Wayne Michael DeHart   (May 26, 2024)

 

Writer’s Note:
This was my entry in the Mensa Bulletin’s 2024 annual fiction competition. It was published in the September, 2024, edition of the magazine, the third time one of my stories has appeared in that publication. (Yay for me and tired old men everywhere!)

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October 5, 2018

Three they were, their futures bright,
noses in law books, deep in the night.
Fun forgone, they trained for the fight,
turned off the dark, turned on the light.
Tested two days, and wrote what’s right.
Awaiting their scores, with muscles tight.
Ten weeks of torment, no verdict in sight.

“I wrote a poem. Just now. Look.”
“That a girl. Nothing like a septet to calm the mind.”
“A what? They said ten weeks, right?”
“No, they said about ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
‘I’m gonna bust outta my skin here, Kerry. Can we go to Boston’s Brewin’ for just one drink, then come right back? We can just forget to mention it to Karly. No big thing.”
“You know our deal, Gwen – booze, you lose. It’s been a long haul, we’re almost there. Just go down to the exercise room to blow off steam. Do some crunches. Pick up a couple of dumbbells.”
“You mean like Lenny and Louie? Yuck. No, thanks. How many crunches?”
“About ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
“Kerry?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Bite me.”
_______________________

Back Bay, Boston. An up-market, two BR, two BA, condo owned by Karly’s moneyed uncle, who sold a start-up for big bucks at the age of 31, then left Boston to hang with the Silicon Valley crowd. He had purchased several rental units at Trinity Crossing before heading west, and had offered his only niece and her friends a stunningly generous, below-market rate on his best unit when they moved in during the early spring of 2015. He knew they planned to begin law school that fall and, well, it was the least he could do for his late wife’s family. He kind of dropped a hint that, if they made it through and passed the bar, perhaps free legal advice for life might be a thoughtful return gesture on their part. They laughed that one off and always sent the check on time, and he never raised the rent.

Karly Drake, Kerry Loring, and Gwendolyn Lynn were each in their late 20’s as they awaited the results of their July bar exams. The liberal arts grads met in mid- December of 2013, when they began work as rookie hostesses at Red’s SawxHouse. The setting was a bizarre blend of an urban, urbane, baseball-themed cocktail lounge at street level, and a roadhouse-type bar venue, with a vipers’ den vibe, occupying the basement. Nestled in the resurgent fringes of Boston’s once-notorious Combat Zone, the establishment routinely turned generous profits, despite a lingering, below-the-surface culture clash between the white collars sipping bourbon, Bailey’s and Bordeaux up top, and the blue collars guzzling overpriced longnecks and gobbling free peanuts at the bottom of the stairs.

Karly, Kerry and Gwen (“KK&G”) were characters with character – intelligent, vibrant young women who had quickly tired of their mundane, entry-level jobs after graduation. They became fast friends, sharing long-term aspirations to be something more than degreed go-fers for smug guys in rumpled suits. Though highly astute and self-aware, they shared a sassy, silly side that was a hoot back at the condo, but in public, could be a wee bit embarassing among, you know, adults. Still, for the most part, they managed to conduct themselves in an appropriate manner because this was Boston, where sillies were sent to the end of the line, or to Maine.

During their ten-month tenure in the blue Brahmin haze of Red’s upstairs lounge, their quick smiles and polite playfulness were rewarded with a shipload of tips, and an equally generous level of respectful endearment from the patrons. Nevertheless, Karly wondered aloud what it would be like to dive headfirst into the murky mire below them, where rude, crude snakes slithered and slid, singing a siren’s song. Kerry rolled her eyes. “Sounds fabulous.” Karly persisted. “Six months. We walk the walk for six months, and then we’re outta there, the Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.” Kerry and Gwen exchanged puzzled glances upon hearing about the creek, but both were gung-ho and game. Red said he’d allow it, and wished them well “down in the pit.” He told them they could come back upstairs at any time if they missed the tips. Or the clientele. “They want you back, and you haven’t even left yet!”

The below-deck newbies were well-served by an instinctive, heightened vigilance in unfamiliar surroundings and circumstances. They were fun, but not as in floozy fun. They wore their strong intellect and confident poise comfortably, mastering the fine art of being flirtatious without being salacious. They knew how to maximize tips while minimizing close contact. They didn’t play the customers, nor did they play with the customers. It seemed there was no shortage of obnoxious dirtbags and grabby sleazeballs among the regulars, but the ladies artfully ducked and dodged the bad ones, while drawing out the best in the rest.

