Featured Writer: Scott Leslie

Closing Time

I won’t lie to you. When Jake first lugged that suit of armour in the front door, sweating like a pig in heat, I was sure it was a bad idea. Not that Jake was gonna take a heart attack or anything. But here at The Glass Onion we got sports jerseys, we got Coors Light. I didn’t see what a suit of armour had to do with shit. But hey, Jake’s the man footing the bills. If he says: "Dutch, we’re turning the place into a Chuck E. Cheese," who am I to argue?

I don’t knowwhere he picked the thing up exactly. I think it was some garage sale up in Wingham. It’s not even the real deal—just some painted up sheet metal—but you know, standing there with his sword, I guess old Art don’t look too shabby after all. That’s short for "King Arthur" Jake was saying. But I never was much for all that Hercules stuff so he might be pulling my leg. Yeah, in the right light Art looks like he could take out Superman and still have change to spare.

But when Jake first set Art up, I was sure the kids would be messing with him—bending his fingers, knocking him around. Next thing you know, there’s old Dutch having to bust a few heads.

Man, was I wrong. I swear Art’s bigger than God here some days. Why, I bet every frat boy in Windsor has rubbed that guy’s head after they’ve had a few. Or a few too many.

See Shelley Anderson was the one came up with the idea of rubbing Art and making a wish.Just the usual stuff, you know. "C’mon Art, let me win the Lotto this week." or"Please, don’t letmy old lady know I’m here!"

But you gotta know Shell.

Shell’d been up in Sarnia a few years laying drywall before he gave that shit up and moved back here. He just started shift work over at Binbrook Industrial last winter. Not that he talked about it much. Far as I know, all they do at Binbrook is put things on top of other things. Hell, I pour stuff in a glass so I’m one to talk.

That Shell’s never at a loss for words though. He’d sit there at the end of the bar after work, scooping another handful of beer nuts, popping them one by one while he flipped through a ratty old Toronto Sun.

"Hey. Whadda you think of this one, Dutch?"

Shell and I checked out the latest Sunshine Girl—some pretty young thing with her legs in different time zones. Looking to get into environmental biology or something.

"I don’t know, Shell. I’ve seen better."

"Ah, c’mon. Look at the luggage on that girl..."

"That stuff don’t do nothing for me. Not when I got my Liz to keep me honest."

Shell’d sit there rolling his eyes like I just told him cows can fly.

"Dutch...don’t get me wrong. Liz is the best! Sweeeet, sweet woman..." Shell tapped his paper doll for emphasis. "But this girl...this one’d take you places you’ve never been before..."

"Yeah. Like prison."

Shell nearly spit his beer across the counter, and we laughed like little schoolboys. He grabbed his beer and gave me a warning finger before swilling the last of it into his mouth.

"You know, Dutch," he’d say, "I ever get a piece of ass like that, I’d be one happy man. Yeah...one lucky son of a bitch."

And if you know Shell, "Lucky" was not that kid’s middle name.

You might’ve heard about that St. Mike’s Majors game he was in. It was in all the papers. See Shell was wearing the "C" for the Spitfires back when he was twenty, twenty-one. I used to watch him all the time—a real head turner that kid. I think the league was even talking about drafting him at one time. Anyway, it was the playoffs, and Shell was cutting up ice for a breakaway. Had the goalie dead to rights. Suddenly, some St. Mike’s guy cuts the legs out from under him, and he just dropped like a rock. Went headfirst right into the boards. They had to pull the kid out of there on a stretcher. Next thing you know, Shell wakes up and all he knows is he’s got a grade three concussion—and he can’t ever play hockey again. Yep, that kid could have been another Davie Keon, and then he gets dealt a hand like that.

We even had Shell’s team photo up here before Jake went and took the thing down. Jake said it was one fucking bad idea. Like taking a six-pack to an AA meeting. Sure, I can see what he’s saying now. But at the time, it fit right in with the pennants we got up.

You don’t dare mention Shell’s name around this place anymore. Not now at least. Jake says: "That bastard Shell—he did us in! The kiss of death that guy!" But to be honest, Jake, he don’t know a thing about Shell or what really happened.

And he don’t know what I done.

Look, I’d never met Shell’s girl Crystal before. But Shell was in here—God, at least three times a week—so that’s telling you something. To hear him tell it, that girl was ragging him something awful.

"Dutch, what am I gonna do with that girl?" he said one night before last call,"Last night she threw a bottle at me! Said she was sick of me out spending our money all the time. Man, I try to drag her out but she won’t go. All Crystal wants to do is stay home any more."

Now when guys start telling me stories like that, I usually picture some babe with the sheets hiked up to her neck watching "Nightline". I don’t picture any good time girls.But Crystal, she’s a whole nother story.

