J. W. 's Terminal Bar

I once went out with this girl way back when. My ma’ used to call it stepping out, which was weird because we weren’t stepping out anywhere. All we really did was suck each other’s faces off till she went to college. Mariah was a smart girl; we weren’t too serious or nothing. Which was strange because I think she might have thought I would do something with my life. Or maybe she liked me. 

I’m only saying this because, right before she went to her fancy performing arts school, she gave me this crazy expensive camera. A real, genuine Canonet camera. We both knew we would never see each other again, so — I’m just saying — it was weird to spend that much money on me. 

Mariah was right: I am doing something with my life. Not anything with that fancy camera she gave me, however, I am opening up J.W. 's Terminal Bar. Call me narcissistic, but I, James Webber, named the future grooviest bar on the block after myself. It wasn’t in the best shape yet, and it wasn’t in the best location, either. It was right in front of the terminal, which you couldn’t see from the bar because some putz decided to put the largest newsstand known to man right in front of my bar windows. 

As J.W. 's Terminal Bar grew, the newsstand seemed to lessen in sales. ‘Cause no way any of the goofs in this hood are spending their extra cash on newspapers. They’d prefer to spend their money at my bar, starting at 8 A.M. The good news is that I did find a use for Mariah’s camera. Everyone who walked into my bar got a picture, and the people who hid behind the newsstand did too. The thing about the terminal is that police surround it; every pimp, hustler, and prostitute on the block hides behind that newsstand. The most interesting people of Times Square. 

Ⅰ

One of my favorite customers, Willie Earl, was a cool dude. Pretty sure he was homeless, but I guess a lot of Black people in Times Square are homeless. Every once in a while, I’d see him sleeping in the trashcan right next to the newsstand, dressed in gray rags — gray in a sun-bleached way. He denied it to no end, though, saying over and over that he was drunk. I never believed him — he only ever ordered a glass of milk from me. Weird dude. 

One day, Willie Earl walked in with one of those girls. One of the girls who dressed out at 8 A.M., ordered cognac, and walked up and down the alleyways looking for work. He was even dressed in a suit: one that was way too big for him, dripping off his shoulders like some type of ooze. Willie Earl was not built to be a pimp. He was bad at it. I’m the type of man that wants to go steady with someone like Mariah, and Willie Earl knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. 

But he walked in talking like he was drunk even though he was more sober than the pastor at my old Sunday school. “James, my man, ” he said, already talking too much for my taste. “Listen, can I get some cognac for my lady friend?” The same lady friend he ushered to the back tables. 

“So, James,” he started. “You look like a sad man.” I didn’t. “You look like you could use a lady of your own.” I didn’t. “How ‘bout I let you mess around with her—” he said, pointing his finger at my chest from across the bar. “—for a fifty.” 

He was a bad pimp. “Willie Earl,” I began, “I like you. I do. But I don’t need to buy anything like that from you.”  I finished the cognac and slid it over to him. “Go give that lady her drink. It’s on the house as long as you get out of here as soon as you’re done.” 

When I said Willie Earl was a bad pimp, I meant it. He certainly wasn’t sleeping in the trashcan anymore, but I did see him hiding behind that damn newsstand from the police. I’ve never seen him do that before, but I guess it is what it is. 

Ⅱ

There was an older woman who frequented my bar. Gloria. I loved her. She tipped a lot and dressed rich, which means she’s probably married to some rich asshole in a suit. And I mean, like, the leader of a criminal organization level asshole. She complained about him. A lot. She ordered straight whisky, smoked cigars, wore a wedding ring encrusted with enough diamonds to pay rent for over 3 years, and gave good advice. She was perfect and my favorite customer.

One day, at 7 P.M., she came in with her big, bouncing gray curls. I expected her to order her usual and talk about the usual, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat at her stool, ordered a Pink Lady, and asked “James, have you ever been in love?”

I have. I was too afraid to admit it and, at the time, said it wasn’t serious. I was lying to myself because I knew she would go away and become something wonderful. An opera singer. Which was more wonderful than owning a bar in the slums — Mariah deserved better. Gloria wasn’t asking for all of that, though. “I have,” I said. “It didn’t turn into nothing, though.”  

Gloria reached into her Dior bag for a pre-cut cigar and a gold lighter. “You know better, son,” she said, lighting her cigar. “You gotta follow where your heart leads you.” 

Mariah’s heart led her away from me. Mine led me to my bar. “Gloria, you dream on, girl,” I started. “Not everyone can follow their heart like that.” 

“Do you want to know something, James? I didn’t follow my heart. I followed the stench of money.” I knew that. Anyone who looked at her knew that. “Look where that landed me,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Unhappy. You can do better than me, can’t you?”

