Bar Crawl - Mairead Abbenda

As I make my way into the bar I am assaulted by a collection of smells ranging from a vague acrid sour smell to straight up human shit. It's the smell of walking into your second-grade classroom after some nervous kid just puked their brains out everywhere and the underpaid janitor tried to slop it up with some bleachy solution and a decade old mop. The air is thick with a lethal combination of pot and tobacco, and my week-old contacts I’ve been sleeping in become rehydrated with tears. It’s a hometown type of bar, the kind where you recognize everyone whether you wish to or not. I am on the side of wishing not. The only person I want to see isn’t here, she had work tonight and couldn’t make it. Either way I would see her back at home when she got out. I’m just killing time.

Through the fleshy waves of human bodies tinged pink with heat and reeking of body odor I push myself, regretting wearing a tank top as I can feel people’s skin on mine. Eventually I make it over to the bartender, although strangely I do not recognize him from behind. He turns to face me. As he turns the air around him brings a bitter, biting, inhuman stench to my nose. I wince. Evidently disgruntled by my presence, his face meets mine with an element to it that nearly activates my sensitive upchuck reflex. Although, I can’t exactly place what. He looks normal enough, at least for this town. He’s about twenty seven, a bland crew cut with a painfully noticeable receding hairline forming a V-formation on his slightly too large head. His lips are thin and cracked, inbred looking, as Nora would say. It's not his crooked, pirate hooked nose that is bothering me. It’s something about his eyes. It wasn’t lifelessness that plagued them. It seemed more sinister than that. I stare hard and long at those eyes and then his fingers. His creepy fucking fingers. Too long.

“Well?” He practically shouts at me, although shouting in a place as loud as this is not unusual. The generic dad rock music meshes violently with the shrieking voices of the crowd. I notice that his hand is on my bare shoulder, gripping strangely and slightly too hard so that I could feel the pads of his fingers deep in my muscle. I was cold.

I hesitate before speaking, his touch persisting in my mind, making me feel fuzzy. Not in the Hallmark warm and fuzzy way, more in the ominous mind-numbing static before a creepy girl crawls out of the TV way. I couldn’t get words to find their way up my throat and crack through my teeth.

“Beer?” I sputter, my brain muddled, his unpleasant eyes sharp and piercing directly through my brain, lobotomizing me on the spot. What I once felt as a chill now became heat. Burning, consuming heat.

“Is that a question or an answer?” He wasn’t blinking. “What kind?” He seemed frustrated, not unjustly.

“Um, whatever’s on tap is fine.” It was, as I’ve mentioned, I’m wasting time until Nora gets out of work. I get anxious in the apartment alone.

A large, cold, sweaty glass filled with light amber liquid and foam makes its way to my hot forearm, shocking me back to the present. I smell the yeasty liquid as I bring it to my mouth and chug, suddenly parched. For a moment the smell brings me away, but the moment it is more than a centimeter from my nose the bar comes flooding back. As did the man with those fingers. Some animal instinct deep within me knew something that the more human side could not yet understand.

I drink another beer and sit alone, as far away from the vagrants littering the bar as possible. I know everyone, but no one really knows me so it isn’t hard to stay incognito. Even when I am turned away I can feel the bartender’s presence. I glance awkwardly down at the Casio adorning my wrist. Nora had given it to me within the first three days of us meeting. She will be getting out of work within the next half hour and I’m eager to leave the scope of the harrowing bartender and his fucked up hands.

Leaving the bar I am flooded with immediate relief from the cool late September air. The street may not have smelled nearly so nice if it wasn’t in contrast with whatever the hell was going on in the bar. At this moment however it is the most beautiful smell in the world. I swear I could smell an earthworm if it got close enough. The rickety cobblestone with bumps from the tree roots and the beers would never keep me from finding my way home. Our apartment is just down the street. Everyone’s is, really.

When I finally climb the seven flights of stairs required to enter– there is no elevator, nothing new exists here– I feel the tension in my shoulders release ever so slightly. No matter how many years I’ve been with her she still has that Sertraline effect on me. She is five foot two and three quarters, I couldn’t forget that, she wouldn’t let me. Her hair is pinkish brown and cropped short so that it curled around her ear as a cat does on a cushion. Her blue eyes managed a warmth which I had never before thought possible. She was petite and sweet and sexy and the beers are starting to make me–

“Janey!” she laughs, launching herself at me, nearly knocking me over to do so. How many beers did I end up having? That man and his weird, cold fingers on my arm distracted me from how much I drank.

“How was work angel?” I try not to let on about my concerns about the man at the bar. I am too drunk and horny for her to be freaking out about that.

