By: Nicholas Rada
“Oh man, what a faggot!” Clive chuckled.
Alive and somehow listless – a typical rainy Thursday afternoon in a Seattle bar. What a wash. Mark wondered why he was there on a Thursday. What was this place called? The Grey Dog? How does a place get a name like that? Mark mulled it over.
“No man; I know Tom! Tom’s not gay,” Julian burst.
“I swear,” Clive shifted his gaze around their table from Julian to Seth to Mark and back to Seth again. “He would’ve pounced on me right then and there if you didn’t walk in when you did, Seth. I swear!”
The Grey Dog sounds like a place you’d go to after scheming with The Sons of Liberty. The name had a colonial feel, but Mark thought that improbable. Why would there be a revolutionary style bar on the west coast? It could be an attempt to sound kind of colonial. Mark scanned the bar’s aesthetic. Patriotic fixtures embellished the oaken walls set to match the counter encroaching a majority of the wall opposite to him and his group. None of it looked real.
“I don’t know,” Seth responded. “Tom’s not like that. Even if he is gay, you know?”
“No, he was eyeing me up and down.”
“If he was then he has pretty shit taste in guys, “ Julian offered.
Clive snorted and pushed him, “Fuck you, dude.”
As out-of-place as it seemed, the novelty was pulling people in, Mark supposed. The Police were playing from some indeterminable source in the bar. He looked around. There were still twenty-four people – including himself . In this niche, colonial-esque bar on a rainy Thursday afternoon. What a way for twenty-four people – including himself – to spend Thanksgiving. And he still had work tomorrow. The coaster beneath his drink stared back at him with a swooping, circular Blue Moon logo. Mark was fairly sure this venue didn’t sell Blue Moon.
Clive calmed down his laughter. “Okay, but seriously guys. Tom is gay.”
Entering his peripherals, a woman dressed with a peculiar formalness sauntered past his gaze from one side of the bar to the other. A dress of deep maroon hugged the middle of her thighs, trailing up underneath a mat black blazer reaching down to her waist. Black leggings jutted out downward to meet calf-high heels which bordered on the category of combat boots. Mark judged her outfit inappropriate for the weather, but even if she was freezing, she was pulling it off. Sacrifices, he supposed. He held back a laugh as Roxanne conveniently hummed from the bar’s still clandestine music source.
“You can’t just assume stuff like that, dude.” Seth retorted. “You have no basis. None.”
“A person’s lived experience is significant,” Clive borderline slurred. “That is what the girl with the red hair said in my literature course.” He took a gulp from his drink. “Basically. So if you are disagreeing with me, then you are disagreeing with her, mister feminist.” Julian emphasized his point with slurred affirmations.
“Are you hearing yourself?” Seth recoiled, raising his brow. “Like, are you hearing the words that you’re saying right now?”
She looked like she was here by herself. Was she here trying to pick someone up? On Thanksgiving? Mark shifted in his seat. He looked around the room again. The speakers were still nowhere to be seen. He counted. Still twenty-four people – including himself – drinking on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Mark hadn’t even eaten lunch yet. He paused his thought process. Twenty-four, but the girl was new. He looked back to where she was.
The woman was nursing some kind of blue cocktail. It looked heavy. Mark almost passed judgement, but he realized that he was already on his third Guinness and they were barely gracing their second hour. That, and she seemed to possess more purpose than him in this moment. At least she wanted to be here. Presumably. Mark was about to do a recount, but his eyes met hers. Rather, he realized his eyes had been meeting hers for the better half of a minute. He sought the bottom of his mug for refuge and turned on his seat to more aptly face his group, holding back a deep blush, hoping she’d dismiss the instance as quickly as he knew he’d dwell on it.
“You are not listening to me!” Clive nearly jumped from his chair. “It was so uncomfortable! I live with him! I am living with a gay person, and I have to sleep under the same roof as him!”
Seth set his drink down. “I- what?”
Mark put forth his best effort to keep his focus on his glass, but his will eventually broke. He looked back up to where she was. Her attention was turned to the bartender, and Mark released a breath. He took it back once he realized she was throwing him side glances in the midst of her conversation. He wished severely that she would stop.
