Blackspire Lou

Chapter One

When It’s Springtime In The Mountains

My dreams of reclaiming my youth kept slipping away. The thought of being successful anymore crushed as I gave up on the world, stuck in a job I swore I’d leave behind.

Today, the workplace banter and clamor filled the room with muddled voices and merged into a hum like worker bees in a hive. The sounds and images of the busy crowd sprang a memory of sitting in a restaurant with my parents. We had stared at the overworked server and witnessed terror in her eyes. Terror of not approaching her tables quickly enough, precisely enough, or even gracefully enough. In some way, she had accepted the reality of her master’s world, and put on a fake smile and acted out cliche personas. Bubbly and charming in front of her guests but as soon as she turned the corner, the dread of anxiety showed.

Now my own drink station was a wreck, with straws, ice, and overflowing tea pitchers everywhere. I’m stunned by how naive I still am because I’ve become the one thing I swore I’d never be: a waiter.

The frenzy of a late-night rush on a Friday night increased my anxiety. I tried rubbing it off and grabbed napkins with silverware and tucked my notebook and pen inside my apron. The sizzling sounds and heat from the expo line simmered around us as if we were being cooked alive. Everyone darted past one another, wearing black button-up shirts and black slacks.

The banter, loud music of Mariachi bands, and managers yelling, with crowds of guests flooding in and out of the restaurant, all worked in symbiosis. A mural stretched across the walls of dancing cactuses and music symbols wrapped around. Then a headache from hours of constant moving came roaring in, and I was running on fumes.

I finished making my drinks and placed the glasses on the tray and passed the corner into the kitchen area and spotted the appetizer of melting queso. I quickly grabbed it, placed it on my tray, and held it up high. Then I looked over at the computer screen to find my digital ticket. My General Manager placed dish after dish on the line and a river of tickets flooded out of the printer’s mouth. They hung on the other side of the kitchen line, unresolved and almost fallen.

Edgar, my general manager caught my gaze and said, “5 minutes.”

“Heard.”

I hurried out of the kitchen and servers passed by to return to the expo. The large crowd resembled a buzzing concert, with kids crying, obese middle-aged parents scolding them, utensils on the floor, tortilla chip crumbs scattered on the table, and a hazard sign in the middle of the aisle. Also people holding free ice cream cones and licking away with bliss. Suddenly a child ran into a server girl and dropped her ice cream cone onto the floor. My co-worker apologized with severe concern and I was upset because they had blocked my pathway.

“Shit,”

I planned my strategic course of action and worked my way around the kid, curved down a table of 15, coasted down the aisle, and moved around the yellow hazard sign in the shape of a banana.

“I got your drinks and appetizer.” I placed three Cokes and the queso down, but somehow one of the kids managed to spill it as I placed the other drinks on the table.

“Henry! Ah, you spilled your drink; oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” the mother said.

“Don’t worry; I’ll bring you another one, little man.” I approached my other table beside and placed the silverware down. “I just saw your food coming up, guys. I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, dear, what about my bar drink? The one with—”

“The extra shot of Grand Marnier, yes, ma’am. I’ll go grab it at the bar.”

She wasn’t too needy in her wrinkled scrubs after a hospital shift. I also itched for a drink.

“Thanks,” the lady winked. I rushed to my other table that had sat down a few minutes ago and delivered my “spill.”

“Thank you for being patient with me. My name is Robert, and I’ll be taking care of you. What can I get you to drink?”

The gentleman sat across from his well-dressed wife, with aviators on the tip of his nose and a long-sleeve brown shirt tucked into his pants.

“Well, uh, I see you don’t have your happy hour anymore,” he flipped the bar menu. “May I ask why?”

“Well, ever since we opened the bar,” I said, pulling out my notepad and pen, “We took it away.”

“Why on earth did you do that?”

“It’s a financial thing. We get enough clientele here that we don’t need it. Happy hour is usually for restaurants that need the revenue.”

“Wow. Okay. Did you want to go somewhere else, dear?” The man asked his wife, who looked notoriously needy and advertently devious.

“I’ll take another look,” she said, “But we’ll need water.”

I didn’t reply because I bolted off and heard my name from the expo. After crossing the river of famished-eyed guests, I made it.

“Here! I’m here. Let me make a Coke real quick.”

Lauren was a friend of mine who stood by my tray and was about to run it for me. “Come on, Robert!”

I quickly made the Coke and placed it on my food tray, and checked the wall clock and sighed with exhaustion. Three hours left in this cesspool of nonsense.

When the night was finally over I stood outside alone in the night, vaping. When everyone left and the kitchen closed, I didn’t want to come back here. But the fear of leaving my dead-end job petrified me. The economy wasn’t the best, and a couple days ago the Kroger down the street was stripped of groceries and employees. Living alone was nearly impossible unless you saved enough money while living with your parents.

I didn’t.

