“’Flame on!’”
“What?”
“He’d say ‘Flame on!’”
“You’re kidding,” said Elise, “like the comic book guy?”
“Yep. Like the Human Torch from The Fantastic Four.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” She was dumbstruck.
“Nope. Every time.” Allison took a pull on her Corona before adding with a sigh, “Every single time.”
“What, when he came?” Melony asked. She was, in spite of herself, trying to set the scene in her mind’s eye.
“No, Mel,” said Allison, “He’d take off his clothes and he’d jump, literally jump onto the bed! Once he almost broke my hip, and there was this time we went to Vegas – the bed in that room had this huge headboard and - ”
“Allison!” Elise interrupted.
“What!?”
“When would he say it?”
“Mid-air, always mid-air.”
“So,” Melony ran her index finger around the rim of her empty glass, smiled and asked breathily, “Was it hot, Ali?”
“Less like the Human Torch and more like the Flash,” and they all laughed before settling themselves into a pensive silence.
“Shit…” Melony waved to the waitress, but didn’t catch her. On slow nights conversations often trespassed into hyperbole, with each friend competing for the right to seem more angry and alone, but it wasn’t a contest any of them wanted to win. Not really, anyway. It was all just in fun. But tonight there was this urgency beneath it all that gave Allison’s words crispness. They cut through the music and the smoke and told Melony she was getting too old for this.
She took a look around the crowded club and saw all the regulars – the huge black woman with her hair pulled back so tightly it gave her skin a tautness they called “the Chelsea face-lift.” Melony never saw her blink. Not once. The older Latin man – Honduran, she had guessed – off to the side dancing alone. All of them quietly desperate for something or someone that would keep them home on nights like this in the future.
It didn’t used to be this way for Melony. The people, the places – they were all basically the same – but before now, before 35, before men who carried their adolescent fantasies into their adult bedrooms, everything had a lightness to it as she and her friends all sweated possibility into puddles on the dance floor. But if each Saturday night offered the promise of a spark, every Sunday morning delivered – nothing. Flame off.
Melony took the last pull from her beer and, as the waitress wafted over to another table like smoke. It was becoming harder getting up for nights like these, more difficult to feel like she belonged in these clothes and in these places. “Ladies,” Melony announced with a sigh, “this round’s on me. Then I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“Come on Mel,” said Elise. “It’s early.”
“No, El, it’s way too late.”
“Lighten up,” added Allison, “maybe tonight’s different. You don’t know who wi-”
“No,” Melony said flatly. “One more and I’m going home. What do you want?” but she was already three steps to the bar before they could tell her.
“What?”
“He’d say ‘Flame on!’”
“You’re kidding,” said Elise, “like the comic book guy?”
“Yep. Like the Human Torch from The Fantastic Four.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” She was dumbstruck.
“Nope. Every time.” Allison took a pull on her Corona before adding with a sigh, “Every single time.”
“What, when he came?” Melony asked. She was, in spite of herself, trying to set the scene in her mind’s eye.
“No, Mel,” said Allison, “He’d take off his clothes and he’d jump, literally jump onto the bed! Once he almost broke my hip, and there was this time we went to Vegas – the bed in that room had this huge headboard and - ”
“Allison!” Elise interrupted.
“What!?”
“When would he say it?”
“Mid-air, always mid-air.”
“So,” Melony ran her index finger around the rim of her empty glass, smiled and asked breathily, “Was it hot, Ali?”
“Less like the Human Torch and more like the Flash,” and they all laughed before settling themselves into a pensive silence.
“Shit…” Melony waved to the waitress, but didn’t catch her. On slow nights conversations often trespassed into hyperbole, with each friend competing for the right to seem more angry and alone, but it wasn’t a contest any of them wanted to win. Not really, anyway. It was all just in fun. But tonight there was this urgency beneath it all that gave Allison’s words crispness. They cut through the music and the smoke and told Melony she was getting too old for this.
She took a look around the crowded club and saw all the regulars – the huge black woman with her hair pulled back so tightly it gave her skin a tautness they called “the Chelsea face-lift.” Melony never saw her blink. Not once. The older Latin man – Honduran, she had guessed – off to the side dancing alone. All of them quietly desperate for something or someone that would keep them home on nights like this in the future.
It didn’t used to be this way for Melony. The people, the places – they were all basically the same – but before now, before 35, before men who carried their adolescent fantasies into their adult bedrooms, everything had a lightness to it as she and her friends all sweated possibility into puddles on the dance floor. But if each Saturday night offered the promise of a spark, every Sunday morning delivered – nothing. Flame off.
