The sun had set since Max had been back at RG’s. He was on his third beer when Cowboy sat next to him.
“Howdy.”
“How goes it?” Cowboy said, taking a seat next to Max, then sighed and leaned back in his seat, looking relaxed.
“Another week in the tank.”
“Bank.”
Cowboy set a notebook and a copy of The Complete Poems of Robert Frost on the bar next to his pack of cigarettes.
“I like tank.”
“Where’re your pals?”
“Rudy’s coming by later.”
As Cowboy was about to respond, Daisy walked up to them, and Cowboy pointed at Max’s beer.
“Any other friends your age that I haven’t met?”
“My brother doesn’t get out much. Other than him and Rudy,” Max shrugged.
“Kind of a loner, then?”
“More like lonesome.” Max frowned, then grinned, an attempt to dissuade pity.
Daisy used Cowboy’s lighter. They exchanged a brief glance that Max thought was unusual. He pretended not to notice.
“Do you ever think about why you drink?”
“Not really. It’s fun. Something to do.”
“I drink to think, well, to feel, really.”
“What do you mean?”
“It crossed my mind years ago when I realized I probably wouldn’t ever stop drinking. A lot of people drink like you do, to cut loose. I need to drink so I can feel, so I can speak to people like they’re another person and not an inconvenience. Maybe that’s what they mean by someone being a happy drunk. It’s not like I’m super chipper, trying to make new friends.”
“Like you got nerves around people?”
“No. I don’t notice people if I’m not drunk. They’re like cardboard cutouts to me. They just exist. When I get a little drunk, it’s like they’re alive all of a sudden, and they become more interesting.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that. Most people walking around aren’t very interesting to me, ever, whether I’m drunk or not. Well, I don’t know, not regular people. I like my boss, Bill. He’s a cool dude. He rides bikes too.”
“Maybe when you get older, you’ll notice that just about everyone has something about them, even when you were sure they didn’t. But that also comes with being an old barfly like myself. I got all the time in the world to listen to people talk.”
The conversation drifted to travel. Cowboy told Max about California and Montana and the slower pace of life. Max thought life was slow everywhere. Cowboy said it was different, just by the fact that you’re around fewer people. Cowboy missed it but reiterated his interest in civilization, with all its faults and turmoil. He said people make life interesting; they make mistakes and then bounce back, they find love and fall out of love and get back into it. Max heard him out but wasn’t exactly convinced. While Cowboy talked, Max started to realize he just didn’t see the world as a wide-open, exciting place. It felt more like a prison, one that he didn’t even have the desire to escape, because he saw most of the people around him as living some kind of lie. He had no desire to expose this to Cowboy; he wasn’t in the mood to discuss these things or be convinced.
A few songs went by. Max turned around and watched some old-timers play a pathetic game of pool, then watched baseball highlights on the TV with his arms crossed, not knowing what was going on but thinking it would be fun to go to a baseball game sometime and get hammered and eat a few hotdogs. He could probably convince Jerm to get out and do something low-effort like that.
Cowboy had been reading a few pages of his book. Max had almost forgotten he was there when Cowboy nudged his arm and raised an eyebrow, telling Max to look to his left. As he turned his head, he could tell it was a young girl sitting just one seat away from him. He chose not to be so obvious and looked at her reflection in the chrome beer cooler behind the bar; the funhouse distortion failed to totally mock her symmetry. He could tell right away this chick was the prettiest girl to ever wander in here. He was almost certain he’d seen her before.
Max looked back at Cowboy, who shot him a wink. When you’re on the edge, you can’t hesitate, or you’ll blow the whole mission.
He waited a beat as Daisy slid a Campari and soda to her.
“Where are you from?”
Her eyes met his: silver-blue. His: green and fixed with self-conscious control.
She smirked as she took the first sip of her drink. She bit a kink into the little straw, dropped the lime into the glass, and said, “What makes you think I’m not from here?”
Instantly, he thought: Because I saw you at Publix the other day when I was hungover, and you were driving a silver Lincoln, and you’re pink from sitting out by the pool all day. But he said, “That bracelet is from the Beach Bazaar on Siesta Key.”
She held up her hand and looked at the bracelet, an orange kitten’s paw shell threaded with a soft, natural-colored twill string. She smiled.
“You got me. I’m a snowbird.”
“Where from?”
“Michigan.”
