Closers

For Joey: a ghost—as always.

I

A

I am in Sendera, finishing up Dad's estate. I haven't been here in 25 years but I'm out of court before noon and I'm hungry. I drift down Main Street and god damn if I don't find Closers. Or what used to be Closers. Now it's called Downtown Texican Bar and Grill. It looks run down. I consider passing it but I’m not seeing much in the way of alternatives.

Fuck it. I need fuel.

I walk in. Look around.

Last time I was here I was 17 years old and Joey Closer and I were sitting side by side in a booth near the kitchen in the back, after the place was closed for business on a Friday night, chairs upside down on the tables, Fabuloso thick in the air, each of us with a Tecate in hand. I drank mine. He mostly looked at his. His father, Mike, came out every once in a while, made sure we were okay. Joey and I talked about everything that night: girls, Trig III, the beginning of the universe, President Reagan, Miss Collins' fine ass, the end of the world, who we were, who we wanted to be. We continued talking as Mr. Closer drove us home at midnight. Mr. Closer dropped me off and I went to bed weary, wanting to call Rhonda but doing no such thing from the corded family phone in the living room.

Dad's estate consisted of that same Friday night abode, a one story, single family brick domicile in what used to be Sendera's first suburb. Actually, I suppose it still holds that distinction, which is to say, no distinction at all. The town has, let’s say, moved on. My only brother will get the house as a result of my father's wishes but not his will, which was never written. Okay, I'm the lawyer: I never wrote it. After Mom died and my only sister disappeared with her junkie ex-husband, I never really saw the point. The only person left to screw this up was me and I was too busy cheating on Amber to mess with my tender brother’s only home. The judge and I made it official this morning: Jake, the family homestead is yours.

We, Amber and I, had slow-burned through the last six months of our marriage. The lasting damage was the same as a quick slash and burn would have been. It just took us longer. My severance package was filled with enough regret for both cities I was bouncing between.

Jake can have our boyhood home and this shitty South Texas city. Take it. The only sentiment I had towards that pack-rat house were the times Joey and Rhonda and I hung out there on the sectional, mostly drinking beer obtained with fake ID's or Dad’s pilfered booze, occasionally getting high.

I am taking a seat at the remodeled Closers (Under New Management!), waiting to order coffee. Coffee first. Then maybe a Tecate for old times.

Waiting on the wait person, I remember the night Joey’s dad drove us home. Overhearing our discourse, Mr. Closer said, "You boys would do better to buckle down on your grades than daydream about the future. You know what I think, I think tomorrow is a road that goes nowhere." Then he chuckled and said, "Huh. I like that," as if it was the first time he'd heard it. Maybe it was.

The waitress breaks the memory and I place my order, the comfort of food on my mind, like Glen Campbell wailing about Galveston.

Mr. Closer was wrong. Future Road does go somewhere. Right back to where it all fucking started.

My mind drifts. I break out my notebook. I'm working on this story called "Finishing Last" about Amber leaving me again. I'm almost done. She finished first.

The cute Hispanic waitress, “Amy,” according to the stitching on her blouse, brings my coffee and fried egg sandwich, side of refried beans and a flour tortilla. Food is cheap here. I finish lunch off with a second cup of coffee, tip her 100%, skip the beer and walk back to my rental.

I wish that I had called Rhonda on that black and white night, whispering on the phone by the kitchen.

B

A year passes with no relief from the pain. It’s more or less constant now. In Technicolor, each time Amber leaving me worse than the time before. I need to go back to Sendera to end the probate, get Jake to sign a closing affidavit, a mere formality, like the judge granting Amber my second divorce, the damage done, the healing refusing to come.

I did reach out to Rhonda Diaz before my return trip, making good on that phone call I never made, after some Facebook sleuthing and I also (maybe the same buzzed, frustrated night) messaged my most recent failure, Cynthia. Cynthia did not respond. Rhonda did.

Turns out Rhonda works the cosmetic counter at the new Dillards in Sendera. Commutes from Tivoli. Does she want to see me? Sure, why not? A ringing endorsement. I mention Texican and she says OK. Then she does some Internet sleuthing of her own and finds out that Texican is in the old Closers location. Texts a few hours later: can we change the venue? That’s where I want to see you, I answer. I’ll let you know, she replies. I book another rental.

II

A

I'm in Sendera, Texas, filing a closing affidavit signed by my brother Jake for Dad's estate. I haven't been here in a year but I'm out of court hours before noon and I'm hungry. I drift down Main Street to Downtown Texican Bar and Grill. I need fuel. I walk in. Look around. Find a booth at the window. A cute waitress walks up, “Amy” stenciled on her blouse. Coffee, she asks. I don’t know, I respond. She shrugs and starts to walk away.

“Do you have Tecate,” I ask after her.

She hesitates.

“You have to wait until eleven,” she replies, adding, “sir.”

“Amy,” I ask her, “do you remember when this place was Closers?”

