his drink soaking Larry’s other sleeve.

“Ten bucks.”

“Give back my five so I can stick it up your ass!”

“Yeah!”

“Ten bucks.”

“This tastes like a stale pussy.”

“Really? Let me have a sip. I haven’t seen your mom in years. I miss her big ass.”

The big guy steps away from the bar, his exposed gut plummets, and as he reaches his feet the stool falls backwards.

“You’re fucking dead!”

Bob stands up.

“This is my scared face.”

Wolf grabs Bob’s extended middle finger and leads him towards the door. The big guy and the little guy yell, “Yeah” and “I’ll kick your ass!” like they think they mean it. Wolf holds the door and Bob exits.

“That fucker’s lucky. He had no idea.”

Wolf reclaims his seat.

Eleven heads stare at the two outsiders as they sit back down. The aroma of bad omen is thick in the air.

“And what the fuck is up with this guy? Who the fuck are you? Narrating like some fucking retard. That’s it. I’m kicking your ass!”

The Narrator grabs Wolf’s empty glass and cocks his right arm back as the big guy and the little guy make their way towards him.

Behind everyone is a creak. Bob stands in the doorway, smiling. He’s got a silver Mercedes ornament in his right hand, flipping it like an oversized quarter.

“You mother-!”

Bob turns to his left, rotating the circular door lock. The click echoes like a shotgun, overwhelming the room. The big guy and the little guy freeze, their faux leather shoes turning to concrete. They both look towards the broken jukebox.

The Narrator heaves his arm forward.

The music starts.