Millys Place

                             



MILLY'S PLACE







         Harry Byrne had a headache.  The pain drove through both shoulders to his neck and grabbed at the base of his skull with cold steel fingers.  He reached behind his head and rubbed a hard knot.  An agonizing spasm shot through Harry's left eye causing brightly colored lights to dance in his brain.  Worse yet, his greasy hamburger lunch lay dormant somewhere between his stomach and his throat.

         Harry sat, as he did on countless other Mondays, examining the contents of his briefcase in a reception area decorated with oak furniture, deep-piled carpeting and off-white wall covering. He'd been waiting almost two hours.  Dog-eared copies of Outdoor Life and Ladies Home Journal rested on the table in front of him. He had read both cover to cover in the last three offices he'd waited in on Friday.  Today they held no interest.  Harry felt as though he were waiting in a dentist's office for a tooth extraction.  A dark-haired young receptionist sat with her head down across the room, her word processor clattering unceasingly. Pain stabbed at Harry's forehead like a hot poker.  And still he waited, patiently hoping today would be the day.

         Harry studied his sales records, dismal accounts of his efforts over the last year.  His previous month's figure - underlined in red by his under forty sales manager - fell significantly short of even last quarter's average.  The red line jumped out at him each time he looked at it.  Twenty-two years, and not once before had he rated a red mark.  Thinking about it made him hot and sweaty.

         To the left of the receptionist, behind a polished oak door with ornate brass knobs, lay Harry's salvation, if only he could get in.  Twenty minutes would do it, Harry thought, a lousy twenty minutes with the purchasing manager.  The door stood silent and unfriendly, closed and uninviting.  Still Harry waited, his head pounding in rhythm with the word processor.

         Harry dressed in his best suit that morning; one he saved for clients he wanted to impress, the gray tweed.  Harry liked his gray suit.  In it, he felt successful.  He wanted his clients to say: "Harry Byrne must do well.  Look at the quality of his suits."  Today the suit didn't help.  His head ached too badly.

         "Mr. Byrne?"  Harry started at the sound of his name.

         "Yes?"  Jumping up, Harry hurried across to the receptionist's desk.  The sudden movement made his head pound. 

         "I'm sorry, Mr. Byrne.  It appears that Mr. Grimes will be tied up all afternoon.  Can you come back another day, perhaps next week?  I can probably work you in late next Tuesday."  She held her pencil poised for an answer. 

         "No!" Harry shouted.  "I must be today."

         "I'm sorry, sir," the receptionist said.  "Mr. Grimes is very busy."  Harry could see she was looking at him  with fearful eyes, sure she was dealing with a lunatic.

         "No," Harry said again, softer now, embarrassed.  He rubbed his forehead.  "Forgive me.  It's just that this appointment was very important.  Next week will be all right."  He didn't tell her about the other letter in his briefcase, the letter on main office letterhead expounding something about declining sales.  Perhaps a younger man, more aggressive, it hinted.

         "I'll put you down."  She scribbled in her book and turned back to the word processor.  When Harry walked across the room, he didn't see her watching cautiously out of the corner of her eye, or the look of relief when he disappeared out the door.

         Harry escaped into the hallway mortified by his outburst.  He walked down the two flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator drenched in nervous sweat.  Damn, he thought.  I'll have to start over.  More prospecting, more cold calls, more rejection.

         In the main lobby, he gagged down more aspirin.  The fountain water tasted lukewarm and metallic.  He thought about calling Pam.  He even picked up the pay phone receiver and wasted a quarter, hanging up when it started to ring.  The way he and Pam had been fighting lately it was almost a relief to gain the silent sanctuary of his car on Monday mornings.  Besides, he couldn't think of anything to say to her.

         Instead, Harry walked to a bar down the street.  A fall wind whipped dust around his feet and he wondered if it was going to storm.  He hated driving in the rain.  He'd have one beer - to settle his nerves - before he drove to Lakeview.  He walked softly, trying to keep his head from pounding.  What would Pam say when the creditors started calling?

