HomeAccidental Soul Mates
By Rosemary Cacolice Brown
Despite her aching knees, Marian Tuttle was drawn to the Pacific Bar for the second time this week. It’s garishly trimmed Chinese red door, the colorful lights and exuberant patrons seemed to lift her spirits, the entire lively setting far removed from the nondescript atmosphere of Bethany House, one block over where she slept on a numbered cot and tried to earn her keep by helping to prepare meals in the kitchen.
Once she was a quite a beauty, the evidence remaining in her striking blue eyes, still the color of soft summer skies. Not that it mattered now. With only a thin jacket to shield her from the gusting wind she sat on the so-called “taxi bench,” reserved for patrons who were unaccompanied by designated drivers. Sitting there, she could hear the muted tempo of music throbbing within the Pacific’s walls, which to her mind had no measured meter or familiarity. How nice it would be, she momentarily mused, to hear something old—classically old—that most people her age knew well enough to sing without aid of a songbook.
But that was then and this was now. Most Pacific patrons were far too young to recall anything of the sort, she surmised. As well, they’d bypass her with either indifference or notable disdain as though she were a threatening stain on their menu of frolicking intent—except, of course, for the trickling few exiting the red door. Whether it was pity at the sight of her or their hammered condition from imbibing too long and too late, they’d offer a kind, sympathetic smile.
Whatever the reaction, Marian didn’t—and wouldn’t—respond. Shielded in her self-induced cocoon, she had grown oblivious to effrontery or pity, having long been whipped about by the stark awareness of profound mistakes that eventually paved her way to Bethany House, the whole of it now meshing into one giant blur that she no longer allowed herself to ruminate about. By any stretch, either by design or fading memory, there was no need to pick at the scab of the shambled life she was struggling to survive in.
It was Thursday, nearing midnight—or was it? Whatever, calendar days now evaded her as they rolled on without quest or purpose. Then, just as the gusting wind pulled the Pacific’s noisy merriment out from the red door, a man smelling of liquor and cigarettes staggered through it and glanced her way.
“You here again? So what’s your story?” he asked mockingly as he weaved and sloshed his words.
As always, Marian didn’t react. She had long since learned that responding to questions or antagonisms of any kind served only to heighten the reality of her downward slide into oblivion. A fiftyish man, stout, with graying hair and bulbous nose, he was waiting for a cab, he informed her, wobbly proceeding to sit alongside her. Stiffening, she recovered quickly, remaining mute.
“Forgive me, dear madam,” he then said, settling himself. “That wasn’t nice, was it? It’s just that I’m not thinkin’ straight. I got some serious problems that got me near crazy.”
Again, no response. Marian remained quietly stoic. But, obviously propelled by alcohol, he rolled on.
“So how about I tell you my story while I wait for a cab—that is, if you got time.”
Marian turned, her eyes widening, which he took as permission. He then gathered steam, pulling up and out in one fell swoop the litany of woe he was toting.
“My life’s takin’ a dive, see. My wife of twenty years left me six months ago for that snivelin’ cheat of an accountant that did my taxes. My hardware business is hittin’ the skids big time and bankruptcy’s starin’ me down. Then, just yesterday my no-account son was pulled over for speeding and tossed in jail for hittin’ a cop and resisting arrest.” Animated at his self-imposed podium, he droned on, exhuming his pain with surprising speech-defining clarity considering the wasted state he was in.
Momentarily forgetting her own dismal circumstance, Marian connected, well aware of searing pain in the soul. Nervously, she patted his hand while offering a consoling response. “Pull yourself together, mister. There’s always hope, something good around the corner if you just find patience and hold on…before it’s too late, that is.”
Sighing, he said nothing at first, assessing her advice. Then, sarcastically he replied. “And just what would you know?”
She let it pass. “That you’ll never find hope in a bottle. That’s something I should have considered long ago, when it mattered.”
Lamely, he attempted humor now. “I guess we’re a fine couple of rejects then, huh?”
She was into it now, finding a curious pleasure in the exchange, the one-on-one of it. “I suppose, in a way…”
“Well then, dear lady, we must make a pact, shall we? If I must hope, then you must hope—and what’s your name, anyway?”
After a brief hesitation, she offered it. “Marian.”
“And I’m Harry. Nice to know ya.”
How strange it felt! There they sat in silent bond for awhile as she secretly relished the exchange between them. For so long no one had seriously engaged her about anything—until now. But there it ended as an olive-green taxi rolled to a stop at the curb.
“You’re a good listener, Miss…uh, Marian, and I thank you for your time,” Harry said, standing. “Maybe we can meet up again, say tomorrow night, same time? I’ll be sober by then and would like to hear your story.”
“My story?” Marian asked, stunned by his request.
Chucking, he replied. “Dear lady, I may be soused to the gills but I still know that everybody has one—including you, if I may be so bold!”
As he turned, she watched as this stranger—Harry by name—swayed toward the olive-green taxi, lumbering himself inside. As it grew smaller by distance, she sighed. Would he return? Time would tell. All she knew was that tomorrow night she’d be sitting on the taxi bench outside of the Pacific Bar. But for now she’d have to hurry back, in spite of her aching knees. She’d already missed bed count at Bethany House.
Rosemary writes from her Michigan home whenever time affords. Over time her many stories have been published on Long Story Short, The Houston Literary Review, Apollo's Lyre and The Green Silk Journal. Contact Rosemary. Contact Rosemary.