From what I hear, she used to be a hard core puck bunny ‘til Shell came along. You know. One of those "back of the bus" girls running around with stars in their eyes and stars in their mouths.After their engagement, I guess that’s all ancient history.But with those two, it’s one of them off again, off again things. Maybe it was some five-year plan.

Shell, he just sat there and drained another shot.

"I mean, shit. If it’s all about money, why doesn’t she out go out and make some cash?"

"Why don’t you two take a vacation? Get away for a while? My friend’s got a nice place up on Scugog..."

"I don’t know," he said, twisting his ring, "I just keep trying and trying and we’re getting nowhere. What’s your secret with Liz?"

"You know what they say about never going to bed angry?" Shell nodded. "It’s the truth! Eighteen years now and we haven’t had a rough spot yet. It doesn’t matter what it is. If you’re honest with each other, and talk things through, that’ll solve your problems right there..."

"Really."

"Yep. That and some sweet monkey love!" I was sure a crack like that would get a rise out of the kid. All I got was a shrug and a shake of his head.

"I wish it was that easy..." he said.

"How long you two been together now?"

"Six years this June."

"Kid, life’s too short. If she doesn’t know a good thing, well, maybe it’s time to move on. There’s other fish in the sea..."

Shell peeled the label off his Canadian and left its crumpled husk on the bar.

"Dutch, c’mon. My head turning days are over. Who’s gonna fall for a sad sack of shit like me?"

I just dumped out an ashtray and pointed to the other end of the bar.

"Make a wish, my friend!" I said. "Art’s calling your name."

I’m sure Shell was half in the bag at the time. But wouldn’t you know, the kid walks right up to Art, mouths a few words, and gives the guy’s head a good shine.

Now except for the occasional free coffee at Timmy’s, I don’t think Art’s come through for anybody. But if wishing makes them feel better, hey, more power to them. And damn if Art didn’t work his magic after all! But not like I was expecting.

I’ll never forget the next time I saw Shell. The place was jumping. We must’ve had capacity that night or damn close. I think The Stones were playing—"Under My Thumb" maybe—and I spotted Shell down at the end watching the game. I hadn’t seen the kid in weeks. So I go over just to say "how’d you do," and I see he’s got himself wrapped around a fine piece of arm candy. This girl had these white pants with a red leather vest up to there and tits out to here. You’d think the place was a cathouse the way this girl dressed. And I mean that in a nice way.

Now Shell’ll be crowding thirty soon. And this little chippie couldn’t be more than seventeen, eighteen tops. But the light wasn’t too good and fool I was, I start saying, "So, this is the little woman..." and that’s when I noticed Shell’s hand. The ring was gone and Christ, Shell gave me a look that could kill.

He didn’t say nothing for a moment and his girl went to powder her nose or something. After a while he looked up at the set and said: "Leafs gonna win the Cup this year, Dutch?"

"Don’t know, Shell. I think they still got another year to go. Maybe two."

"Yeah," he said. "Get the girl a Canadian for me, huh?"

Now situation like that, what I wanted to say was: "C’mon, kid—what’re you cruising day care now? Give your head a shake!"

What I did say was: "That’ll be three seventy-five."

Cause in my line of work, sometimes you gotta look the other way. My dad, he came from the old country and that’s just the way I was brought up. Besides, Shell could do no wrong with this girl. Christ, the kid was a new man. So what do I care? You only live once, right?

I fixed the two of them up with some brews and Shell gives me a wink.

"Okay, my friend...spill it. Who’s the cutie?"

"Amanda? She’s a check out girl over at Zehrs. We met a few weeks back and just hit it off." He flashed a smile about a mile wide. "She’s been working a lot of overtime this week...bagging my groceries..."

I laughed and Shell gave me a high five like he’d just hit one out of the park and touched them all.

"You da man, Shell!" I said, spreading out my hands. "What I tell ya?"

"I know. Don’t mess with the power of Art..." The kid paused then gave me a sheepish look. "Little young, huh?"

"What? No. Course not! What’s that old saying..? If there’s grass on the infield, it’s time to—play ball!" I ripped open a bag and topped up the beer nuts. "So. What about Crystal?"

Shell didn’t say a thing. He just smiled that dopey grin of his and swiped a finger across his throat so I gave him the thumbs up and dropped it altogether. Shell hoisted his beer and gave the screen a nod.

"Hey," he said, looking over his shoulder, "What’s Art think about the Leafs’ chances? Maybe I should put some money down."

I leaned over the old iron man and gave the guy a listen.

"Damn...Art says: Go Habs go!"

