Outside In (11 page)

He pops a cigarette into his mouth. “Got a light?”

Fumbling through my pockets, I surprisingly find two lighters. Must’ve picked these up cleaning the bar. I toss one to Mad Dog. “Keep it.”

Cinch rounds the corner, yelling, “Every day above ground is a gooooooood day.”

“Cinchy! It’s about time,” Mad Dog says. “I thought I was going on without you. Get on stage and introduce me.”

With only a microphone and Mad Dog’s black Takamine guitar, the Round House stage looks barren. Cinch steps behind the mic. “Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to announce that despite spending the night in jail, Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Adams is here to continue spreading his gospel on the international ‘Every day above ground is a good day II’ tour. Please welcome the Mad Dog!”

Side by side, Mad Dog and Cinch are as visually appealing as two contestants in a hot dog eating contest. Mad Dog says, “Damn, anytime I think I’m getting too old and fat to do this, I see Cinch, who is younger, fatter, and balder than I am. It’s the little things, folks, that help you through the days. By the way, Cinch, I’ll get that bail money for ya after the show. Drink up, folks—I got bills to pay, and I guarantee not one damn dime will go toward charity. Every bit will go toward my alcohol and drug addictions. I feel good, though, folks. I really do. I feel a lot better than you guys look. What an ugly crowd. You guys are going to drive me to drink. We better start out slow, though. It’s going to be a long weekend. Haley, how about a shot? And crack that first bottle of Pink Cat. I think it’s gonna be a three-bottle day.”

All focus is on Mad Dog. He may be having a liquid lunch, but the screams and whistles are his nourishment.

“You know, folks, life is short. It really is. My grandfather was eighty-nine years old when he died. He smoked two packs of cigarettes and drank a fifth of Jack Daniels every day. And then the other day I was reading about some twenty-eight-year-old health nut who left his house for his morning jog and
boom
, he got run over by a truck. You just never know. At least I’m killing myself slowly. You got to take life slow, enjoy every minute. That’s why I say, ‘Every day above ground—’”

The crowd finishes his statement: “Is a good day!”

Mad Dog guzzles from one of the three wine bottles perched within arm’s reach. “Sounds like you guys have been here before. We have some repeat offenders.”

By two o’clock, Mad Dog has finished one bottle of Pink Catawba and downed four shots. Regardless of when people join the show, they always seem able to catch up with everyone else when it comes to drinking. Song by song, as Mad Dog’s eyes narrow from the alcohol, the crowd’s actions become clumsy, almost embarrassing to watch. So I move out to the porch. Ferries filled with sheep and cattle ready to graze on the island roll in one after the other. The more people that come to the bar, the better I feel. I’m a vampire feeding off the energy of others because I have very little of my own right now.

Robin from the ferry crosses the street with three girls and introduces Dawn, Lea, and Brooke, who are visiting for the weekend. Lea stands closer to Robin and seems to have more confidence than the others, so it’s obvious that she’s with him. Dawn and Brooke appear unsure of their roles, and quiet anxiety oozes from behind their polite smiles.

Robin turns to Cinch. “What time should I be in tonight?”

“Just be here by the time the band starts,” Cinch says, never taking his eyes off Brooke.

I say, “Robin, you work here, too?”

He smiles. “Might as well get paid to hang out and drink.”

“Ladies,” Cinch says, “just ask for me at the door when you come back later. We always have room for three pretty faces. We’ll throw out ten drunks if we have to.”

Only a short time on the job, and already much of this is routine. After the Mad Dog show we kick everyone out, clean with push brooms, shovels, and a wet-vac, then we take our break at the Boardwalk before the evening shift begins. To show me what “busy” means, Cinch decides to position me inside by the side door.

Just before we go back to work, Haley motions me over and slides a shot across the bar. “First of all, drink this,” she says. “Second of all, stand on the stool so you can see everything.” She swirls the shaker and pours the rest into my glass. “Get with the program, rookie.”

I put the flashlight into my back pocket and stand on the stool, placing my hand over the door to monitor who comes and goes. The two bouncers perched in the opposite chairs flash their lights to welcome me. Haley finds the matter more humorous. Every glance in my direction elicits a smile. One day I’m not here, the next I’m a fixture in her daily routine.

The pool of humanity pulses and moves with the music, flowing as one body. Within the small pond, individual puddles bubble, each having its own purpose and mission but connected in this common space.

The door shakes. I extend my wrist to prompt the people to show me theirs. Instead, two smiling faces, appearing much more relaxed than at our first meeting, shine through the glass.

I open the door and step down. “Ladies, please come in. Where’s Lea?”

Dawn says, “She’s with Robin getting us wristbands.”

I remove two from my pocket. “I can take care of that.”

I’ve already learned that a bouncer is more concierge than security personnel. The role entails making sure the guests are comfortable, getting them what they need and dealing with any problems that may arise.

Brooke says, “Such gentlemen around here, Dawn. What did we do to deserve this treatment?”

I say, “Ladies, I learned long ago that life is about service. Serve the women in my life, and I’ll have a much more rewarding and happier one myself.”

The innuendo, glances, and smiles remove all the mystery about where the night is heading. How convenient. Lea has her friends when Robin is busy, and her friends have us when Robin and Lea are busy.

Robin returns with five shots and drinks. Dawn turns to me and offers a toast. “To new friends.”