There was also a benign grouping that KK&G dealt with gently and compassionately, sensing an ever-present awkwardness and social clumsiness. These guys hung together, numbering fewer than ten on any given night, and Kerry was surprised they kept coming back. “They just seem so out of place and unhappy here.” They were mostly quiet and shy – unassuming, passive creatures who personified low self-esteem. The other hostesses were standoffish toward them. (“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t hit on me.”) To the rapscallions rejecting them, these subdued, gentle men were fair game – to be openly belittled, degraded, and labelled as dimwits, dolts, dorks, dullards, and the most piercing cut of all . . . dumbbells. It rubbed the ladies three the wrong way. As their six-month tenure there wound down, they did their best to prop up the outsiders, to learn about them as individuals, and to stand up for them openly and assertively.
_______________________________

April 18, 2015

On their last night on the job, a Saturday, they were delighted that more than twenty of the perceived misfits had turned out to see them off. Their shift was both sad and satisfying, a textbook mixed bag of emotions. Shortly before 11:00 PM, each of the three hugged every one of these special guys before departing, then broke house rules by having a quick parting glass with them. As they headed for the stairs and a final walk-through with the upstairs crowd, they heard, “Ladies, wait!” Those same guys gathered around them as each was handed a very small, rectangular box.

Looking unsure, the three of them hesitated. Many of the rambunctious regulars had taken notice. They watched in curious silence.

“Geez, OPEN them already,” someone blurted out in a deep baritone. Laughter. They did so, slowly and together, like kids on Christmas morning. Inside each was an engraved, sterling silver dog tag, resting on a bed of black velvet. Karly, Kerry, and Gwen each saw their name, next to a heart, shining back at them, above the simple words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Dumbbells.”

Well, shoot.

Another round of hugs ensued before the now-free three scampered up the stairs for their final goodbyes. Red was waiting for them. Karly showed him her dog tag. He bit his lip and nodded his head, approvingly. “Well deserved.” He suggested they mingle for about half an hour and then meet back with him at the main bar in the center of the lounge.

So mingle they did. They had spread out to touch as many bases (hey, it’s a baseball bar!) as they could before making their exit. Seemed like there were familiar faces at every turn. It was close to 11:45 when they heard Red on the mic, acknowledging their presence, and imminent departure.

They quickly worked their way through the crowd, into the spotlight. Red had the BBB (big burly bouncer) lift each of them up onto the smooth mahogany surface of the bar. They were clearly animated, bobbing their heads to the cheers. Red then lifted what appeared to be Boston baseball jerseys up to them, folded back side up. They held them up high to the crowd, each revealing a large number “1” and their own names across the top. None of the three had even noticed the front side that was staring down at them. Red, back on the mic, suggested they “turn ‘em around, ladies.” (Kerry playfully turned herself around before Red added “The jerseys, ladies, the jerseys!”)

As native Bay Staters, they had expected the familiar “Red Sox” lettering, bold and red, across the front. Smartphone cameras captured the moment that the expected became the unexpected. The letters were in fact decidedly bold and red, but boldly read: “BAR BELLES.” They quickly donned the jerseys as a couple of other upstairs hostesses suddenly appeared on the bar, one from each direction, both wearing those same tops. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello, and goodbye, to your 2015 Boston Bar Belles.” The guys did what guys in bars do when looking at ladies in uniform – they got boisterous and went bonkers. Following Karly’s lead, her four wingwomen began to vigorously flap their jerseys up and down, making the letters jump and jiggle on the way up, then bump and wiggle going down. The bellowing Beantowners were feeling festive; high-spirited and high on spirits.

Red’s voice boomed across the room. “Listen up! Three runs down, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. Who ya gonna call?” In response, a stoked Gwendolyn Lynn let loose her sassy girl, yelling “Bar Belles!” while putting her hand to her ear. A chorus of male voices took the cue, retorting with fist pumps and a glass-shattering “Bar Belles!” of their own. Gwen again, whipping her long, auburn hair from side to side – “Bar Belles!” And the guys gave it right back again. Meanwhile, Gwen’s festive friends kept shaking their shirts, fueling the fire in the frenetic faces below them. A few more rounds of the exchange ricocheted off the walls, before a fast-paced, full-throated, flurry of five more for the road closed out the revelry, carrying the farewell celebration to a rocking, rolling, rollicking climax.

Their fans had just witnessed a real world grand slam, and fittingly for KK&G, a breathless walk-off win.

A fitting finale, indeed.

The three friends waved one last goodbye before being helped down to solid ground. Once there, they headed straight to the door, and out into the cool night air of early Spring. They didn’t look back.

