tired-looking.
She smiled at him.
"Hi," she said.
She licked her lips.
Uh-oh , he thought. This one wants to talk .
"I'm gonna make you a promise," she said. Her words slurred together like a bad erasure.
"Shoot."
"Somebody don't give me a job soon, say one week, I'm gonna fucking murder myself. I swear it."
"Uh-huh."
"Waitress job. HMV. Anything. One week and then the hell with it, I'm checking out. That asking too much? Job as a waitress in a place like this?"
"No."
"Damn right. It's something to me, though." She took a slug of what appeared to be a gin and tonic.
"Look," she said. "I'm not stupid. Just finished my dissertation. Been writin ' it three and a half weeks â first time out in nearly a month . So what do I do? Go out and drink up what's left of my money. In a joint like this. Drink so much I can hardly talk to anybody. Nobody to talk to in a month and now I can't talk to anybody. That make sense to you?"
"No. You're doing okay, though."
"Thank you. But doncha see it's self-destructive? I gotta have something normal happen to me. Got to make some money. Maybe waitress. 'S normal. People tip you. Know how much it costs to write a dissertation? How much they charge you for the privilege of writing yourself to death? Lotta money."
"What was the dissertation?"
"Schizophrenia."
He could think of nothing to say to that so they drank their drinks.
What a mess , he thought. Hair long, limp and tangled. Skin the color of mushrooms. Eyes all red and bleary â they were disturbing eyes. Beneath the weird conversation you could sense real pain, and a lot of it, just below the surface. Beneath the eyes there was something else. He didn't know what and didn't want to.
"It's the dissertation's made me crazy," she said, almost to herself. "Dissertations break up a lot of marriages, you know that? 'S very common." She waved her hand in dismissal. "Me, of course, I ain't married."
He saw Cindy walking toward him through the crowded tables. "You'll be all right," he said.
"Sure I will. 'Course I will."
Bailey was looking at them and Tom nodded toward the woman. Better cut her off , the nod said. Bailey nodded back.
"Friend of yours?" said Cindy, sliding onto the barstool.
There was a cattiness there he didn't like. It surprised him. She hadn't seemed the type. It was as though between the time she'd left the bar and the time she returned something had changed about her.
"We just met," he said. His tone was cool.
"That's nice," she said, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
But he saw that his tone of voice had not been lost on her. She was staring directly into his eyes. And the look on her face said, I'm taking you home tonight. So don't he a pain in the ass, please. Not over her, anyway. Relax and enjoy it .
He looked at her. She was lovely. He guessed that compassion should have its limits.
The drunk was not long for the world anyhow. Her eyes kept closing. The long blink , his father used to call it. There was always a hotplate down at the end of the bar with a full pot of coffee going and Bailey was pouring her a cup.
He brought it over. Said something to get her attention.
She waved him away. Lurched suddenly to her feet and began to wobble through the crowd toward the door.
"Hey!"
Her purse was lying on the bar.
The woman stopped.
"Your purse," Tom said.
She wobbled back to them. Tom handed it to her and she smiled. The smile was pretty ghastly.
"Thanks," she said. Then her smile faded. " Thank you very much ."
She wasn't thanking him for the purse. She was thanking him for talking. He felt a wave of pity. Even concern. There was something so final about the way she'd thanked him â as though they were the last words she ever expected to utter. He'd not given it much credence before but maybe the woman was a potential suicide after all, maybe she was serious and this last drunken lurch back through a crowd of strangers for a pocketbook she did not much care
She smiled at him.
"Hi," she said.
She licked her lips.
Uh-oh , he thought. This one wants to talk .
"I'm gonna make you a promise," she said. Her words slurred together like a bad erasure.
"Shoot."
"Somebody don't give me a job soon, say one week, I'm gonna fucking murder myself. I swear it."
"Uh-huh."
"Waitress job. HMV. Anything. One week and then the hell with it, I'm checking out. That asking too much? Job as a waitress in a place like this?"
"No."
"Damn right. It's something to me, though." She took a slug of what appeared to be a gin and tonic.
"Look," she said. "I'm not stupid. Just finished my dissertation. Been writin ' it three and a half weeks â first time out in nearly a month . So what do I do? Go out and drink up what's left of my money. In a joint like this. Drink so much I can hardly talk to anybody. Nobody to talk to in a month and now I can't talk to anybody. That make sense to you?"
"No. You're doing okay, though."
"Thank you. But doncha see it's self-destructive? I gotta have something normal happen to me. Got to make some money. Maybe waitress. 'S normal. People tip you. Know how much it costs to write a dissertation? How much they charge you for the privilege of writing yourself to death? Lotta money."
"What was the dissertation?"
"Schizophrenia."
He could think of nothing to say to that so they drank their drinks.
What a mess , he thought. Hair long, limp and tangled. Skin the color of mushrooms. Eyes all red and bleary â they were disturbing eyes. Beneath the weird conversation you could sense real pain, and a lot of it, just below the surface. Beneath the eyes there was something else. He didn't know what and didn't want to.
"It's the dissertation's made me crazy," she said, almost to herself. "Dissertations break up a lot of marriages, you know that? 'S very common." She waved her hand in dismissal. "Me, of course, I ain't married."
He saw Cindy walking toward him through the crowded tables. "You'll be all right," he said.
"Sure I will. 'Course I will."
Bailey was looking at them and Tom nodded toward the woman. Better cut her off , the nod said. Bailey nodded back.
"Friend of yours?" said Cindy, sliding onto the barstool.
There was a cattiness there he didn't like. It surprised him. She hadn't seemed the type. It was as though between the time she'd left the bar and the time she returned something had changed about her.
"We just met," he said. His tone was cool.
"That's nice," she said, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
But he saw that his tone of voice had not been lost on her. She was staring directly into his eyes. And the look on her face said, I'm taking you home tonight. So don't he a pain in the ass, please. Not over her, anyway. Relax and enjoy it .
He looked at her. She was lovely. He guessed that compassion should have its limits.
The drunk was not long for the world anyhow. Her eyes kept closing. The long blink , his father used to call it. There was always a hotplate down at the end of the bar with a full pot of coffee going and Bailey was pouring her a cup.
He brought it over. Said something to get her attention.
She waved him away. Lurched suddenly to her feet and began to wobble through the crowd toward the door.
"Hey!"
Her purse was lying on the bar.
The woman stopped.
"Your purse," Tom said.
She wobbled back to them. Tom handed it to her and she smiled. The smile was pretty ghastly.
"Thanks," she said. Then her smile faded. " Thank you very much ."
She wasn't thanking him for the purse. She was thanking him for talking. He felt a wave of pity. Even concern. There was something so final about the way she'd thanked him â as though they were the last words she ever expected to utter. He'd not given it much credence before but maybe the woman was a potential suicide after all, maybe she was serious and this last drunken lurch back through a crowd of strangers for a pocketbook she did not much care
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