Outside In (5 page)

“No thanks,” I say. “That’s not one I do.”

He exhales his hit. “More for me, then.”

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m on vacation, right? It’s not like I’ve never smoked. I just reserve it for special occasions, sort of a ceremonial peace pipe kind of thing.”

“Then wrap your lips around this, Tonto.”

I mimic Cinch’s actions. The skunky smoke tickles my nostrils but scorches my untrained lungs. With each hack Cinch laughs, straining to hold in his hit. I chug half of my beer. “I think one should do it for now,” I say. “You going out tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Consider me your personal tour guide to thrills, chills, and spills. Well, maybe not spills, and probably not chills. But plenty of thrills.” He sparks another pull off the bong. “Will you grab me another beer on your way out? I had a rough day at the office.”

HALEY EMERGES THROUGH THE RED SATIN CURTAIN THAT COVERS THE DOORWAY BEHIND THE BAR
. With the exception of the tan RHB baseball cap, she has traded in her Round House gear for civilian attire, permitting her to receive drinks rather than serve them. She spots me perched at the bar and ducks under the opening at the end to belly up next to me.

Whiplash kicks into the Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues,” and people push to the front like children looking for free candy at a parade. Haley barks an order for four Red Snappers. If mixology were a major, she probably would have breezed through her college curriculum. Her arm wraps around and pulls me close. “This isn’t even busy. Wait until the weekends. A lot of people arrive Thursday night to secure dock space and enjoy the island before it gets busy. Unless we’re working, most of us don’t come in here from Friday to Sunday. But on Sunday night, the island is ours again.”

A green fluorescent light flashes by the front door. Cinch
enters, wearing an Australian roughrider hat and twirling a glow stick on a string above his head. Baleful emerald eyes punctuate his priestly face and communicate that I could be in for a night of trouble. The bouncer at the door makes a move for him but, recognizing Cinch, returns instead to talk to the female who has been occupying his attention.

“Christ,” Haley says to the bartender. “You better make it five.” She turns to me. “Only Cinch can get away with that shit. It’s good to be him.”

Cinch doesn’t question the contents of the shot Haley gives him. He just says, “God bless you,” and throws it back like communion.

When Whiplash takes a pause for the cause, Haley suggests we go to the Boat House between sets. Our tribe has grown to eleven. Everyone seems to know one another, but then again, it doesn’t matter. Etiquette is not really a priority. Tonight is about feeling good; the more, the merrier.

The walk to the Boat House is a tempering break and a sobering lift. The air is both warm and cool, alternating as it blows. The beacon of the monument flashes in the near distance. I turn my face to the stars.

Cinch says, “Over by the monument, I guarantee you’ll see a shooting star every night. It’s remarkable how much you can see when you’re in the dark in the middle of nowhere.”

Nightlife has replaced the diners at the Boat House. On the right a traveling piano bar has been set up where patrons gather while the performer plays. The musician behind the keys acknowledges our arrival with “Copacabana.” He’s in his late forties and resembles Ronnie Milsap, but he wails with the animation of Meatloaf.

While most of our party sits at the piano, Cinch and I go to the bar. He says, “We need to make a pit stop when we—hey, Astrid!” Cinch rises to greet the hot waitress I met earlier. “Come
meet the newest member of the Round House staff.” He turns to me. “Right? Come on. You know you want to.”

Although I still haven’t officially accepted the job offer, I don’t refute him. I’m too captivated. Astrid has also changed costumes. Her dangling golden hair is now held back by barrettes that match her cotton sundress, which hangs from her shoulders, cups her breasts, and falls straight to the ground, stopping just past her thighs. I love sundresses. If I were a woman, I would wear nothing else—no underwear and no bra—just the sundress, a piece of free-flowing cotton between the rest of the world and me.

As she approaches, the muscles in her thighs tighten and flex with each step. Her shoes are open-toed sandals made of hemp that strap only around her ankle and around the balls of her feet. The cork sole is four inches thick by the heel and slopes downward to an inch in the front, causing her to lean forward, almost shuffling, when she walks. She says, “You guys seem to be headed for trouble.”

“Why?” I ask. “Are you looking for some?”

“It usually finds me.” She punctuates the comment with a coy tilt of her head.

Cinch says, “Don’t worry, we’ll protect you.”

“Who’ll save me from you two?” she asks.

I return a sportive smile. “Guess you’ll have to take your chances.”

Cinch tosses some money on the bar, which is the first time I’ve seen anyone pay for drinks at any of the bars I’ve been to today. “Want to join us for a pit stop at the red barn?” he asks.

“You boys go do your thing,” Astrid replies. “I’ll catch up with you later at the Round House.”

She leaves. I motion at the piano bar to Haley doing shots with some customers. “What about her?” I ask Cinch.

“She won’t even notice we’re gone,” Cinch says. “She’s always popular when she goes out. People attempt to befriend her,
hoping she’ll come through for them when there’s a line halfway down the street to get into the Round House.”

On the way out of the bar, he jabs me playfully in the back. “Are you ready to take it up a notch?”

“Bring it on. I’m not afraid,” I say. “Time to smoke again?”

Cinch breaks into an exaggerated skip. “Greens were the appetizer. Dinner comes on a plate.”

In the red barn, Cinch disappears down the hallway and returns with a brown paper bag. Thrusting his hand into the sack, he reveals a white chunk. “La Blanca Dama.”

The responsibilities of my former life trigger my answer. “Cocaine? Count me out.” Things are moving too fast. Drinking, the pot, and now this? I have to slow down.

