Chapter 154
Ladies Room
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The car accident that will kill Tom Atari is still days away.
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Tonight Tom was alone, in the authentic sense of the word, standing in a bathroom stall, the toilet caked with piss and dried period, turning a page in his notebook, tasting his pen out of habit and writing two words in a barely-literate scrawl:
Project Geronimo
A girl- humming- stepped out of the neighboring stall, toilet flushing booze back to paradise. Tom- legs still sore- sat back on the bowl and pulled his feet out of sight. It had been a long night- all the nights are long- and so far all Tom had learned was that he could guess a woman’s age by the amount of time she spent in the mirror: Young girls were out in less than a minute, taking a fresh lipstick or pulling back their hair. Older women had more refinishing to do: the glinx of glass jars, vials and compacts as they took a look at their aging faces, trying in vain to hide the best lines.
One woman must have been a wreck because she took almost ten minutes at the sink, powder to perfume. Tom could hear every stroke of the metal brush through her thinning hair, pictured repacking her pocketbook the way a pilgrim stuffs a turkey. His legs had been fire.
Now he could hear this humming girl at the mirror, water running. The sink shut off hard and but the humming continued- a new tune- and she swung out, the door closing hard behind her. Not even thirty seconds. He could see her in his headspace: teenager, gorgeous, leaking with the juices. Every man she ever met wanting to ball her brains in, too young/fine to even be afraid. Probably got in by sucking off the bouncer. These clubs... they used to be so classy.
He tried to turn off the detective but it was so much instinct now. He caught himself mapping out the invisible teen’s entire life- he hated that- then his mind went- SNAP- and he forced himself to smell the urine. This was real life, and the only way to stay sane in this olfactory funhouse. There was nothing to do but wait for Sandy. His lowered his legs.
Tom, now 55, now working for scraps. It had been a lifetime- at least- several highs and an awful lot of lows- but the work was always constant. It had to be. He had courted the beauties and balled the wrecks, dodged a bullet or two, taken a couple. Once upon a time he had been in medical school- he was pretty sure anyway. He remembered a day when his face was free of scars, how tough it was to accept the first and how easy it was with the next.
At one time Atari had potential: he could see the world as a ripe orange just begging to be peeled. And now here he was, in his only suit, on a Friday night, hiding in a nightclub toilet, waiting for Sandy Cole to have a piss.
Success.
Sandy was a doll, end of story, an Amen followed by a Hallelujah. She was the one good thing- the only thing Tom could ever trust. Her sculpted face and round bottom were long overdue... where could she be? That’s when the door opened.
Hard feet- too heavy for dancing- made a sound uncomfortable on the ladies room tile. Tom stepped back from the door, probably saving himself another broken rip as it was kicked open, slamming inward against the wall. Bagger Salz stood outside with a nigger beside him, with a sneer on his face. “Tom A-Fucking-Tari... what are the odds?”
He jammed Tom’s knee and Atari folded- neat- while Salz caught his hair and dunked his head in the toilet. “Thirsty- taste this!” It wasn’t poetry, but Bagger Salz wasn’t a poet.
“You must not read the sign on the door, Tom. It says this is the LADIES room!”
Tom’s face was back in the bowl before he could defend himself. He tasted sour salt.
Bagger took Atari's gun and handed and it to the black boy. They grabbed him and stood him up, Tom gasping for air.
Bagger seemed pleased by this turn of events, as if his horoscope had predicted exactly this predicament.
“Any last words before we put a bullet in your eye?”
Tom- dignified- knowing death was imminent- looked into Bagger Salz’ face and spat toilet water.
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