Camila Johnson was making her way to an old, familiar haunt: a Detroit dive called Steve’s Place and Camila’s last legitimate job before she found more lucrative, less legitimate ways to make money – ways that were even less demeaning than the shit she used to take from customers at the bar.
On the loneliest street in the loneliest city, Steve’s Place was a lighthouse in an urban wasteland. The brick building was painted green, with a green and white striped awning. One end of the awning fluttered ghost-like in the wind. Peeling paint on the side of the building proclaimed “Steve’s Place,” below which said “Fine Homemade Food. Cocktails. Open 7 Days.” Despite the run-down outward appearance, there was something down home, warm and inviting about this place. Then again, compared with the rest of the block, that wasn’t saying much.
Camila entered and – as though on cue – a scratchy recording of Billie Holiday’s melancholy “Solitude” poured out of an ancient jukebox located in front of the window, intermingling with a musty odor that hinted of death and nostalgia. The Christmas lights also flickered on. The time-abandoned bar had a nauseating, musty smell which hinted of death. Various faded posters advertising beer and booze products punctuated the room. And no matter what time of day one walked into Steve’s Place, it appeared exactly like it did now as though entering into another dimension of time and space, existing in neither the past or the present.
Despite the sound of a hissing, rattling radiator in desperate need of repair, the bar was cold as death itself. An old calendar from 1995 hung on the wall, along with a discolored sign that indicated “You must have been born on or before this date in 1974 to order alcohol.” Scattered on both the bar and shelves above the bar were a variety of off-kilter knick-knacks from decades past. Bumper stickers of bands no longer in existence peppered the walls. Aluminum lunchboxes from the 70’s and 80’s dotted a shelf high atop the bar. Even the bottles of liquor appeared dated. Behind the bar was an antique cash register that was probably older than the bar itself.
Old party streamers from a forgotten celebration hung from the ceiling. Cobwebs hung from the Christmas lights, suggesting that they weren’t put up for this Christmas, but rather some forgotten Christmas from long ago.
Regarding the bar itself, the green vinyl padding along the bar was tattered and torn. The blue, faux-wood bar was peeling off in every direction. The floor consisted of faded black and red tiles, beaten up by time. Just past the bar, a row of dust-covered lime-green booths lined each side of the room, leading to an abandoned kitchen, littered with dirty pots and pans from a meal served long ago. Clues leading to what may have last been prepared in that kitchen hung behind the bar on a sign listing weekly menu options:
Mon: Roast Beef/Chicken Noodle
Tues: Roast Chicken/Navy Bean
Wed: Meatballs & Spag.
Thur: Short Ribs/Lit Pea
Fri. Fish & Chips/Clam Chowder
The bar was empty save for two individuals: one was a customer sitting alone at the bar – an ancient man wearing a framed, 8 x 10 photo around his neck like a necklace. The black and white photo was that of a beautiful woman taken from perhaps the 30’s or 40’s. Camila assumed it was his wife, presumably now among the faithful departed.
The other was a snoring homeless man who literally lived in one of the bar’s back booths. He called himself “Travelin’ Blues” because when he wasn’t asleep, he strummed some pretty mean blues for the handful of patrons that would make their way into the bar from time to time.
Camila had her share of conversation with Travelin’ Blues over the years and his stories were always fascinating, if not exaggerated or completely made up all-together. His favorite story, which he told to anyone within earshot, was his claim that none other than Mick Jagger told him he was one of the greatest blues guitarists he had ever heard. In fact, he was allegedly offered numerous record deals, but he turned them down because he claimed he didn’t want to be a sell-out. He further claimed that once the record labels signed you, that made you a slave by bombarding you with drug pushers whose job it was to keep you hooked and therefore a slave to the label. His stories certainly did make one wonder, but not without taking into account that he was a homeless man living in a back booth of a bar.
A bartender in a his late 50’s who looked like he could have been Red Foxx’s brother approached, immediately noticing her suitcase.
“Goin’ somewhere?” he asked.