“It was okay,” she rolled her eyes and shows her canines in a cheeky smile, “I swear to god if one more old fucking creep makes a joke about me being on the menu I’m going to quit.”

“Can I order you?” It comes out sloppy and slow, I’m drunker than I should be. I carry her into the bedroom and gently toss her onto the bed.

When I wake up I am naked and hot and my head which is on Nora’s chest rises and falls with her slow breathing. She smells like sweat and musky vanilla perfume. I am not awake for ten seconds before I notice something off. I struggle to throw on the dirty black shirt that lies on the ground next to the bed among others and when I try to get up I notice my legs are weak. It takes three pushes with my arms to force myself off the bed.

In the bathroom I catch my reflection. It looks like me with a stomach bug. I am paler than usual and my lips look purply gray. I reach for the hair tie on the sink and pull my thick, knotted, black hair into some semblance of a bun. Something aches on the shoulder of my left arm. I don’t know if aches is the right word. Something seethes and begs to come to a head on the shoulder of my left arm. The sleeve of the shirt I put on covers the spot with the pain. My teeth come together as a hissing sound escapes through them as I lift it to reveal what lies underneath.

“Oh fuck.” I whisper, hoarse and wounded.

A pile of murky yellow bile immediately splatters on the tile and the cabinets, my hands grip the sink for support. As I adjust my feet I feel the vomit squelch between my bare toes, but I do not care. My eyes cannot be torn away from what is on my shoulder. Beneath the sleeve that is now soaked in sweat from my palm is some sort of blister. No, not one blister. A cluster of blisters. They radiate heat onto my face which is now utterly and completely white. They are a swampy green all over besides the swollen pus sacks that complete the mound of each individual bump. They even have a smell. More vomit paints the walls, projecting out of me. It’s that smell. His smell.

I reach into the drawer right below the sink. There is a box inside that looks to Nora as though it only holds bandaids. I haven’t cut myself in a little over a year but the razor still lurks below the first aid supplies. I shift the items in the box to reveal the glint of the shiny metal. It feels familiar in my hand, it's supposed to be there. I hold the soggy sleeve of my shirt with my teeth as I bring the razor to the area around the blisters. I push, and the old friend that is the stinging feeling of thin blade colliding with flesh reunited with me. I’ve never had to cut this deep before. Skin is eerily soft when you’ve got something sharp to it. I find it surprisingly easy to shear my skin like wool from a sheep. Instead of blisters there is now completely raw flesh. It is a deep dark pink and blood leaks out from it. The band aids in the box are mocking me as I reach for another old shirt off the floor to stop the blood flow on my arm. I take off the shirt I put on in favor of a sweatshirt to better help my case when Nora wakes up.

I notice that I am crying silently as I taste salt in my mouth and thick snot globules seep out of my nose. I grab a holey old pink towel from the closet and begin to mop up the vomit with it, or try to. I can’t tell if it's being picked up by the towel or just spread around. Miraculously Nora stays asleep through the three towels I have now gone through trying to clean the mess. I try not to breathe through my nose because I know what I will smell.

“Janey?” I come back to the bedroom from the bathroom at the sound of her gentle, sleepy voice. “Janey what’s that smell? Ja- God look at you!” She stands next to the bed, naked, and looks at me in horror. “Baby what the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve got goddamn AIDS.”

“I’m okay, really.” I’m not. “I think I drank too much last night or something. I just need to get some food in me, and some coffee.” The thought of food nearly lets my insides loose again.

By early evening some of my color is back, but I don’t feel any better internally. It’s Saturday, so Nora is off from work. I meekly suggest the bar to her. I need to go back.

“I don’t think that is such a great idea.” She’s looking at me sternly, maternally, I almost laugh at her seriousness. “You do remember what you looked like this morning, right?”

“It’s just the new medication, it doesn’t mix well with the alcohol, it's just gonna take some getting used to.” Bipolar medication. Downer. Not to be used in combination with alcohol.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well enough? I’ll be pissed if we get there and all of the sudden you want to go home.”

“Hey,” I smile, she returns it, her’s genuine, “what better way of getting used to it than drinking some more?” She is easily persuaded and from the noises I remember she had fun last night before she knew anything was wrong. She wants another round.

We enter the bar and I am again reminded that I really should change my contact lenses. The knife I carry is cold and heavy against my thigh. Saturdays are some of the busiest days, people aren’t tired from work or school and they don’t have either the following day. The immense number of people and their various attempts at masking their stinks with deodorant do not stop me from taking in the smell. He’s here.

