Handsy

1. Joe

1 Joe

“I’m one bill away from shutting down.”

I dropped the stack of envelopes on the scratched up wooden bar next to my accountant, Grady. He shrugged his narrow shoulders and then swiped a strand of gray hair off his glasses. I wanted to brush off the layer of dandruff from the shoulders of his crumpled brown suit. Grady had come with the place when I inherited it two years ago. He gestured toward his empty beer mug so I refilled it from the tap.

“What about your family? Could they help...” Grady began, but I cut him off before that conversation could go any further.

“No.”

“Why don’t you try catering to a better clientele? I’ve gotten you every deduction I can from all the non-profits who use the place. But, radicals like Food Not Bombs and those Wingnuts Anarchists people don’t have the money to support a bar like this.” Grady sighed and shook his head. He knew what my reaction would be to that statement. Yeah, their members didn’t have a ton of cash, but I believed in the same causes they did.

“Grady, I’m not going to stop supporting them, so forget about it.” I placed the frothy mug in front of him and smacked the counter with my hand. “Look, maybe I just need to own up to the facts. Mannox was turning tricks on the side to keep this place running. It’s never going to turn a profit, and my hustling days are over. Plus, I promised him I’d keep my junk in my pants. Though, trust me,” I fingered the stack of envelopes, “it’s tempting.”

“You know I would never tell you to go back to that, um, lifestyle, but…” Grady held his hands out, winked, and gave me a sly grin. The old man was a perv and had on more than one occasion let it be known he’d be more than happy to pay for my unique talents. If I were ever to go down that road again it would definitely not be with him. He looked like an overworked used car salesman, with zero style, taste, or sense of humor.

“If I decide to sell, would you help me out with it?” I groaned, then put my face in my hands. “Because me and numbers aren’t exactly good friends, know what I mean?”

The thought of selling the place was painful. I was from the country, and when I’d first moved to downtown Richmond, The Broadway Cafe was the bar of choice for picking up closeted dudes willing to pay for my services. At first it had been easy money, but then gay marriage happened. f**k me, but when everyone started coming out of the closet, it killed my damn business. Hell, I was a screaming liberal, but I occasionally found myself cursing the Supreme Court for that decision.

“Of course. I’ll do whatever you need.” Grady finished his beer and stood. “I’ll stop by next week and hopefully by then you will know what you need to do. Oh, and I’ll try to bring some of my pals around for a drink in a day or two. You’re a good kid, Joe, and I’d hate for you to lose this place.” Grady glanced at the stack of envelopes in front of me, sighed, then stumbled out.

The Broadway Cafe had a peculiar history. It opened in the 1950s and became a watering hole for local lesbians. Then as time went on, it became a gay men’s bar that hit its heyday back in the 70s. It hadn’t been redecorated since that time either, and it was filled with ancient disco lights and kitschy clutter. When the original owners retired, they sold it to Cliff, who’d hoped to get out of turning tricks for a living. By then the bigger gay clubs had ruled the city and the Broadway Cafe became almost a joke. Since I’d taken over it served the odd derelict, college kid, or starving political activist.

I’d been in love with Cliff, known as Mannox by everyone else. He’d taken me under his wing, even hooking me up with some excellent clients. But he’d always kept me at arm’s length, never allowing me or anyone near his heart. It was only after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that he opened up about his feelings for me, but by then it was too late. In his will he left me all he had, under the condition I put a halt to the prostitution. The only way I could get it up for my creepy clients at that point was with the help of little blue pills, so letting my dubious “career” go was a no-brainer.

I desperately wanted to keep the doors of the Broadway Cafe open. Not because it made money, but because every object in the room had a little piece of Cliff inside it. We’d never had time to explore what we meant to each other. Once he fell ill, it was a matter of weeks before he was gone.

“f**k me. I’m a thirty-year-old ex-prostitute. Can’t exactly put that on my resume.” I muttered, then switched on the television over the bar. As usual there was nothing worth watching, so I flipped it to the news. It was the same as always. People hating on the president, the president hating them back, and yet another school shooting.

I glanced down at the empty bar and for the hundredth time that week wished there was a real live customer. Maybe I’d even turn on the music, pretend like I gave a damn about some drunk’s miserable problems. Hell, I might even be able to pay the light bill. Since the likelihood of that happening was slim to none, I snatched a bottle of tequila off the shelf and poured myself a healthy shot and a beer, and sat on the other side of the bar.

“Cheers, Cliff.”

I raised the glass of tequila and downed it. As usual my face twisted up like I’d eaten a lemon. I hated the taste of booze, but honestly I needed something to dull the ache. Maybe I should just face the facts. Cliff was never coming back, and I needed to move on. I had no real friends to speak of, and Richmond had a bad memory on just about every street corner. I’d been treading water for the last two years. The only good thing I had going was I owned the building, and it was in a prime location, though it was rundown as hell. Whoever bought it would be buying it for the land, demolishing the tarnished old eyesore and my memories with it. Maybe the grocery store behind it would buy it? I’d move to Portland like I’d always wanted to do. Get a real job instead of slinging drinks. Then I glanced up and noticed a familiar face on the television.

“Shit.” I muttered, then grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

“Lieutenant Governor Grayson Carter McElroy has died at age 83 according to a statement from his family. He was the Chairman Emeritus of Confederate Tobacco and known for his philanthropy, including substantial gifts to his alma mater, The University of Virginia. The former politician played a significant role in local and national politics and was known for being a staunchly conservative Republican. After being passed over for the vice-presidential nomination in 1980 with Ronald Reagan on the ticket, he was elected Lieutenant Governor and served for one term. His wife Sarah Louise Patterson McElroy passed away in 1996. He is survived by his son Carter Maxwell McElroy and his wife Catherine Elizabeth, who live in Manakin-Sabot. The funeral will be held...”

I switched the TV off, unable to watch anymore. This called for another shot, but before I did that I went to the front door of the bar and locked it. There was no way I could be around anyone after hearing that bit of news. After I poured the tequila, I shot it back and refilled the glass one more time.

“Here’s to you, Grandfather. I hope you rot in hell.”