Charms - Hardware Nut
Circa 2012
Hardware Nut
I woke up without any memory of falling asleep. Rays of early morning sun beat down on my face, forcing my eyes open. I was in the back seat of my car, limbs tangled in seat belts. I tried to sit up, but my body rebelled. I lifted my head an inch to look out the window at a familiar but empty parking lot. The pin was pulled. Grenades went off in my head and I slouched back against the car door, waiting for my vision to clear. Polaroids of the night before shimmered into focus.
I was in Ybor, waiting to meet my ex at our favorite club. We hadn't been in a relationship for three years but we hooked up frequently, still lost in the emotional detritus we tried to leave behind. I was sitting in a crushed velvet victorian arm chair near the lower bar, one of the many vintage pieces lending antiquity to the establishment's goth motif. I wasn't in the mood to dress out, so I wore a baby doll dress over fishnets with my knee highs. Low key for this particular club. I watched the entrance, anticipating his arrival.
My phone buzzed. He wouldn't be joining me. Disappointment gave way to relief. We would have ended up back at his place. I wasn't feeling it that night.
I climbed the stairs to the main floor, counting my steps to the red room. The walls gave credence to the room's moniker, blood stained and decorated with morbid art. There was a small bar and a lounge, a set of wooden steps that went nowhere. I ordered a vodka and cranberry and sat on the steps, watching people mill in and out. I'm not sure how long the khakis had been standing next to me when the voice above them quipped, "Oh look, we match."
My head snapped, startled out of my sonder. A man more or less my age with manicured blonde hair offered a congenial smile. He wore a button down the same color burgundy as my dress, pants pressed and dress shoes shined. It wasn't the dark decadent attire you'd expect from regulars.
"I suppose we do" I replied, taking a sip from my drink.
"I'm James. I just got back to town."
I introduced myself. "Where are you returning from?"
He claimed he was in town from Iraq. He was home for a few weeks but would be returning soon. He worked for a military contractor whose name he refused to mention. "But it's one of the big ones" he said with a wink.
I told him I worked at a private practice then quickly detoured the conversation back to him. I was uninterested in talking about myself. I was uninterested in talking at all. Socializing on my own isn't my strong suit, I need a chaperone or I turn to stone.
I ordered another vodka and cranberry. The bartender asked if I wanted to open a tab. I declined. I didn't learn proper bar etiquette until my 30s, having spent little time in bars after the birth of my child. James invited me to join him in the next room, which housed the stage, main dance floor and bar. We found a couch and sat down together, his arm stretched across the imitation leather. Our drinks emptied as he talked about life overseas, none of which I remember accurately enough to recount. But I found his confidence alarming. It wasn't confidence, but it wasn't pure ego either. It was certainty.
"Would you like another? My treat," he got up from the couch and reached for my hand, leading me to the bar.
"Do you mind if I order for you?" I shook my head. I couldn't hear what it was, but the bartender nodded and poured several bottles into our two cups. A splash of seltzer. He took both drinks and we returned to the couch. He paused. "Hold on, they forgot the lime". I sat and checked my phone while he took our drinks to the bar. After a few moments I looked up. It seemed to take longer than I would have thought, and I wondered if I should have gone with him. He returned and handed me my glass. I took a drink. Whatever it was could have peeled paint.
"It helps if you squeeze the lime" he said. I did so. It tasted like it could peel paint, with lime.
"Cheers" he took a long draw off his drink and lit a cigarette, offering me one. I took out one of my Marlboros, which he insisted on lighting for me. I took another sip. I hate smoking without something to drink, consequently smoking always makes me drink faster. Soon my glass was empty, and within the hour my head started pounding. My veins were pumping concrete, muscles filled with sand. He watched me in silence, and I wondered when he had stopped talking.
I threw myself to my feet. "I need to go," I mumbled, and shuffled toward the restrooms. He followed and stood across the hall with his foot against the wall behind him, arms folded across his chest. Certainty.
I stumbled into a stall and wrestled my fishnets down. I couldn't get my panties off, my fingers refused to cooperate. I slumped against the toilet. Three drinks. I thought it was three. Wasn't it three? Was it four? Five? I was so sure. I had to drive home. I wouldn't have more than three. I leaned against my knees and held my head in my hands. I tried to count tiles to keep the room in focus, but the world fell away.
I fumbled in the car next to me and found my purse. There was a sealed bottle of water. It wasn't mine. I ripped the cap off and sucked down half of it. My body was a swamp, sweat drenched skin and mud stuck muscles. I untangled my leg from the passenger seat belt and tried to sit up. I got half way and stopped, head pounding. Good enough. I pulled my dress down and noticed my fishnets were on skewed. Panic threatened to overwhelm me. I put my hand between my legs and my body shook with relief. I hadn't been fucked with. It would have been obvious.
I sat up the rest of the way and grabbed the door handle. It was locked. I looked around and saw my keys sitting next to my cigarettes on the dash. I unlocked the drivers side doors and stepped out. I fell against the car, limbs still heavy with protest. Vertigo took hold. I stared at the gritty concrete, waiting for the fog to clear. There was a little silver nut sitting next to my boot. I thought about our safe word as a child, "wingnut". Never trust a stranger that doesn't know that word. Badge or not. If something happened to our parents, they would give out the password. If we trusted that word, we would be safe.
I leaned down, little by little, and grabbed the nut off the ground. I closed the back door and climbed into the driver's seat, starting the car and blasting the A/C. I rolled the window down and grabbed my cigarettes off the dash. In my pack was a clove. Djarum Black. Same brand I smoked in my youth, but this one wasn't mine. I lit one of my smokes and closed my eyes, trying to remember how I got to my car. I struggled to find any memory after the bathroom. But I caught a glimmer of the stone walkway outside, and I remembered being out there with a tall bald man built like a brick wall, all black from head to toe. He half carried me as I pointed across the street towards the parking lot. James was nowhere to be seen.
It must have been security. The bathroom attendant would have checked on me eventually and called it in. I would later find out the Djarum Black was a calling card of the club's security team when they assisted anyone too intoxicated or incapacitated to care for themselves.
I finished my cigarette and started the car, creeping carefully towards the highway. As I hit the bridge I watched the sun hang lazily over the bay, bright blue water reflecting light from millions of lightyears away. I thanked the universe for smoking angels, and made my way home.
This had my attention arrested the whole time
yet again, a brilliant piece