Melony took the last pull from her beer and, as the waitress wafted over to another table like smoke. It was becoming harder getting up for nights like these, more difficult to feel like she belonged in these clothes and in these places. “Ladies,” Melony announced with a sigh, “this round’s on me. Then I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“Come on Mel,” said Elise. “It’s early.”
“No, El, it’s way too late.”
“Lighten up,” added Allison, “maybe tonight’s different. You don’t know who wi-”
“No,” Melony said flatly. “One more and I’m going home. What do you want?” but she was already three steps to the bar before they could tell her.
***
Jack was standing alone, giving his back to the bar, his head bobbing slightly – as if on a string – to the bouncing bass. If he had more confidence, was surer of foot, maybe he would’ve drunk less and danced more. He could make his way into the crowd and create an impenetrable circle of cool with each hip-sway. After a few songs, eyes rich with respect and lust would follow as he made his way back to the bar where a space would magically open for him, not a drop of sweat gracing his haloed brow.
He would choose from amongst the many drinks expecting him there. Then he would casually lean against the edge, arms stretched like angels wings, beatific, waiting to receive and be received. But he was not confident, sure-footed, or sober. He was sweating, staggered and stargazing. Dazzled in the older fashion, when the word had more to do with confusion than comets, and he wanted to be hit in the stomach. No one was swinging.
And he was tired, more tired than he had felt in a very long time. He looked at his watch, but couldn’t see the dial through the dancing lights. It felt late, but he knew that it was too early to leave just yet. He looked around at the crowd and was disturbed by the fact that he recognized more people than he should have, including the short black woman with her hair pulled back in a too-tight ponytail and the immensely large, low-slung breasts that made her seem as wide as she was tall. She never blinked. He sighed, ordered another dose of liquid courage and began to think about heading home, sunk by the dismal fact that he was probably becoming just as recognizable to her. He looked at the door and then at the fresh drink on the bar, his timing had been off all night. He’d drink it on the way out.
Holding his rum and coke above his head, twisting when he should have turned and turning when he should have twisted, he moved through this mass-market of arms and legs, trying to pin down an earthquake with each step until she backed into him and his drink rained down on them both. “Oh shit!” she shouted into the music, putting the back of her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. “Mm weewee sobby fum.”
“What?”
“Am reaby slobby pun, ah med.”
He turned his body sideways, cocked an eyebrow, and slowly shrugged as the bass dropped and she shouted, “I AM REALLY FUCKING SORRY!” into the space between songs. A doughnut of people who came explicitly looking for drama wordlessly formed around them.
But as Jack caught her eye, smiled shyly and said, “That’s okay,” instead of telling her to watch the fuck out, which is what Melony had expected. She found herself reaching out for his arm as he turned to go.
“Wait!” she said a little too loudly, “Let me get you another one of those.” Then she took his hand, and continued towards the bar as the next song punched a hole in the disappointed crowd.
He would choose from amongst the many drinks expecting him there. Then he would casually lean against the edge, arms stretched like angels wings, beatific, waiting to receive and be received. But he was not confident, sure-footed, or sober. He was sweating, staggered and stargazing. Dazzled in the older fashion, when the word had more to do with confusion than comets, and he wanted to be hit in the stomach. No one was swinging.
And he was tired, more tired than he had felt in a very long time. He looked at his watch, but couldn’t see the dial through the dancing lights. It felt late, but he knew that it was too early to leave just yet. He looked around at the crowd and was disturbed by the fact that he recognized more people than he should have, including the short black woman with her hair pulled back in a too-tight ponytail and the immensely large, low-slung breasts that made her seem as wide as she was tall. She never blinked. He sighed, ordered another dose of liquid courage and began to think about heading home, sunk by the dismal fact that he was probably becoming just as recognizable to her. He looked at the door and then at the fresh drink on the bar, his timing had been off all night. He’d drink it on the way out.
Holding his rum and coke above his head, twisting when he should have turned and turning when he should have twisted, he moved through this mass-market of arms and legs, trying to pin down an earthquake with each step until she backed into him and his drink rained down on them both. “Oh shit!” she shouted into the music, putting the back of her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. “Mm weewee sobby fum.”
“What?”
“Am reaby slobby pun, ah med.”
