But Linda wasn’t in the pub.
Brenda was in her place, and she was doing an Irish jig all over his scar tissue, ripping him open with every heel-toe. He knew that she had come to the pub just for him. To rub it in. To show him that someone wanted her enough to marry her. She kept eyeing him. Winking or twirling a finger around a perfect yellow ringlet, when she caught him looking.
His palms were sweaty. And for the first time in a long while he felt nervous as he played.
“All right, lassies and gents, why don’t we take a wee break, so I can wet me whistle,” he finished.
He strolled past the wedding party, giving Brenda a cordial nod, trying to be polite without getting too close. Her eyes were surveillance, recording him. She was smacking purple gum.
Sitting at the bar, the singer coughed and ran a hand through his chestnut hair before sipping his pint. Wally thought more about Linda and how if she were there he would be having a drink with her right now. He would be smelling her clean hair, instead of standing alone at the corner of the bar in the middle of a crowded room. It amazed him how alone he felt in crowds of people. Though he was an entertainer — and not half bad, he thought, compared to the other hundreds of flimsy acts in town — when it came time to be part of the group, the circles of people around him made him dizzy. The feeling was always difficult for him, yet with her there he could usually get by, taking in her stories about work, how her day went, who she saw, what she bought. But now the lounge singer was alone in his own arena.
The middle man in the gray suit was examining him closely. Wally started to perspire through his clothes.
He wanted to leave. No one’ll notice if there’s no second half, he thought. But who was he kidding? It was packed for a Wednesday night. And even though he could afford the night off, he couldn’t lose this gig. The manager would never have him back if he left midway through a show.
Swallowing down his black and tan, he could feel the thickness of the room: the ad-hoc drinking songs and the clinking of shot glasses and the ringing of bells when someone hit the jackpot on the dollar slots.
He tried to concentrate on his beer, focusing on the top of it, thinking how by now Linda’s bright pink lipstick would be pressed onto the rim of the glass. He secretly liked the taste of her lipstick, and when she wasn’t looking he would drink specifically from that part of the glass. She could make an ordinary beer into a first-rate cocktail, he thought.
But now there was no kiss on the side of his glass, and this beer was just like every other beer. Just a beer. Nothing more.
He gulped down the rest anyway, flicking two dollar bills onto the bar.
He turned around to see the bride standing behind him.
“Hey, lass. Congratulations on your day,” he offered, leaning away from her.
“Yeah, thanks, man. You’re the bomb.”
“You too, hun,” he said, not quite knowing what the bomb was, wishing she’d go away.
Her French-manicured acrylic nails became claws closing in on her glass. She smiled, looking up at him. Right then, she actually seemed sweet in her fancy gown, her eyelashes curled and black. He remembered how much she used to adore him. He missed being adored.
“You know, I’m not really Irish,” he said, softening.
“That’s okay, I’m not really blond.”
They both laughed. Her giggle was fake. His chuckle was nervous.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.
“Because I can. Because I wanted you to see me in my pretty white dress. Don’t you think I’m pretty?” she said, leaning over her drink, tipping her cleavage out even further.
He hated her right then, but he was attracted too.
“You’re a cruel woman.”
“It’s part of my charm,” she smiled.
“I like your lipstick.” He couldn’t help himself.
She bit her bottom lip just slightly.
“The color is called Tempt. Are you tempted?” She smiled wider, then walked away, looking over her shoulder. She wiggled.
He told himself that he had to quit this jester-like job and find better pay doing something more normal. He was tired of cover songs and dark walls. He was tired of running into shades of his past. He wanted to emerge on the other side of this a better man.
He stared at Brenda’s train as it slithered away on the dirty floor. Not marrying Linda was the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and he knew it right then. Graceful Linda with long limbs and blue eyes. She left him and Vegas. He had heard she was with a wealthier musician now. Probably touring around Europe. Eating French cheese from the hands of that rich man. Bathing with him in an Alps-sheltered chateau.
Wally was stuck in the same pub, and he had one more set to play before he could pick up his paycheck on the fourth floor, drink a Guinness for breakfast, and then walk out of the well-lit casino into the 6 a.m. sun.
He exhaled, moving back to his half-moon stage, feeling more himself as he stepped away from the pack of people.
The middle man in the gray suit came to the stage with a twenty-dollar bill for the tin tip jar. Wally swallowed.
Middle man had long fingers and big teeth. His hair was white and slick.
“What would you like to hear, my friend?” Wally asked.
“Why don’t you play ‘Danny Boy.’ I like that one,” the old drinker said, straight-faced.
“Oh, yeah, sure. It’s my favorite,” Wally lied.
He quickly belted out the old hymn, not concerned if it was perfect or even if it sounded good. He was sick of singing and sick of being there and sick of seeing Brenda jiggling her parts all over the pub. That middle man was making him nervous, and he knew he had to get out.
Ending just after 11 p.m., he no longer cared if he left early. He grabbed his guitar case and stumbled off the stage, hurriedly heading up to the fourth floor to grab his check. Rushing through the tawny casino, a million little lights all around him. Cigar smoke rising. The face of a huge masked joker bolted to the wall. Bold baccarat signs and spinning roulette wheels. G-stringed cocktail waitresses sauntering through the aisles. Pit bosses sternly standing by, arms folded. One-armed bandits stealing money left and right. Cherry, seven, six.
He stabbed at the elevator button, wanting to hurry up and run out of the whole place. Out of the casino, out of the parking lot, and maybe out of town.
As soon as he got into the brassy elevator, he was locked inside a private funhouse. The mirrored interior gave Wally eight different images of himself. He hated every one. He stared at the floor. Grotesque casino carpet was better to look at.
His head was bowed. His heart was near his knees. It was a long ride. As the elevator ascended, for a moment he wondered if you go to hell, do you feel like you are going up instead of down? The devil’s parting trick.
Finally floor four came, and he dashed out down the hall to human resources. He had reached the end of the hallway when he heard a steel door click shut, then a swishing behind him. He turned around and at the other end of the hall, near the stairwell, he saw her.
There she was in all her tan and white glory. Psycho, fat-toed Brenda. The deranged harpy was up on the fourth floor, she’d followed him up there. Holding out the sides of her wide dress as wings.
“What are you doing?” he uttered, scurrying toward an emergency exit.