Small Town Big Man

1

Laney

Him? No.

My eyes dance around the small bar, moving between the few patrons inside. This isn't going well at all.

Maybe him? Not a chance.

Man, this whiskey is strong.

There isn't one man in this room I can see myself fucking. My eyes keep shifting around the room, hoping to see just a single probable candidate for me to take home. I only need one, just one. Right now, I see none.

Sighing to myself, I lower my eyes to the glass of alcohol. A little more of this might help make the choice a little easier. . . Giggling to myself, I take another sip.

That woman lied. This isn't a hot spot at all.

At the grocery store today, the cashier told me this was the place to be, the Bear Claw Saloon. She made it sound like a hot night club, a club that would be filled with lots of people out to have a good time.

Glancing down the long bar, I see an old man at the end, wearing a thick, ratty winter coat, with worn patches on the elbows. He puts down another shot and burps into his hand as he lets out a loud cackle to no one but himself.

There's a couple at the pool table showing a little too much PDA, and another guy being a little too loud at the bar as he talks with the bartender, telling her how he thinks Sasquatch stole his good hunting knife and he can prove it.

What the hell am I doing here?

Sitting at the small wooden table, it wobbles slightly as I stir the thin straw and move around the ice inside my glass. I can feel the heat of the alcohol as it hits my belly and warms me all over.

All I want is to have a good time and forget the reality I'm currently living in. It should be simple, at least that's what I thought.

Throwing back the rest of the whiskey in my glass, I cough slightly as it burns the back of my throat.

“Need another, hun?” the waitress asks as she stops at my table with a tray of food going to the couple.

Glancing up, I'm met with a friendly smile. The woman has bright red hair and looks to be in her sixties. There are deep lines at the corner of her eyes as her lips pull back, and her smile lines are well formed. She's lived through some shit, that's for sure.

Her shirt has a giant bear paw on it, and the black apron wrapping her hips looks worn and tattered. Giving me another smile, she glances at her tray of food. “Or I can bring you some food. You just tell me what you need.”

“Another, please,” I say, shaking the empty glass. “And keep them coming.”

“You got it,” she says with a wink. “Whatever you're running from, I'll help you keep it at bay.”

“Thanks,” I answer as she scoops up my glass and walks off.

She's back within seconds, setting the drink down in front of me. “So,” she says, wiping her hands down her apron and leaning her forearms on the back of the chair across from me, “where you from? I've never seen you in here before, and it ain't really tourist season just yet.”

“It's that obvious, huh?” I ask, giggling as I adjust in my seat.

“I've lived in this town my whole life, and I've worked here for almost thirty years. I know a new face when I see one.”

“I'm not from any place special, I can tell you that.” Curling my fingers around the glass, I take a long sip. “But this is my fresh start. I'm renting a cabin up on the mountain from—”

“Let me guess,” she cuts in, “Marla Crawford?” I nod yes, and she gives me a smile. “That's what I figured. It's a small town, hun, get used to people knowing who you are before you know them.”

“Oh,” I say with a half laugh. “Will do.”

“My granddaughter loves those doodle pads.” She drops her eyes to the book on the table next to me.

“This is just a sketch pad. I figured I could get some work done too while I'm here.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you getting any work done?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Sadly no, it's not working out how I thought it would.”

“Well, my name's Candice. You just let me know if you need anything else.”

“Laney,” I say, tapping my pencil against the pad. “And thank you.” Throwing my head back, I down the drink. “How about another?”

“You got it, hun.” she says.

She walks away and I open my sketch pad. Since this place is dead, I might as well not waste my time. Putting the pencil to the paper, I'm at a loss. Nothing is swirling in my brain, just an alcohol haze that's starting to take over.