         The bar, dimly lit, smelled of stale beer and un-emptied ashtrays.  Drink-marked tables scattered about the room looked naked without revelers.  Like a hundred other bars he'd been in, it felt dismal in the afternoon sun.  Harry decided it fit his mood.

         "What'll it be, Pard," the bartender asked.  His nameplate said Ivan.

         "What's on tap?"

         "Rainer, Oly and Bud Light."

         "Rainer."  Harry climbed onto a green plastic covered barstool.

         Ivan drew a tall glass and set the draught on the bar in front of Harry.  "Buck-twenty-five," he said.

         Harry paid and took a careful swallow hoping the brew would suppress his headache.

         "Nice suit," Ivan said.

         "Thanks," Harry said.  He liked people to notice his clothes.  Some men his age gained weight and lost their hair.  Harry liked to brag that he weighed only ten pounds more than when he was twenty.  When he combed his hair carefully, the silver-gray streaks were less noticeable.

         "Hard to find good quality anymore," Ivan said.

         "That's the truth," Harry agreed.  He took another swallow of beer.  Instead of feeling better, his headache worsened.  His car payment came due in two weeks.  The amount, he knew was forty dollars more than his next commission check.

         Ivan washed glasses and idly polished the bar top.  "What's your line?" he asked.

         "Sales, industrial parts," Harry explained.  Or at least it was supposed to be, he thought.  Bearings, seals, gears and bushings were his life, his career, his job, what he did.  Lately, he wasn't so sure.

         "It looks as though it pays well," Ivan said.

         "What?"

         "The suit."

         "Oh," Harry said.  He finished the beer.  His head ached so badly now that he could barely hold his head up.  Dark spots danced in front of his eyes.  It didn't matter if they were open or closed.

         "You all right?" Ivan asked.

         "Yes," Harry said.  "Just a little headache."  He tried putting pressure on his forehead with his fist.  It didn't help.

         "Another beer?"

         "No, thanks, I've got to drive to Lakeview yet."  Harry slid off the stool.  "I'd best get moving."

         "Have a good trip," said Ivan.

         "Thanks," replied Harry through a veil of pain.  When he stepped out in to the bright sunlight, Harry thought his head would explode. 

         Harry shuffled to his car, climbed in and maneuvered recklessly to the parking lot exit and sped away.  It took him two blocks to realize he was driving away from the Lakeview exit.  Another block passed and Harry turned onto a secondary highway, leaving the city behind.  He ignored the fact it would take him miles out of his way.  The air whistling in through the car's open window felt hot on his face.  Harry loosened his tie.  Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.  Clouds, dark as Harry's mood, gathered overhead, filling the afternoon sky.  He turned the radio on loud listening to a lamenting song about trains.

         He drove aimlessly for most of an hour drowning in the pain that raged within his head.  Underneath, the highway passed unseen, and the roadside beauty drifted by unnoticed and unappreciated.  Shortly after dark, a few drops splattered on the windshield.  Before long, the torrent nearly blinded him, blurring the highway until it became an indiscernible black ribbon through the water-streaked glass.  The noise of each drop kept time with the pounding in his head.  He clutched the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car on the pavement.  On the radio, Reba sang about New England.

         Harry concentrated on the flashing yellow dashes that made up the centerline.  They appeared as spent arrows, infinite numbers of them streaking out of the darkness only to pass by harmlessly.  He drove hypnotized by those yellow flashes, each gripping his lethargic brain and drawing it into the gloom.

         His mind raged, a little twist of the wheel?  A few moments of tearing metal and then silence?  On the brink of crossing over the line, something dragged Harry back from the edge.

         The engine on his five-year-old Ford wheezed an asthmatic sigh and stopped.  The motor hesitated only a moment before starting again.  In that instant of silence, the noticeable change in the harmonious rhythm of the car's powerplant hauled Harry shakingly back to reality.  He turned the radio off, listening, straining to hear some unusual sound.  Nothing reached his ears except the hum of the motor and the rain.