Clive downed his drink. “Mark lived with him! He knows.” He leaned into the direction of the aforementioned man. “Mark.”
“Huh-?” Mark checked back in. “Sorry, what?”
“Tom is gay, right? Back me up here,” Clive took grasp of his shoulder.
“Sorry- what?” Mark was trying to not throw side glances to the woman, to no avail.
“Tom. When you lived with him did he give you,” Clive hunched in and hushed his tone, “you know,” his eyes shifted around the group, “vibes?” Clive’s breath reeked of a mixture of ales.
Seth rolled his eyes. Julian remained placatingly unphased.
“What are you looking at?” Clive shifted to turn around. “Oh, I see,” he grinned.
The woman was still in dialogue with the bartender and was still in the game of throwing glances to Mark. This time, however, she accompanied the look with an enticing smile before turning her body back to the bartender.
Clive became uncomfortably close with Mark’s cheek. His volume increased in accordance with his proximity. “She is so checking you out man. Go get that shit!” He exclaimed in an effortless whisper.
Mark compulsively surveyed the faces of his party, standing up before he could process any of their expressions. He could hear Clive’s and Julian’s hoots as he walked to where the woman was.
She softly held up a hand to the bartender as Mark approached, giving him an inquisitive raise of her left eyebrow and a very full sounding, “Yes?”
“Hey listen, I’m sorry I was staring at you; I didn’t mean it like- you know. I was just looking around the room and I spaced out and I- yeah…” Mark clasped his hand and tossed a look over his shoulder back to his group. “Look, this is going to sound really weird – especially since I just kind of just clarified that I wasn’t looking at you like- you know, and uh…” She was still intent on listening to Mark’s ramble, for some reason. “Fuck, sorry. I’m being weird, haha. Wow, um,” he tossed another quick acknowledgment and subsequently took a breath. “Listen, I know we’ve never met before but can we get a cup of coffee or something? I really don’t want to be here right now, and I’m not asking like a date, but can we walk out like it is a date?” His eyes pleaded. She maintained the same interested stare. “This is so fucking weird; I’m sorry. I’ll just go back now.”
As he motioned to turn, the woman spoke up, her voice lilting with a comforting humor. “Friends not doing it for you, huh?” Mark’s jaw clamped shut, his eyes giving away his subconscious yes. She casually opened her purse with a timely precision that was almost performative, taking out a bill and placing it on the counter. “All right; let’s go.”
The woman grabbed Mark’s hand before he had time to react, leading him past his group and out the door, picking up one of several umbrellas resting in a bin nearby. By the time he turned his head, the glass door to The Grey Dog had shut, the faces of his companions somewhat visible through the bar’s moniker on the door. Their silence transcended the barrier that was now between Mark and the three of them, as was clear by their unmoving expressions.
As they came out of view, Mark turned to the woman who remained relentless in her dragging. “Uh,” he piped up, “that was really quick, uh…”
“Roxanne,” she threw back. Mark stuttered in his step, inadvertently escaping her grasp. She turned on a heel in anticipation, shining a grin. “I’m just fucking with you. It’s Clarisse.”
“Mark,” Mark spurted out as she retook his hand, intent on finishing their pilgrimage. It took him a moment for his breath to catch up with his mind and his mind to catch up with his sight. They’d already gone several blocks somehow, The Grey Dog now some untraceable entity from his new bearings. “Sorry, but where are we going?”
“Here,” Clarisse threw him over her shoulder before abruptly stopping and turning to face a set of glass double doors lined with oak, a respective bar handle to accompany each. “I’ve been wanting to check this place out. It seems cool.” She led Mark in before he could read the overhanging name.
The coffee shop was comparatively brighter than the bar – in most senses of the word. Clean, unassuming pastel greens and oranges lined the fixtures of the establishment, contrasting its predominant light grey tones. Despite her claim of unfamiliarity, Clarisse moved to a table with a confidence that said otherwise. “Take a seat; I’ll get us something.” Mark took a seat.
