Story I Wrote

I wrote this for my Fiction II class. It's based on the events of June 29. Have
fun.

Holly GoDarkly


Holly, so called not because she resembled the character Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s but in honor of the awesomeness of the movie, sized up the corner table. Why were these children (all over 21, but children nonetheless) at her bar? Not only was their clothing manufactured this decade but it looked new on purpose.
“Well, Skeets, what do you think?”
The customer Holly asked wasn’t actually named Skeets, but she called everybody Skeets. It was her thing. All bartenders need a thing, and “Skeets” was hers.
“Whatever,” said Skeets. “They seem fine.”
“At least they’re not Emos,” said another Skeets.
“Fuck Emos,” they all agreed. Holly cringed. The last time wearing wrist sweatbands was cool was when they came with a hula-hoop and jump rope in the Get In Shape, Girl! toy set circa 1988. The creatures at the corner table were not wearing sweatbands or pained expressions. In fact, they looked remarkably normal, but for some reason they were filling her with contempt. Maybe it was just the male-to-female ratio: completely even at three of each. Her bar was a sausage-fest and she loved it that way. This was Boystown and her customers were boys, but straight boys. Boys who drank PBR and could be judged entirely by the awesomely lameness of their outfits and dis-genuine self-deprecation. They disparaged themselves to play down their true narcissism, a chorus of “I suck” trying to balance out the inner mantra of “I rule.” But this group in the corner was too female and too uncomplicated. If they said something, they probably meant it. No pretext or innuendo. Such simple little characters. Like sheep. Holly filled with pity-hate.
Holly’s paradigm temporarily shifted as one of her regulars, one of her favorite Skeets, warmly welcomed the Simples. Holly pretended to collect empty cups (something she never did but hoped the regulars wouldn’t notice) as an excuse to find out how Skeets knew these people. A younger sibling, perhaps?
“Hey, Skeets,” Holly cornered him, or actually, just sort of sided him, since he was walking away from the corner table.
“What’s up, Holls?”
“Who are your friends?”
“They’re my students. I teach a college class. Came out to see my show tonight.”
Then she asked the all-important question: “Can I still give them The Special?” The Special was equal parts bathtub moonshine, cheap high-proof grain alcohol, and general animosity. Regulars knew to order beer. The tap lines may not have been clean and all lead to the same keg of Keystone Lite, but it was a slow safe buzz that kept you going all night. Strangers to the bar who didn’t know any better would order hard drinks or off the list of “Managers Specials,” and that was Holly’s time to shine. Every bottle in the well, regardless of its label, contained The Special.
“Yeah, give ’em The Special,” said Professor Skeets. “What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t make sure my students learned their lesson?”
Shortly, the Simples came up and ordered a round of Long Islands. Holly grabbed four different colored bottles from the well for show, adding Special to Special, and topping it off with Pepsi for color. She almost felt a twinge of guilt when the Simples tipped her well, but they probably could afford this tip and weren’t trying to hide it, so the guilt passed. She lined up six empty glasses on the back of the bar and put a cherry in each, then went back to doling out Keystone Lites. The regulars didn’t even bother asking for a particular type of beer anymore, ordering by “four beers” or “two pitchers,” although one Skeets still asked for MGD because he swore it was the coldest of the taps and made for the best tasting Keystone.
Twenty minutes had gone by since the Simples finished their first round when one of the girls flopped over.
“Lame,” thought Holly, reaching to the back of the bar and downing the cherry from the first glass. The Special’s first victim only weighed fourteen pounds and might have been pretty if she a) hadn’t come into Holly’s bar and b) didn’t look more like a hatpin than a human being. She was a toothpick. Mrs. Toothpick. She had to be a plastic bar toothpick, the kind other drinking establishments might use to spear olives and onions, but not the kind that looked like swords. Those were too interesting to be Mrs. Toothpick. She’d be pink or yellow and plain. Holly imagined herself holding a lighter to the end of Mrs. Toothpick and watching her curl up the way plastic does when held to a flame.
One of the boys (Mr. Toothpick?) started fussing over her, fanning her and bringing her water like she was some sort of swooning southern twat. He was barely a layer or two thicker and maybe a head taller than the Mrs. Holly could only see bits and pieces of his profile because the full attention of his face was squarely on the twat, but she knew even if she studied him for an hour she’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup. Generic White Boys all looked the same.
Mr. Toothpick finally coaxed Mrs. Toothpick out of her chair and out the door. Holly hoped it was only for a minute of fresh air, but when they didn’t come back, she knew they’d gone to one of their simple generic apartments where he would wait for her to regain consciousness before they had simple generic sex. They probably had to be extra careful not to snap one another in two, being toothpicks and all. Holly turned to the back of the bar and picked up the cherry from the second glass. Spotting Professor Skeets at a table near the stage sharing a pitcher with his band as a pre-show warm-up, she flung the cherry as hard as she could at his head, then flipped over both now empty glasses, slamming them down like a drunk film noir Bogie saying “Hey, Charlie, gimme another.” The four remaining cherries glimmered in the bar’s one ray of light.
“Your time will come,” Holly’s eyes glimmered back.
The Simples’ blonde member came up for another round, still “long islands,” but now there were only four to make. The way the blonde carried all four drinks in her blonde little hands made Holly wonder if this simple was a waitress or bartender somewhere. She choked down her twinge of empathy by noticing that The Blonde’s eyebrows were also blonde. Jesus Christ, even this chick’s hair is natural, she thought. If Holly’s hair was naturally blonde, she would totally dye it black or maybe auburn. Dark hair with blonde roots. That would be awesome, but no way would she let herself go through life with her real hair color.