When I walked across the parking lot, the spring air was clean and slightly humid. A co-worker hit her vape inside her car. Her window rolled down and puffing out clouds of smoke. She peeked her eyes at me. Her tie undone, with a black undershirt that exposed her sun tanned arms.

“Want to get a drink?” she asked.

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to cut back.”

“That’s a shame. I wondered why you never came to the bar with us. You’re 21, right?”

“I’ve told you before, I’m 27.”

She giggled, “Honestly, it gets me every time because you look 18.”

“I get that a lot.” I grabbed my car key. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Hey.”

I turned around. “Yeah?”

“Keep your chin up. You look pretty rough and maybe even depressed.”

“I’m not depressed,” I muttered, shoving my vape in my pocket.

“Doesn’t help to deny it, Robert. See you at work tomorrow!”

She drove off and I pressed my key chain and unlocked my 1999 Toyota Solara. I opened it, got inside, and untied my necktie. Outside my car window the night heightened my profound loneliness. I looked deeper into the stream of red and white lights speeding across the highway. In Clear Lake Shores, Texas, I would usually sit inside my car for 30 minutes and stare out into the ocean. My hometown has a unique atmosphere that gave a distinctive coastal feel that was reminiscent of a laid-back beach town. Golf carts were a common mode of transportation, adding to the relaxed vibe and easy to navigate the island’s quaint streets. I’d stay there and contemplate whether I would find another job. I’ve been in the service industry since I was 20 years old.

I have an education. I’m Hispanic, good-looking, and fond of books. Very fond of books. So much so that I’ve spent my leisure time huddled up in my room with my books and paper scattered on my desk and floor while my cat Bosley chewed on them. Red strings from one end of the room bridged chapters together and Bosley would swipe his paws at the hanging red yarn. But luck never entered my life and that was fine. Only misery, alcohol problems, situation-ship problems, financial problems, and anything in between. I regret not knowing the solitude of being a writer before investing effort. Although the writing competitions I’ve won were a stroke to my ego, they never had concrete results. What a foul, cut-throat, pompous craft that took like a cruel mistress and gave little in return.

Co-workers left the back exit in a large group and headed to their own bar and I checked my phone. A few unread email notifications brought my attention. A query letter that I had sent to Rachel Oswalt from a literary agency. I opened the G-Mail app and read the rejection form and muttered, “Screw it. I’m getting drunk.”

I turned the ignition on and drove to a dive bar by the Galveston Bay.

At the dive bar, the people were closer to my age and included rock ‘n’ rollers, biker gangs, middle-aged men and women, and 21-year-olds throwing darts and playing pool. The room overflowed with empty beer glasses, and shot glasses clinking mid-air with one another. The great 80s rock music outshone my workplace and I sat down and ordered a Lone Star. I figured it wasn’t too heavy on myself and I didn’t care that I had work tomorrow.

As I looked across the bar, a lonely brunette sat. She seemed lonely, at least, and pretty. Her slouched posture implied she’s here (just like me) against all reason. The striped hazel blue shirt with orange flower petals forming a river makes me think hipster. But her black eyeliner influenced me to think of a happy-go-lucky person. She made me think she was about my age or possibly younger.

She held a double-hazy IPA craft beer that was mercurial to others. Especially if people didn’t understand BBAs, stouts, or dark beers. She experiments because the hoppy taste was acquired over time.

Years of serving in various establishments led me to the world of craft beers. Also, the writing of inept, cruel, or even charming, virtuous characters had given me my observation skills. It was more of an intuitive clause of feeble notions that improved with every syllable and predicate I wrote.

This dame, however, I could not put my finger on. She had an aura to her, not mysterious but relatable. It’s as if she’s important in her line of work and still has problems. So, being at home seems insane because you’re trapped with your thoughts inside four walls. Visiting bars and drinking, even when unwilling, was like releasing bottled air. However, she doesn’t seem relaxed in this situation. Not just yet.

“Oh, I know that face,” I said, walking over and sitting down.

She raised her eyebrows after sipping.

“Hazy IPAs usually do the trick for me after a long day of getting my ass kicked,” I said, sipping. “I’m sticking to something easy tonight,” and lifted the Lone Star.

She’s silent as if studying me like a feline transfixed by an opus gem.

“Don’t Lone Star caps have puzzles?” she asked.

“That they do.” I pulled the cap from my pocket, placed it on the bar, and slid it to her. She took it and read the images, which formed a puzzle you must solve:

(Picture)

“I still can’t figure it out.” I sipped. “I’m kinda bad at riddles. Great at computer games, though.”

“When it’s springtime in the mountains,” she flipped the cap and it bounced over to me.

I took another look. “Wow, that’s right.”

“Have you ever been?”

“The mountains? No.”

“Want to go?”

My eyes furrowed. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Your name is Robert.”