Finally unmoving, Mark was able to mentally place himself in relation to where he once was, but noted he could not physically place himself in relation to where that was. The view outside the doors was unfamiliar, what little landscape of the streets they did reveal. He looked about the coffee shop, which bustled with a silent comfort of surreptitious conversation of coffee dates between friends, lovers, and book readers. Clarisse caught his eyes as she departed from the barista, holding two cups, still clad in her femme fatale getup.
“Sorry, I should have asked what you preferred,” she said setting down a cup in front of him. “It’s a latte.”
“It’s okay. Thank you,” he replied. A silenced followed. He glanced between Clarisse and his cup, taking a timid sip to determine if it was too hot to drink. It was. Avoiding eye contact he let out a sigh.
“So what’s on your mind?” she countered.
“What?” Mark said, snapping back to reality. “Oh, nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Really?” she laughed in an oddly comforting tone, similar to the one she utilized before. “Must be quite a nothing to compel you to leave a bar with a stranger, and your friends behind at that.” Mark blushed. Clarisse sipped her coffee, eyes batting back up to him as she set the cup down. “You know, you’re cute; it’s a shame you’re not straight.”
Mark choked on the sip he had taken a minute ago. “What? Excuse me?”
“It’s okay; I’m not judging. Just saying,” she said, taking another sip.
“I’m not gay,” Mark retorted.
“Never said you were,” Clarisse replied.
“I’ve dated girls before. I’ve had a girlfriend.”
“Me too,” she chuckled. It fizzled out when she saw the contorted candor Mark possessed. “Whoa, that’s a button.” She put her drink down.
“Why’d you bring me here if you thought I was gay?”
“Why’d you ask me out if you didn’t want to go on a date?” She forced down her smile when she saw the lack of Mark’s. “Okay Clarisse, calm down with the jokes,” she muttered to the side before taking a breath. “Look, I noticed you at the bar, and you were evidently having a poor time with your friends. I thought you could use an out. I was planning on approaching you, you know.” Mark maintained a somber stoicism. “Hey, I’m sorry,” Clarisse leaned across the table slightly. “What was bothering you with your friends at the bar?” she asked.
Mark shook off his grimace. “It’s nothing; I don’t want to talk about it.” He met Clarisse’s eyes. “I’m sorry for getting defensive.”
“You’re okay.,” she said, her smile returning with a softness. “You know, you’re pretty strange.” Mark recoiled. “I mean that in a good way!”Clarisse qualified and his expression softened.
“Me? You’re the one dressed for a warm night in LA when it’s raining in Seattle on a Thursday afternoon,” he offered.
“On Thanksgiving,” she added.
“On Thanksgiving,” he laughed.
“Hey, there’s something new.” Clarisse took a sip from her coffee.
In retaliation, Mark attempted to suppress his smile, which in turn only cultivated it. He looked down to his cup, which now felt cool enough to drink. He did. He laughed again, throwing Clarisse a glance before once more scoping out the shop’s scene.
“Why aren’t you with your family right now?” she asked.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Fair,” she set back into her seat, drink in hand, mulling over a response. “They’re not my favorite group of people,” she settled on.
“That is a mutual sentiment.” Mark raised his drink.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe you’ve met my family,” she panned with a straight face before taking another sip.
“What- oh. Funny. That is a sentiment that I also share about my family.” He shook a grin at her.
Her lips moved to smile, though they did not achieve their goal. “They don’t approve of my lifestyle choices, or my personality choices.” She looked out through the glass of the doors. “They’ve always made me feel weird for being weird. Thanksgiving is the kind of thing you should spend with people who don’t do that to you, you know?”
“Like a stranger at some divey niche bar?”
“Exactly!” Clarisse raised her drink. “Like a stranger at some divey niche bar,” she laughed.
“Why just Thanksgiving? Make it a year-round thing.” Mark turned his eyes to the table. “Life is just a big inside joke; you just have to find the people who get it.” After a lack of response he looked back up to find Clarisse’s gaping at him. “What?”
