SHIRLEY TEMPLEVILLE

by

Cindy Rosmus

          What’s weird is, you don’t remember getting here.

          And where are you, anyway?

          A bar, but not your usual “inside-of-a-workboot” dump. It’s airy and bright, like the sun had just burst through, after rain. But not dirty, city rain. This rain smells sweet, like it came down from heaven.

          You creep in, peering around. There’s just the bartender and one customer—a chunky girl, whose face you can’t see.

The bartender looks familiar.  Arms folded, leaning against the register. An older guy, maybe fifty-five, with a rust-colored rug and frizzy gray sideburns. And the silliest grin ever.

Harvey, you realize. As you race towards him, the past blasts back to you: sweltering summer nights, sneaking drinks at his bar, in pre-casino Atlantic City. His son Artie and you feeling each other up under the damp, dark boardwalk. Kids, both of you. If Harvey only knew…

You stop short. That was thirty years ago. How could he look the same?

Wait…

Your back feels ice-cold. Didn’t Harvey…isn’t…he…

Dead?

When he sees you, his smile widens. “Hi, doll!” he says, just like way back.

Last time you saw Harvey, he was shrunken. Dwarf-like. Torso devoured by cancer, so he hopped around like a frog. That silly grin ghoulish in that too-big head.  You were so scared he’d…touch you. Before that, you loved his hugs. Now he looked…monstrous.

“Harvey?” You’re too shocked to say more.

He’s still grinning. Like none of it had happened—his illness and agonizing death, Artie’s mysterious drowning—and he was behind the bar, concocting exciting new drinks while you and Artie plotted your getaways.

The chunky girl is hunched over, sipping what looks like fruit punch. “I can’t taste the liquor!” she grumbles.

That voice…

How many times did it warn you, ruin your fool’s paradise? He used you, it said, then told those fuckers at the bar. About you on the pool table.

You gasp.

Becky.

But isn’t she . . .

A closed casket. ‘Cos she had no face left. Her new slimeball had blown it off. Only her ear was recognizable, with tiny hoops from top to bottom….

Somehow her face is back: cheeky, with that little pug nose. A missing tooth, from doing too much blow.

“Here.” She shoves her drink toward you. “Tell me there’s no booze in there.”

“There’s not,” Harvey says.

“What?”

 “It’s not allowed,” Harvey says. “There’s no liquor in any of these bottles.”

A dirty trick, you think. Instead of sloe gin or peach schnapps, there’s Kool-Aid. Worse, colored water. Like on a movie set. Your favorite bartender and drinking buddy in this class-act bar with no booze!  A barfly’s worst nightmare.

“Well, that sucks!” Becky says.

As you sink down onto the stool, it dawns on you. Where you really are.

But with no sneering devil. It’s not even hot. Very comfortable in here, with that sweet, after-rain smell. There’s just no booze.

“Welcome to Shirley Templeville.” Harvey winks.

Like Margaritaville, but with no Margaritas.

Jimmy Buffet, you think foolishly, where are you?

Outside, someone’s coming. When Harvey turns his back, you tell Becky, “I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Get a real drink, somewhere.” Same old Becky.

When the new guest comes in, you have to look twice. It’s Artie.

Teenaged Artie. Long, blond curls in that 70s do. Wire-framed glasses, like you wore yourself, back then. Cut-off jeans shorts and no shirt. Even dead, you’re hot for his hairless chest.

Last time you saw him, was under that boardwalk. The sky so black, the sea-smell surrounding you. After your juvenile gropings, you both ran nude into the ocean. Way out. You wouldn’t believe that he couldn’t swim….

You laughed at him.

Days later, they dragged him out, like a blond, bloated fish. His glasses still down there, somewhere. Maybe a mermaid found them….

These same glasses Artie’s cleaning, now, as Harvey lectures him. The one-sided heart-to-heart, like the old days. When Harvey looks your way, Artie’s supposed to roll his eyes. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he eyes you with hate. Like it’s your fault he’s here, getting lectured.

Your fault he’s dead.

I am, too! you want to scream. But if you start screaming, you might not stop.

“How’d you get here?” Becky asks, but you have no clue. Then, “Still with that asshole?”

Which one?

Not this drowned teen, who still eyes you like you’re the scum of the earth…or wherever you are. He knows what happened. Why you’re here…

You wouldn’t stop laughing. You were his first…and last. He wasn’t sure how to please you. It was so new to him…Finding the right spot on a girl. But…“It tickles!” you said.

So you’d stop laughing, he raced into the sea….

Again, you see that anguished face. Baby tears on fifteen-year-old cheeks. Him scrambling to his feet before he changed his mind.

He was determined to do it. You made him do it! Thanks to you…

He drowned himself.

You gasp.

Now Artie is swollen, seaweed stuck to wet, gray skin. Like when they found him. The stench of stagnant water makes you reel. “Dad,” he says, in this waterlogged voice, “Give Pam a drink.”

“No, I got this round.” Becky’s voice sounds strange, too.

But Harvey is gone.

“I’ll make it a double,” comes from beneath the bar. Then that too-big face.

His dwarf’s leer makes you scream. “You killed my son,” he says. “And that killed me.”

You scream till you’re hoarse. Till there’s no breath left.

Becky’s facial cavity is inches from you. Just bloody muscle, brain matter, part of one eye. And that totally pierced ear. “Why’d you tell Butchie where I was?” she gurgles. “So you could have him?” As she grips your wrist, you pee your pants. Even dead, you have pants to pee. “Thanks to you …”

He blew her face off.

Outside, the sky has darkened, like a hellish storm is brewing. An act of God, just for you. For the lives you ruined…

Suddenly, you remember.

“She’s with this guy!” you told the last stupid husband. “Puerto Rican, chunky. Mofongo, they call him.” Lightning flashed, but nothing could stop you. Hurrying down that storm-darkened street. “Sucking face. At this bar, Scratch’s, at City Line.”

He didn’t believe you. He loved his wife, poor guy! But you kept at him. ‘Cos you wanted him. Thunder cracked.

“Meet me there,” you said. “In ten minutes.”

You never made it.

Lightning struck your phone.

From beneath the bar comes a rotted hand, clutching your drink: blood-red punch, with wormy things wiggling in it. And a cocktail cherry.

Giggling, the dwarf drops in an extra cherry. “‘Cos I like you.”

“Be glad somebody does,” Becky says.

THE END

“Shirley Templeville” first appeared in Black Petals Issue #53, Autumn, 2010.

Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in places like Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, Punk Noir, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and has published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.