Nora is amusing herself with a couple rubbing against each other against some wall I would not personally partake in touching. She has always been more interested in other people than me and would lose herself in them. I know that it is time to make my move. This time I wear long sleeves. And gloves. Is it embarrassing if I say I am wearing a turtleneck too? Nora wouldn’t stop laughing when I came out of the bedroom with it on. The gloves sent her over the edge. When I finally reach the bar, pushing people away feeling so much easier with the barricade of maroon wool on my hands, my stomach falls hard. He’s not there. No one is. One of the other employees is calling from the back and asking for someone to cover because they can’t find Eric. A name that wouldn’t mean anything two days prior now made so much sense. He was so entirely Eric. I knew they were talking about him.

I feel something like clairvoyance when I think of Eric’s absence. I turn to where Nora once stood, ogling the couple. She too is gone. Panic rises from where it rests, constantly deep within the cavity of my chest. I hear a familiar scream, but this time it is not out of pleasure. No one else turns, they cannot discern the difference. It comes from the bathroom of the bar, where I now run. Everyone is too drunk or self involved to pay any mind, and for that I am thankful. Bursting in through the door I see her. 

He is no longer there but neither is her sweet chiffon dress. She lies naked on the tiles twitching. Her skin feels as mine did yesterday. She burns as she lies there and yet she looks so cold. I’m sobbing now, choking, I feel as though I might die here. I hope I do. She still breathes and whimpers as I pick her up as one would a newborn child, her neck just as limp. There is an emergency exit by the last stall and I take her to it. When I feel the first bite of wind outside the bar I start running. I try to.

I hear a quiet laugh in a sickeningly familiar tone of voice. It would be almost seductive to someone who likes men. Someone like Nora, who likes both. It was gentle and handsome and smooth. The face did not match the laugh, but it matched perfectly with the agonizing nausea I felt now worse than ever. Thankfully his face got a new paint job with the toast and coffee Nora made me eat again before we left. She still lies limp in my now straining arms.

“You goddamn fucking dyke.” His eyes aren’t lifeless, it is the pupils that make them so bizarre. Instead of circles they are slits, slicing through the dark yellow of the iris. He stands still other than his panting.

I now notice his fingers. Along with their usual grotesque length and peculiar bends they are now accompanied by goop. I squint in the dodgy light that hangs outside the bar and notice holes. So many holes. They smell so fucking bad of that curdled goat milk smell I brought home with me that woke Nora up this morning. I fight back another retch as I notice Nora got hit in the crossfire of my previous explosion. He remains still, and I can’t understand why. Nora still breathes harshly in my arms and while he still remains in position I go to lay her gently onto the only grassy patch of the cobblestone street. I notice her blisters are already starting to take shape, some strewn about her upper thighs and her–

I grunt as I release the knife from my pocket and pitch myself at him with all the remaining strength I can muster, thanking him internally for touching my non-dominant shoulder. The knife is hot in my hand, it’s on fire. Nora makes some sound as I drive the knife deep into the side of his neck where it meets his collar bone. It takes more force than I had initially thought. I hear some delicious crack as the blade meets his skeleton and I feel the tension where it tears through his strong muscles. I struggle to rip the knife from his throat. He smiles with tawny stained teeth as not blood but that same gunk seeps from the gouge I have just created. His head begins to shiver and then his neck and so on and then the slimy liquid starts to pour from his scalp, taking his head with it. Before I know it he no longer stands before me but instead a pile of that vile creation oozes and bubbles underneath my shoes. To my horror it starts to move towards Nora. She lies there and I cry as she becomes unrecognizable to me, completely tarnished by his pustule disease. I know of nothing I can do to stop him from taking her, and seeing her convulsing body encrusted with bulges of pus I know I have to let her go. I watch as it, as Eric, moves to her and engulfs her entire being into himself, taking her away from me and making her one with him. Within the moment that she is taken they both seep into the grass and not soon after nothing remains. The grass is tinged a slight yellow, nearly matching his eyes.

I dry heave now, there is no more toast, no more coffee, no more Nora. I drag my feet and haul myself down the road to the apartment. Our apartment. I nearly black out on the stairs multiple times, and once I reach the top I slam my head into the door so hard I see floating lights. There is a splintery dent there now, and after steadying my hands to get the keys in, I go inside. I look at all of our belongings. Nora’s paintings of figs and peaches that adorn the wall, the mismatching bookcases overfilled with disheveled used books, her little yellow tea pot. I know I have nothing now, these things are nothing without her to animate them. I let out a shaky breath, and on the inhale I smell it. I feel a slight quiver on my shoulder, and then something frigid and wet. Trickling down my left arm, sludge. It is him. He is here.

Mairead Abbenda is a senior at UAlbany with a major in English and a minor in creative writing. She had previously been published in Arch in 2021 and won the Leah Lovenheim award for her short story the following spring.