Juniper in an Empty Circle

Pace my apartment all day, unsatisfied and fighting myself and remember I have paintings to pick up. Go back and forth for an hour about whether or not I want to leave the house and finally grab my coat, keys, ephemera, and head to the bar where they were hung. 

Park and leave my car. The cold bites into me. Quickly walk the street, past my old job, and into the bar. In no rush to go back out, I sit down. Everett's behind the bar, a few other Sunday afternoon gnomes perched around. 

"Hey James, buddy. How's it going?" 

"Not bad," I say. "What did I get last time I was in here? The Funky?"

Everett glances up at the menu on the wall. Twelve planks with painted cartoonish letters spelling out the names of the current fun new beers on tap and their ABVs. The Funky is a twelve ounce pour and has an 8% ABV,  but when I had ordered it a while ago Everett got it backwards. It didn't matter. It was fine. It tasted like a syrup of slightly rotting fruit. I've drank worse.

"Yes... Yeah, I think you did."

"All right. I'll take that." Hand him my card.

"Open?"

"Yeah, that's fine. How've you been?"

We shoot the shit. Me. Everett. The other guys around the bar. Someone's brother was marrying the wrong girl. Someone was avoiding his kids. Someone just lost their job. The same shit, the same shit.

A while later, my third Funky, Everett says;

"You know who I haven't seen in a couple months?"

Sip my terrible beer. "No. Who?"

"Ann."

It knocks me back. Try not to react. I had come to this bar with Ann pretty regularly but I don't remember Everett ever being there. 

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She's something, right? What was it like dating'er?"

Again, knocks me back. Run it quickly through my head and I can't understand how he knows I even know Ann, much less dated her. A theory forms, but I try not to think about it.

"I... have nothing bad to say about her. She's a wonderful human being."

"She's somethin'," he says. "I used to just think she was pretty attractive, but then, I mean, she's always got something going on. I mean, mental illness isn't a joke, I know, but, Jesus."

It's like he's talking about an entirely different person. It forms a worry somewhere inside me. It had been about a year since I spoke to her and a lot can happen in a year. 

"I don't know. I haven't spoken to her. But again, nothing bad to say."

"Sure, sure," he says and starts putting his coat on, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

"Hey, before you head outside, wanna pour me one more and cash me out?"

"Sure buddy."

I get up, and head to the bathroom. The goddamn thought won't leave my mind. 

In the bathroom, large black circles are painted on the walls and a small table has a basket filled with colored chalk. The black circles are spattered with messages from dozens of others. Rhymes. Jokes. A phone number. I read a few, looking for familiar handwriting. Piss, wash my hands, and write "Juniper" in an empty circle before leaving.

As I make my way back, I track down the four paintings I didn't sell and take them all down, setting them on the bar in a nice pile. The credit card terminal is in front of my spot. I hit the 25% tip, take my card out, and sit back down.

The two guys to my left want me to go with them to another bar downtown. They've mistaken my deadpan sarcasm for comradery. Everyone does. Maybe it is. 

"There's mozz sticks down there," one of them says. "Nothin' special, but it's mozz sticks."

It isn't a bad pitch.

"Yeah man, all right. I just gotta run these paintings up to my apartment, then I'll catch y'all down there," I say with no intention of going.

One of them high-fives me as they begin to put their coats on. "Fuck yeah," he says for some reason.

They pay their bill, now slurring a little and reddened, and they're gone into the dusk. Now it's just me and Everett and one old man to my right staring emptily into his beer. The thought that's he's been shut off or deactivated floats through my head. 

"When are they gonna pay me?" I ask Everett.

"For the paintings?"

"Yeah."

"Probably pretty soon. I think Greg's just waiting for everyone to pick up their stuff."

I nod. I'm going to have to chase this money down. Always fucking something. 

Start working up the will to go back into the cold. Sip my terrible beer and still, 

the goddamned thought won't leave my mind.

A lot can happen in a year.