Thursday Stories: Moon Drunk Angel Mine

Thursday Stories – A New Story Most Thursdays

Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Moon Drunk Angel Mine. This lyrical flash first appeared in Santa Barbara Literary Journal, published in 2022. You might detect a strong note of Tom Waits in the background, and if so, no surprise. The theme of this anthology was Moon Drunk. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Moon Drunk Angel Mine

by Marco Etheridge

This swayback old town, it’s stuck in the dog days of August, full of broken-down people, and nothing to write home about. Dirt and grit blowing on a bone-dry wind, swirling in the gutters outside this two-bit garage I’m working in, rattling the rollup door and setting a man’s teeth on edge.

Spinning wrenches all day, backhanding sweat and grease that runs into your eyes, you bet it’s a hard-earned dollar. Fat boss paying you almost nothing to keep someone’s rundown Pontiac on the road for another desperate month. Same fat man moaning how you’re costing him money every time you need to take a piss.

But come nightfall, it’s a whole different story. Hell, might as well be another town altogether. Dark hides a lot of the ugly, and everything looks better under a blinking bar sign. All that grit and grime vanishes under the neon. The sidewalks shimmer and gleam rose, purple, and green, swirling and mixing.

That neon promise is a siren’s call hurrying my feet as I punch the clock and bust out the back door. Sun’s still in the sky, but she’s dropping as I hump on back to my room. I’m filthy and dog-tired, but when did that ever stop a determined fella?

My place ain’t much, one room and a hotplate, but I got my own bathroom, so I figure I’m living high. It takes some doing, but with enough scrubbing that grease and grit swirl down the drain. I comb my hair back, shave my face, then go after my fingernails with my pocketknife. I pare away at that black grease, digging in under the nails until they’re as clean as they’re ever going to get. Working man can’t hide his hands, no matter what he does.

By the time my boots hit that sidewalk, I’m as clean as a man can be and ready. My dungarees cuffed up just right over my boots. They’re worn milk-white at the knees, sure, but still got life in them, no holes or skin shining through. My shirt smells okay, clean enough, no telltale stains or missing buttons.

Got almost a hundred bucks, a full pack of Luckies, and a half-good cigar, in case I find some small thing worth celebrating. You never can tell what might happen, bad luck or good, but always be ready to celebrate a lucky turn of the dice.

The way I figure it, the big things in this life, births, deaths, going to jail, they take care of themselves. Not like you can’t notice them the way they grab a fella by the throat, shake him like a terrier worrying a worn-out sock.

It’s those small beauties that catch you by surprise, a rusty piece of junk that turns out to be a treasure. I’m talking about the silver moon floating in the night sky, or a pretty woman’s smile, or the dealer flipping one more heart to fill the flush in your hand. Something like that is worth a slow cigar to mark the passing of a good thing. If Lady Luck brushes you with her wings, I believe a smart fella better take a pause to acknowledge her, lest she forgets you exist.

My boots click down the sidewalk with a solid beat, mixing with the evening traffic just starting up. Polished drop-tops prowl the street, hot wind flowing over the drivers and their girls, ruffling fresh-combed hair and perfumed curls. And all of them, headlights shining, looking for somewhere to go.

The shadows are falling long and the bar signs flicking into life. I stop at Charlie’s shack. He’s perched on his stool, chewing a dead stogie behind a tilted display of newspapers and glamour magazines. He gives me a heya and a nod. I grab up the racing form, throw him a fin, pocket my change, and wave the pony form adios.

I slip into Mel’s diner, grab a stool at the counter. A man needs a solid feeding before he takes on a long night out. Throw some lines at Mabel, flirting with her even though she’s old enough to be my auntie, blue hair and all. She sasses me right back, an old hand at this game. I don’t bother with the menu, just the special, thank you Mabel, you sweet thing. And a cuppa java too, gorgeous. She rolls her eyes at me, but that don’t stop her giving those big hips a roll when she reaches to clip my order over the cook’s window.

Tonight, the blue plate is veal cutlet, mashed spuds, with a spoonful of corn for color. I top it off with a slice of pie and another splash of java, fueled and ready. I pay my tab, count out the tip, and promise Mabel the moon. She waves me off with a raspberry, but she’s smiling all the same.

Out the door of Mel’s, tapping down the sidewalk, I’ve got a toothpick in the corner of my mouth and a tune humming in my head. The first joint I come to is as good as any other for a start, so I mosey in. Past the door, the cloud inside the bar embraces me with an electric funk of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and hungry dreams.

I slide up to the bar, order a beer, lean an elbow. The air is jittering with expectation, what with everyone just starting out their night. Hopes are high that this might be it, the night when the world busts wide open. Wild anticipation cutting across the grain of doubt, that nagging bully in the back of the brain that says most likely it’s gonna be just another night.

But to hell with that noise, that’s what I say. The bar is hot, the beer is cold, and my glass sweating. Someone pumps quarters into the jukebox and a saxophone wails out of the speaker hiss. I try to settle into the moan, let the wail of it anchor me, but the music slips past me and I can’t grab hold.

