MirrorWorld

I don’t know the name of the town. It was dark when I strolled past the WELCOME TO sign. The bar’s sign was well lit, though, THE HUNGRY HORSE. I’m not sure if that’s some kind of reference to something. Maybe there are a lot of horses in the fields around town. I don’t know. Like I said, it was dark. Maybe the bar’s owner just likes horses? I’m not sure if I do. Can’t remember if I’ve ever been on one.

Can’t remember much beyond an hour ago, which should concern me, but it doesn’t.

I think I’ll remember the girl hanging on the philistine’s arm, though. Just a quick glance is enough to etch the curves of her body in the permanent record of my short memory. It’s not that she’s beautiful. She’s caked in so much makeup that her true self, and worth, are impossible to see. Anyone with that much to hide is either the victim of unfortunate parentage or concealing their guilty conscience.

I never wear makeup. At least, I don’t think I would.

The woman’s voluptuousness is as artificial as her face, and thrice-dyed hair. Something tight hugs her waist. Probably her thighs, too. She’s a too-full sausage, ready to burst. And while her breasts are prodigious, they’re held aloft by an underwire bra capable of holding a child. Nothing about her is honest, except for her eyes — desperate and pleading for attention.

I don’t give it to her.

Anyone who does is a fool.

And there is a fool in every bar.

The man sitting across the room from me, on the far side of the worn pool table, beneath a neon-pink Budweiser sign and a mounted largemouth bass, watches the giggly entrance with wide-eyed fascination. She might as well be a peacock, strutting about, flashing her wares, entrancing the susceptible. That’s a poor metaphor. She’s not a male peacock, and she’s not simply entrancing.

She’s luring. Like an anglerfish, she dangles her quick meal, summoning her prey. Much better.

The fool hasn’t looked away yet. He’s hooked. And he’s been spotted. While the bait takes a barstool, the philistine glares at the fool until noticed. Then he grins, whispers to the woman, and heads for the fool, who is now staring down into his amber drink, wishing he wasn’t himself, or perhaps that he was just someone stronger.

The philistine stands above the fool, reading from a script everyone knows. “You looking at my girl?”

The fool shakes his head and offers a polite, “No, sir.”

The big man chuckles. He knows how easy this is going to be. He glances back at the woman, making sure she’s watching. And smiling. This is for her as much as him. Bruised egos seeking validation through the pain of idiots.

“You don’t think she’s worth looking at?” The philistine has him trapped now. To say she isn’t worth looking at is to call her ugly, but the opposite confirms that he was looking, and the lie will be enough.

The establishment is mostly empty. There’s the tender behind the bar, who just looks annoyed by the proceedings. No doubt, he’s seen this charade before and knows how it ends. He confirms this by saying, “Charley. Outside, please.”

Then there is the man sitting at the bar. He’s at least ten years my senior. Maybe fifty or an early gray late forties. Like me, he’s no fool, not even now that the target has been chosen. He just sips his beer, ignoring, which is ironic because out of everyone here, it’s his job to step in. The bulge beneath the man’s sport coat reveals a holstered gun. While a lot of people in this neck of the woods — New Hampshire — might carry weapons, the piece strapped to his ankle, which I can see clear as day, thanks to his too-short pants, says he’s a cop. Off-duty but, still, an officer of the law.

And then there is the fool, who is damn near to weeping. He’s scrawny and physically weak but has nice clothes, shiny shoes, and a laptop bag. He probably makes four times as much money as the philistine, has a 401(k); stock options, and a hedge fund, details that fuel the philistine’s insecure rage. The fool’s just passing through. On his way to Boston. Or New York. Maybe visiting family. Just happened to stop for a drink, like me.

Well, not exactly like me. I’m here because I had nowhere else to go and hoped a little alcohol might help my lost memory return. I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket. No ID. No keys. No clue about who I am other than the clothes I’m wearing and a name that isn’t a name.

The fool says nothing. It’s the first right thing he’s done since the bimbo opened the door. But it’s too little too late.

“Answer me, or I swear to God, I will—”

“She’s worth looking at,” the fool says, biting hard on the hook, believing incorrectly that insulting the woman would be worse than admiring her body, which is now bouncing like an inflatable fun house full of sugar-doped kids. She’s getting off on this, smiling broadly, nearly clapping.

The cop does nothing. The bar man sighs.