He turned his body sideways, cocked an eyebrow, and slowly shrugged as the bass dropped and she shouted, “I AM REALLY FUCKING SORRY!” into the space between songs. A doughnut of people who came explicitly looking for drama wordlessly formed around them.
But as Jack caught her eye, smiled shyly and said, “That’s okay,” instead of telling her to watch the fuck out, which is what Melony had expected. She found herself reaching out for his arm as he turned to go.
“Wait!” she said a little too loudly, “Let me get you another one of those.” Then she took his hand, and continued towards the bar as the next song punched a hole in the disappointed crowd.
***
The idea that he might be leaving with someone else before the lights came on gave Jack’s steps a clarity that would have doomed their meeting at all had he possessed it a few drinks earlier. Just a moment ago, he was clear about only one thing – he was going to leave alone and be fine with it. Now he didn’t know what he was doing. “My name,” he said to her back as the music reached the roof again, “is Jack.”
“What?”
“It’s Jack. My name is Jack!”
“Hi Zach! I’m Baloney!”
It sounded like she said, “Baloney?”
“Yeah.” she said, turning half around, flashing a bright smile that revealed just a hint of tiredness. And then Jack stopped – walking, being drunk – not because of her name, but because he saw her face through the atmosphere for the first time. It was just a flash. But he could see wisps of dark curls – they could’ve been black or brown – dancing just above sharp, unquestionably green eyes framed by delicate laugh lines at the corners. And he thought he saw freckles. Jack loved freckles. She could be called Oscar Meyer for all he cared.
He let go of her hand, and let her walk a step or two ahead so he could take her all in. She was wearing an outfit she probably couldn’t pull off in the daylight – tight, well-worn jeans that hung low on her hips, and some sort of white stringy blousy thing that seemed to drape off of her left shoulder while not quite reaching her waist. She was curvy and slinky and had a small tattoo of a star twinkling between the dimples that hovered above her beltline and seemed to wink at him in the lights.
“Star of wonder, star of light…” he said smiling as they reached the bar, both of his eyes blinking back.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry, I need to ask you your name again.” Jack could see her more clearly now as they reached the steadier lights of the bar, her brown curls punctuated here and there in the harsh light with a few strands of what might have been gray. The elegant line of her jaw approached his ear, and he felt her breast against his arm as she reached to put her hand on the back of his neck.
“Did you ask me my name again?” she asked.
“Uh, yes.” He had to shuffle a bit. “I don’t think I heard you right the first time.”
“My name,” she said smiling, “is Melony. You need to pay attention, Zack.” Then she turned to the bartender, “A tequila sunrise, and – what drink am I wearing, Zack?”
“It’s Jack.”
“Hmmm,” she smiled. “I’m more of a Jameson’s girl myself, but it’s not a deal-breaker. Jack and what? I’d guess Jack and Coke by the color of these spots on my shirt.”
“No, my name.” Jack explained, “My name is Jack.”
Melony brought the back of her hand up to her mouth and blushed. “Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said when she stopped laughing.
“Yeah, Jack,” snapped the bartender, “nice to meet you. Now what are you drinking? I’ve got people waiti- ”
Jack put a palm up to the bartender, “Hold on a sec’.”
He knew the script called for more drinks, some uncoordinated dancing, and a move to a darker part of the club where more drinks would spur a sloppily executed exploration of each other’s mouths punctuated by a geographical discussion of whose place was closer. Then there’d be a bumpy cab ride to said place, with more drunken kissing and blurred groping. Fast forward to the awkward, possibly unprotected sex that neither would enjoy nor remember when they woke up, and their “relationship” would have all of the impact of air blowing out of a balloon.
If one was awake as the other prepared to leave, there would be insincere exchanges – glances, pleasantries, phone numbers – perhaps real, perhaps not. Otherwise, they would silently part, fazed by the fact that they had once again awakened next to someone they didn’t love and who didn’t love them back. The only thing that would be guaranteed was a return trip here. Alone. Jack was getting too old for that.
“Melony, would you like to go get some coffee? Go someplace where we can actually hear each other talk?”
She smiled, revealing two more dimples Jack hadn’t noticed before. “Sure,” she said, “I’d like that a lot.” Jack was beginning to like dimples almost as much as he liked freckles.
He turned to the bartender, “I’ll have a glass of nothing, on the rocks, with a twist.” He put a ten dollar bill on the counter, took Melony’s hand and said, “Keep the change.”
As they wormed their way through the crowd and towards the door, Jack smiled. Even if Melony had said no, Jack would still be walking, still be heading out to find an all-night diner or donut shop. And he wouldn’t be coming back.
