The Jugular

Apr 27, 2007

Isis was made from two adjoining storefront buildings on the most tolerable block of the main street. It was trendy and above average. The Jugular pulled open the door and entered the bar side of the restaurant. Isis was in full flower this night. People who had mortgages to pay were dining on the restaurant side of the building, and people who had MySpace profiles were imbibing at the bar. The fortysomething Jugular appreciated the almost imperceptible Egyptian theme of the establishment. It was subtle. The Jugular liked subtle when it came to themes, and direct when it came to people.

The Jugular was wandering and commiserating. He had been doing so since his marriage amicably dissolved two years ago. Isis was the third bar of the evening. Factory Air, Hellfire, Melinda, Klaxon, Annabelle, and Keith were sitting in a row at the bar. Factory Air and Hellfire were talking shop about the restaurant where they both waited tables. Melinda and Klaxon had their hands all over each other. Annabelle and Keith were talking about Keith's current girl troubles. They all acknowledged The Jugular with varying nods, waves and utterances. Hellfire flipped her hair with her usual tick, and leaned to Factory Air's ear and said something that made the other girl giggle. The Jugular was reminded that he had to clear something up. He took a couple of steps toward the twentysomethings and made his case.

"You two have the wrong idea. I am not a dirty old man. Sure, I'm on the hunt, but I want a late thirtysomething—at minimum." The Jugular's hood scooped hairline and angular features were as pointy as his point. The ramshackle, second-hand-store, punkish girls—blonde and brunette—were a little frightened. Factory Air looked cooler and took on slight incredulity as a defensive affectation. The Jugular continued his tirade; "I am on MySpace so people can hear my music. I don't expect to get rich or famous. I just want to be heard. I just want a little appreciation. So can we just be friends? This is a small town and I am old enough, and wise enough, to mind my manners. Capeche?"

The gossiping girls smiled criminally, nervously and The Jugular turned to the right and started toward Keith. Annabelle had left during the speech. The Jugular wondered if the brunette, Italian, Hellfire was translating the word for the blonde, Norwegian, Factory Air. Keith was standing with his chin on his chest. He looked like he had been kicked somewhere between his emotions and his sense. The Jugular ordered a cheap, domestic beer when he got to Annabelle's vacated seat, and made friendly talk with the bartender. Once the commerce was complete he turned to Keith and said, "I don't even have to guess. You're having trouble with your girl."

He began to retell the story that he had just rehearsed to his friend, Annabelle. "Things were going fine. We've been together for a month. We didn't even have sex until this week." The Jugular grimaced at the nice guy talk. Keith took a hit off of his drink and continued, "Then a couple of days ago we spent the night together. She went to work, and I didn't hear from her that evening or the next morning. She had been calling me every morning before she left for work. I sent her a text message when I got to work yesterday. She didn't answer it. So I sent another, and then another, and then another. I was worried about her. I didn't know what was going on."

The Jugular knew this girl, and her reputation, just a bit. She had been escorted around by a toad for awhile. It led to disgust and conjecture among the inhabitants. He asked Keith, "What about her and The Toad? Did they have a relationship?"

"No. People thought, but they didn't"

The Jugular was looking for the loose side of the decal so he could peel it back for his friend. "She kinda has a reputation."

"They don't know how she really is. She isn't really like that."

Then Keith started a familiar song about sullied girls whose relatives introduced them to carnal intrusion. The Jugular's heart stopped dead, and a wound throbbed in his thorax. There were nearby ears homing in on the sordid tale. So he escorted Keith to the front of the bar, near the storefront windows, where they could examine the brass tacks.

Slight, five-nine Keith had picked up his drink. He was wearing a tannish, brown t-shirt with some erstwhile slogan emblazoned on it in a nearly unintelligible typeface. Keith usually wore suits. The Jugular noticed that Keith had quite a tattoo collection on his forearms and biceps.

When they got out of likely earshot The Jugular said, "So you thought you were going to be her hero, eh?" To which Keith swirled his drink around in its glass.

"You can't do that for her. She has to do it for herself."

"But," started Keith, "she needs someone to"

"Feed off of," interrupted The Jugular, "You've become one of them. You're no better than they are now. You are the enemy, not an ally."

Keith was sinking lower, and The Jugular wished he could take the heel of his hand and whap the whole painful realization into Keith's forehead. It would hurt a lot less than the way he was bound to learn the lesson.

"You've got to detach. You're going to become a doormat. What's her revolving door been like? Biker, biker, doormat... biker, biker, doormat?" Keith nodded. "Do you wanna take in strays and try to heal them? Detach, dude, you're in for a world of pain. Where can you go? Are you still in touch with that fuck-buddy from the cell phone store?"

"Yeah."

"Go there. Hide out. Protect your nuts. Be honest, but ask your friend to lick your wounds for you."

Keith was looking like he could burst. "Isn't there something? I wanted to be different."

"She's got to do it. Look, there is this government supported counseling service in town. It doesn't cost anything. It's supposed to help people in this situation. I will email the contact info to you tomorrow. Then give her forty-eight hours to contact them. If she doesn't do it, run for your life."

Keith brightened a bit at the slim ray of hope that was offered to him. He and The Jugular re-hammered the theme until The Jugular left repeating, "Forty-eight hours and then run for your life."

The Jugular fulfilled his end of the arrangement and wondered if Keith would have better luck than he had. The ray-less Jugular wondered.