“Embrace the Lady. Be the man you always wanted to be.” Again leading the ceremony, Cinch retrieves a plate with a plastic hotel key card and a three-inch straw on it from under the couch and crumbles the rock into smaller pieces. Pushing the fragments into a pile, he covers the mound with a twenty-dollar bill, repeatedly scraping the card over it. “This shit is so hard, it flies everywhere if you try to chop it first. This gets it to a pretty fine consistency.” He lifts the bill, exposing a flat, off-white pancake.

“Oh, the things you learn. I try to learn at least one new thing a day. I guess the pressure’s off for today,” I say, still unsure what to do.

He chops the card through the flakes, never lifting his eyes. Saliva forms on the corners of his mouth. His nose runs. He sniffs, pulling back the drops before they fall into the focus of his concentration.

Small talk is all that comes to mind. Anything to hide my fear. I say, “Is it good stuff?”

“Only the best.” He separates the gram into four thick rails. “Time to board the train, baby. One for each nostril.” He extends the straw toward me. “Guests first.”

“What will it do? I mean, what if I have a reaction?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a virgin in our midst. Nose cherry about to be burst. There ain’t no line like your first line, my friend. Insert straw, bend down, inhale, and follow the white powder road. Time to stop being Mr. Shepherd. Just be Brad.”

I wish it were that easy. The body changes locations much quicker than the mind. I stare at the lines and push back the fear. “No more Mr. Shepherd.” Bending down, my hair falls in my face and drags across the plate.

Cinch says, “Pull that mop back. I’ll hold it. There’s only two times when I’ll hold another man’s hair: snorting and puking. Hopefully the latter won’t happen tonight.”

Ssshhhump
. I huff the first one down. An ether smell fills my face, but I feel nothing.

Cinch follows, inhaling powerfully.
Ssshhhump
. “Cocaine and alcohol are like hamburgers and French fries,” he says. “Pancakes and syrup, turkey and dressing.”

I say, “My nose burns a little, but I don’t—” My throat swells, and the back of my neck tingles. I’m both energized and relaxed.

Cinch laughs. “And Brad discovered the drip. Don’t you love how that medicinal flavor trickles into the back of your throat? Your life will never be the same.”

The cocaine erases my alcohol buzz. Thoughts bubble like baking soda added to vinegar and erupt as rambling speech. I say, “I never thought I’d be doing this tonight. I mean, it’s my first time. Not like I’ve never seen it, but I wasn’t interested. It’s got to be bad for you, right? But it’s really not a big deal. I mean, I feel really good, like an intense caffeine buzz. I hope it lasts.
Hey, been meaning to tell you, made a decision about my work dilemma—I’m moving in.”

“All righty then.” He hands me the tooter. “Let’s celebrate.”

Ssshhhump
.

Ssshhhump
.

Cinch slides the plate under the couch. “Just be cool when we go back to the bar. People love the white, but they don’t like to admit it. There’s a lot of guilt and deception with it. If you have any doubt about people, just ask me.”

More concerned with the effect on me than others, I say, “How much was that? I mean, how much should I do? I don’t want to overdo it.”

Cinch says, “Don’t worry. We’ll just take it one line at a time.”

In the Round House, Whiplash charges into the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and transforms the barroom into a dance floor. Cinch dances wildly. Feeling conspicuous, I trail a modest distance behind. The frenzy intensifies my buzz. My mind accelerates: third, fourth, fifth gear. I look around. The rest of the world tries to keep up.

Cinch bounces to the bar for drinks. Astrid, standing by herself a few feet away, winks at me. “You two were gone for a while. The night is almost over.”

I slide over next to her, trying to be nonchalant, but inside, my thoughts shove one another out of the way to get to the front. “But we’re just getting started. I mean, the night is young. You should join. That is, if you want to. You know what I mean.”

Astrid motions toward Cinch gyrating to the music at the bar. “Hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“No worries. I’m on vacation,” I say, reinforcing my battle cry.

Cinch returns, bringing a cocktail for Astrid as well. “Tonight’s going to be one of those nights. I can feel it.”

The parachute ceiling billows from the movement. I scan the room. Perched above the crowd in the front and next to the restrooms are two bouncers in lifeguard chairs. I say, “Were those chairs here before? I didn’t notice them. But they had to be, right?”

“Yep, but no one was in them,” Cinch says. “When it gets busy, it’s the only way we can see the whole floor. You’ll be up there with a flashlight. Pretty simple: no one’s allowed to stand on chairs or tables, and both feet on the floor at all times. We use the flashlight to get people’s attention, so we don’t have to keep climbing up and down. You’ll see some unbelievable shit from there.”

Almost on cue, the guy in the chair near us shines his beam on a young lady standing on top of her stool. Since she doesn’t respond to the light on her face, he shakes it back and forth and then raises his hand and points to the ground.

“Reminding people of the rules is about 90 percent of the job,” Cinch says. “Another 8 percent is talking to people and answering the same questions over and over, and the last 2 percent is the ugly stuff. It’s nice that the smallest part of the job is the physical side. Actually, bouncers cause most fights. At the slightest sign of trouble, they start throwing their weight around. That’s why I choose to manage my boredom by keeping a slight buzz—just enough to keep me entertained, but not so much that I lose control.”

Astrid says, “Keep in mind that Cinch’s version of control is bedlam.”

“You got to do something to keep it interesting,” he says. “People think the job is one long party, that you get all kinds of women. Overall, it’s monotonous. A customer trying to be clever will ask you a question, and two days later a different person will be in the same spot asking the same question. I just stroke
’em—answer like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard their smartass question, then turn the conversation back on the person so he talks about himself. It’s not like I’m totally jacking them off. People really prefer to talk about themselves anyway.”