He felt that, for once, he was the man he thought only alcohol could make him.
“What?”
“It’s Jack. My name is Jack!”
“Hi Zach! I’m Baloney!”
It sounded like she said, “Baloney?”
“Yeah.” she said, turning half around, flashing a bright smile that revealed just a hint of tiredness. And then Jack stopped – walking, being drunk – not because of her name, but because he saw her face through the atmosphere for the first time. It was just a flash. But he could see wisps of dark curls – they could’ve been black or brown – dancing just above sharp, unquestionably green eyes framed by delicate laugh lines at the corners. And he thought he saw freckles. Jack loved freckles. She could be called Oscar Meyer for all he cared.
He let go of her hand, and let her walk a step or two ahead so he could take her all in. She was wearing an outfit she probably couldn’t pull off in the daylight – tight, well-worn jeans that hung low on her hips, and some sort of white stringy blousy thing that seemed to drape off of her left shoulder while not quite reaching her waist. She was curvy and slinky and had a small tattoo of a star twinkling between the dimples that hovered above her beltline and seemed to wink at him in the lights.
“Star of wonder, star of light…” he said smiling as they reached the bar, both of his eyes blinking back.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry, I need to ask you your name again.” Jack could see her more clearly now as they reached the steadier lights of the bar, her brown curls punctuated here and there in the harsh light with a few strands of what might have been gray. The elegant line of her jaw approached his ear, and he felt her breast against his arm as she reached to put her hand on the back of his neck.
“Did you ask me my name again?” she asked.
“Uh, yes.” He had to shuffle a bit. “I don’t think I heard you right the first time.”
“My name,” she said smiling, “is Melony. You need to pay attention, Zack.” Then she turned to the bartender, “A tequila sunrise, and – what drink am I wearing, Zack?”
“It’s Jack.”
“Hmmm,” she smiled. “I’m more of a Jameson’s girl myself, but it’s not a deal-breaker. Jack and what? I’d guess Jack and Coke by the color of these spots on my shirt.”
“No, my name.” Jack explained, “My name is Jack.”
Melony brought the back of her hand up to her mouth and blushed. “Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said when she stopped laughing.
“Yeah, Jack,” snapped the bartender, “nice to meet you. Now what are you drinking? I’ve got people waiti- ”
Jack put a palm up to the bartender, “Hold on a sec’.”
He knew the script called for more drinks, some uncoordinated dancing, and a move to a darker part of the club where more drinks would spur a sloppily executed exploration of each other’s mouths punctuated by a geographical discussion of whose place was closer. Then there’d be a bumpy cab ride to said place, with more drunken kissing and blurred groping. Fast forward to the awkward, possibly unprotected sex that neither would enjoy nor remember when they woke up, and their “relationship” would have all of the impact of air blowing out of a balloon.
If one was awake as the other prepared to leave, there would be insincere exchanges – glances, pleasantries, phone numbers – perhaps real, perhaps not. Otherwise, they would silently part, fazed by the fact that they had once again awakened next to someone they didn’t love and who didn’t love them back. The only thing that would be guaranteed was a return trip here. Alone. Jack was getting too old for that.
“Melony, would you like to go get some coffee? Go someplace where we can actually hear each other talk?”
She smiled, revealing two more dimples Jack hadn’t noticed before. “Sure,” she said, “I’d like that a lot.” Jack was beginning to like dimples almost as much as he liked freckles.
He turned to the bartender, “I’ll have a glass of nothing, on the rocks, with a twist.” He put a ten dollar bill on the counter, took Melony’s hand and said, “Keep the change.”
As they wormed their way through the crowd and towards the door, Jack smiled. Even if Melony had said no, Jack would still be walking, still be heading out to find an all-night diner or donut shop. And he wouldn’t be coming back.
He felt that, for once, he was the man he thought only alcohol could make him.
Header art by T. Guzzio. Original photo by G. Groutas.
CONNECT WITH TOM:
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In addition to editing Prodigal's Chair, Tom is a teacher, father, husband, writer, artist, futbol fan and slightly maladjusted optimist. This particular short-short story was inspired by a song of the same name by Arctic Monkeys - a band from Sheffield in the UK. Tom still lives in Beverly, Massachusetts with his wife and their aging (yet still ticking) cocker spaniel, Honey (who approves this message). You can connect with him on Twitter @t_guzzio, or via email at [email protected].
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