The ten months upstairs, and the six months downstairs, at Red’s SawxHouse had left its mark – on them, and on a slew of grounded regulars. Surely, in the near and distant future, many would tell a friend, a co-worker, or the person sitting next to them at Fenway Park, about the top-shelf, infinitely-cool, beloved Boston Bar Belles of days gone by.

Their midnight cab ride back to the condo, on the 240^th anniversary of some other Bostonian’s quite different midnight ride, marked the end of an amusing adventure, and the beginning of getting down to business. For these rejuvenated women of the Back Bay, “Bar Belles” was about to take on a whole new meaning.

______________________

October 12, 2018

Just one week after penning her ode to impatience, Gwen let out a shriek in the early afternoon that could be heard in the Berkshires. It was a rainy Friday, and her roommates were down in the exercise room again, pumping those dumbbells. Bypassing the elevator, she scooted down the stairwell, missed a step, and nearly face-planted on the next landing. Recovering nicely, she avoided the hospital ER and arrived at the target “ER” undamaged.

She stood in the doorway, chirping. Karly saw her first, and immediately knew this was not a standard “I just had a brownie and it was sooo good!” kind of elation. Gwen had printed out the e-mail before descending the stairs, and waved it around like a $20 tip at Red’s place – “Who’s bad? I’m bad. Passed that sucka first time outta the gate.” Upon hearing that, Kerry quickly joined them, attacking her phone. Seeing Karly step away to towel down, Gwen simply assumed that the future managing partner of their firm simply had no sense of urgency, as she had been one of the top grads in their law class. She turned her eyes back toward Kerry, who, moments later, hooted “YEE-HAW, baby!!!” The two of them fist-bumped and chest-thumped, strutting and swaggering like bosses. “Two down.”

And then there was one.

Minutes later, there was still one, as an ashen-faced Karly turned away from her phone, sat down on the nearest bench, and buried her face in her towel.

Stunned at what was clearly happening, Kerry and Gwen shut down their antics and just waited. Karly removed the towel, but kept her head down as she gestured to them to sit down beside her. They did, lowering their own heads in a show of unity. Karly slowly put an arm around each one, and pulled them close. “Ladies, let me just say . . . Welcome to THE BAR, bitches! We did it!”

Back upstairs, they changed clothes, posed for a selfie, printed a copy, then framed it.

That night, for the first time since their grand goodbye, they went to Red’s SawxHouse. They knew that familiar faces would now likely be few and far between, but they felt compelled to mark the occasion by returning to the place where the seed had been sown. Kerry, hoping that they had not been forgotten, had called ahead to be sure that Red would be there. They wore their “Bar Belles” jerseys under their coats, and pulled Red, who was elated to see them, into a quiet corner. Kerry was clutching a laptop bag.

In unison, they pulled off their coats and flaunted the jerseys in front of him, in remembrance of that night. He was beaming. Then Kerry pulled the framed photo, signed by the three of them, from the bag and placed it in his hand. The selfie showed them in matching business suits, briefcases in hand, standing stoically behind a bronze statue of Lady Justice. It was a keeper.

They had a drink with him, told him he was a good boss and a better man, then everyone took turns toasting each other. Just before leaving, Karly pulled a small, rectangular box from her coat pocket, and handed it to Red. He lifted the cover, and saw something he had seen before – an engraved, sterling silver dog tag. It was inscribed with his name and a heart over the words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Bar Belles.” Just as he had done that night, he bit his lip and nodded his head. But this time it was Karly’s turn to say, “Well deserved.”

She removed it from the box, and stretched to hang it around his burly neck. They lifted their own prized tags out of their jerseys and coats, cuddled up to him, and while all four pointed at their own tags, a hostess used Kerry’s phone to record the moment. Karla promised Red a signed and framed copy of this photo as well. He then took a circuitous route while walking them to the door, taking pride in pointing out each of seven wall posters that captured the Bar Belles dancing his customers into a frenzy in an electric farewell. Indeed, they had not been forgotten.

In the months that followed, the trio put their dream of opening their own firm on hold, and all took jobs as public defenders for the Commonwealth. They felt a need to test their mettle early on by experiencing the hardscrabble side of advocacy, They wanted to defend people who they may not like at all, and to revisit their own mistakes in pre-judging others. Each of those presumed rogues and rascals in the basement bar had a story, just as their favored “dumbbells” did, but they never asked, and never listened. The astute self-awareness they had been so proud of, well, maybe it was time to work on that too.

“All rise.” On that note, for each of them, completing the challenging transition from bar belle to belle of the bar, really was something to stand for, and stand up for.

Three they were, their futures bright . . .

turned off the dark, turned on the light.

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