A Shot in the Dark

I’ve reworked a short story I wrote and published here a long time ago for submission into my first ever writing contest. The new version of the story is posted below. Feel free to make constructive comments about the piece if you want. But you’d better hurry. Deadline is in just a few hours.

Have You Seen Darryl?

Darryl was allergic to onions, something he told me every time I saw him. He showed up late because he always worked late. He’d had the same job for twenty-six years working second shift at the local telephone company. He told me he hated it there, that he was tied all day to his desk. He was 55 and had to raise his hand for permission to piss. He spoke to no one at his job because no one spoke to him. A co-worker once suggested he may know my phone number, which made something behind my eyes tingle and my stomach hurt.

Darryl carried a strip of velvet in his pants pocket. He took it out sometimes and rubbed it between the thumb and third finger of his left hand. He stroked the material with purpose and affection.

Long Island Teas mixed in frozen pint glasses was his drink of choice. I mixed them strong for him. He drank them up eagerly and through a straw. In between sips he propped his stubbly chin on the rim of the glass while he waited.

Always waited. Always waited for me to speak to him first. His eyelids and hairline and brow were eager for attention as I refilled the ice or turned his way to ring up a check. He sat just behind the register where it was hard to hear him and difficult to reach his glass. But it was where he could be seen. He got up to use the bathroom many times and whenever he wanted.

He only came in twice a month or so, but every time he did all he talked about was Felicity Robie. Some jazz vocalist with whom he was obsessed. When he whispered her name he would nod and rub his papery hands together. Always whispering. Always requiring you to lean into him. Every time he came in I promised to find some of Felicity’s music, maybe on the internet. He really seemed to want me to and asked me to each time he came in. By the time I’d closed the bar and smoked a joint with the manager in the parking lot I’d already forgotten my promise.

I asked Darryl what he did for Christmas just before January arrived. He told me that he did nothing again, just ate some tacos and listened to Felicity Robie.

With what felt like a punch to the gut I recalled his account of Thanksgiving. It was much the same. Except in November he bought Burger King and rented some videos. I spotted that his icy glass was empty before I could think of a response and was thankful for an escape from his expectant face. I wish I’d remembered he had no one. I would have invited him over for my own meager Christmas dinner. Except I wouldn’t have because he stared right into my mouth when I spoke, his lips parted, his tongue visible, quivering and snake-like. Because he was forever folding his papery hands.

One night an hour before midnight, just before the managers locked up the front doors, Darryl slipped in. He marched straight in and spoke without waiting. He shouted out my name. I turned and saw him in the lobby, hidden under a shiny navy blue slicker, his face wet from the walloping rainstorm that had kept the bar mostly empty that night. He stood only a foot away from me and held up a clear plastic baggie polka-dotted with droplets of rain. Inside it were two colorful concert tickets. Felicity Robie’s name was printed boldly in a square-ish font on each.

“Did you listen to any of her songs yet?,” he spoke again. Again without waiting. My eyes fell to the broom I that was supporting my weight as I shook my head no.

He carefully removed one of the tickets from the bag, then wrapped it in the scrap of velvet he pulled from his front left pants pocket. He took my wrist and tucked the ticket into my palm. Before he let go he held my hand in his for a few seconds. It felt nothing at all like paper. Then blinked and turned and dissolved into the downpour.

The bar stopped chilling pint glasses a few months later.

I now own all of Felicity Robie’s albums and a few of her imports, too.

You can read the final, submitted version inside.

FINAL DRAFT

He showed up late because he always worked late. He’d had the same job for twenty-six years working second shift at the local telephone company. He told me he hated it there, that he was tied all day to his desk. He was 55, he said, and had to raise his hand for permission to piss. He spoke to no one at his job because no one spoke to him. A co-worker once suggested he might know my phone number, which made something behind my eyes tingle and my stomach hurt. Darryl was allergic to onions, something he told me every time I saw him. They also made him cry.

Darryl carried a strip of velvet in his pants pocket. He took it out sometimes and rubbed it between the thumb and third finger of his left hand. He stroked the material with purpose and affection.

Long Island Iced Teas were his drink of choice. I mixed them strong for him, in specially frozen pint glasses, the only way he would drink them. He slurped them up eagerly and through a straw. In between sips he propped his stubbly chin on the rim of his frosty glass while he waited.

Always waited. Always waited for me to speak to him first. His eyelids and hairline and brow were eager for attention as I refilled the ice or turned his way to ring up a check. He sat just behind the register where it was hard to hear him and difficult to reach his glass. But it was where he could be seen. He got up to use the bathroom many times and whenever he wanted.

He only came in twice a month or so, but every time he did brought up Felicity Robie, some jazz vocalist with whom he was obsessed. When he whispered her name he would nod and rub his papery hands together. Always whispering. Always requiring you to lean into him. Every time he came in I promised to find some of Felicity’s music, maybe on the internet. He really seemed to want me to and asked me to each time he came in. By the time I’d cleaned the bar or smoked a joint with the manager in the parking lot after work I’d already forgotten my promise.

I asked Darryl what he did for Christmas just before January arrived. He told me that he did nothing again, just ate some tacos and listened to Felicity Robie.

My breath skipped as I recalled his account of Thanksgiving. It was much the same, except in November he bought Burger King and rented some videos. I spotted that his icy glass was empty before I could think of a response and was thankful for an escape from his expectant face. I wish I’d remembered he had no one. I would have invited him over for my own meager Christmas dinner, except I wouldn’t have because he stared right into my mouth when I spoke, his lips parted, his tongue visible, quivering and snake-like. And because he was forever folding his papery hands.

One night an hour before midnight, just before the managers locked up the front doors, Darryl slipped in. He marched straight in and spoke without waiting. He shouted out my name. I turned and saw him, hidden under a shiny navy blue slicker, his face wet from the walloping rainstorm that had kept the bar mostly empty that night. He stood only a foot away from me and held up a clear plastic baggie polka-dotted with droplets of rain. Inside it were two colorful concert tickets. Even through the wet I could see Felicity Robie’s name printed squarely on them.

“Did you listen to any of her songs yet?” he spoke again. Again without waiting. My eyes fell to the broom that was supporting my weight. I shook my head no.

He carefully removed one of the tickets from the bag, then wrapped it in the scrap of velvet he pulled from his front left pants pocket. He took my wrist and tucked the ticket into my palm. Before he let go he held my hand in his for a few seconds. It felt nothing at all like paper. Then he blinked and turned and dissolved into the downpour.

The bar stopped chilling pint glasses a few months later.