“That sounded so premeditated, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to tease but- wow. How long have you been waiting to use that?” Clarisse took another sip. “You are just a walking John Green novel,” she said putting down her drink. Mark shifted uncomfortably. “Oh no, no; I’m sorry. It’s a good sentiment.” She attempted to recover. Mark’s expression remained unchanged. Clarisse put her hands to her face. “Oh god, now I’m making you feel weird.”
She released her face, putting her hands on the table. “Okay, I used to live in LA, and when I lived there I would go to the Griffith Observatory on regular basis, sit on the bench from La La Land, look out at the city, and attempt to write plays and screenplays. I thought it would ‘inspire’ me,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Mark chewed on the information. “Actually, that sounds pretty cool.” He shifted to be more upright. “LA and the pier and the observatory. That kind of stuff. I’ve thought about what it would be like.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to check it out, maybe.”
“Maybe…” he trailed off, looking out the door once more.
Clarisse joined him. “So what were you doing with your friends at the bar then, on a Thursday afternoon, on Thanksgiving?” she turned to him. “They didn’t really seem like a favorable supplement to your family troubles.”
Mark turned to her. “Oh, uh-” he fished for the words, “no they’re good people. Sometimes.”
“And other times?” she inquired.
He smiled inwardly. “Other times I feel weird for being weird- is that what you want me to say?”
Clarisse lifted her cup, teetering it back and forth between her fingers. “I can’t invariably say I want anything from you; we’ve only just met.” She stood up and pointed to his cup. “You done?”
“Oh, no; sorry,” he said, pulling his cup toward himself.
“Don’t apologize.” She threw him a smile. “Just saying, why not make it a year-round thing?”
As she turned to dispose of her cup, Mark tripped up on his words and settled for the glass doors once more. Though it was still gloomy, the rain had stopped. He took note of a tree out front, thinking of how it managed to look so cold without being able to shiver. His sight remained fixed as Clarisse returned to her seat.
“What are you looking at?” she asked softly.
“Hmm?” Mark’s eyes remained fixed on the tree.
Clarisse leaned in across the table, “I said, what are you looking at?”
The same amalgative waft of cheap, craft beer filled his nose, compelling him to cough to clear his sinuses. The bustle of the bar filled his ears.
“What are you looking at!?” Clive shouted into his ear before turning to the bar where Mark’s gaze was fixed. The bartender wiped the counter, no patrons to be seen in his immediate vicinity. Clive turned back to Mark, “Ooo, you checking him out? Are you gay, too? Is that why you and Tom lived together?” He laughed aggressively.
Mark blinked, assessing where he was. He gave Clive a sneer before pushing himself from his seat. “I’m bi,” he barked before walking to the door.
“Wha-” Clive tried to offer, his voice falling mute on a closing door. He turned to Julian, who laid slump on the table.
Seth shook his head. “You’re such a fucking prick, you know that?” he chastised before following Mark out.
Mark walked a few steps from the door before stopping in front of a tree, breathing in a heavy sigh of relief, looking to the slate grey sky and the soft caress of tiny droplets for comfort. The gentle post-rain chill instilled a new wind in him. His eyes dropped to the tree, wondering if they always came conveniently sized for unassuming passerbyers roaming the sidewalk. He reached out to touch it, feeling an odd warmth coming from the dampness.
“Hey.”
Mark turned to find Seth. “Hey,” he responded.
Seth chewed his lip, eyes darting to the side. “Um,” he began, “sorry about Clive. He’s a prick.” Mark gave him an affirmative grunt. Seth looked to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Mark motioned to speak before shutting his mouth and giving his head a quick shake. “Okay,” Seth returned.
After a brief moment of silence, Seth pulled him into a hug. “I don’t care, by the way. I mean, like, I care, just- yeah. You know.” Mark tugged him closer and Seth reciprocated. Mark released him and took a few steps back, softly bumping into the tree before correcting his stance. “Do you want to go get a cup of coffee or something? This place kind of blows,” Seth gestured a gibe to the bar. Mark nodded, releasing a small laugh as he wiped subversive tears from his eyes. “Cool,” Seth gave him in return, motioning his head down the street to suggest movement. Mark followed him in stride, wordless, warm, and damp, content in his selection of holiday festivities.