                   The needle on his speedometer, indicating over ninety, shocked him.  Harry slowed at once, jerking his foot off the accelerator as if it were on fire.  He felt confused.  For a few seconds he couldn't remember where he was, or what he was doing. Was the car going to leave him stranded along the dark lonely road?

         "That's all I need," he said aloud.

                   Consumed by new-car lust, Harry had traded his reliable old Chevy, settling for the used Ford because the payments were lower.  It wasn't what he wanted because it didn't have electric door locks or air-conditioning.  The front bench seat resembled an end-zone bleacher and after the first week, Harry hated the car.  He expected the motor to self-destruct.  The engine missed again, coughing as though its last mile was next up on the odometer.  Harry peered though the swinging wipers, hoping there was a place nearby with a mechanic.  Damn, his head still ached.

         Rounding a curve, Harry spotted a brilliant neon sign on his left, sitting on top a steel pole.  Its shimmering glow seemed to light the way.  Garishly lit marquee bulbs outlined the name: Milly's Place.  Behind the sign, the parking lot stretched stark and empty except the building.  Glowing beer signs twinkled invitingly and indicated an establishment open for business.

         Harry swung into the muddy parking area and stopped.  The car's engine died before he could turn off the ignition.  When he stepped into the rain-drenched night, the air felt close and oppressive, much like a dark alley in an unfamiliar neighborhood. His skin quivered as though something waited for him in the wet and darkness.  He couldn't shake the feeling that invisible fingers were playing with his skin.  He shivered uncontrollably while he locked the car's door.

         He sloshed his way to the entrance.  The harsh-looking red door stood out boldly against the silver-gray hue of the building.  Rain dripped from weathered eaves and refracted the dim lit of the entrance sign.  The strange colors melted in an aureole-like incandescence over the door and Harry hesitated before turning the knob.

         Inside, he couldn't see a phone in the shadowy room.  Harry stood just inside the door and tried to shake the water from his best gray suit.  At the bar a lone woman glanced disinterestedly in Harry's direction.  Her look was sparing, quickly forgotten as she turned to stare vacantly into her drink.  She wore a pale pink bathrobe that barely covered her generous body.  A pair of ridiculous fuzzy pink slippers hung from her toes as she sat with her heels hooked over the rungs of the stool.  The threadbare robe gaped carelessly.  Her dress seemed odd to Harry and for a moment he thought he'd stumbled into someone's living room.  He looked around, but there wasn't any doubt that he was in a bar.  On the far side of the room, seven old men played cards.  They ignored his presence and not one of them looked up when Harry entered the room.  They played earnestly and in silence.  The rest of the room was an odd mixture of well-used furniture.  Nicked and gouged wooden chairs and tables, the tops and seats worn shiny from years of abuse, were arranged randomly and reflected the dim overhead lights.

         "Gotta help yerself," the woman said, "because I ain't.  The first one's free on account of Blue Monday."  She sat facing away from him, still staring into her drink and Harry wasn't sure at first if she was speaking to him.

         "What?"  Harry noticed then how quiet the room was.  Strangely, no sound came from the card players.

         The woman turned and looked at him closely, her steel-blue eyes moving up and down the length of him.  Harry squirmed under her frank gaze, while she assessed what she saw and weighed his worth.  When she spun on the bar stool her robe opened further and she carelessly pulled it back.  Harry wondered if the long spiked heels on her slippers would hold up her bulk.

         "What's Blue Monday?" Harry repeated.

         "First day of the week, four days 'till Friday.  If you can handle it on Monday, the rest of the week's a cinch."  Her voice rolled out low and raspy, with the huskiness of a lifetime smoker.  She reached to a rumpled package of Camel cigarettes and tapped one out.  "You got a light?"

         "No.  Sorry.  I don't smoke."

         She shrugged and lit the cigarette herself.  "You a whiskey man?"

         "No, only beer and not much of that," Harry stammered.

