- Untitled
It was mid August, and the fair was on its last night’s performance in Durstonville. When the carnival closed down at 10:00 pm, the regulars, the diehard carnie lifers, skulked the territory for nightlife. It was here at Jack Jesop’s Tavern that anyone who was anyone in anything alternative found their subculture pop culture in a town culture of agriculture. At least that was the word. The tavern was the only structure in the town, and it wasted no space. It was a post office, a garage, the keeper of the strip mining museum, and the only gas for years. In front of the cherished truck stop, there was a sign that stated "Jesus drank here." Word in other towns was he still did.
The parking lot outside the tavern was unusually full – four cars instead of none. The handful of primered vehicles was parked in chaos-fashion adorning the lot. Two toads brawled for dominance in a pool of filth coming from the air conditioning unit. They croaked fiercely in the twilight. The chorus of the mingling warts provided a soundtrack for ticking clocks and tumbleweeds while a baby-blue Cadillac reflected the headlights of an oncoming diesel whose belching hog engine quickly drowned them out. It pulled in and parked atop the red earth driveway of Jack Jesop’s Tavern. The driver stepped out of his still sputtering vehicle and made his way inside, not even noticing that the wheel of his truck had ended the plight of the toads.
A large anglo-ish cowboy made his way through the bar and took a seat next to a large black gentleman in a satin suit. The low hum of the cooler could be heard in the background. The black man flanked an off-asian-ish man named Frank. At least that’s what he had on his shirt.
"Jimmy, gimmee a Bud."
The bartender now know as Jimmy, but whose nametag claimed Herb, slid a plain aluminum can down the bar to the cowboy.
"What the hell is this?" The new guy barked.
"It’s a beer."
"I asked for a Bud."
"It could be one."
"Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I want a confirmed Budweiser, Jimmy."
"I’m sorry. I don’t think I made myself clear." The bartender put down the glass he was washing. "I had a problem with my cooler. It leached the paint off of the beer cans. Only the really expensive imported stuff is confirmed. It’s all about the glue. And my name is Herb."
"Only the really expensive stuff, huh?"
"Yep."
"Glue, huh, Jimmy?"
"Herb."
"Well, Herbie, sounds like a bullshit scam to me."
"Hey! There ain’t no good damn reason to be using your trash mouth ‘round here." said Herb.
The black gentleman looked at his watch. "No one’s scamming you, guy." He rose up, making his posture more intimidating. "We’re all in the dark, too."
"I don’t believe I was talking to you, boy," he said as he turned to do a little intimidation of his own.
The hum of the cooler seemed to stutter.
"No one curses in my bar ‘cept for Bart," the bartender yelled as he pointed to a man at the end of the bar.
All heads turned to the end of the bar while the cooler came to a stop.
The large anglo-ish cowboy looked down at the man and laughed. "He’s a goddamn mime! Those types don’t talk!"
"Exactly."
The black man in the satin suit left the bar and headed for the restroom. He threw some change on the table while his frame disappeared into the dark at the end of the room. His shoes were new, and he started to hum to the click-clack rhythm his shoes made on the white bathroom tile. He was wishing the cooler still worked so he could use its hum as a baseline. By the time he got to pissing, he was already in the middle of his lavatory aria.
"Hey, Bubba," a voice called from behind.
The black gentleman cocked his head sideways a bit to see his accuser. It was the large anglo-ish cowboy from the bar. "Actually, it’s Brian."
"Sure it is, Bubba. Sure it is." The cowboy opened up his blade and made his way towards his still urinating prey. "What are ya, some kind of crack-dealing fancy boy?"
"No. No drugs. Actually, I’m a pimp."
"You’re a what?" he said, inching closer, knife in hand.
"A broker of the flesh."
"Drop it, daddy!" A woman charged from the depths of the nearby stall with a .38 aimed at the anglo-ish man’s head. She was Hispanic with a medium build and pregnant. She looked pissed, profiled against the shitter, and she aimed to bring a new kind of business to this place of business.
"Daddy?" The anglo-ish man quipped.
"Daddy?" The black gentleman at the urinal questioned as he zipped himself up.
"Lady, yer mistaken. I don’t have a daughter."
"I know. You had a son. A son named Shane."
"Shane?" He said, peering inquisitively.
"Shauna?"
"Now."
"But how, baby? I mean, you’re pregnant? Pregnant with our baby."
"No, I’m not. It’s a cyst. The doctor left a clamp in me, and my body kept covering it with scar tissue. After a while it…"
"So I drove all this way to kill a man who didn’t kill my son with crack; he married him after he became a woman who was permanently pregnant?"
"But Shauna, how can he be your father? He’s white."
"No, he’s not. He’s an albino Navajo."
