The Outsiders (6 page)

As his
head caromed off the booth, Christopher toppled to the side,
sliding toward the floor. When his head made its second impact, he
slid away into peaceful darkness.

It had
taken a ten dollar bribe and far too much talking to convince the
restaurant manager to call neither the police, nor an ambulance.
Christopher held an ice cube wrapped in a white towel to his
forehead and leaned against the wall outside Little Havana, staring
across the street.

When he’d
come to, after his fall, there had been no sign of Sylvia. No book,
no plates, no glass. The wine bottle had rested, empty, in the
center of the table. There was one glass - Christopher’s glass,
beside it, toppled to the side and cracked, laying in a pool of
merlot. Christopher had momentarily considered finding some chalk
and making an outline around it.

No, the
waitress assured him, there had been no woman with him. No, again,
to the book - to the fact he’d only just arrived.

Christopher’s head throbbed, and his thoughts tumbled over
one another hopelessly. Of course they had to be lying. Of course,
despite the massive headache and the impossibility of joining one
thought to another coherently, he had not finished that entire
bottle of wine. He wouldn’t have ordered merlot. He wouldn’t have
finished it without remembering.

Pushing
off the wall, he staggered toward the street, remembering vaguely
his near-death experience crossing earlier and glancing both ways
before crossing to the far side. The lights still glowed from the
interior of “The Home of the Tome”, despite the late hour. Nothing
had changed. There was very little traffic, and the street lights
hummed overhead, illuminating the night in soft pools of
radiance.

Feeling
as if he were stepping from one strange, unknown world into
another, Christopher pressed on the heavy wood door and swung it
inward again. There was no one in sight except the old man behind
the counter. As before, the man only glanced up mechanically,
acknowledging Christopher’s presence, then returning his gaze to
whatever fascinated him on his desk.

The store
stretched out, huge and empty. No one moved among the desks and
lamps. No one browsed the stacks in back. Nothing but the sound of
the huge ceiling fans pulsing rhythmically, far above, broke the
silence. Christopher could feel the breeze from those great blades
chilling the cold sweat on his cheeks.

Christopher turned toward the counter, concentrating on each
step so he wouldn’t stumble drunkenly and fighting with himself not
to scream, because he should not - could not - be drunk. The clerk
didn’t look up as he neared, only deigning to acknowledge the
intrusion when Christopher bumped heavily into the counter, laying
his hands flat for support.

“
Yes?” the man asked, his voice distant and his expression
preoccupied and annoyed.

“
I’m looking for a book,” Christopher began, then shook his
head. “No, I’m looking for a woman - a girl - and a
book.”

The clerk
stared at him, waiting, obviously assuming that Christopher would
eventually ask something that made sense, or go away. It was
maddening. Christopher knew he’d been in the store once already
that evening, that he’d caused a scene as he exited. He knew that
the clerk must have seen him. Face reddening, half from
embarrassment, and half from anger, Christopher leaned closer,
frowning as the man flinched from his breath.

“
For Sylvia,” he said, enunciating carefully.

“
The book,” the clerk asked, “or the woman.”

Christopher pulled back slightly. The answer was quick, to
the point, and confused the hell out of him.

“
Yes,” he said at last. “I mean, I’m looking for the woman, and
I was looking at a book, earlier, that said ‘For Sylvia’ on the
dedication page.”

“
New Leather and Old Cognac,” the man nodded. “We have that in
the back.”

Christopher gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and
concentrating. He was beginning to believe he should have let the
restaurant manager call for the ambulance. Maybe he’d hit his head
harder than he’d thought.

“
The woman,” he said at last. “Where can I find the
woman?”

“
I’m not sure who you mean, sir,” the clerk answered, sliding
his chair back slowly. He reached under the counter in front of
him, and Christopher got the distinct impression there was an alarm
button down there. He staggered back.

“
Did you want to see the book?” the clerk asked. His hand was
still under the counter.

