About seven city blocks past the dormant refuge that was Phil’s, Dottie’s catered a brisk trade to the die-hard drunks and third-shift workers. Lou had been in a few times in the past, but it was too much…even for him. Or so he told himself in the equally dingy bar mirror at Phil’s. Today he didn’t care. Today he had a world-class migraine, a job he didn’t want to go to, and an imaginary weirdo who was hounding him. It was a perfect occasion for the comfortable squalor of Dottie’s.

This tavern was also a singular operation. Lou imagined that Dottie wasn’t here every hour of every day, but the handful of times he’d been there, she was the barmaid on duty. “What’ll it be, stranger?” She winked at him. Lou saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. He tried to wish it away.

There wasn’t anything wrong with Dottie per se. Unlike Lou, she’d probably been a looker – maybe forty years prior. Her leathery skin and bleach-blonde hair spoke of a life that was anything but pretty. Yet she shined somehow despite the neglect. Lou was only concerned with the status quo of the pub itself – but even that paled in comparison to the burning need inside.

“Jack’n’Coke. No ice.” He produced another Winston. “Make that a double, too.”

She smiled at him. It was the rare, genuine smile of someone who just liked people. Lou could probably count on one hand how many folks he knew grinned like that. Tom Smith wasn’t one of them.

He shuddered at the thought. Lou lit his smoke. “Dottie, you got a phone I can use?”

“Sure, darlin’. In the back by the shitters.” She sat his drink down and moved across the bar to another empty glass.

Lou nodded and tossed a fiver on the bar. He took his glass with him.

Dottie’s, like most of the lounges Lou had been in, was a dark, dimly lit establishment. Quite unlike the fictitious taverns in movies and television shows, it was a dreary place, reflective of the patrons in general. Congeniality and jovial laughter were not welcome. The pall of stale, sour booze and rancid smoke from all varieties of cheap tobacco were at home amongst the regulars. It was too hot, but Lou doubted it was the heating system. More likely the result of too many tired, desperate, bodies numbing themselves to reality. He was gonna be one of them.

He passed the unused billiards table and spied someone already on the phone.

A sinking feeling overtook the warming effect of the whiskey.

The man hung up the handset and turned around.

It was Tom.

They sat at a table in the back of the joint over by the broken poker machine. Lou had three empty glasses in front of him and was working on a fourth. Dottie didn’t do table service. Ever. He made a mental note to take the empties up to the bar, knowing he would probably forget. Tom continued to smile at him. It wasn’t the same kind as Dottie’s.

“So you’re just gonna keep pestering me until I cave? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Lou, don’t look at it like that. Look at it as intense customer service.”

Tom was now wearing what Lou could only describe as “street bum chic.” He had a knit cap on, slightly grungy. A faded flannel button-down with a torn pocket served as a jacket over a long-sleeve/short-sleeve T-shirt combo…and the top one was stained. Ripped jeans – not in a trendy way – and dirty hiking boots completed the ensemble. Again, he blended in perfectly. But not too perfectly.

“What if I call the cops?”

“Lou, aren’t we beyond such petty posturing?”

“No.”

“I’m afraid it won’t work. But, please give it a shot if it will help.” Tom produced a mobile phone from the pocket that wasn’t ripped. It was an AT&T partner model. What the fuck else would it be?

Lou shook his head. He somehow knew it wouldn’t work. “How the fuck do you do all this shit?”

Tom put the cell back in his pocket and shook his head, comically wagging his finger in the process. “Ah ah ah. No can do, padre. Trade secrets and all.” He leaned forward and smiled more broadly. “Besides, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Somehow, Lou didn’t think he was joking.

He lit another cigarette and finished off his drink. Tom seemed to recognize the need for contemplation. He stood and went to the bar, taking the finished glasses with him. A true professional on top of everything else. But he knows he has me. The fuck am I gonna do anyway?

Tom returned with a fresh drink…and a contract.

“Think you’re finally over your issues with the nation’s best telephone network provider? That’s a trademarked statement by the way, Lou.” Tom laughed out loud at himself. No one paid attention. No one but Lou, that is.

“Do I have a friggin’ choice?”

Tom smiled wider.

The next day dawned with a bright sun and a new hangover.

