Paperback Writer

“This seat taken?” a man’s voice asks.

I don’t look up.  “Does it look like it’s taken?”

“No, but I didn’t know if maybe you had a boyfriend—“

“No.”

“Or girlfriend—“

“Oh, how very progressive of you.”

“Maybe using the facilities or something,” the man finishes.

“No,” I say, looking up finally.  “That seat’s not taken.”

The man to whom the voice belongs appears to be the textbook definition of ‘tall, dark and handsome.’  His eyes are blue and his dark hair is cropped close to his head.  He has some stubble on his face but it only adds to his rugged good looks.  He’s wearing a tee shirt and jeans, both of which do a lot to promote his athletic build.  He smiles at me as he slides onto the stool, revealing his very white and very straight teeth.

“So you’re here on your own then?” he asks as he signals to Frank.

“Just me and my friend, Jack.”

Frank comes over and my newfound, yet entirely unwanted, companion asks for a beer.  Whatever’s on tap.  He’s not picky.  Frank pours Sam Adams.  When the new arrival receives his pint, he throws some money down on the bar and takes a swig of the beer.  Frank looks at me as he gathers the money.  It’s a look I’ve seen before.  Is this man bothering you, Nia? I shake my head slightly.  Nothing I can’t handle.  Frank nods and turns to the register.

“Jack?” the tall dark stranger asks as he sets his beer down.

Not too bright, this one.  Probably gets by on his looks.  He probably makes women everywhere crazy with those well muscled arms of his.  He then dazzles them with his baby blue eyes and easy grin and washboard abs so they don’t notice his total lack of wit.  Too bad for him I’m immune to such manipulation.

Probably immune to such manipulation.

I indicate my glass.  “Jack.  As in ‘Daniels’?”

“You want another?” Frank asks me.

I nod and Frank pours me another whiskey.  I do not throw any money on the bar and Frank walks away to tend to some other patrons.

“Come here often?” the man asks.

“Wanna know my sign next?” I ask.  “Look, if you’re trying to pick me up, I’m not interested.  Save us both some time and hassle, you know?”

“Who said I was trying to pick you up?”

“You certainly seem like you’re trying to pick me up.”

“Just making conversation.”

“Just checking.”

“I think I may have stumbled on to why you’re here alone,” he says.

“I’m sitting here at this bar alone,” I say.  “But I am not alone in this building.  I have a friend—“

“Besides Jack?”

“Who dances,” I say and point over my shoulder in the general direction of the dance floor.  “She’s over there.”

He looks over his shoulder.  “You don’t dance?”

“Haven’t had enough to drink yet to consider it.”

“So you’re one of those.”

“Whatever that means.”

“So touchy,” he says.  “You always like this?”

“Drunk?”

“Charming.”

“What do you care?”

“Are you new to the concept of conversation?”

“I didn’t ask you to sit here.”

“True.”

“Nor did I ask you to converse with me,” I say.  “In fact, I think I’ve done quite a lot to discourage conversation.”

“Also true.”

“And yet,” I say.

He grins.  “Here I am.”

“Yes, here you are.  So, what are you?  A glutton for punishment?”

“Not especially.”

“Lose a bet?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Someone put you up to this?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to see if Susannah is having a good laugh at my expense.  She isn’t.  She’s thrown herself into a very energetic, if slightly intoxicated, version of the Robot.

He laughs.  “You know, I don’t know why but I kind of like you.”

“I don’t know why either.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“If you’re asking if you’re capable of forming the words which will form a sentence inquiring after my name, I think the answer is ‘yes.’  I don’t know you very well but I have faith you could handle it.”

“If I asked you your name,” he says then, “would you tell me?”

“Ah,” I say.  “Now there’s a valid question.”

“And the answer?”

I look him over and have a sip of my drink.  “Nia,” I say.  “My name is Nia.”

“Nia,” he says.  “That’s nice.”

“I’ve always thought so,” I say.  “What’s your name?”

“Lew.”

“Like short for Lewis?”

“Like that, yeah,” he says.

