I knew,

when I walked into that dingy bar

in the foothills of western North Carolina,

the shadows I’d find

weren’t the ones cast down

by the Blue Ridge Mountains.

They were inside me.

They’re inside drunken mouths

slick with sticky Southern tongues,

and killer-kind ethanol smiles

dripping down their chin.

Those mountain town folk

never escaped poverty,

and their lost opportunities for a better life

wrapped their lips around you

so tight,

deep throat,

you whole.

They will drag you down

with their cheap whiskey

and their sweat-smoked summer sin,

until you’re stuck inside

the belly of their endless feast.

Deep-fried feast.

They’ll leave you trembling,

as they keep sucking you in

your legs shaking,

voice breathing heavy,

asking you for more…

but you have

no more

life

to give them.

And you stay too long,

down here with them,

under the weight

of the American South.

The door swung open,

and the humidity of the Southern air followed,

carrying thick

with the smell of spilt beer,

sticky tables,

and stale smoke curling in

from the billowing chimneys

of a dying furniture factory down the road.

⸻

The last one standing of its kind,

a washed-out Polaroid of the past.

Every other business

failed and fled

this old town long ago.

Industrial rot left behind ,

empty storefronts on Main Street

staring out like dead eyes,

someone’s broken American dream

for a better future,

rotting behind the dirty and cracked glass

realities of cheaper labor and materials

found in overseas shipping containers.

⸻

I slid the metal stool back,

pulled up at the chipped-up bar top

next to a streaked black-and-blonde hair lady

in a pink miniskirt

with thigh tattoos,

closing down the bar

and closing in on forty.

She’s sitting next to her mate,

10 years her senior ,

greyed beard,

eyes darting around the room,

maybe looking for predators,

maybe looking for prey.

She looked over and smiled.

I nodded,

enough to be polite,

but not enough

to throw a line out

to engage.

⸻

The bartender had long, straight hair,

sun-kissed brunette,

probably early 30s,

short , a little over five foot ,

and easily

the prettiest in the room,

maybe even in a couple mile radius.

She smiled,

revealing a nicotine-yellow lower row of teeth,

and asked me if I wanted a menu.

I shook my head.

Naw.

⸻

“What IPA you got?”

An old destructive habit,

leftover from another life back in New York ,

high alcohol content,

spinning drunken Conway and Cash vinyls

for northern women

who needed to unbuckle a starving artist

before they buckled in

with their corporate husbands.

⸻

“Pernicious IPA,” the bartender points.

I accept.

Hoping it’s bitter and strong.

Looking down at my phone,

pulling up the notes app ,

just in case

I decide to immortalize this night.

⸻

She wraps her dainty fingers

around the wooden tap handle,

jerked it down,

and poured me a pint

of impending mania.

She slid it across the bar

and asked if I needed anything else.

I shook my head.

She turned to tend to another patron ,

frayed denim Daisy Dukes,

strings of worn fabric

trailing down the back of her

small, perfect ass ,

 the kind of ass

that could launch a thousand

rusted-down Ford F-150s,

lift kits,

big off-road tires,

all revving red-line

to defend her honor.

⸻

I took down two long swallows,

already imagining

running away with her,

some redneck wonderland

where she smokes her menthols

in the filthy kitchen

after we fucked,

while her babies

are with their daddies

in the other trailer park

across the county.

⸻

But the beer

is not as bitter or strong

as I hoped.

And I

will never

have a chance.

So I drained the rest

in one go,

raised my index finger

to the gods

of blue balls

and lost causes,

and silently ordered another

when Helen of Troy-Built Tractors

locked eyes with me.

⸻

As the alcohol began to take hold,

my vision softened ,

the edges of this world

flickered,

blurring

into the dim fading

of my light.

The cramped space

closing in on me

like a warm blanket

draped over my

decision-making.

⸻

I let the murmurs

of southern drawls

and the low hum

of a baseball game

buzz around my ears

as I thumbed through my phone ,

finger-fucking the screen,

evoking my drunken

creative spirit 

for a word,

a sentence,

anything

that would keep me

from leaving

empty-handed.