         "Suit yourself.  Cooler on the left, underneath."  The woman indicated an area behind the bar with a careless wave of her arm.  Suddenly, Harry craved a beer.  His head felt detached, his headache off somewhere above him.

         Harry walked around the end of an antique cherrywood bar that a couple of collectors he knew would kill for.  An ancient galvanized beer cooler attracted his attention.  He hadn't seen one like it in years, not since the one in Fewkes' General Store when he was twelve.  He remembered that one filled with Orange Crush and Hires Root Beer.  When Harry lifted the cover, it brought back a flood of memories of bottles setting neck deep in ice water and surrounded by gray sheetmetal.  He thought it strange, though it seemed to fit with everything else in the place.  The beer bottles were long-necked and frosty.  The label carried a picture of a dark-hair girl and was unfamiliar.  Harry found an opener and popped the top. 

         The woman held up her glass, motioning to him.  "Be a dear," she said.  "Fix me another bourbon and water and I'll listen to your problems.  I hate to work dry."

         Harry accepted the empty class.  Red lipstick decorated the rim.  "I don't have any problems," he grumbled, "except my damn car.  I came in to use the phone to call a mechanic."  That he could create the drink effortlessly surprised him.  His hands moved without the slightest hesitation, deftly selecting a bottle of aged Irish whiskey and splashing it into the glass. 

         "Nonsense, honey, of course you've got a problem.  You wouldn't be here if you didn't.  Now, sit and enjoy your beer and tell Milly all about it.  Fix me that drink first though."  She smiled a toothy grin at him.  The woman looked a little drunk, her face puffy and her bulbous nose red and heavily veined.  Her faded gray hair was coarse and twisted, cut short and uncombed.  She pulled long on a new cigarette, holding it with short stubby fingers.  Her gaze never left Harry.  She studied him through a cloud of blue smoke.  When she exhaled, she sent perfectly formed blue rings floating over Harry's head.

         "Well?" she said. "I'm ready."

         Harry choked on his beer.  Her words confused him.  Perhaps he should have tried for a garage further on.  His car would probably make it a few more miles.  No, he knew that wasn't true, but he would finish his beer quickly and get out of this place.  Regrettably, ignoring the old woman wasn't going to be easy. He took a long swallow of the bitter, yeasty beer and his head pounded.

         Milly's hard blue eyes seemed to scrutinize his soul, boring deep and leaving him defenseless.  "You shouldn't have said the things you did.  Damned inconsiderate," she said.  The drink Harry had made disappeared in one swallow and she chased it with a deep drag on her cigarette.

         "What do you mean?"  Harry gasped.

         "Doesn't do any good to blame each other.  A few business reversals don't mean the end of the world, you know.  Take me for instance.  When I was young I was a whore."  She used the word as if it were synonymous with stockbroker.  She drew deeply on the cigarette and exhaled though her nose.  "And a damn good one, too.  I figure if you're gonna do something, do it good.  Best you can."

         "Who are you?" Harry asked, trying to decipher the words rolling from the old woman's mouth. 

         "My name's Milly, honey.  Like the sign says, this is my workshop."

         Harry took another swallow of the bitter brew.  He didn't know what to make of her.  Her actions were those of a confirmed drunk, yet her words were rock solid.  Well, he thought, it didn't matter who she was or what she did.  He'd drink his beer and leave.

         "Harry, honey, be a dear and mix me another drink, will ya?"

         Without thinking Harry slid off the stool he'd been warming and fixed another whiskey ditch.  Again his hands worked effortlessly, guided by that inexplicable knowledge of the location of everything.  While he was back behind the bar, he pulled another beer from the ice-water cooler.  It seemed somehow logical.  A trip saved.  Before he sat back down, Harry opened the second beer using the wall mounted bottle opener.  This brand apparently hadn't heard of twist-tops. 

         "How did you know my name?" Harry asked, sliding back onto his stool as though he belonged there. 

         "The same way I know you've been going through the motions without pleasin' the customers."

