When you got your sights set on revenge,
make sure your resolve can commit.
make sure your resolve can commit.
Barstool Man by Jennifer Wortman
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He’d sat on
the same barstool every night since she first saw him there. Why? Did he crave a
set place in this shaky world? Tonight, she’d shake him, but first, a drink. A
few nights ago—her first time in this bar in two decades—she’d asked for a
whiskey sour.
The
bartender had said, “None of that here. We’re just a regular bar.”
She’d forgotten
that “a regular bar” meant something different in Mellsburg, Ohio than it did
in bigger, better places. Better places that turned out to be just as bad as this
bar or worse.
The hunting
knife weighed heavy in her pants. She’d almost brought her dad’s revolver, but when
nervous or angry—and she would be both—she lost control, and she didn’t want to
ruin her life by going trigger-happy. She just wanted to scare him, hurt him a
little. Maybe it was too late. Maybe her life had already been ruined all those
years back by the barstool man.
He didn’t
recognize her, not tonight or the nights before. The rapist’s luxury: being
someone to watch out for but not someone who keeps watch. His linebacker’s heft
had gone mushy and wide, and his round cheeks had caved into long jowls. Still,
she’d known him instantly. She’d once told a therapist she’d blacked out during
the worst of it, so it was like it never happened.
“But it did
happen,” the therapist had said. “Your mind left, but your body knows.”
After drinks
two and three, it was time.
She went to
the ladies’ room. The lipstick was crucial.
That night years ago, he’d praised her lips, saying they looked “French.” She’d
worn a shade much like this one: a mix of red wine, dried blood, and ground-in
dirt—the color of stains that don’t come out.
The fourth
drink wasn’t part of the plan, but neither were drinks two or three. After the
fifth, she slammed the empty glass on the bar and approached him.
Her dad had
a shirt that read, “They must think I’m a mushroom, because they keep me in the
dark and feed me bullshit.” The barstool man looked like the cartoon mushroom
on that shirt.
Still, her
heart slammed against her ribs. “Hi,” she said.
He turned
to her. Those shimmering green eyes. They’d be beautiful if they weren’t half
dead.
Fucking
jock. Maybe those eyes had drawn her to him that night. There she’d been, invited
to a jock party for the first time and excited despite herself, drinking a lot
because she was nervous. There he’d been, in his orange Mellsburg Tigers jersey.
Stupid
girl. Maybe it was those eyes she followed into the bathroom after he said,
“Hold on, I gotta take a leak,” and motioned for her to come in so they could keep
talking.
Survivor’s conventional
wisdom told her it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t believe it. Even though she’d
said, “No!” when he pinned her down. Even though she didn’t struggle because she
couldn’t, stuck under the fallen building of him and his rubble. There was no
food or water there, no air, just his face, yammering about his girlfriend, the
back of his mullet swinging at her eyes. “I don’t want your body,” he said,
implanting himself in her. “I want you.”
Then things went dark.
When she
staggered back to the party and told an older girl what had happened, the girl rolled
her eyes and said, “Oh, Bobby. He always attacks girls in bathrooms. You have
to lock the door.” Until her therapist, that girl was the last person she’d
told.
“Hi there,”
the barstool man said. “What can I do you for?”
“I’ve been
watching you. Every night this week. Finally got the courage to come say
hello.”
“Liquid
courage?”
“The only
kind there is.” Funny how he didn’t even blink at her fuck-me eyes, like he
just expected women to want his fat ass. She nodded toward the bathroom. “Maybe
we could get a little privacy.”
“No such
thing around here, sugar,” he said and followed her.
There was barely
room for them both in that stall. He smelled of Budweiser, but also sweet, a
little powdery, like he’d been caring for babies. His breath scraped hot
against her head. A puff of chest hair pushed beyond the neck of his shirt. His
flesh flushed pink.
She felt the
blood drain from her face and limbs. She reached down, as if for him, and brought
the blade to his throat.
Oh, how deftly
he swatted it away and into the toilet with a splash. Oh, the light-speed in
which her hands were forced behind her back.