"Nobody move!" A new voice entered the picture. It was Frank. He had two pistols and everyone in his sights. "Put the blade and the gun on the floor. Do it now."
As Frank wished, both Shauna’s gun and the blade bent for Brian dropped to the floor. Frank was sweating and unsteady. He was clammy and uncollected so close to the commode.
"All I want is the girl."
"What do you want with her?"
Frank smiled horribly.
"I lost my medical license thanks to that bitch. I lost everything because of that whore."
"Hey, that’s my whore."
"That’s my boy."
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Do you all want to die?"
"You deserved what you got!" Shauna yelled. "Look what you did to me!"
"What I did to you? You broke my heart. What price do you pay? You tell me ‘I can’t be your Shane anymore!’ You have to be another man’s Shauna!"
"Shut your damn filthy mouth Cinaman!" Another voice entered the lavatory. It was the bartender, Herb. He pressed his shotgun against the back of Frank’s head. "I told all of yah, no cursing in my place. And there sure as hell ain’t going to be no cowboy killing no black pimp for no tumor-riddled post-operative transvestite prostitute."
"Actually, I’m a personal trainer."
"Yeah, and I’m not black. I’m Syrian."
"I’m not a prostitute; I was just with Brian so he would pay for my surgery."
"Shut the hell up!!!" yelled Herb, pushing Frank forward until Frank flanked the personal trainer. "Anyone else got anything wise ass to say?"
"I’m not Chinese; I’m from Guam."
"I don’t care what the hell y’are. Just drop yer goddam guns!"
The sound of Frank, the gay Guamanian gynecologist, dropping his guns echoed off of the white porcelain and finely tiled walls of the bathroom. Homophobic Herb now flanked Frank the gay from Guam who was closer to the nameless albino Navajo than the nameless Navajo liked. All the while, Brian babbled something silly in Syrian.
"This bar wouldn’t be the celestial institution it is if it allowed any of you vermin to continue breathing. I don’t know what kind of gods you pray to, but it would certainly be good to start counselling with them now."
The white door to the bathroom swung open, and in walked the mime. He took no notice of the activity, walked to the nearest urinal, and began to do his business.
"What about the mime?"
"Yeah. Doesn’t he get a gun pulled on hjm, too?"
"Hell, no," laughed Herb. "Bart’s just a seasonal retard who brings me good business with all of his freaky carnie pals. Besides, he’s just a mime."
Bart backed into Brian there in the bathroom in the bar. He turned ever so slowly towards Herb, showing him the turmoil boiling in the whites of his eyes. "Actually, Herb, I’m a felon."
Herb’s jaw dropped. "You can talk?"
"Yes, Herb, I can talk. It’s only makeup, asshole." Bart wiped his face with a paper towel. "’bout time, too. This damn greasepaint always makes me break out." Bart dropped the towel on the floor and raised both of his arms from the back of his trenchcoat, freeing the twin mack tens from the depths of his coat. "Put your cap gun on the floor, you tired, inbred, sister-humping backwards-assed piece of shit."
"And you can cuss…" Herb was in disbelief.
"Fine. Please place your shotgun on the floor."
"You little shit. I let you drink for free. I took you in. Besides, mimes are supposed to be nice."
TAKA- TAKA- TAKA- TAKA. A small burst of lead found its way into Herb’s chest and blew out his back. His body danced as it embraced the volley, and then he collapsed on the fine tiled floor.
"No, Herb." Smoke drifted from his barrels. "We’re supposed to pretend."
"Thank God for the mime!"
"Bart, you’re my hero."
The bathroom occupants grasped one another, overjoyed in seeing their foe vanquished.
"Do you really think you are going to find your salvation now, just because I’m on the action end of the gun?"
The group of people united in their bathroom trial looked at one another in confusion.
"Are you mad?"
"Yeah. That’s me; I’m one mad mime. Shauna – Go out and get the motor started." He threw her the keys.
She caught them and hesitated.
"Go on and park your post-operative ass outside."
She scrambled out of the men’s room.
"Mimes aren’t supposed to be tough." Brian whimpered.
"I’m not tough," Bart said, turning his guns and his attention to those left. "I’m just goofy and well-armed."
He released both clips into them until the tips of his barrels smoked again and the white had been chased out of the bathroom. He dropped his pistols on top of the carnage and exited, his shoes painted with humanity, his face peppered ignorance.
The mime and the post-operative transsexual laden with cyst got into their blue Cadillac and turned onto the highway. He ran his fingers through Shauna’s hair.
"You know we don’t have to be part of this…" Bart started.
Shauna looked at him and grabbed his hand, "Let’s protest." She pressed the gas pedal and charged into the cinnamon tendrils of the quickly approaching dawn. The mime and his girl smiled and left the ill of the world behind them.
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