“How did you?” Glancing down, I noticed my nametag was still present. I fiddled it off. “Okay, I’m an idiot. My job makes me wear it.” I rolled my eyes. “I hate serving.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Her vibe shifted, catching me off guard. It spooked me. After years of socializing, I thought I was much more mysterious. But the girl easily saw through me. I stayed quiet, searching for any ulterior motive, but found none.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She drank her beer and tossed it into the empty trash bin over the bar.

“Just a girl looking for a friend to chase mountains with.”

She stood and walked out of the bar. All I did was stare, wholly enamored by her grit, to which her stone-cold green eyes had put me under a spell. The backdoor opened and closed. A string of guitar riffs morphed into a shredded, rough voice, and I grabbed the bottle cap.

“Then why do you do it?”

Her words echoed in my head as I held the bottle cap, flipped it back and forth, and stared at the mountains. After a while, I finished my beer, tossed the bottle and cap into the trash, and went home.

Tomorrow, I think I’m going to quit my job. However my body did not concur.

The next morning, I dragged myself to Gringo’s. It was not unusual for my cat Bosley to shred my short stories lying on my carpet floor. Certainly not my neighbor’s 1980 Ford truck firing shotgun noises from his tailpipe, or my behemoth neighbor arguing with her kids as she dragged them to school. It was something far worse— my landlord knocking at my door. I opened my right eye to my alarm clock, reading: 10:26 a.m.

“Damnit,”

I usually saw him in the afternoon, so why was he here so early? Getting up was a struggle, my body groggy from last night’s mid-life crisis, and worsened by the incessant knocking. Fingerprints were smudged on my computer screen, my clothes lay on the floor, and a gold and black tapestry depicting a human-like elephant in a Burmese position hung on the wall.

I grabbed my pants and my 1975 Tour Led Zeppelin shirt with the Icarus symbol on the front (the one with the angel sprouting his wings) and rubbed my thick, black hair. While stepping down my stairs, I lost my balance and caught myself on the rail. Amazingly, my neck hasn’t broken yet, considering how steeply the stairs were designed.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.” I opened the door.

“Your rent is due,” Steve said. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Thank you, but I don’t have it all just yet.”

“Well, how much do you have?”

I pulled my wallet out. “About 600 dollars.”

“Rent’s 900. Are you going to work today?”

“I plan on it.”

Steve’s nickname is Landshark. It fits well because he had outstanding loans on multiple properties and tenants who were desperate. Rats would occasionally run through early in the morning, which Bosley hunted down feral.

“Get it done after the weekend, or you’re out,” Steve warned.

“Sounds good. I have to get ready for work. I’m going to be late.”

“Are you still looking for another job?”

I sighed. “We’ve been over this. I have no interest in getting involved with real estate, it requires dealing with people.”

“You have women always coming in. Porn maybe? OnlyFans?”

“I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought of that, Steve. But no. I only like serving because I’m good at finessing people.”

“That’s why you should consider real estate.”

“Goodbye,” I said, closing my door.

Steve left, and I heard him knock on my neighbor’s door with his croaky Hola introduction.

I checked my watch.

“Damn,” and ran toward my stairs, missed a step, fell, hurt my foot, and got my pace back by jumping over a couple of steps. I go into my bathroom, and Bosley is towering over a dead rat.

“Oh, Jesus Bosley.” I grabbed my trash can beside the toilet, took a rag from my bathroom sink, grabbed the rat’s tail, threw it into the trash, and tied it up.

I grabbed his bag of dry food, Meow Mix, the cheapest, and poured it into his bowl. I turned the shower on, undressed, and jumped in. Warm water flowed over my head, and I scrubbed, washed, rinsed, cleaned my face, and jumped out. I grabbed the trash bag with Walmart written on the side and reached for my towel. I sped to my room, with Bosley following behind after eating breakfast.

Then I slipped into my black slacks, socks, shirt, and tie. My keys were on my computer table and my apron hung on my chair. Pens and papers and dozens of Cabernet wine bottles sat on my window sills, floor, and desk. Bosley began licking the inside of an empty Shiner Bock as I’m putting my tie on. I untied the Walmart bag, shoved as many alcohol bottles as I could inside, and stormed out of my townhome. I’m holding the bag in my right hand, fiddling with my keys with my left, and locking the door.

“You forgot your shoes,” Steve said.

I glanced down, cursed, then reopened my door. I quickly located my shoes, slipped them on, and exited again. Again, I fiddled with my keys while Steve wished me a good workday.

Rrriiippp.

The empty bottles fell through along with the rat and surrounded the rodent with red wine. It looked like a crime scene had just been committed.

“Why! Why, why, why.”

Steve found an empty steel bucket with soil inside and handed it over to me. I grabbed the broken pieces and began tossing them inside.

“One of those mornings?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t have drunk last night. I feel foggy.”

“I’ve been there plenty of times.”

After I was done, I left the bucket with the dead rat and jogged toward my car while pulling my keys out, and left.

“I’ll clean it when I get back!” I waved.