“
I...” Christopher’s shoulder’s slumped. “Yes, if you have it,
I’d like to buy it.”

The clerk
rose without a word and slipped through the swinging wooden door
that separated his workspace from the rest of the store.
Christopher continued to lean heavily on the counter, watching as
the man disappeared toward the long lines of bookshelves near the
back of the store and the row up on row of endlessly similar books.
Christopher wanted to follow, but his head was spinning, and he
knew if he turned away from the counter too suddenly, he’d go
sprawling across the floor and likely be there when the man
returned.

It didn’t
take long. Moments later the clerk returned, an old leather-bound
book in his hand, and slipped back behind the counter. He placed
the copy of New Leather and Old Cognac on the counter top and
glanced up to meet Christopher’s eyes.

“
Is this what you were looking for? I’m afraid there’s no
indication of what edition it might be, but it’s certainly an
attractive volume.”

Christopher stared. The book was old - but not as old as the
first one he’d found. It was reinforced by brown leather at the
corners of the board covers, and at the spine. The title was in
deep jet on the spine, no author’s name. The front of the book had
another paste-down, this time in a garden, grapes dangling from an
arbor above and deep green and yellow back-lighting, as if a
thunderstorm were imminent, fronted by the slender figure of a
seated woman, reading, her long legs tucked up beneath her
demurely, her hair dangling to cove rher features.

“
I’ll take it,” he slurred, cursing inwardly at the sound of
his own voice. He was starting to wonder now about the wine, and
the restaurant. He was starting to believe he might have sat there,
alone, waiting for Sylvia and drinking himself into a dark
depression. Or - more accurately - he had been thinking these
thought prior to the clerk’s return. Now thought wasn’t an option.
He needed to read the book. Nothing else seemed likely to
straighten out the mess that he called a mind.

The clerk
eyed him over the top of wire- rimmed glasses, then drew the book
back to himself.

“
That will be twenty-five dollars,” the man said.

Christopher didn’t question the cost, nor did he wonder at
how the price could be so exact with taxes figured in. He fished
his wallet out of his back pocket and drew forth a twenty and a
ten. Before the clerk could make change, Christopher snatched the
book off the counter and headed for the door.

“
Sir,” the man called after him, “your receipt...”

The door
swung open and Christopher was out on the street, turning left and
away, not taking another chance at coming within range of the
restaurant. He stumbled down the sidewalk, clutching the book to
his chest and bumping off the wall painfully as he struggled to
keep his feet. The taste of the merlot was bitter and caustic, and
he had the sudden urge to wash it away.

Above
him, a green neon sign flashed.

“
Pandemonium.”

It was a
bar. From the dark doorway, the deep throb of drums and bass guitar
rolled through his nerves. His head still pounded, but now that
throbbing synched with the music, and he turned toward the source.
He knew he hadn’t finished that bottle of wine, but that didn’t
mean he couldn’t drink now. The sound engulfed him.

Three
stairs led down into an ante-room, beyond which a curtained doorway
beckoned. There was a huge man standing beside the curtain, glaring
at him. The man might have been chiseled from marble, gargoyle
guardian of some ancient secret. Christopher fumbled his wallet
from his pocket and held out his driver’s license. The man took the
small card, glancing from the gleaming plastic image to
Christopher, and back again several times. Then, with a curt nod,
he returned the card and turned to face the door to the street
without a word.

Christopher slid his ID into his pants pocket and, still
clutching the book tightly to his chest, slipped though the
curtained entrance and into the music. The bar ran along the rear
wall, backed by mirrors that glittered with borrowed light from the
dance floor and the flickers of color from the throng of bodies
writhing and twisting to the music. Christopher stood very still,
fighting nausea and battling against gravity. It was too much,
after the dark, quiet street – after the restaurant and the
bookstore. Everything was light and sound and motion.

