Member
Hey yo, something a left of center for me.
Fishermen (started 2015)
I’ve seen this man too many times. He travels from table to table like a drunken panther. He is sleek in his black coat. His smile almost pleasant, if it weren’t for the slick gloss coat of whiskey that smears across his lips whenever he licks them. The hunting hours start at 5pm each Monday, Wednesday and Friday when he orders a water and whiskey and sour. He compliments the wait staff: a comment about my shade of lipstick, an appreciative once over of Marcus’ choice in over coat.
Next comes the steady sitting at table 4 near the door, sipping from his glass. I avoid catching his eyes when I buss past him, keeping my gaze trained on the wet path my towel makes as I clear tables. Women never approach him, but they appear to appreciate his initial company when he slides down next to them at the bar. They are charmed; he is aggressive in a lion-like manner with his smooth brown mane and he uses words like “miss” and “young lady”. I see him leave with a variety of personalities, both short leather skirts and pleated blossom blouses; woman who look easy and woman who make him do paces to appease their pride.
I know, and have witnessed, that some men bring black nights to women who should have expected as much, at least in this place and places like it. But, each of his one night ladies always come back. And they are never wounded more than they are in pride when he steps off with another who is not them. He’s the cleanest sleaze I’ve seen.
He came alone at first for three months, until recently. A woman follows in with hair as brown as his and a mirror tilt to her smile that only comes from shared parentage. She names herself Karen, his sister, and sits down at the end of the bar to pester me with tales of her brother, one embarrassing snippet to cut him down every time he slicks his way into another woman. I have trouble understanding them, together and related. When he comes over to speak to her, he stands away to her left. If there was anyone who at this bar who shifts to timid and wounded, it is him when he sees her. Later, I learn they are partners. She is the fisher-woman and he is the bait.
The tab, a combination of his, Karen’s, and his night woman’s drinks, is paid by the sister. She leaves a size-able tip that sweetens our wariness but doesn’t take the edge off of the fake-ness of her smile. I used to believe she was a feminist, with her brashness and take no prisoners attitude. But now I know she’s an asshole, nondiscriminatory in her prejudices and with a raw ability to find flaws in even the most agreeable people that walk through our doors. Some nights I want to lean over and slap her. But sometimes (often more then I’d like to admit) she’s more right than most. ‘Women, as much as men,’ she tells me, ‘perpetuate sexism. This is why I have to be such as asshole,’ she leans over close to me, ‘to smack the prissiness out of them. Men get called misogynistic, but I have the ‘get out of jail free’ card.’ She points down to her pants. ‘My vagina.’
I think she’s hateful and sour, but I get paid to give her drinks and for all her words she doesn’t create trouble or pester us when we’re busy. When I first witnessed her brother, Bruce, talk a woman into sleeping with him I thought he was the asshole. But when juxtaposed to his sister, his smile at least shows an honesty when he talks to them. He has a twenty-first century romanticism about him, built around phones with names attached to numbers he’ll never have to try to remember. A one night wonder man, transparent.
Notes:
I always imagined this Narrator to be a pregnant woman. She is not wild or particularly brash, a bit sheltered who went though the acclimation to the city already, but has yet to really feel comfortable.
I’ve seen this man too many times. He travels from table to table like a drunken panther. He is sleek in his black coat. His smile almost pleasant, if it weren’t for the slick gloss coat of whiskey that smears across his lips whenever he licks them. The hunting hours start at 5pm each Monday, Wednesday and Friday when he orders a water and whiskey and sour. He compliments the wait staff: a comment about my shade of lipstick, an appreciative once over of Marcus’ choice in over coat.
Next comes the steady sitting at table 4 near the door, sipping from his glass. I avoid catching his eyes when I buss past him, keeping my gaze trained on the wet path my towel makes as I clear tables. Women never approach him, but they appear to appreciate his initial company when he slides down next to them at the bar. They are charmed; he is aggressive in a lion-like manner with his smooth brown mane and he uses words like “miss” and “young lady”. I see him leave with a variety of personalities, both short leather skirts and pleated blossom blouses; woman who look easy and woman who make him do paces to appease their pride.
I know, and have witnessed, that some men bring black nights to women who should have expected as much, at least in this place and places like it. But, each of his one night ladies always come back. And they are never wounded more than they are in pride when he steps off with another who is not them. He’s the cleanest sleaze I’ve seen.
He came alone at first for three months, until recently. A woman follows in with hair as brown as his and a mirror tilt to her smile that only comes from shared parentage. She names herself Karen, his sister, and sits down at the end of the bar to pester me with tales of her brother, one embarrassing snippet to cut him down every time he slicks his way into another woman. I have trouble understanding them, together and related. When he comes over to speak to her, he stands away to her left. If there was anyone who at this bar who shifts to timid and wounded, it is him when he sees her. Later, I learn they are partners. She is the fisher-woman and he is the bait.
The tab, a combination of his, Karen’s, and his night woman’s drinks, is paid by the sister. She leaves a size-able tip that sweetens our wariness but doesn’t take the edge off of the fake-ness of her smile. I used to believe she was a feminist, with her brashness and take no prisoners attitude. But now I know she’s an asshole, nondiscriminatory in her prejudices and with a raw ability to find flaws in even the most agreeable people that walk through our doors. Some nights I want to lean over and slap her. But sometimes (often more then I’d like to admit) she’s more right than most. ‘Women, as much as men,’ she tells me, ‘perpetuate sexism. This is why I have to be such as asshole,’ she leans over close to me, ‘to smack the prissiness out of them. Men get called misogynistic, but I have the ‘get out of jail free’ card.’ She points down to her pants. ‘My vagina.’
I think she’s hateful and sour, but I get paid to give her drinks and for all her words she doesn’t create trouble or pester us when we’re busy. When I first witnessed her brother, Bruce, talk a woman into sleeping with him I thought he was the asshole. But when juxtaposed to his sister, his smile at least shows an honesty when he talks to them. He has a twenty-first century romanticism about him, built around phones with names attached to numbers he’ll never have to try to remember. A one night wonder man, transparent.
Notes:
I always imagined this Narrator to be a pregnant woman. She is not wild or particularly brash, a bit sheltered who went though the acclimation to the city already, but has yet to really feel comfortable.