“Looking for Steve,” she said, getting straight to the point. If anybody knew how to cut bullshit with a butter knife, it was Camila.
“Steve? Old man Steve?,” the bartender said, shaking his head and looking down at the floor. “He's gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?,” Camila said, shocked.
“You a friend of his?,” the bartender asked.
“I worked for him. What happened?”
“Robbed and shot. Right behind this bar that he ran for over 40 years.”
Camila struggled to let this soak in. Who would kill such a warm, caring man like Steve? Fuck this city, Camila thought, remembering where she was.
“You look like you can use a drink.”
“I could. But I’m broke.”
“On the house. In honor of that old mother-fucker Steve.”
“In that case, give me a Long Island,” Camila said, even though she knew she shouldn’t. After all, her mind was pretty much all made up. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her “problem” would take care of itself, sparing her from even having to step foot into a clinic to begin with.
The bartended nodded and got to work on her drink. Long Islands were her drink of choice since she was thirteen, after she graduated from Boone’s Farm. They always did the trick – which in turn, helped her turn tricks back when it used to take getting used to. Later, she only needed them after turning a trick to help her forget. Steve made the best Long Islands. It probably had something to do with the fact that Steve’s Long Islands consisted of 85% tequila.
As the bartender prepared her drink, Travelin’ Blues’s snores deepened. When she was finally served, she took a long, healthy sip.
“Is it okay?,” the bartender asked.
“Not as good as Steve’s,” Camila said, yet another reminder of much was lost. Back when Steve ran the joint, ever beer served by Steve would automatically come with a shot of Peach Schnapps – whether the customer wanted it or not. Since Camila didn’t drink beer, he gave her the shot anyway.
“So. Are you looking for help?,” Camila asked, taking another sip.
“With your drink?” the bartender asked, confused.
“No. I mean help as in … are you hiring?”
The bartender took a look around at the all-but-empty bar.
“Does it look like it?,” the bartender said sarcastically.
“Quite the detour for a simple ‘no,” Camila said.
“Wish I could help you,” the bartender said. “But
I can barely afford to help myself.”
“Nothing part-time?,” Camila persisted.
The bartender shook his head. He wished he could afford to hire her – for both her sake and his. But timmes were tough.
“You might want to check out St. Andrew's across the street. I heard they’re hiring,” he said, referring to a fabled Detroit nightclub.
“Thanks,” Camila said with sincere appreciation. She could tell he honestly wanted to help her anyway he could. Even more importantly, she felt that this was a man she could trust – a true rarity. Perhaps tonight was shaping up to be her night after all. Then again, based on past experience, it was likely to all be a mirage.
NYC sipped the remainder of her Long Island. She now had a mission. And had no time to waste.
“Another?” the bartender offered.
“No thanks,” Camila said.
Inexplicably, the old man with the frame necklace suddenly began sobbing heavily.
“Just ignore him,” said the bartender. “Scene stealer.” He had a point. If time was taken to pity every sad soul encountered in this town, everyone would die from despair. With that in mind, Camila got up from her stool and grabbed her suitcase, stumbling a bit from her unexpected buzz. Her empty stomach certainly didn’t help matters.
“Mind if I leave this with you?” Camila asked.
“I don’t see why not,” the bartender said.
“No problem,” he said, taking it from her and placing it behind the bar. “Just don’t forget about it.”
“Trust me, I won’t. It’s all I’ve got. Thanks again.” And with that, she headed out the door – the sobs from the old man still ringing in her head even after the door shut behind her.
The other was a snoring homeless man who literally lived in one of the bar’s back booths. He called himself “Travelin’ Blues” because when he wasn’t asleep, he strummed some pretty mean blues for the handful of patrons that would make their way into the bar from time to time.