         She'd hit the nail right on the head, Harry realized.  He felt himself flush.  It embarrassed him.  He hadn't made a decent sale in months.  Even his regulars had quit ordering.  He found himself making excuses for himself, like back luck, bad timing, bad merchandise -- God, he'd used them all.  But how did she know?

         "Always wanted to be a madam," Milly continued, without waiting for an answer, "but hooked up with the old man instead.  That's him back there skinnin' them poor slobs at cards.  He's the same, the best at what he does.  Ain't many who can beat him in a steady game.  Winners are those who study the game and then play for all it's worth.  You used to play hard.  Why'd you stop?"

         "I don't know," Harry answered honestly.  She had him thinking though, even if he couldn't come up with the answers.  She was dragging him into this conversation whether he wanted it or not.  A Jack Daniels philosopher, for Christ's sake!  A fitting ending to an already lousy day, he thought.                 

         He stared at the woman sitting sloppily across the bar from him.  Her speech slurred like a practiced drunk nearing the end of the day's first bottle.  Her puffy face was heavy with rouge that almost matched her nose.  He guessed she had spent most of her sixty-odd years half pickled in the sauce.  That her comments struck so close to home startled Harry.  Was it a good guess?  Or was there something strange about her?

         Harry looked to the rear of the bar and the seven old geezers still intent on their cards.  A twinge of fear gripped his chest.  The men at the poker table hadn't moved, not even an eyelash.  They sat motionless, alive, but unseeing and unfeeling.

         "Hell, it's easy for even an old whore like me to see.  You got to feeling sorry for yourself.  That's no good.  Did it once, myself, though.  Me and that old man had us three speakeasies during the prohibition.  The Feds was breathin' down our necks, so I found a buyer and sold them all.  Figured on retirin', since it came to nearly thirty grand.  A lot of change in them days."  Her face turned toward him, her glassy eyes vacant as she reminisced.  She lit another cigarette before continuing.  "Well, to shorten a long story, I sent the old man to collect the dough, which was a serious error in judgment.  Should've knowed better.  Got himself drunked up and the spaghetti-headed old bastard went around by way of Jerusalem comin' back.  Stumbled up to my door six months later dead drunk and flat broke."

         She was warming up to the story now and Harry looked desperately for a graceful way to exit.  He swallowed the last of the second beer and started to swing off the stool.  The men in the back still hadn't moved.  He had downed the beer too fast and it made his head pound.

         "Help yerself to another and while yer back there fix me one too." 

         Harry's legs, as though he had no control over them, traveled behind the bar carrying his body along.  He found himself reaching for another beer and mixing Milly a drink as she continued.  He couldn't understand the power she had over him.  Apparently he was going to hear the end of the story whether he wanted to or not.

         "Well, as you can guess, I was snarling mad.  Wanted to murder the creep.  Cut out his heart.  But in the end, I forgave him.  Always was a sucker for a good story and he told a dandy. Instead of murder, I felt sorry for myself.  Laid around and wasted a year of my life."  She stopped the narration long enough to take a long swallow of her drink.  Harry couldn't figure what all this had to do with him.  He couldn't help himself.  He asked.

         "How come you know so much?"

         She laughed and her fleshy cheeks rolled like jello.  "I know all about you.  Milly knows everything.  I'm your mechanic. Haven't you figured that out yet?"  She seemed to be enjoying a joke Harry couldn't understand.  "Me and the old man were together near forty years and you know why?  We were friends as well as lovers.  Are you and Pam friends?"

         The sound of his wife's name coming from the lips of this strange woman nearly knocked Harry off his stool.  How in the hell did she know Pam's name?  He hadn't mentioned it.  In fact, he'd said little, if anything.  The old woman had done most of the talking.  Come to think of it, how had she known his name?

         "Later, we ran whiskey down from Canada during the last years of Prohibition.  Had us a long black Packard with a false tank in back.  Never did get caught.  Had a blast and made enough money to buy this place.  Everything we did, we had fun together."  She pointed a pudgy finger at the third button of Harry's shirt and asked, "When was the last time you and Pam had fun together."