We both had a good laugh over that one. Shell put Art in a headlock and wrapped an arm around him like he’s his best friend in the world. And the look in that kid’s eyes, well, it was just a sight to see.

"God..." he said, "Life’s just too fucking short, eh Dutch?"

When Amanda got back, the two of them hung at the bar for a while to catch the game. Ten minutes later, when I came in from the back, there was a big tip waiting for me. But both of them were gone.

Well, that was back when we were really rocking. You could shoot a cannon through the place now. Nights like these—just me and Art minding the store—I make myself a few just for the hell of it. Scooby Snack is Shell’s big favourite. Just take some coconut rum, throw in some melon liqueur, a little milk and bang—it’s down the hatch. Hell, it keeps me busy.

Sure, I know The Onion’s seen better days—back when Jill and Corky were still working and all the coin was coming in. Now all we get are those damn kids. The ones want to see where the blood was. There’s punks like that all the time. Limp wrist bastards. If I see one of them one more time I’ll—there’s nothing there! God, I should know—I cleaned it up myself. It’s been eight, nine months now. Sometimes I can’t blame them. You walk in and it just hits you.

You probably heard all the stories by now. It was last August. Ladies’ Night. Our big cash cow. Shit, real good night, I’d break a hundred in tips easy. I can still see the lights running up the bar, all the girls hanging out, looking to score some bait. They‘d sidle up to the bar with their sweet perfumes and tight pants, their little eyes dancing like it was prom night or something. Christ, there was so much smoke and bodies in the place, I didn’t give her a second look ‘til she started asking.

"Shelley around?"

It was some little girl in a halter-top, her hair pulled back in a black ponytail. High cheekbones. Pretty girl, mind you, but nothing special in my book.

"Anderson?" I said. "Yeah, he’s here. Try the pool table out back. Can’t miss him."

I didn’t think much of it at the time. I mean, everybody knows Shell so people are asking for him all the time. Sure she’d knocked a few back. She’d had two or three screwdrivers off me at least—and who knows what that girl had before she walked in. But she was holding it pretty well. I have a real eye for that kinda stuff. Or thought I had.

Few minutes later, some girls are ordering a pair of Coronas. So I go to dice up a lime or two and that’s when I heard it. Someone screaming—low at first—then it just picked up steam and everyone was falling over each other like a house of cards hit the wind. Anyway, I was over that bar with my Louisville Slugger in a second and just hit the ground running. I’d never used it much—a few mice, maybe a rat or two—but right then I was ready to whale on somebody.

I know "Last Dance With Mary Jane" was still playing in the back. I won’t forget that. It was so god dam loud, I couldn’t hear a word anyone was saying. There was a group of them over by the pool table and everyone was scrambling around. So I start pushing bodies out of there to see what’s going on. There’s two guys and this babe of Shell’s trying to pin that pony-tailed girl against the wall. Ponytail’s got blood up her arm, and she’s thrashing around, bawling something fierce. I’m just about to go stepping for them when I look at my feet and-

Sweet Jesus.

There was a switchblade lying out on the linoleum. And Shell right beside. Still. His neck all tore open, red as a slaughterhouse.

I looked over at the guys, Ponytail still struggling like she was cut, her face all wet, and her just staring at me as they finally went down, that terrible wounded look in her eye. And that’s when I knew it.

I’d just met Crystal.

Sometimes I wake up with the cold sweats just thinking about it. Fuck, Shell didn’t ask for that. No one does. Maybe if I hadn’t egged Shell on, I’d be cracking one open for him right now: "Here you go, kid! This one’s on me!" But there’s no use beating yourself up over all that shit. I can’t save the world, can I? I mean, that’s not my job, is it?

Jake’s gonna be back from Lauderdale in a few weeks just like every year. And that day’s coming soon. I know it. He’ll walk in one morning smooth as anything, sit me down, and say: "Dutch...we just can’t do it, man," and out go the lights.Liz’ll pick me up from her shift at Shoppers, we’ll sit out in the parking lot with a two-four, and that’ll be it.

Art knows what I’m talking about. Right, Art?

You know, I still think he’s gonna pull one out for me. Really. Somedays I’ll walk by, shine him up some, and just wish things were different. I know he’s all dust now but if I clean him up, give him a bit of polish, he’s a hell of a show. If you open up the visor, you can even look inside. Sure, it smells like a cigarette died in there. But sometimes if I listen closely—really closely—Art says he’ll save my ass.

And Christ, I won’t lie to you.

He’s just gotta.

Scott Leslie's work has appeared in several publications including The Siren, Blue Murder Magazine, Writual, Satire Weekly and Starry Night Review. His story "A String Of Pearls" was recently included in the audiobook "Oscar's Hijack" by Blackstone Audio.

Email: Scott Leslie

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