I joke with the guy at my elbow, finish my beer, wave off another. I’m restless, looking for the sweet spot and not finding it here. Out the door and prowling, I’m into the next bar, hunting for the heart of the night.

Four hours and three joints later, I’m back out on the street. I’m half-blind in the neon staring up to find the stars. People walk on past me, drunken lovers hand-in-hand, and out across the pavement I hear the honking of the cars. And I think I might just find the thing if I give it one more try, so I shuffle up the sidewalk and push another door.

Three steps inside and I feel my heart flutter like it’s on to something my brain can’t catch. Then I see her. She’s walking toward me cased in tight black jeans, a wife-beater, her jet-black hair curling out from under a snap brim cocked backward on that pretty head. An angel, someone’s beatnik lovechild dropped down from a sultry heaven where no one wears wings.

Two steps more and she breaks my heart, smashes it with a hammer and I never saw it coming. I’m frozen there in the middle of the barroom, and she just saunters right up, aiming to scatter what’s left of me. She cocks her head, smiling a crooked smile.

Planning on painting a picture, handsome?

Her eyes are laughing and that smile of hers stabs my brain. Somehow the words roll out of my mouth in more or less the right order.

I can’t paint a house, much less a picture, but I can buy us a pitcher to make up for it.

She flips that angel face up straight and gives me a nod.

You’re on.

Smooth as a pickpocket, her arm slides into mine and she steers me to an empty table. My boots must be touching the floor, but I damn sure can’t feel them.

Somewhere in that blur, a waitress appears with a foaming pitcher and two schooner glasses. I can’t remember ordering, but it happens just the same. The barroom is fading farther and farther out of focus, and at the same time, that girl is getting clearer, the outlines of her face etched sharp and diamond bright.

The pitcher empties as our words get fuller and our lips closer. She’s leaning into me like she is meant to be there, has always been there, and always will be. Then she’s laughing with her head thrown back, and I feel the world spin off its axis and wander off without me.

We switch to shots, tossing them off on the count, holding tight while the burn burrows its way down into our guts. The night is bumping near to closing time, but not for us. We’re above it and beyond it, sailing away to some other shore, someplace I’ve never been before.

I’m carried off with the current of the thing, hoping she’s falling for me the same way I’m falling for her. Maybe, or maybe not, but wherever I wash up, I’m praying to all the gods, great and small, that this girl winds up on the sand beside me. Hell, I’ll follow her anywhere, all the way to Kathmandu, or even Cleveland.

I kiss her and she’s kissing me back with lips full of promise. She leans back for a heartbeat or two, gives me a look that shakes me. I mumble an excuse, push myself to my feet, and float off to the gents.

I’m standing at the porcelain with my whole world busted wide open. There is no doubt in my head, not the smallest bit. Just show me the cliff edge and give me a bit of room for a running start. Tonight is the night that changes everything.

When I come back from the gents, the table is empty, not a trace of her to be seen. Empty shot glasses, two empty chairs, and a void sucking me into a fall that has no bottom to it.

My knees half buckle and I have to catch myself on the back of her empty chair. I scan the room for her, but I know she’s gone.

I hail the waitress to settle our tab, rushing her even though I know it’s too late. Sure enough, when I roll out onto the sidewalk, that girl has vanished, not even a neon ghost left behind.

Back inside, the clock ticks down. The bartender shouts out the last call. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. So I take him at his word and order a pint of rye to keep me company. That’s how I come to be sitting here on an upturned apple crate, crowned king and jester of an empty backlot behind a closed-up bar.

I’m watching the last of the night eke away beyond dark, scrubby hills. The silver moon slides a slow dance down into the West. Behind me, the faintest glow is rising in the East. And that cigar I was saving is tasting mighty fine, might fine indeed.

No matter what, tonight was some kinda night. I’m sipping at my whiskey, smoking my cigar, and remembering every sweet curve, line, and laugh of the girl who got away. Got away for tonight anyway.

See, Lady Luck was with me tonight. Now I know who I’m looking for because I already found her. And I’m not worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow is just a promise without a payday, sure as the last glimmer of this night is the real thing right now. The dawn can mind its own without any special help from yours truly, bet on that.

Gonna have to do it all again, damn sure will. I’m going to catch the one that got away. She slipped past me, but she’s not gone forever. Because the night folks, they gotta come back to the night, drawn like metal shaving to a dime store magnet. And that’s where I’ll find her.

Another sip from that pint, just a nip to keep it going. My head is swimming from the last light of the drunken moon as it slips down to touch the jagged edge of the dark horizon. I’m a night angel haloed in the smoke of my cigar. I’ve got no wings, but I’m not fallen all the way. And there’s another angel out there now. I know her, heart and soul.

I’ll be seeing you again, little darling, no matter how many nights I have to search. That is a thing you can count on for sure.

Fini

You can find Santa Barbara Literary Journal here:

Santa Barbara Literary Journal

That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.