         That was enough.  Harry's mind screamed, what kind of place was this?  He had to get out.  Leaving his half-finished beer Harry plunged through the door and out into the rain.  He could hear Milly's haunting laugh behind him.  Fumbling for his car keys, he suddenly remembered the phone.  He had to call a mechanic.  Damn!  He did not want to go back and face that old woman again.  The flickering sign that proclaimed "Milly's Place" filed the lonely parking lot with orange light.  Harry touched his head in shock.  His head ached less.  His heart pounding, he jumped into the car and turned the key.  He'd walk before he went back in there, he determined.  He couldn't believe his ears when the engine sprang to life.  Stomping the accelerator, Harry fishtailed out onto the highway.  He wanted that bar as far away as possible.  He drove fast for several miles before calming down.  The car purred like a dream.  Harry couldn't believe it.

         Finally, the lights of an all-night convenience store winked in the distance.  Harry was almost afraid to stop, fearing another apparition.  The vision of the overweight madam played indelibly on his mind.  Who the hell was she?  He pulled up to the pumps, expecting the worst.  The attendant however, appeared normal.  Dressed in a pair of greasy overalls and a faded blue shirt, he looked close to seventy.  He hadn't shaved in weeks.

         "Howdy," the attendant said.  "Hell of a night ain't it."

         "Yes, it is.  Fill her up, will you?"  Harry wanted to ask about Milly's Place, but instead watched the old man fill the tank.

         "Weather's supposed to last a while," the attendant said, making conversation that didn't interest Harry.  "I guess we need the moisture."

         Harry could hear the gurgling of the fluid entering the tank.  The rain had stopped, but pools of water on the asphalt reflected the overhead canopy lights.  The air was cool and Harry shivered.  "You ever hear of a bar around here called 'Milly's Place'?"

         The old man didn't answer for a moment and he looked at Harry questioningly.  "Ain't heard that name in a while," he said finally.  "Why you want to know?"

         "Tell me about it," Harry demanded, ignoring the man's question.

         "Ain't much to tell.  Milly and her old man had a bar back up the road where the highway sectionhouse is now.  She was a crusty old gal, she was.  I used to deliver papers there when I was a kid.  She always gave me a dollar for the paper, lot of money then.  Yessir, I could tell you some stories about Milly's Place."  The attendant winked at Harry as if now they shared some sort of secret.

         "Tell me," Harry insisted.

         "You all right?  You look pale, kinda sickly."

         "Yes, yes.  Go on please.  My head as been aching all day, but it's better now."

         The attendant squinted at Harry.  "Well, okay, if you say so.  Anyways, Milly run a pretty rippin' joint back then.  There was rumors though; some said there was more to Milly than just a barkeeper.  Like the time Pauly Jensen busted his leg.  He was a sawyer lived north of here.  Had a wife and a bunch of kids.  Couldn't work almost nine months.  Now, Pauly never would say, but some said Milly was supportin' them." 

         Yes, thought Harry, she would.  He didn't know how he knew, but he did.  He could picture the old woman, sitting at the bar, half drunk and slipping some crippled sawyer money to feed his children. 

         "The place burned to the ground in 1943.  Milly and the old man both died in the fire.  Funny, I can't remember his name.  Played poker all the time."

         "Thanks," Harry said.  "What do I owe?"

         Harry paid the bill and hurried back to his car.  The Ford ran smoothly back down the dark highway to the wide spot in the road.  A cold chill ran down Harry's back, tickling his spine with icy fingers.  He pulled into the parking lot and stared at a highway section house.  The pole that had carried the sign now lit the area with a mercury vapor lamp.  Two state snowplows sat alongside the building.  Harry realized then that his headache was gone.

         Later, at the motel in Lakeveiw, Harry called Pam.  Then he walked a block downtown and bought champagne for Friday.