⸻

Occasionally, I’d look up,

take another drink,

and side-eye the blonde lady

to my right.

We exchanged microglances ,

colliding in mid-air,

fired from the corner of our eyes.

Both of us pretending

we aren’t reading each other’s stories,

taking each other’s temperature.

Her slim wedding ring

tapped against her glass ,

a hazy clink,

tiny ripples

spreading across the surface of her drink

like a warning.

I looked up,

met her mascara-heavy eyes

and purple-painted mouth

as she fired off her opening salvo:

“Whatcha writing down?”

“I’m writing a poem.”

“A poem? About what?”

I took another slow drink,

placed the glass next to hers,

and leaned in.

“You.”

She lit up

like only a tipsy soul can ,

revealing an absent tooth

on the left side of her smile.

“Oh yeah? Well you better make it good.”

I felt the corner of my lip curl,

this flirtation

stoking my mania.

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“You from around here? Never seen you before.”

“Just moved here. What about you?”

“We’ve been here for years,

needed more land for the cows.”

“You farm ‘em?”

⸻

Her husband’s voice

cut through the flirtation ,

raspy

and flat.

“We show ’em.”

She snapped her head back to him,

a quick smile

remembering

to include him

in her games.

“Like at the state fair or some shit?”

“Something like that.”

Her fingers grazed my inner thigh,

a deliberate caress.

“Exactly like that, darlin’.”

⸻

Her man’s barstool scraped

against the dirty floor.

A coyote’s howl

cut through the bar.

Everyone got quiet.

I took a drink ,

bracing

for whatever came next.

I’ve been

punched

and kicked

and bruised

and scared

too many times

to not know

what comes next.

Me and that girl

got too damn close,

too damn fast.

Her husband

was coming over

for a Southern-style reckonin’.

⸻

He stood 6’4”,

a beer belly

pushing against his faded,

house-paint-stained

construction company t-shirt.

Tattoos of Jason,

Michael Myers,

and Freddy Krueger

clawed and slashed their way

out from his sleeves.

He didn’t bother with the stool ,

he rose

from the dead silence,

slow and deliberate ,

like a monster

in a 1980s

slasher flick.

⸻

On second thought,

maybe he was just going to take a piss.

On third thought,

he wasn’t.

He slowly stretched out his arms

to get his blood flowing,

muscles loosened

for whatever he was planning to do next.

Then he moved behind his woman ,

claiming her

with that same

cold

calm.

His giant, calloused, sunburnt hand

tangled in her hair,

tugging just enough

to draw a slight moan

from her.

⸻

I hear his work boots

headed my way

and look forward,

make eye contact with the bartender

as she looks on,

darting her eyes

over to one of the cooks

eating his dinner

before closing time.

Another coyote yelp

quicker, louder,

right next to me.

⸻

I grab my beer

and finish it off

because, well,

it could be my last

if I need my jaw wired shut tonight.

⸻

The big man takes a seat

and orders a Southern Comfort,

straight,

from Helen.

Then looks over

to me.

I keep my eyes forward

and let out a sigh.

He sits there,

burning a hole into me

for what felt like forever.

But I’ve seen

this kind of posturing

in bars before.

So I just look straight

and say:

“I’m not here for this.”

⸻

Helen breaks up the tension,

brings over Big Man’s drink,

and tells me:

“It’s last call.

You need another one before we close up?”

I start nodding.

Slow. Steady.

Like a metronome ticking,

like I’ve danced

to this type of music before.

⸻

I ask the bartender

why they close so early.

Bars in New York

stay open till four.

She tells me, nervously,

they used to go until midnight.

But the unwanted kinds

caused too much trouble

stumbling,

looking for drugs

and mayhem.

In old towns like this,

the unmedicated dead

shuffle the sidewalks,

searching for their past selves

until the methadone clinic opens.

⸻

Big Man takes a drink of his whiskey.

Then slides the glass

closer to me

testing my space.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.

Talk to me.”

“We can talk.”

“Why ain’t you looking at me then, Chief?”

“I guess I’m afraid

of what may happen next

if I do.”