Camila had her share of conversation with Travelin’ Blues over the years and his stories were always fascinating, if not exaggerated or completely made up all-together. His favorite story, which he told to anyone within earshot, was his claim that none other than Mick Jagger told him he was one of the greatest blues guitarists he had ever heard. In fact, he was allegedly offered numerous record deals, but he turned them down because he claimed he didn’t want to be a sell-out. He further claimed that once the record labels signed you, that made you a slave by bombarding you with drug pushers whose job it was to keep you hooked and therefore a slave to the label. His stories certainly did make one wonder, but not without taking into account that he was a homeless man living in a back booth of a bar.
A bartender in a his late 50’s who looked like he could have been Red Foxx’s brother approached, immediately noticing her suitcase.
“Goin’ somewhere?” he asked.
“Looking for Steve,” she said, getting straight to the point. If anybody knew how to cut bullshit with a butter knife, it was Camila.
“Steve? Old man Steve?,” the bartender said, shaking his head and looking down at the floor. “He's gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?,” Camila said, shocked.
“You a friend of his?,” the bartender asked.
“I worked for him. What happened?”
“Robbed and shot. Right behind this bar that he ran for over 40 years.”
Camila struggled to let this soak in. Who would kill such a warm, caring man like Steve? Fuck this city, Camila thought, remembering where she was.
“You look like you can use a drink.”
“I could. But I’m broke.”
“On the house. In honor of that old mother-fucker Steve.”
“In that case, give me a Long Island,” Camila said, even though she knew she shouldn’t. After all, her mind was pretty much all made up. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her “problem” would take care of itself, sparing her from even having to step foot into a clinic to begin with.
The bartended nodded and got to work on her drink. Long Islands were her drink of choice since she was thirteen, after she graduated from Boone’s Farm. They always did the trick – which in turn, helped her turn tricks back when it used to take getting used to. Later, she only needed them after turning a trick to help her forget. Steve made the best Long Islands. It probably had something to do with the fact that Steve’s Long Islands consisted of 85% tequila.
As the bartender prepared her drink, Travelin’ Blues’s snores deepened. When she was finally served, she took a long, healthy sip.
“Is it okay?,” the bartender asked.
“Not as good as Steve’s,” Camila said, yet another reminder of much was lost. Back when Steve ran the joint, ever beer served by Steve would automatically come with a shot of Peach Schnapps – whether the customer wanted it or not. Since Camila didn’t drink beer, he gave her the shot anyway.
“So. Are you looking for help?,” Camila asked, taking another sip.
“With your drink?” the bartender asked, confused.
“No. I mean help as in … are you hiring?”
The bartender took a look around at the all-but-empty bar.
“Does it look like it?,” the bartender said sarcastically.
“Quite the detour for a simple ‘no,” Camila said.
“Wish I could help you,” the bartender said. “But
I can barely afford to help myself.”
“Nothing part-time?,” Camila persisted.
The bartender shook his head. He wished he could afford to hire her – for both her sake and his. But timmes were tough.
“You might want to check out St. Andrew's across the street. I heard they’re hiring,” he said, referring to a fabled Detroit nightclub.
“Thanks,” Camila said with sincere appreciation. She could tell he honestly wanted to help her anyway he could. Even more importantly, she felt that this was a man she could trust – a true rarity. Perhaps tonight was shaping up to be her night after all. Then again, based on past experience, it was likely to all be a mirage.
NYC sipped the remainder of her Long Island. She now had a mission. And had no time to waste.
“Another?” the bartender offered.
“No thanks,” Camila said.
Inexplicably, the old man with the frame necklace suddenly began sobbing heavily.
“Just ignore him,” said the bartender. “Scene stealer.” He had a point. If time was taken to pity every sad soul encountered in this town, everyone would die from despair. With that in mind, Camila got up from her stool and grabbed her suitcase, stumbling a bit from her unexpected buzz. Her empty stomach certainly didn’t help matters.
“Mind if I leave this with you?” Camila asked.
“I don’t see why not,” the bartender said.
“No problem,” he said, taking it from her and placing it behind the bar. “Just don’t forget about it.”
“Trust me, I won’t. It’s all I’ve got. Thanks again.” And with that, she headed out the door – the sobs from the old man still ringing in her head even after the door shut behind her.