“Michigan. I know a tall guy that lives in Michigan named Preston. Usually, people from Michigan vacation here in the winter when the weather is nicer.”
“My Oma’s birthday was last week, and I decided to stick around for a while. It’s quiet here in the summer when you’re the only girl from Michigan.”
“I guess we can tolerate one. My name’s Max.”
She shook his hand. Her grip was authoritative and not the slightest bit unwelcoming.
“I’m Paige.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Daisy brought a bag of plain Lay’s chips to Cowboy. A conversation about a movie started between them. Max hadn’t heard of it and could tell it was a cover for eavesdropping. He almost laughed.
“How did you end up here?” He spun his finger at the ceiling, then moved his hand to his pack of cigarettes, instinctively ready to light up but caught himself and refrained.
“I was walking downtown yesterday and poked my head in. It’s more relaxed than some of the other bars on Main Street.”
She paused, then continued, “I’m supposed to meet someone, but I guess they’re running late.”
An ambiguous description, not in the register of political correctness. Max knew what it meant.
“Yeah, it’s cool.” His tone became short but not outright unkind.
She tapped her phone screen, then flipped it face down.
“What do you do?” she asked, then sipped her drink.
Relaxed, he responded, “Not much these days. My grandfather invented the color blue, so I’m basically retired at the age of 25. I mostly just fix up motorcycles and hotrods with my uncle over here.” He jabbed his thumb at Cowboy.
Paige and Cowboy looked at each other for a disjointed second. Then Cowboy introduced himself. “Nice to meet you. These hooligans call me Cowboy.”
“Hi, I’m Paige.”
She turned her attention back to Max and inquired, “Your grandpa really invented the color blue?”
“Yup.” Nothing about his tone suggested dishonesty.
“You’re kidding.” She smiled.
He sighed. “Nope, not kidding.”
“Like the sky?”
“Like the sky, like water, like the Coors mountains. The color blue.”
Cowboy pinched his thigh.
“Yow!”
Paige laughed and shook her head. “Oh my god, I’m such an idiot!”
Max laughed. “No, I’m a house painter.”
“He’s an artist too!” Cowboy chimed in, to Max’s annoyance.
“Tell her I’m fucking gay and collect porcelain, why don’t you,” Max said under his breath in Cowboy’s direction.
“Really?”
He shrugged, finished his beer, and waved it to catch Daisy’s attention.
“What stuff do you paint?”
He glanced into her eyes. Nothing told him that she was only being polite and conversational. Her dirty blonde hair sat in perfect symmetry, framing her face, strong angles that made her look responsible. She had every right to self-confidence and vanity but carried herself in a way that told Max she had a good father. All in a second, he felt rapture and fear. He wanted to know every detail of her life.
“Natural stuff. Houses, plants, whatever.”
“Can I see?”
He almost hesitated to pull out his phone, but he flipped it open and found a picture.
“Wow!”
Wow? he thought. How can you think you know yourself and, by hearing one word, feel totally predictable? Like a caricature: a young, alcoholic hipster in a local dive bar. Blood rushed to his head, and he started to feel hot.
“A flip phone? That’s so interesting.”
“Yeah.” His neck craned down at the photo.
“Here.” He held out the phone, showing a pixelated photo of the unfinished painting of the outside of his bedroom windows. She squinted and grabbed his hand to pull the phone closer. He looked at her short nails with clear polish; her hands were pristine and soft. It almost made him twitch and pull away. She let go, and he wished she hadn’t.
“That’s nice! From what I can tell.” She laughed.
“Thanks.”
Daisy set another beer in front of him and took the empty bottle.
“That’s cool you have an old phone.”
He shook his head, shrugged, and took a sip of beer.
“It’s nice to keep life simple.”
“That’s what’s nice about being here. Well, I guess that’s being on vacation, but I like not being around so many people my age for a change, walking around and not knowing anyone.”
“What do you do up in Michigan?”
“I’m in school right now. I go to Michigan State for Communications.”
“You must be smart.”
She laughed. Her phone buzzed, and she leaned over to look at it.
“Popular too.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head.
“I’m meeting someone here tonight.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Paige?”
A man, looking to be in his thirties, approached and stood at the bar to the left of her. Wearing a snug-fitting, short-sleeve button-up shirt tucked into slim-fit khaki pants that ended two inches above his loafers, showing his ankles. Tan and in shape, he looked like a former athlete who now spends his days off from work on the golf course. Max had seen his face on construction banners around town.