Lou rolled out of bed in the usual manner, cursing at the alarm clock and wishing for a shotgun. He plodded through his morning ritual: puke, smoke, wash, smoke, dress, smoke, instant Folger’s with Bailey’s, smoke, out the door. He stumbled to the bus stop in the nick of time and climbed aboard.

No Tom. No anything out of the ordinary.

The driver yelled at him to take a seat and he did.

Work was…well, work. Lou had been in Assembly at the auto parts plant for almost twenty years. He spent his days putting car interior parts together. He had no aspirations and an attendance record to match. His supervisor said nothing about the missed day, and Lou offered nothing back.

In other words, it was simply another gloriously mundane day.

For once, Lou couldn’t be happier.

“Whaddya say, Phil.”

“Whaddya say, Lou.”

Phil sat down a Jack’n’Coke in front of him.

It was Thursday. The bar was not exactly lively, but it was more happening than the always-dead Tuesdays. He looked directly at Phil. For an instant, Phil returned the stare. For an instant, Lou thought there was something in the back of his eyes. For an instant.

Phil turned and moved back to his perch at the corner. A different barfly was waiting on him. Same type, same style, same woman. But not. Different in name only. Maybe. Lou chuckled to himself. It was the nervous release he’d needed.

He ran a hand through the greasy remains of his hair. Lou knew he looked like shit, but he felt pretty good - all things considered. Maybe tonight’s the night. That old feeling of false confidence returned just in time for the impending weekend. He surveyed the women in the room, totally ignoring the faint, inner voice that spoke of how the night would really end. Picking up his drink, he stood, shook out a cigarette, and went in search of destiny.

They practically fell through the door of his Superfund-eligible pad. Lou didn’t care. He knew Jane didn’t either. Both of them were sloshed. She giggled in mock horror as he turned on the light. He laughed and lightly kissed her on the cheek.

“How about a beer?” Lou stumbled to his economy fridge in his economy kitchen, unaware that the sought-after beverage was still in the floor where he left it previously. Until he tripped. “Shit!”

Jane laughed again and staggered over to the recliner. She was a fairly attractive redhead in her late-thirties. Lou couldn’t believe his good luck when she reacted favourably to his offer to buy her a drink. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had scored. You’re not there yet, buddy. Still, he smiled the smile of a victorious warrior.

“How you feel about warm beer?”

“Fine. Whatever. Just get your sexy ass over here.”

Lou precariously bent over and retrieved the forgotten brews, slowly separating them from the busted can. He exaggeratingly stepped over dirty laundry and old fast food containers, plopping down heavily on the edge of the pull-out bed. He passed her a beer and opened his own. Jane beamed at him and did the same.

He still couldn’t believe his good fortune. Lou knew what he looked like – he had no delusions about self-image. His earlier faux bravado expected at best a dumpy version of what Phil usually hit on. But here she was – Jane. Pretty but not too much so. Not too old, not too young. Healthy, but not fat. Not too skinny either. Something nagged him in the back of his head. Cigarette. I need a cigarette.

Lou fumbled in his shirt pocket as Jane drank her beer. She didn’t sip it daintily, but she didn’t chug it like Phil’s floozies did. Her dress was nice enough for a night out, but not too fancy for Phil’s. Lou felt a pang in his stomach. I shouldn’ta had so fucking many stale bar pretzels.

Finally, he pulled the crumpled crush-proof box out. It was empty. “Sonovabitch!” Now he knew what the little twitch in his mind was. Don’t forget to buy a pack of cigarettes before you leave, dumbass. Lou shook his head in disgust. He was gonna get laid tonight, and he was minus his smokes. Fuckin’ figures.

Jane smiled broadly at him, producing her own pack. Her eyes were suddenly brighter than they had been. “Here, honey – have one of mine.”

Lou reached out…then recoiled as if reacting to a hot flame. Marlboros! I fucking HATE Marlboros. “Uh, that’s okay. Maybe I have a spare pack around here somewhere.” He knew he didn’t. No dedicated smoker is ever unsure about their supply. He also knew he hadn’t seen Jane light up even once so far – in the five hours they’d spent together.

She thrust them closer. “What’s wrong, Lou? What have you got against my brand?” Incredibly, she no longer seemed drunk. Incredibly, he realized the nagging sensation wasn’t about a nicotine fix or a forgotten mental note.

Incredibly, it dawned on him that he wasn’t gonna get laid.

Yet somehow the night loomed long anyway.