Searching for Debbie

After a hard day’ s work Ken is out of the tiny shower in his motel room. He puts on clean jeans and a shirt and sits on the edge of his bed, a bed that smells like mothballs. He hopes it is mothballs that he’ s smelling. He could watch TV, flipping through channels and never stopping for more than five minutes on any program, like he has been doing for the last few days, or he could go out for a long supper and then hit a bar to drink alone until it is time to go to bed.

Jesus, he thinks, what a fucked up life he leads. His married life had been a joke but his new single status has nothing better to offer either. Maybe, he thinks, he will get into the new groove of things and he, being a middle aged, overweight dude with a shaved head will turn out to be a chick magnet. That should happen about the same time that pigs fly and frogs grow hair.

Standing by the window, Ken sees the lights of Colorado Springs spread like a carpet into the eastern plains where grass and wind and buffalo had once ruled but were now cowering away from the new masters: subdivisions of track homes, convenience stores and strip malls.

Out with the old, in with the new. It happened to the buffalo and the Indians, now it needs to happen to him. New doesn’ t mean better, at least not for everybody. Ken runs his hand through the hard stubble on his head then his hand moves to his chin where a goatee is now growing, red and white, mostly white hairs telling him how old he really is. What’ s next? A pierced tongue? Nose?Earrings? Maybe tattoos. Regardless of all the cool trappings he may end up attaching to his body, it is still a forty plus year old body. Gadgets cannot turn time back or attract happiness; their feel good quality is short lived and dubious.

Ken knows what he needs, wants, desires to do, and tonight is as good as any other time to do it. He grabs his keys, his jacket, and heads out of the door. What the hell, he assures himself, he got nothing to lose. He gets into his truck and a few minutes later he’ s heading northbound on I-25 for Denver.

He doesn’ t know why he waited this long. How could he be afraid of rejection? So what if he got rejected? As they say, pick yourself up and get back on the saddle. One more bruise means nothing. Ken drives through open plains and realizes that he was not afraid of being rejected, but of being accepted. Then what? Yes, Debbie and him go a long way back, but for the wrong reasons. His logic comes out shorthanded when he tries to analyze Debbie. Facts and experience add up to a big mistake in the making, to another screwed up relationship.

Yet, his desire for Debbie is beyond common sense; it is a wild hair in his ass, a wanting that needs to be satisfied no matter what. So he punches the accelerator and prays that the State Troopers won’ t nail him for reckless speeding.

He parks his truck one block down from the Night Owl and starts walking. Going through the parking lot he scans for Debbie’ s car and doesn’ t see it. Maybe she’ s parked somewhere else, he says to himself. There are a few ribbons of yellow police tape hanging from the fence and the light pole, just the stuff you want to see when you walk into a bar. Ken shakes his head in disbelief. Maybe for this crowd, it is a badge of honor.

The Rockolla is playing Nirvana. Behind the bar is a dry stick of an old guy with a haircut like his, but white stubbles instead of darkones. Ken bellies up to the bar and asks the old guy, “ Is Debbie here tonight?”

“ Who wants to know?” replies the old stick in a not too kind tone. Ken has an itch to reach over the bar and grab the old man by his neck and rub his face on the counter, but he’ s polite instead.

“ I’ m a friend of hers.”

“ Everybody says that.”

The old stick is getting on his nerves. This time Ken speaks without any politeness in his voice.

“ Listen, the last time I saw her we got jumped by her ex in the parking lot. When I came to it at the hospital she was gone. I just need to speak to her.”

Ken waits for an answer with a sullen face. If the old stick comes back with sarcasm or rudeness he’ s going to get it. Ken is not sure yet what he’ s going to give the old stick, but it ain’ t gonna be pretty. The old man seems to be spinning his little wheels in his worn out brain because he is not moving or saying anything. His face alights with a smile and then he speaks.

“ You’ re the guy who got clocked! How’ bout that? Debbie told me you got lucky her ex didn’ t crack your skull open.”

“ He tried, ” says Ken turning his head and pointing to the scar on his scalp.

“ Oh man.”

“ What about Debbie?” Ken reminded the old stick who now stares enthralled at his head.

“ Oh, Debbie. She quit. She picked up her last pay check this afternoon.”

Ken’ s plans, his fuzzy ideas of how things were going to play out hit a stop like a bag of garbage flung on a dark alley and bursting open, scattering stuff all over the place, and he had no shovel to pick up the litter. That’ s to say, he had no back up plans, so he stands where he is with a dazzled look on his face. Now what?

“ Are you OK?” asks the old stick.

“ Yeah, ” says Ken. “ I suppose I will stop by the caterers to see if I can get in touch with her.” Ken’ s words came out before he had time to think that maybe the old stick has her phone number.

“ No luck either. She quit that job too.”

“ Do you have her phone number?”

The old stick gives Ken a mistrustful look and shakes his head. The bastard is lying, Ken knows. Ken’ s fists are bunching up and his stare is narrowing on the old man when a voice comes from the side.

“ You Ken?”

Ken looks in the direction of the question and he sees a large black man sitting on the side of the bar.

“ Yes, ” says Ken. The black mange stures for him to come over to his side. Ken has no idea yet what to do with the stick man so letting his head cool off a little bit may help him see a way out of his blind street. Besides, the black guy may know something. Ken approaches and the black guy points to the stool next to him. After Ken is seated the black man hollers to the old stick to bring a beer.

“ What do you drink, ” asks Glyn.

“ Bud.”

“ Make it a Bud, in a bottle.”

The old man brings the drink and when Ken is going to pay for it Glyn tells him to forget about it. “ It’ s on me.” Despite his intimidating size, there is a geniality in Glyn that makes Ken feel at ease.

“ Debbie is leaving town, ” says Glyn without being asked.

“ How do you know?”

“ She told me so herself.”

Both men drink a few sips without saying anything else before Ken speaks again.

“ Did she mention me by any chance?”

Glyn smiles. “ Why? Should she mention you for any reason?”

“ Well, ” says Ken rubbing his chin.“ That’ s the whole point of me trying to talk to her. I don’ t know if I mean anything to her or I’ m just a bother she is trying to get rid off.”

“ What is she to you?” Glyn looks straight into Ken’ s eyes. Ken feels this is one of those times where what comes out of his mouth will dictate how the rest of his life will unfold. Ken doesn’ t even know the name of this stranger and somehow he feels that he is the gatekeeper of the hidden path that leads to Debbie.

“ She’ s nothing and she’ s everything, and she doesn’ t know it.” Ken sips on his beer.

“ Name is Glyn.” A big hand comes across the distance between the stools. Ken shakes the hand and feels the big squeeze.

“ Ken, ” he says.

“ Debbie felt pretty bad about you getting whacked like that. She thinks it is her fault, ” says Glyn.

“ That’ s nonsense. It was just bad timing and bad luck.”

“ That’ s what we all say when things turn to shit, bad timing and bad luck.”

Both men drink in short sips, their minds probing each other’ s answers and questions.