I was in the Brown Bar before I knew it, called the Brown Bar, not because someone named Brown owned it, but because it was painted brown. Just as the White Bar was sometimes referred to as the White Bar, instead of its legal name, because it was painted white. As long as one could see, this system seemed to work well. Even drunk, one could usually tell the difference between the two colors.
The atmosphere in the Brown Bar was completely different—fewer fishermen, a lot more locals, quieter, but by no means quiet, and noticeably less drunk. I felt many eyes on me in the bar, but it was different than next door. I wasn’t a piece of meat, but I was being observed and closely weighed and measured. These were the locals and I was just another Cold Storage worker. At that time, I had no idea how many Cold Storage workers passed very briefly through Pelican.
I felt more naked, exposed, and vulnerable (and automatically rejected) in this bar than I had next door in the sea of lust and inebriation.
Mitchell, naturally, was oblivious. He gave me his delighted-with-life smile and went to get us drinks.
Suddenly, I didn’t know where to stand or what to do with my hands and no idea where I should be looking.
Where the hell were my companions? That goddamned Tim and goddamned Clark and…
“Girl! What the hell is the matter with you? Are you trying to ditch us?” Tim demanded.
I gave a sigh of relief when my companions breezed through the door, despite the attitude. Then I tried to wither Tim with a look of contempt and fury. It worked.
“Are you just plain stupid?” I asked him. “If you are, it would have been nice to know before we came out tonight. You were supposed to be showing me a night on the town, but I’m lucky that I haven’t been dragged up the side of the mountain to a cave and raped. So don’t get uppity with me. So far…”
“Ok, ok, ok! You just keep disappearing…”
I opened my mouth to blast him, but Clark, who was standing behind Tim, gave me his enigmatic smile and put his index finger to his lips.
“Hey!” Mitchell bellowed, “so the gang’s all here.” He tried to look jolly and enthusiastic, but didn’t wholly succeed.
“Let’s all sit down,” he said and maneuvered me into a booth.
Joy and Clark sat across from us and Tim stood and talked at us. Tim kept up a conversation with mainly Mitchell, as Mitchell’s arm slid around my shoulders, giving it a squeeze, then his hand slipped down and wrapped itself around my inner knee. I tried to suck down my margarita, but this one arrived blended. I kept pushing Mitchell’s hand away and it kept coming back as though I had magnets implanted.
Joy got up to use the bathroom ( so she said), and Clark got up to get another round ( so he said), and Tim slid into their spot, still yak-yak-yakking.
Clark and Joy popped up quietly in the booth behind me and said softly, “Let’s get you out of here.” Mitchell had turned into a veritable octopus, quite capable of doing two things at the same time.
Tim became animated about God knows what, asking Mitchell questions about fishing and getting him to tell a story.
I squeezed Mitchell’s hand and moved it to his knee, which he then moved to his crotch. I withdrew my hand slowly (but as quickly as I could) and when he waved his arms to illustrate some point, I climbed over the back of the booth and skedaddled out the door, flanked by Joy and Clark.
I felt many eyes observing my departure.
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