She chose the one called Santo’s near the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo. Ten o’clock, the sky still flush from sunset on a cooling August night. She walked to the bar, feeling them eye her as they always did. They thought she was beautiful, but they’d never love her, nor she them. It was not why she came. Being among them excited her, made her feel whole. But there was a cost.
She took a stool next to a woman with nut-brown skin and raven hair caught up in a jeweled Navajo clasp. But the woman was not Indian. None would come here. The woman drank straight whiskey, barely exhaling after the shots, trying to forget something. Or everything. Her skin shone from a light glaze of sweat and smelled of sex. Neither of them spoke. After a few minutes, the woman rose and walked from the bar, leaving a seat close to the bartender. She took the abandoned stool, put one foot on the rail, kept the other on the floor. She ordered rum straight up, drank it quickly, ordered another. Another. She liked the way the drink made her feel.
A man approached from behind. “I’m Carlos. Can I buy you one?”
“No,” she said, glancing at him, turning away.
He stared at her, probing, calculating. He was a fool.
“You sure? You know, it gets expensive.”
She didn’t answer and ordered another drink. The aging bartender wore a leather vest over a frayed t-shirt bearing the word LOBO, and a black bandana twisted into a headband. Trying to look as young as his patrons, trying to be something he wasn’t. As it was with all of them. He stood with a slight hunch and walked stiffly, like he’d grown up lame or had been injured later in life. Or maybe the years working here had worn him down. She wouldn’t speak to him or ask his name. She’d only order drinks and hope he knew enough to leave her alone.
He poured a shot of El Dorado, not looking at the glass, because he had done this a hundred thousand times, and studied her the way they did when they thought she would care. There was nothing about her that he’d know or understand.
She ordered another, and he said, “I think that’s your limit, sweetheart.”
He had no idea what her limit was. This wasn’t even close.
The man, Carlos, drifted behind her like a dark cloud. Like all he had to do was wait and she’d change her mind. She looked at him again and then beyond him, signaling her lack of interest. He had a hard, narrow face and a nose once-broken. He wore sand-busted jeans and an armless sweatshirt with the word “Tequila” drawn like the letters had been trimmed by gunshot. She stared straight ahead, avoiding his drink-hazed eyes. He mumbled something she was glad she didn’t hear and walked away. She’d known men like this in other places. It wasn’t over. She would have to leave soon.
She turned to look into the room behind her. It was half-lit from orange pendant lamps, the sterile glow of a cigarette machine, the tilted EXIT sign, the blotted light that poured around letters painted on the window. She smelled smoke, beer, leather, the chalk from the pool table, the cheap makeup on the women. They came here to cover their pain, to buy hope, to forget the last twenty-four hours. For some it was distraction; for others, death in slow motion. She saw, felt, the disorder in their lives, the boredom, the uncertainty, the desperation. There was such blindness in them. She chose to be among them, but there were limits. For her, the night would end soon.
Off to the side, Carlos watched, tracking her like prey. She could sense his growing heat and knew how far he would go. Yes, she would need to leave.
She finished the drink, paid the bartender, wiped ice from an abandoned glass across the back of her neck, walked into night air ten degrees cooler than it was inside. It was eleven o’clock, and the streets were empty.
She turned the corner and found him waiting. Carlos. But not alone. Three others stood behind him. “Where you going, honey … got a boyfriend?”
“Got a girlfriend?” another asked, and the four of them laughed.
She didn’t answer. They were drunk and raw, full of rage. Rage at the sun, the sky, the hills. Rage at the bosses who owned them, and rage for all the things denied them, things they’d never have. She turned in the other direction, walked briskly. They followed, keeping in step with her, closing the distance. She increased her pace, but, then, they wanted the hunt. She felt everything. Without turning she said, “Get away from me,” and walked faster. They were young and could keep pace with her.
This would not end well.
She thought hard, considered her options, and broke into a slow jog, hearing their footfalls behind her. Faster. Then she was running, taking long strides, forcing her lungs to pull in the air—down the long empty street into darkness where the shops were closed, light from only the distant foothills. She could scream, but it would serve nothing. She ran faster, hearing them pursue, the exertion pumping up their anger and their lust. At almost full speed she turned to see there were only two of them now: Carlos and a man with a pony-tail, torn jeans, half-shaven face, eyes full of scorn for himself and his futile life.
The Father had warned her over the years. Stay away from them. They are not like you, cannot understand you. They are weaklings, cannot control their emotions and take pleasure in the pain of others. Learn from them, but always fear them. Never let them know who you are. There is no place for you in their world.
She knew the Father was right, but she needed to be among them.
Tonight, she would pay the price.
She stopped running. The street was narrow here. She heard Carlos and the other man come up behind her, panting. She turned to face them. Carlos pulled a short knife with a handle carved from the horn of a deer and held it up like a prize he’d won. He clutched it tightly, twisting the blade in the air.
He was now a real warrior.
Something moved behind her. She turned. The other two men. How? They must have planned this, taken cars and driven up ahead. So, they had her trapped. As they closed on her, she felt a little fear, anger, sorrow. And pity. This is who they were, what they were.
Carlos said, “Go on, Jake, do it,” and the other man moved toward her, pulling his own knife, jaw set, crouching slightly as though he were entering a real fight. She stepped backward, a reflex, nothing deliberate. Carlos said, “We can make this easy, or we can make this hard.”
“Fuck you,” she said. She knew the way they talked.
Jake trembled slightly, trying to hide his fear from the others. He grunted something and charged towards her, reckless and stupid. She let him close in, blocked the hand that held the knife, seized his arm, tore it from his body. Blood gushed from what had been his shoulder as he stumbled and spun. He gave a garbled moan, too much in shock to scream—although that would come. And then it did.
The two men behind her raced in with their knives. She turned and kicked the legs out from under the first, seizing one ankle, crushing the bones in his leg. The other shouted and charged toward her, slashing the air with his knife. She plucked the blade from his hand, broke his wrist, and ripped out his throat. He fell to the ground with a final raw gasp that rose from his chest through what had been his neck. Blood dropped to the street and spread, near-black in the scant light. Three bodies lay twitching like cut rope unraveling. Guttural screams spoiled the calm of the brisk night air.
Carlos had run. She scanned the dark street and saw him hidden beneath a small van two hundred feet away. He must have known she would catch him if he ran. He was right.
She walked to the side of the van, reached down and flipped it on its side. He lay there like a worm found under a rock—and then rose to one knee, mouth open, eyes bulging—and held his empty hands at arm’s length, as though pleading. She allowed him only the single word, “what,” and, with a swipe of her hand, drove his collar bone deep into his chest.
The Father was right. She could not live among them. But there were nights like this when the parts of her that she shared with them would call to her, make her seek them out, watch them, feel what they felt.
There was still much to be learned.
And a hundred years in which to learn it.
Terry Boothman is a retired educator who, over a long career, worked as a teacher, a cartoonist, a social worker, a psychotherapist, a seminar leader, a college instructor, a researcher, a technical writer, a conference presenter, an instructional technologist, an internet marketer, and an innovator in various technical arenas. He is the former Managing Editor of Writer Online ezine, and, today, writes “little bits of weird fiction just for fun.”
Published 10/31/24