Nobody Is Ever Missing by Catherine Lacey Page A

European or both—someone somehow trustworthy.
    I walked to a hostel and tried to pay for a room with a card and the girl behind the counter seemed embarrassed when it wouldn’t go through a third time— Oh, it’s probably my fault —so I paid for a night with one of the traveler’s checks I’d brought to give me a false sense of having my shit together. I only had a few hundred dollars in checks because a false sense of having my shit together only cost a few hundred dollars. I left my backpack in my room and walked into the city, beside a museum, past a bank, past a library with wide windows. Businesspeople strolled around, looking for business.
    I stepped into a nearly empty pub where the bartender was wiping the counter, leaning into his flexed arms, a swirl of black hair on his head like a cartoon of a mechanic in some imagined past. He seemed to immensely enjoy being himself, fashionably morbid, nostalgic for an era in which he was still dead. At the end of the bar was a woman who was maybe my age or younger. From the waist up she was waifish and pale, but her legs were gigantic, muscular logs—proportionally absurd, and I imagined taking her to a park where she could lie on the ground and I could nap on her legs, thick as mattresses as they were. It is a strange thing to want, the sexless bodily comfort of a stranger, but her legs seemed to be as long as a door and one was bent to her chest and the other dangled below like all this leg was just too much for her and there was something comforting about that surplus and I was low on comfort, on anything comfortable. A man with a bloated neck stared down the girl the way a dog stares down a steak.
    Up close the bartender’s face was boyish and pained, so much so I felt like his mother when I looked at him, and it was unbearable to see him so unhappy after all that I had gone through to bring him into the world. This was not a convenient feeling to have when all I wanted was to order a sandwich and beer. I took a stool facing away from the girl and pushed my bizarre feelings away for long enough to order and I got out a book to avoid looking at the bartender and as I read I half dreamed that the bartender asked me to read aloud to him, and so in my half dream, I did. At first he laughed at the right parts, he saw the quiet tragedy of Mrs. Bridge and I began to think that he had just the right measure of unhappiness and dissatisfaction with life to be someone I could get along with. In my half dream the bartender smiled and we made occasional, comfortable eye contact as I read, but then my fantasy turned sour, and he stopped laughing at any of the funny parts, stopped reacting entirely. He looked around for someone to pour a beer for and seemed dismayed when there was no one. He exhaled visibly. He cracked his knuckles.
    Oh, this chapter’s not as good out loud , I said in my half dream. I’ll read a different one.
    I flipped to the scene where Mrs. Bridge is trying to learn Spanish from a record, but I mangled the pronunciation and he had to correct me.
    It’s Cómo está usted .
    Cómo está usted?
    No. Cómo está usted.
    I am a stupid American, I thought inside the fantasy inside my thought as I read Mrs. Bridge , as the imagined bartender wiped a white towel down the bar, inching away. I decided in my fantasy I would make an effort to speak in a way that was more pleasing to listen to and I would choose a passage better suited for the bartender: the part where Mrs. Bridge, sleepless, has a growing sense of unreality and despair.
    She had a feeling that all was not well and she waited in deep expectancy for some further intimation, listening intently, but all she heard before falling asleep was the familiar chiming of the clock.
    (The imagined bartender began wiping down the bar again, moving toward me.)
    The next morning Lois Montgomery telephoned to say that Grace Barron had committed suicide.
    (And he was visibly satisfied with the sudden darkness, and I