Big Jay

His blotchy red face shakes, jowls quake with laughter and I’m chasing after the point of the story, the source of the humor. In a half stupor I sit before empty beer glass as this pompous ass regales with dreadful tales from the day and I’m in no way in a state of mind for this kind of dim-witted repartee so late into the evening. I’m leaning toward leaving when the gargantuan man stands straight his massive frame and proposes a game of darts in the back of the bar.

“Ok,” I say. 

He’s off to make eyes at the bartender girl, in his own world, where money comes and goes, and beer flows, and the theater show is paramount. Couldn’t count on him for rent as he spent six days a week rehearsing and I’m cursing my offering of a spare room. 

The tune on the juke can end any time soon. A plume of smoke wafts by — the guy behind puffs his cigarette. To my left a chick dangles half-bare chest — her best attempt to wrangle the drunk directly across, though he’s long lost to delirium by way of coke and rum. To my right poor bartender babe tries to politely disengage from the prattling Big Jay, (an apropos nickname), but spacing on social cues is nothing new for red hair, red-faced Big Jay, who hasn’t heard another’s words since ‘98.

I soddenly trod the sticky boards, (which wreak of last week’s spilt liquors), find no darts on the board, (bored myself), but I seek out spares on yonder shelf and wait on Big Jay to conclude his parlay. At last, with two beers in his grasp does he lumber over with that selfsame smile of smug content — a fixture permanent — the drinks his form of recompense for lack of rent, (‘cuz to hell with bills when we have beers).

“Cheers,” he says, then inspects the darts I chose. He contorts his nose. “Oh these aren’t right.” He thumbs a shaft, flicks a flight, and tosses the whole lot aside. He trundles off to where they’re stored to score his betters, but what’s it matter anyways? (He hasn’t won in eight straight games.)

“Prepare thyself for a trouncing!” he announces on his way back to the lane. I refrain from engaging in the banter. He takes the line with grandiose pose, knees wide, flared elbows. His tongue protrudes just as he throws. 

He misses the mark by half a foot. 

“Just a wee bit higher and I’ll be good.” Two more tosses and his imminent loss has been written in the darts. He goes to collect his errant throws when over his shoulder he bellows: “So…”

I choke back the groan in my throat. Can’t help the eye roll, but he doesn’t see. Oh that “so,” so nonchalantly spoken, such an unassuming broach of subject — supposedly of little consequence — but which I have all the confidence will come with great cost. I take a seat, pick up my feet and take a long draught from my glass and steel myself for his latest appeal. 

“Can I borrow your car for a few?”

This is nothing new. The car, the room, refrigerated food — I allowed them all taken without a price as Big Jay pursued his theater life. Philanthropist or fool, too soon to tell, though with the hell he’s put me through, I’d assume the latter.

“Truth of the matter is, I’ll need it for a week.”

Heaven, please. A week. As if I have no job, (poor laboring, sweaty slob that I am), with dreams of my own and hopes for these poems on crumpled notes. No time to sit and write, (few minutes at night?), with the day’s demands forever at hand. And, Lord, I can’t stand this man, who returns with his darts and starts in with his agenda.

“See friend, I can drop you off to work each day, and pick you up, but maybe an hour late.” From his glass he sips, then licks his crimson lips, yet wet with presumption. “Only days ‘til curtains, and I’m certain I can’t miss a minute of rehearsal.”

Tongue unfurled, at the ready to release a string of obscenities upon Big Jay, when my fury is stayed — by God or conscience, I don’t know which it is. Without love, without pity, without petulant jealousy, I say:

“Ok.”

He claps my back and carries on, (to the point of breaking into song), with lofty praises and many thanks, and the promise of a full gas tank — a dubious vow at best. But a peacefulness invades my chest. As if from Heaven, the bartender sends her love in the form of a drink and a far-off wink. The juke box croons a ditty I dig. Cool dude with cigarette offers me a puff. I take a drag and hand it back, while cool cats in the corner playing lovers’ roulette get to it like teens. The whole scene: it ain’t so bad,  it ain’t so sad ‘cuz I’ve seen sadder tonight. I scoop my darts by crumpled flights. I take my place inside the lane. A poem comes to mind as I toe the line, just as I let projectile fly.

The dart hits true to target.