Our touching of shot glasses officially begins the games for the evening. These games will not be centered on pride, individual achievement, or self-respect, but instead on blatant sexual conquest. The only question is this: who among us are the hunted and who the hunters?

These roles fluctuate as the night progresses. It’s always the three women with two of us entertaining them. The other is either on the porch attending to business or—at least if the other is either Cinch or me—in the red barn having our own private party.

By midnight the foundation has been set. The shots, the dancing, and the superficial conversation have already transpired, so no one finds another bar appealing. The red barn might be appropriate to entertain at three in the morning, but not now, not with this crowd. The only thing we need is some one-on-one time to provoke physical contact.

Robin says, “I ran into Captain Rick today. He brought the boat down from Detroit a week early to get a good spot for Memorial Day. He told me to stop by after work.”

Dawn turns to me. “Rick’s a friend of ours who’s also the captain of a seventy-five-foot boat called
Moderation
. His job is to take the boat wherever the owners request and make sure it’s clean when they arrive.”

Cinch says, “It’ll be my first trip to
Moderation
in some time.”

Moderation
, which is docked at a private club next to the Boardwalk called the Crew’s Nest, has two guest cabins, a master suite, a dining area with a full bar, a galley, crew’s quarters, and two bridges, one inside and one up above.

Rick is the host now. Cinch, Brooke, Dawn, and I go to the upper bridge. Looking at the stars reminds me of last night, and of Astrid. Why do I feel guilty? She’s the one who said she doesn’t want a relationship. The reason I am here is to indulge my appetites, wherever and whatever they are.

We go up to one of the bridges, and I sit next to the wheel. After a moment, Brooke coerces Cinch to escort her to the restroom. Cinch recognizes it as an excuse to go for another drink.

Dawn moves in between my legs and leans back against the steering wheel. I lift my legs to the dash, trapping her. “I thought girls always went to the restroom together.”

She kisses my left cheek, following through to my ear. “Not when we have ulterior motives.” Her lips are soft and gentle. She continues down my neck and back up to my mouth. Her tenderness paralyzes me. Releasing a stunted breath, I pull her close to steady myself.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt, folks.” Cinch extends a drink as an apology. “I told Robin and Lea we would see the girls home. Judging from what I see here, I think you agree. Are you ready to go?”

Dawn turns to face him. I wrap my arm around her waist, keeping her close. “I think we’ll stay here for a bit.”

Cinch is indifferent to her suggestion. Probably because he has his own agenda, one that doesn’t involve us. Before he leaves, however, he tells Dawn that Brooke wants to talk to her downstairs. She lifts my hand to her lips, promising to return with another delicate kiss. Cinch waits for her to depart. He says, “Let’s hit one before she gets back.”

I say, “I’ll pass. Think I’ve had enough. I don’t want to go overboard.”

“Consider me your life preserver.” Cinch dumps out a mound and divides it. “You watched too many after-school specials. Trust me. It’ll help during sex. Right here on the dash.”

Ssshhhump
.

Ssshhhump
.

Cinch leaves when Dawn returns. I try to think of a smooth line to recapture the mood, but all I come up with is, “Where were we?”

Dawn follows the script. “Right here.”

We both know it is cheesy, but the whole night has been. The flirting, the lines, the games, all of it leading to a meaningless one-night stand. It’s a trade-off, a barter of services for services. Morals and values are cast aside for the pleasure only another human being can provide. The last thing I’m going to do now is fumble around waiting for the perfect moment. This deal is done. I know it and she knows it.

Dawn pushes me back on the seat and climbs on top of me, thrusting her tongue in my mouth as the waves lap against the side of the boat. Her tenderness transforms to wanton thirst. She claws off my shirt and devours my chest, moving down to my abdomen, stopping at my belt line. She slides my pants to my ankles then drops to her knees, embodying my words about service.

I am getting close. Need a distraction. I reach down and lift her sweatshirt. “My turn.”

“No, it’s too cold,” she says. “Just the bottoms.” She lifts her
right leg to allow me to slip her shorts and panties off, leaving them anchored around her left ankle. She shudders as her ass touches the chrome steering wheel. And again I return to my commitment to service. After a while, she pushes me back on the seat and climbs on top, carefully choosing her resting point. I taste the sweat on her lips and feel the vulnerability in her skin.

Finally she turns around and places one hand on each side of the wheel. I slide in behind her. Gentle rocking escalates to fevered thrusting, until I drop back into the seat in exhaustion, and Dawn falls back on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze for no other reason than sheer appreciation. What else is there? I really don’t know her at all.

The next morning Cinch is sitting in the recliner with the bong between his legs when I return from dropping off the girls. He says, “How’d your night go?”

“Full steam ahead, Captain.” I flop on the couch. “Man, I feel like shit. Let me hit that.”

“Whuuuht? Mr. Non-Smoker, I thought you didn’t do this one?”

“It’s bad when you gotta party just to stand yourself. You know they’re coming back next weekend? I had fun, but the last thing I want to do is get involved with someone. If I wanted that, I’d be with Astrid.”

“So what’s going on there?” he asks.

I pass back the bong. “Nothing. We don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then what’s the problem? You haven’t hooked up with Astrid because you wanted something like last night to happen. You just got the post-party blues. Nothing worse than someone who goes to the dance, is excited to dance, dances all night, and then complains all the next day about his feet being sore.”