CURSED LANE KARESKA
Pike sat at a back table in the barroom. He crossed one dusty jean leg over another, his boot hung out flat. He touched his glass and watched the whiskey knock around in the bottom. He took it up, drained it, let the warm rush settle in him and ride out to the tips of all his bones. He set the glass back on the table and left it there. The revelers in the room had grouped at a kick-stage. They watched a young man sing country songs. Pike didn’t recognize any of the songs. The kid wore tight pants and a tight shirt over no frame at all. The girls laughed and shouted along as he sang to them. Big men played pool at the tables. It was close to midnight. A waitress glided by with a tray of shots in little plastic cups. Pike signaled her with a nod. “Want one, honey?” she asked, eyes hooded in chalky blue make-up. “No,” he said. “Just the check, please.” She nodded. “Be right back then.” A girl he’d never seen before sat down at his table. “Aw, don’t go,” the girl said to him. He smiled at her, “Have to. It’s late.” “It ain’t but twelve,” she wagged her face at him. She was pretty and blonde and she had a white smile. “You ain’t but twelve,” he told her. This made her chuckle. “Twelve times two,” she said. “What’s your name?” “James.” “James what?” “James Pike.” 66
Berkeley Fiction Review
