Nine Hundred Dollars

by Susan Cameron

“This bar smells like forty years of spilled beer and armpits,” said Sheila. “I don’t get it." She sipped her red wine. "Spoons had decent food and good drinks and we weren’t risking hepatitis. Why did we switch to this beer-and-wine portapotty?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s Timmy’s hangout. Timmy made the call.”

“You can buy a drinkable two dollar bottle of wine at TJ’s. Where did they even find wine this bad? The first glass tasted like somebody’s grandfather’s feet were in it.”

Jim grinned at her. “Why are you drinking your second glass, then?”

“The first one murdered half my taste buds, so the second one seems only half as bad.” She took another sip. “I don’t drink beer, so this is the alternative.” She looked at the glass in her hand. “I drank Mad Dog and T-Bird in my wasted youth, so I’ll probably survive this too. But still.” She shook her head. “I think I’m getting too old to drink bad wine.”

“I have no suggestions. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Then tell me something else. Did Timmy steal the tip money we all left for the Spoons waitress last week?”

Jim shifted his weight and looked away.

“He did, didn’t he? That’s why we wound up here. She always took good care of the twelve of us. I liked her.”

“I don’t know,” he said to the beer mug in his hand.

Sheila looked at him and nodded. “I heard he lost another job. I heard he’s nine hundred bucks behind in his rent. That waitress’s tip money wouldn’t have put a dent in it.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I don’t get involved.” Jim gestured at the newly-vacated pool table they’d been waiting for. “We’re up. You want to rack ‘em or break ‘em?”

“Neither.” She finished her glass and set it on the dirty table. “It’s getting late. Busy day tomorrow -- I've got an employee I need to fire. I should get out of here.”

He checked his watch. “Yeah, I probably should too. Dude!” he said, looking up and behind Sheila. “I’m outta here.” He stood up. “You need a ride tonight?”

“No, I’m cool,” said Timmy. He carried a beer in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “I’m going to stick around a little while.”

“Okay, later.”

“Later.” He set the wine in front of Sheila and took Jim’s place. “Got you something.”

She shook her head. “It’s getting late, and two’s pretty much my limit these days.”

“Aw, come on. Everybody’s leaving and I don’t want to go home yet.” He cocked his head and smiled. “Come on, stick around and keep me company. I already bought the wine.”

She felt a twinge of annoyance but shook it off. Nobody was waiting for her at home, so what the hell? “I guess one more won’t hurt. Thanks.”

“Cool.” Timmy smiled, scooted his chair in closer, and slightly adjusted his backwards baseball cap, tucking his dark hair behind his ears. Sheila had never seen him without the cap. It seemed to be his talisman, or a battered security blanket.

“So,” he said. “I really liked your story.”

“It’s almost there,” she said. “I got a lot of good advice from the group tonight.” She sipped the third glass of wine. “I knew I needed to tweak it a little, but sometimes I look and look at my writing for so long I stop seeing what’s there. I can’t put my finger on what's wrong.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said, sipping his beer. “It happens to everybody.”

"That’s true.” Funny thing about bad wine, she thought – by the time you hit the third glass, it’s not so bad any more.

“You know, Sheila, I think the talent level in our group is incredibly high.”

“I think so, too.” She sipped her wine and nodded.

"So many good writers."

"Absolutely."

“Collectively, we’ve been producing some really excellent stories.”

“Yes, we have.”

“And I’ve been thinking, it’s about time for us to showcase our work.”

“Um, yeah?”

Timmy leaned in. “I thought, why not a chapbook?”

“A chapbook?”

“Printing a chapbook would be a great thing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so.”

“I looked into it, and it really wouldn’t cost that much.”

“Is that right?”

“Not as much as you might think.”

“Really?”

“It’s actually pretty reasonable.”

“How much?”

“Only nine hundred dollars.”

She looked at her glass, then at Timmy’s face. “Nine hundred dollars.”

He nodded. “Just nine hundred dollars, which really isn’t so much if you stop and …”

“I gotta pee, Timmy.” Sheila put down her glass, stood up and wobbled her way to the ladies’ room. She washed her hands, opened a stall door, knelt down and heaved without even having to stick her fingers down her throat. When she was finally done, she hauled herself up, walked to the sink, cupped her hands and rinsed and gargled until the taste of red wine sick was gone. She looked at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror and got the eyedrops out of her purse, brushed her hair, put on lipstick, popped a stick of gum in her mouth. When she left the bathroom, Timmy was still at the table, waiting for her.

“Way past time for me to go, Timmy.”

She saw him sigh. “Okay. Me too. I’ll walk you out.”

They stood outside under the light of the bar’s neon sign and she smiled at him. You’ve got to appreciate the snake that rattles first, she thought, and she gave him a big hug goodbye. “See you.”

She staggered to her car, sat in the driver’s seat and looked in the rearview mirror. Timmy had unlocked a bicycle and was straddling it in front of the bar, looking at his reflection in the window. He pulled off his baseball cap, and under the red neon light his bald head glowed like a three-ball. He smoothed the hair that remained around the perimeter, put the cap on backwards just so, the way he'd been doing it for twenty years, and rode off into the darkness.

As Sheila put her key in the ignition, she saw a cop car creep along the street in front of her, trolling for drunks. She sighed and pulled out the key. She opened the glovebox, found her earbuds and player, and settled in for an hour’s worth of tunes. If she wasn’t careful, this could be one very expensive night.

Susan Cameron, copyright 2010