Page 19 of All That Remains
"Yeah, probably. I’ve heard loads about them since I arrived…and, uh, the street food.” To that he made a chef’s kiss. “Probably a little sight-seeing with my sister—" Suddenly I remembered I'd left her in a bar down the road with Sal and a few guards.
"Shit! Excuse me a sec, mate."
I texted her where to find me and within minutes she arrived with Sal in tow, slinging an arm over my shoulders at the bar.
"There you are,germ. Thought we'd lost you. I was gonna send out a search party." She yanked my hair.
"M’sorry. I meant to call. Here, sit." I patted a nearby stool and she hopped atop. "Rosa, this is David, the owner. David, this is my sisterRosa."
"Call me Dave," he winked, shaking her hand across the bar.
"Hi. However, my name’s notRosa. It’sRose,” she smiled tightly, elbowing me. “Lovely place. Hope this one isn’t giving you too much trouble,freeloadingand all.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” Dave laughed, stepping away to serve the guards who’d joined.
Now she turned to me and scoffed. "I see you didn’t waste any time getting back to your precious tequila either."
“Get off my back, woman.”
Sal came up behind me and squeezed my shoulder. "We were worried when you didn't come back in.” He was exerted from the walk and his breath reeked of whiskey.
"Sorry, mate, just trying to get out of paying the check." We all laughed. They headed off to a table with my security, but I kept my seat at the bar.
Later the local concert manager entered and I remembered meeting him backstage before the show. He had three daughtersand they were all mad about us. Shortly after, I noticed he was accompanied by a long-limbed man named Joe. He appeared to be in his late fifties, with thinning, shoulder-length red hair. He sat beside me at the bar and asked what I was drinking.
"Patron," I replied, idly twisting my empty glass.
"Think I'll try my luck with that too.”
His voice was dry and weary. It carried a chilly resignation, as though he’d arrived here after a 100-year voyage. He was also American, but bore a cool, cosmopolitan mystique. Like a man at home in far Eastern cultures, who spoke a multitude of obscure languages.
"Have you tried the absinthe? It's phenomenal."
"Not yet…" I eyed him.
"Powerful stuff. But this'll do," he tapped his shot of tequila before downing it. "Woof."
"Another?"
"By all means."
I asked Dave if we could keep the bottle and he accommodated us right away. On my third shot and Joe's second, we got to talking about his childhood and how writing saved him from failing in school because he was such a screw-up. Eventually he got around to how he ended up in Thailand permanently, and why he recommended everyone experience it for themselves someday, hence why he’d authored the guidebook. Dave stopped by intermittently and the two exchanged war stories about their time in California, and eventually Joe told me about a woman he almost married.
"Just a memory now, I suppose," he sucked air through his teeth, as if the thought physically pained him.
"Where's she now?"
"Married to a lawyer, I believe, someplace in Sacramento."
"Fuck Sacramento," I muttered.
"I’ll toast to that."
"And fuck lawyers."
"Hear, hear!"
Later I broke into laughter, realizing how huge his hands were. Veiny and long-fingered. It looked strange whenever he lifted the tiny glass. Then we talked extensively about motorbikes and his travels out East, as well as our obsession with the guitar. He'd picked it up over time. I told him about the solo I’d snuck into our setlist after we’d finished playing our recordHail Mary, and he got a kick out of that. Somehow, I could see myself becoming him in a few decades, after all the band hype wore off, just writing and traveling and experiencing without end.
