#chinaski's

Beth, the social editor from the local weekly and I sit in a booth at Chinaski’s. She checks the small wireless microphone hidden beneath a snarky button pinned to her black vest. “Can you hear me?” I nod. “I can’t believe I’m doing this shit.” “You wanted to see if I could help a straight woman get another woman’s phone number for your story. How’s your les-dar/bi-dar?” “Fuzzy.” “Mine is pretty decent.” I point to a woman sitting at the bar, the upper part of left arm has a smaller version of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” tattooed on it. “You’ve got a good shot with her. If you were into women, she would be your type.” “How do you know that?” I point to Beth’s ink on her chest, scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces, “Because you’re both into interesting body art. Generally people into that level of tattooing also are sexually open. At least that’s my experience.” Beth blushes and glares. “Are you ready.” Beth nods. “Good. Lead in with the body art then go from there. I’ll be listening.” Beth gets out of the booth. I watch her slowly walk toward the museum. I’m sorry for bothering you but I love your tat. Who did it? spills through my ear piece. I have a guy at the Burning Buddha who’s also an art major. He really did a great job capturing the panic. Who did yours? As the museum asks, I watch her fingertips ‘accidentally’ graze Beth’s chest. Beth’s smile doesn’t come out forced.

I’m keeping the salt away from Henry’s wounds tonight. This was supposed to be a stitch job, a phone number here, a garbled promise there but I wasn’t expecting his ex to be working her way into a sandwich at the bar. Sitting in front of him, I lean in close and mutter “Nothing’s really here, man. We should head over to Chinaski’s.” “Chinaski’s a fuckin’ dive. I don’t want my dick gettin’ Hep B.” I match Henry daring glance for darting glance like smoke. “Why are you tryin’ to hide something? What’s goin’ on?” “As your wingman, do you trust me?” Henry nods. “Get up, slowly, and walk out of the bar. Don’t stop walking until you’re two blocks away and don’t look back. I’ll count to five after you get up and follow. Understood?” Henry nods again, slides the stool back slightly and starts heading toward the door. When I mouth ‘four’, the music cuts out long enough for me to hear his ex yelling his name. As Henry pivots to turn around, I briskly walk over, wrap my arm around hm and lead him out the door. I hope his name in her voice didn't slap against Henry’s beer buzz like a sliding glass door, that we don’t spend hours cleaning up the mess.