I take another swig of my beer.

Drunkenness is

creeping

around the bend.

“So you from up north then huh, boy?”

“I never said I’m from there.

I said I’ve been there.”

“Well, we do things different ‘round here.

Where you from then?”

“Virginia. Near the border.

And they do things different ‘round there too.”

“Is that so?”

“My friends in the ground would say so.”

I smirk,

lift my left lip,

and trail the tip of my tongue

over chipped teeth

from impacts

long passed.

⸻

I’ve always had the bad habit

of needing to know

how stories end,

even if

it’s to my detriment.

Throwing out blood in the breath

to see how predators respond.

If their instinct will kick in

or if I can net them in.

This is a problem

I’ve had

my whole life.

But when you suffer

from such curiosities,

you learn

how to control

your increasing heart rate.

Which for a long time

I interpreted as:

fear,

anxiety,

cowardice.

It wasn’t until

I truly found out who I was,

how twisted

I am

in these situations,

that I learned

it was good ol’ fashioned

pre-orgasmic excitement.

And I tend to lean into it.

Edge myself

when I drink.

It’s something

that rarely can be felt

unless a giant of a man

is truly

sussing you out,

his fist

already

a promise.

⸻ 

“Hey baby, finish your drink.

Time to go.”

The lady to my right

speaks through my face

to her man.

That’s my cue.

Ride this lightning tonight.

I finally look over

at the big man

and lock eyes

with the red-lit inferno

surrounding his dilated pupils.

I ever-so-slightly

raise my right eyebrow

like a gunfighter

tapping the butt

of his pistol

before the dirty duel.

⸻

He takes his big hand

and squeezes

my left shoulder.

It took everything I had

not to punch him

right there.

Every fight signal

rushed through

my drunken veins,

but was suppressed

by the overriding kink

of curiosity

of storytelling

to spit out.

“Take your fucking hand off me.”

A fight then and there

would’ve been too easy.

Too expected.

Too cliché.

I wanted more substance.

I wanted an ending

I could fucking write about.

This big block of concrete

is not taking

the only identity I have.

Take my ego

with a beating.

Take my masculinity

with some bleeding.

But no man

walking this earth

will ever stop me

from finishing

my own story.

 ⸻

He grabs my shoulder again,

this time

to make me feel

the full strength

of his blue-collar grip.

“Easy, Chief.

I’m just gettin’ to know you.

This is just how we do it

‘round here.”

⸻

His girl

reaches over the front of me,

jams her tit into my shoulder

pushing,

shoving her man away.

“That’s enough.

Don’t make me say it again.”

Big Man leans back

and starts laughing.

“It’s all good, baby.

We’re just havin’ some fun.”

 ⸻

He finishes off his whiskey

as I turn my head

back to the bartender.

And his girl

leans close,

voice low ,

apologizing

for him.

“I’m sorry.

He’s had a lot to drink tonight.”

“No problem.

So have I.”

⸻

Big Man pipes up again.

“My girl’s a wild mare, man.

She’s tough to break in, I tell ya.”

I pulled off

my broken-in,

worn-down baseball hat,

revealing the scar

trailing down the side of my skull

from when a bucking horse

almost took my life.

“Some never get broken.”

Big Man got quiet.

We found ourselves

empty in the bar.

All the rest

had gone home

to their kin. 

⸻

I put my hat on,

reached back to my pocket,

and grabbed my wallet.

Told Helen,

“I’m ready to square up.”

She nods

and heads for the cash register

as I stack my phone,

wallet,

and keys

in front of me.

⸻

Out of the corner of my eye,

I catch his woman

nodding at him,

mouthing something.

I assume it’s a verbal berating

for the scene he almost caused tonight.

⸻

I toss some cash on the counter,

a little extra

for Helen’s part

in tonight’s show.

I grab my things

and begin to stand

from my stool…

And then

I feel Big Man’s hand

on my shoulder

again.

I immediately tense up,

disappointed.

This night

was going to end

with two people

going home broken.

But then …

he leans in,

and begins

his pitch.

“I want you to fuck my wife.”