He looks over his shoulder again.

“Am I keeping you from something?  Someone?” I ask.  “Wife?  Girlfriend?  Boyfriend?  Your mother?”

He shakes his head and looks back at me.  “I’m flying solo tonight.”

“Left your entourage at home, did you?”

“I don’t really know how much of an entourage it is,” he says.  “No wife, no girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend then.”

“No boyfriend,” he says.  “Although that’s very progressive of you.”

“I do try to keep an open mind.”

He snorts into his beer.  “I do have a couple of friends but they’re spending the evening with their wives and girlfriends.”

“Wives and girlfriends?”

He shrugs.  “They like to keep an open mind.”

“An example for us all,” I say.  “So, what’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good looking, kind of nice, entirely single and apparently free of any emotional baggage and yet here you are, sitting alone talking to an overly hostile woman in some smoky dive on a Friday night.  So what’s wrong with you?”

“Only kind of nice?” he asks.

I shrug.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“What makes you think something’s wrong with me?”

“You’re good looking, kind of nice—“

“Kind of nice?” I interrupt.  “That’s one hell of a curve you’re grading on.”

“Entirely single but unfortunately broke from excess emotional baggage fees,” Lew finishes.

“And you still have to wonder what’s wrong,” I say.

“Maybe I’m just trying to be polite.”

“This is you trying to be polite?”

“Is this you trying to be polite?” he asks.

“Who says I’m trying to be polite?”

He smiles again and even laughs.  “No one within earshot,” he says.  “Another round?”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond before signaling to Frank.

“Another for me and the lady,” he says.

I snort.  Frank obliges and pours another pint.  He pours yet another whiskey and passes it to me.  I toast him with the glass.

“Thanks, barkeep,” I say.

Frank rolls his eyes at me and walks away.

“Gotta love a girl who can shoot the whiskey,” Lew says.

Lew doesn’t have the chance to answer as Susannah bursts onto the scene.  She slams into me hard enough to cause me to spill my drink down my front.  I swear and reach for a napkin with which to blot whiskey.  Susannah doesn’t notice and stands there, hanging off my shoulder.

“You drink enough yet to come dance with me yet, Vinnie?” Susannah asks.

Lew’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Not by a long shot,” I say.

“Well, what have you been doing this whole—“ Susannah starts.

She stops when she sees Lew.  She smiles and looks him up and down.  He smiles back.

“Oh,” she says then.  “So that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“No one is doing anyone,” I say.

Susannah pushes between us so she can belly up to the bar.  She calls for Frank to make her another martini.  Lew leans to his right so he can see me.

“Vinnie?” Lew asks.

“It’s a nickname,” I say.  “Don’t your friends have a nickname for you?  Boba?  Jango?  Vader?  Jar Jar?”

“Jar Jar?” he asks.  “Oh, because you find me to be annoying?”

I grin and nod.

“Are you not answering my question because your nickname is embarrassing?” I ask.  “Or is it because your friends who are not beers are actually uncreative imaginary types?”

He smiles and looks away.

“Embarrassing then,” I say.  “Do tell.”

Lew sighs.  “They call me Ellen.”

“Ellen?  Like the talk show host?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re a lesbian?”

“No.”

“Because you love to dance?”

“I love to dance!” Susannah proclaims as she pulls back from the bar, martini in hand.  “So let’s get to it, Vinnie.  You can come too if you want, Ellie.”

“Ellen,” he corrects.

“Because that’s so much better,” I say, grinning.

Lew grins back, looking slightly sheepish.  The music starts up again.  It’s playing some ABBA.  Dancing Queen. It’s a sure sign that Susannah has been flirting wildly with the deejay.  Susannah squeals with delight, downs her martini and puts the empty glass back on the bar.  She bounces past both Lew and me.

“Vinnie, come on!” she cries.

I start to slide off my stool.  “Well, Ellie,” I say.  “It’s been a blast but I’ve gotta go.  They’re playing my song.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again sometime,” Lew says.

I spread my hands.  “I should be so lucky,” I say as I walk away.