The kitchen, its noises and smells faint, is behind her.

“ No sir,” she replies.

“Before your time,” I ask, grinning.

She forces an uncomfortable laugh without smiling, nods her head once, her fake blond hair falling forward slightly, “Ha. Yes, sir.”

“Amy, I used to come in here when I was 17, before I could legally drink; my friend’s dad owned the place and, after closing, he’d let us drink a few Tecates before driving us home. Do you think—“

“Mija” someone yells from the kitchen.

Amy says, “I’ll see what I can do, Mister,” she trails off.

“Barrios,” I reply, the answer to a question she didn’t care to ask.

As she walks away, I spread the Sendera Advocate out on the table in front of me, Texas’ second oldest newspaper. I imagine Jake sitting across from me, asking for the obituaries. I sense a look from the kitchen, sizing me up. The cook would see a black shirt, red Target tie, black Hagar pants, an older gentleman, dark hair, clean shaven, the sun creeping through the window, illuminating the newspaper in front of him. I hear a somewhat angry “bueno” from his direction. I’m at the comics. A few moments later, Amy wordlessly puts a naked Tecate in front of me. I look up at her. Damn if she isn’t smiling, her back to the kitchen.

After the beer is half gone, bored, I go back to the first page of the Advocate. I keep flipping through the sections, finishing off the beer as Amy pushes a menu in front of me. “You should eat,” she says, not smiling, her back firmly turned against the kitchen.

“Something with bacon,” I reply, removing the menu from the financials and handing it back to Amy. Is Rhonda ghosting me?

Amy disappears, menu in hand. Nice ass, I absentmindedly think to myself, watching her behind sway away from me, side to side.

I'm dead-ending this damn paper at the obits, reading about three people who died in Sendera yesterday. I imagine: homicide, suicide, old age. My phone dies.

Amy leans over the table to put an egg, bacon and cheese taquito in front of me, over the open paper on the table, over Howie Soliz’s funeral announcement. Old age. Nice rack, I think, as Amy straightens her back and asks, “Another Tecate, Mr. Barrios?”

I have both hands around the taquito, Amy’s hips at eye level, her work skirt straining against her torso. As I bring my breakfast to my mouth, I shake my head yes, not looking up, and Amy leaves me.

And Rhonda comes.

She is five foot five, one forty, deep brown eyes. Her mid-section reminds me of Selena. Ah. Rhonda Diaz. Her black bangs are blunt cut, just above her curated eyebrows. She doesn’t strike me as sexy in the traditional sense but—damn—she didn’t look like this in high school and I say as much, exaggerating my jaw drop a tad:

“Damn, Rhonda,” I say, standing up and motioning to the bench seat across from me.

She gives me a quizzical look as she takes her seat.

“You look hot,” I clarify. She deftly grins back at me.

She has on a plain white blouse with navy buttons, the top two undone, hinting but not revealing a healthy but not overbearing chest, the front of her blouse tucked into a tight fitting pair of light blue jeans, thankfully not hipster-ripped.

We catch up, commiserating over Joey’s death, eating lunch, drinking our drinks, having next to nothing in common. Sendera has stifled her.

She has added nothing to her repertoire--except two ex-husbands and a grown kid in Galveston--in the past thirty years. That’s too long to not develop some new material, girl. She offered weed. I quit years ago, I tell her. Besides, I have a long drive. I walked her to her car. We kissed. I will always believe she put her hands on my chest to push me away but I think I pulled away when are touched my upper torso. I guess she could tell you. I told her I’d call when I got home. She said she looked forward to it and we hugged. Tightly. That was real. Not much else was.

I thought about Amber the moment I closed the door to the rental.

Six hours later, I'm home. I didn’t call Rhonda. I fixed myself a Bulliet on the rocks. Halfway through, I smoked a few puffs of the weed I had in my nightstand drawer next to my Smith & Wesson. I keep thinking about Amber.

B

Two years ago, she (Amber) had completed our on again, off again cycle with “off.” I would hit her up if it were not for all those Instagram pictures with her and Paul and their two Boxer rescue pups frolicking in front of their McMansion.

Nevertheless—the disappointment of Rhonda still tingling in my mouth, my heart pounding in my chest, the memory of Amber’s low voice (“I can’t do this anymore”) as fresh now as it was then—I hit Messenger like Hunter Biden hit his pipe. Yes, I was the one who hung up. But she was the one who said “I can’t” for whatever bullshit excuses we give ourselves for starting or stopping. Only the middle never hurt us. My lungs burned like fire. “How are you,” I typed.

I looked at the Bulliet on my dresser, melting the ice. I took a sip.

I hit “send.” You’re an idiot, I thought, laid back on my pillow, weed and whiskey on my breath, it’s been two years.

While I was asleep, the response came, as I would discover when I woke up (as usual) at five minutes past 3:30 a.m.

“Hey,” she responded, “what happened?”

That was the first typed response. The second was this:

“You hung up on me.”