When The Special finally hit The Blonde, her eyes lit up as she went into overdrive, darting about the room like the bastard child of a social butterfly and a ferret. She bounced from Skeets to Skeets, talking to everyone in the bar, or maybe just herself…it was hard to tell at this point.
One of the males came with Mr. Toothpick and now looked abandoned and dejected. He curled up into himself in the corner, and as Holly started to eat another cherry, she watched him revive as The Blonde made her way back to the table. He sleepily took The Blonde’s hand and pulled her into his lap. At first the Blonde looked trapped, like a gopher looking out of its hole, head darting about and sensing danger all around. His hands went sleepily up her shirt, but her wild eyes didn’t change, still canvassing the room and cheering as Professor Skeets’ band emerged and started playing their first song. In an instant, The Blonde went from watching the band and ignoring the boy to turning around on her human seat and desperately trying to suck down his entire face, running her fingers through his hair and grinding into him, hard. He stood up, lifting her with him, and pushed her to the wall, the two of them thrusting and clawing fully clothed. Holly ate cherries three and four with pride as the pair three the empty cups off their table and humped like hungry beasts while a small pool of spilled special soaked through the front of The Blonde’s shirt.
Holly barely even noticed the last girl. She’d been part of the head-count when Holly lined up glasses and cherries, she’d received one of the cups with each round of Special, but Holly really saw her for the first time in the by the light of her cell phone. The girl was texting furiously, her eyes illuminated by the glow of the screen. If Holly squinted, the girl looked like two floating eyeballs, like the Cheshire cat mid-disappearing act. Otherwise, Catgirl camouflaged into the chair and the wall of the dark corner. Catty chameleon. Holly wanted to call Boy George and have him change the words. Too bad she didn’t have a Culture Club t-shirt. Catgirl had an almost empty glass of Special in one hand and the phone in the other. Professor Skeets’ band was well into their set and the rest of the Skeets were ¼ dancing, ¾ maintaining their awesomeness to the music. Catgirl didn’t notice. She didn’t seem to notice the two of her companions two feet away from her giving the table a workout, either. Just texting texting texting.
“When I was your age…” Holly wanted to say, but first she’d need reading glasses on a chain and a gray wig done up in a bun. And one of those fancy walkers with tennis balls on the feet so they don’t scratch the linoleum. Maybe she’d call everyone Sonny instead of Skeets. She definitely didn’t have a cell phone ten years ago when she was the age of the Simples. Email, maybe, but none of this newfangled technology shit.
Holly wasn’t really looking at Catgirl anymore, but a sparkle re-caught her attention. Tears popped out of the floating eyes. Popped and sparkled and never averted from the cell phone. The eyes got red and kept popping and leaking. The band finished playing and the eyes kept going, kept texting. Holly shrugged and ate her fifth cherry. The sixth cherry still sat in its glass. Where did the sixth Simple go? Shit, had she missed it? The band was breaking down and a Skeets came up to her.
“Some dude is freaking out in the bathroom.”
Ah, Number Six. Normally Holly would have had no problem going into the men’s room herself, but this time she decided to send Professor Skeets. After all, they were his children. Catgirl and Holly walked up to Professor Skeets almost simultaneously. The eyes were still half-crying as they thanked him for a great show.
“You ok?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she sniffed, “I…was…supposed to crash at Erin’s tonight…but…she…went home early with Dave.” Ah, Holly thought, Mr. and Mrs. Toothpick.
“You gonna make it home ok? Got money for a cab?” asked Professor.
“No…my…parents…are on their way to pick me up.”
“Well, thanks for coming to my show.”
With that, Catgirl wobbled her teary way out the door.
“Only one left now,” Professor Skeets said, noticing Holly.
Holly looked around. How did she miss the exit of The Blonde and her humping post? But business first.
“Can you check on the men’s room? I think one of yours is in there.”
Professor Skeets gave a nod and she marched around to the back of the bar and flipped over three of the last four glasses. The cherry sat in the last glass like the dot of a question mark.
The door to the men’s room opened and a thick cloud rushed out, chewing through the cigarette fog that permanently filled the bar. Holly and the room full of Skeets instantly knew the smell.
“What is this, high school?” asked Professor.
“Hey, Professor, want a hit?” asked Simple Six.
But as the smoke went out of the bathroom the mellow of the marijuana gave way once more to the effects of The Special.
“Oh, shit,” the last Simple said. “Ohshitohshitohshit.” He couldn’t stop saying it and got louder and louder until he could be heard over the Skeetsy din. Now he was screaming and flailing his arms and pounding the wall.
Holly flinched. Holly never flinched.
“Out,” she said, regaining her veil of cool.
The attention of the entire bar was now on the screaming simple. He’d given up on words and moved to guttural growls and prolonged “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgggghhhs.” Professor Skeets managed to grab onto his torso in a way that incapacitated his arms and two of the bolder Skeets ran over to help, each taking a leg as it tried to flail free. The back door was still propped open from the band repacking their van, and Professor Skeets led the way out and into the alley. The left leg Skeets distracted himself trying to come up with a plan and that was all it took for the last Simple to wriggle loose and kick him in the face.
“MotherFUCKER!” Leftleg Skeets yelled. The other two Skeetses dropped the simple in surprise and jumped back. The Simple, like a mad dog off its leash, snarled and glared at them for a moment before breaking into a drunken hiccupy run and disappearing down the alley. As the Skeets walked back into the bar, Professor hoped his student would make it to class on Tuesday.
Holly examined the damage to Leftleg’s nose, which turned out to be extremely minimal despite the bleeding. She handed him a mostly-clean bar rag and grabbed the last glass off the back of the bar.
“Well done, Professor,” said Holly, offering him the final cherry.
“You too,” said Professor.
Tomorrow, Holly would start calling all her customers Professor.