Confrontation

The Confrontation

This short story was written for my Mid-term paper with the University of Maryland, Creative Writing course in 1989. The final version of this story for the final term had changed to include adult content.

The Catherine Brosnan

      The Eastside Tavern was a single-room alehouse, filled with trestle-tables and benches. Light generated from small lanterns, sparingly spaced throughout the tavern. A fire, within a large fireplace, where joints of meat roast and char, added to the already dim lighting. Hanging above the fireplace two muskets, each pointing in a 45 degree angle toward the ceiling. Between these, the head of an elk overlooked the crowded room. A mantle, made of red oak, stretched across the width of the fireplace. It had become a final resting place for many medieval antiques that had become tarnished and laden with dust over the years. On each side of the tavern, men and women alike were drinking, arguing loudly, cursing and bragging. A jukebox, sitting in the northernmost corner, provided the only music, unless a customer wanted to entertain the crowd.
        The crowd eyed Michele Talbert curiously as she entered, but she had become accustomed to this. Her height alone usually drew stares, since tall women were rare --but no one had ever found her rude. She walked with an athlete's agility and power, her work-worn flannel shirt and blue jeans never concealing her firm, luscious, well-formed body. She had large blue eyes, and skin of warm, rich gold. After her   re- lease from the army, she had let her chestnut hair grow long. She usually kept it braided and bound like a crown around her brow. But
when she let it down, her hair tapered in rippling, tawny waves over
her broad shoulders.

    She met all stares with a look of deliberate challenge that made the curious drop their eyes hastily, or turn away. Michele's fearless behavior showed that she was capable of taking care of herself, if the situation ever arose. She took a seat near the jukebox, and motioned to Mack to bring her a tankard of ale.
     Mack Turner, the bartender and tavern owner, was a short, stalky man. He had short glossy black hair with long sideburns, large brown eyes, and a limp in his walk. A scar on the left side of his face, from his left eye to his chin, deformed a once handsome face. Mack would never tell how he had got the scar. But he would go as far to say that he received it in his youth.
     Michele felt very good about herself this evening. She had finally finished fitting and welding steel rafters to the frame of a new office building in downtown Baltimore. On her way home, she had stopped by the tavern for a bite to eat, and some ale. She was unaware of the events that would later involve her and one of her friends.
     Looking about the tavern, she saw that most of the customers were low life that respectable bars owners have kicked out. Mack treated these customers like family, giving them free meals, and drinks to help rest their troubled souls.
     Arriving at Michele's table, Mack placed the tankard of ale in front of her. Michele, grasping the tankard with her hardened hand, looked up at Mack and greeted him. "Hello, Mack," she said. "Looks as though you are making a killing in here tonight."
     "Business is good, I must say," he said hypnotically as he looked into her deep blue eyes. Shaking his head to lessen the grip of the hypnotic trance, Mack continued with the conversation. "I've made enough tonight to go on a vacation to visit my sister and brother-in-law."
     "Where's that Mack?" Michele asked.
     "In the Bahamas of course. They have asked me to come down, and manage one of the hotels they own -- permanently."

    Mack walked away to serve another customer, not knowing the effect his last remark had on her. Michele, stunned, fell against the wall in disbelief. She began to remember their first meeting. She had stayed one rainy night at the tavern some years back, already half-drunk, and in a foul temper. Not only was she tired, wet and hungry, but she had lost all her money gambling in the Silver Slipper.
     "Thieves!" she muttered, and sat down at a table near the fireplace. "Vultures --all of them! They cheated me." She looked around the room, miserable. It was late and the place was nearly empty. "And I am lonely."
     A waitress came over and asked if she wanted something to eat or drink. "Both!" said Michele promptly. She took the woman's hand and kissed it. "What's your name, pretty one?" But the woman only gave her an arch smile and walked away, hips swaying.
     "What's the difference?" Michele said. "I can't pay for anything anyway."