I didn’t see Gloria for a long time after that. No more 7 P.M. chats at the bar. No more advice. No more Gloria. When I did see her, she was behind the newsstand and missing her too expensive wedding ring. I didn’t know she was hiding from her husband till I saw the man she spent all those nights describing running down the street. He was dressed in a suit and a bowler hat, screaming “Gloria! Gloria! You’ll regret leaving me like this!” I have to assume she did. I watched as she was dragged away by her husband, kicking and screaming. I didn’t see her again. 

Ⅲ

There was a disco club down the street. I mean, there were several disco clubs, but this one was for every queer and queen in the city. I had met the owner once; an interesting lady with bad outfits. Everything she wore was perfect. The disco club was a well-kept secret, and I wouldn’t have known about it if Juda hadn’t told me. 

Juda was a comedian. Not literally. Literally, he was a prostitute, but he made me laugh a lot. The first time we met each other, it was the first week of J.W. 's Terminal Bar and Juda was running down the alleyway behind the bar in a fur coat. I opened the door to ask if he was okay, but, before I could even say anything, he ran inside and closed the door behind him. 

He had his hands on his knees, way out of breath as he said, “Thanks for the help, man. You real stellar.” 

“I don’t know what I helped with, but you’re welcome?” It came out more like a question than anything concrete. He laughed at me. 

“Some guys were trying to beat me up back there and you saved me. You a hero or something?” I only then noticed the blood on his lips and marks that looked like boot prints on his chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt under his big fur coat. 

“No, I’m not a hero. I’m James. Now, you gonna tell me why you’re getting beat up in an alley, or should I throw you out?” 

“Hey, chill out. I was just looking for work,” he said as he stood up straight and stiff like a board. He waved his hands around as if I scared him or something.

“The type of work that would get you beat up in an alley dressed like that?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why? You interested?” He said as he smiled.

Juda came around a lot after that. He’d order a shot of something different every morning. Today he came in for our morning talks dressed in the same fur coat. He had a story for me. “James,” he said, already laughing. “I almost got caught by the police last night, you know?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Instead of locking me up, the fool paid me way too much for way too little,” Juda said.  

“I hear you, man. I’ll make sure to tell everyone who comes in here that these terminal officers bend like paper.”

Juda was the closest person I ever had to a friend. 

Ⅳ

One day, I saw someone new. I didn’t normally see new faces around the block. Mostly because everyone knew everyone, and new people knew not to mess around in Times Square. She was hiding behind that damn newsstand, dressed way too nice to be in this hood. She looked like a celebrity — covered in some type of beaded lace evening gown and pearls. 

I didn't know who she was running from, but her heels were broken and she was way out of breath. Her back was straight against the wall of the newsstand as she hid. She didn’t look like the type of woman to run from the police, but you never know with how the police treat Black people these days. I opened the door and yelled to her in that whisper-yelling type of way that kind of makes me want to throw up. “Hey,” I said, waving to her. “Hey, come in here.” 

She ran right in and didn’t look back once. “You know,” she said. “You a real hero. When I started running from the paparazzi, I was in Columbus Circle.” 

She looked a lot like Mariah, except, when we were in high school, Mariah used to wear her hair in an afro. A perfect circle for a perfect woman. This lady had her hair in some fancy updo with pearl pins. Before I knew it, my stupid lips were moving against my will. “You look a lot like someone I used to know.” 

“Her name wouldn’t happen to be Mariah, would it?” the woman asked as she smiled.

Oh. 

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be James, would it?”

Oh. It was Mariah. It was almost painful, the way my lips had begun to split revealing my too-big smile. I had missed her, she was everything. 

“Mariah? How have you been? It’s been 15 years, Jesus. Did art school go well? Did you miss me? I missed you a lot.” I had so many questions and she answered all of them. She told me about her recent role in the opera, school, and she even sang for me. We talked for hours — catching up and talking about everything and nothing.

“James,” she said, putting her hand on my cheek. “You still look like you did in high school.” I guess I did look kind of similar. I shaved my head, no longer rocking the afro, but I guess my face didn’t change much. Same brown eyes, same symmetrical face. I did finally grow the mustache I had been trying to grow since 10th grade, though. A real looker. 

“Now,” she said, removing her hand from my face in the awkward silence, “Are you going to make me a drink or not? And, tell me — did you ever use that camera I got you?” 

I rushed to make her the most complicated drink I knew and pointed her to my corkboard with pictures of every interesting person I had met. She listened to me talk about Willie Earl, Gloria, Juda, and all of my customers as she waited for her drink. 

She lifted her glass towards me, Bloody Mary sloshing against the sides. “See James,” she said. “I knew you would become something wonderful.”