Closing
his eyes and taking a deep breath, he focused and walked in a
straight line to the bar. A tall, thin man, balding on top with a
drooping mustache and long, fine hair that fell over both shoulders
was polishing a glass and watching his approach. No one sat at the
bar, though there was a line of stools. Everyone danced. There were
glasses lined up by most of the seats, and Christopher passed these
by, not wanting a confrontation with a hot, sweaty, angry dancer.
Not wanting a confrontation with anything.

The
bartender stared at Christopher as he slid onto the last stool,
nearest the back, and placed the book carefully on the
counter.

“
Brandy,” he said, “rocks.”

The
bartender nodded, a half-grin catching the same odd humor in these
words that Christopher had intentionally spun from them such a
short eternity before. A quick flick of the man’s wrist and the
glass he’d been polishing slid down the bar to stop directly
against the side of the book. Moments later, the soft clink of ice
was followed by the splash of brandy. Christopher slid the book
away slightly, in case there was a splash. There was
not.

He placed
a ten dollar bill on the bar and grabbed the tumbler, tossing back
a quick gulp and turning to the book. He flipped open the cover,
but it was too dark. Shadows slid back and forth over dim lines of
illegible text. The brandy hit hard, not sitting well on top of the
wine, but Christopher was feeling masochistic. He tossed back half
of what remained in the glass, sucking one of the ice cubes into
his mouth and letting it melt slowly on his tongue. The brandy bit,
but not too hard. Better than he’d expected, though not, he
suddenly reflected, as good as free.

Rising
suddenly, he gulped down the rest of the drink, leaving the change
on the bar, and headed through a beaded curtain above which the
word RESTROOMS glowed neon blue. He wasn’t sure if he was going in
to read, or to return the wine and brandy to the world in a much
less-appealing manner than he’d taken it out, but he knew he had to
get out of the bar. The bass and drumbeats that had lured him
inside vibrated through his bones, and he couldn’t concentrate.
Somehow, concentrating seemed important, though he didn’t even know
what he should concentrate on.

The
book?

He
slipped through the door marked MEN and was relieved to find that
the tiled walls muffled some of the sound. There was one stall with
a door hanging half off its hinges. The combined scent of vomit and
urine permeated the air. The room was lit by a single bare bulb,
jutting out from the wall above a cracked mirror. He stood in front
of the sink, opened the book across one hand and flipped quickly to
the first page.

The walls are too close. They move closer each time I write a
word, and I can see his eyes in each shadow. I change things, send
him away and fill his thoughts with other things - darker things -
but he finds me. Always he finds me, and I’m tired now. So many
words. So many shadows. I feel like the pen has worked its way into
the bones of my fingers, and I’m certain if I tried to let it go,
the muscles would not function, and I would fail.

He can’t
find me. He can’t see me like this – can’t see me at all. If he
were to walk through the doorway and into this room, then I might
have to consider the possibility it is I who do not exist, and that
his actions feed my words, not the other way around. I want more
light. I want to put down the pen and sip cognac. I want to see his
eyes, but I cannot, though I created them that I might drown in
their depths.

The door
to the men’s room slammed open, and a kid with long, spiked hair
and several earrings burst into the room. The door cracked into
Christopher’s elbow and the book tumbled from his hands, falling
into the trash beside the sink amid a pile of condom wrappers and
used paper towels.

“
Hey,” the kid said loudly, stumbling into Christopher again as
he lurched toward the stall across the room, “watch it,
man.”

Christopher didn’t speak. He caught himself on the sink,
scrabbling with one hand into the trash after the book. The kid
ignored him, slammed the door to the stall on it’s broken hinge and
somehow lodged it closed. Christopher groped among damp towels,
shying away from something wet and smooth, and rummaging through
the paper. Nothing. The can was only two feet tall - like the kind
you kept beside your desk when you were in college – nowhere for
something the size of the book to hide. Frantically, he lifted the
can, peering inside, then dumped the contents on the floor and
tossed the can aside, scattering the trash with his foot. Nothing.
It wasn’t there.