I'm standing across from Stanley's Diner--the one that serves English muffins--when a neon light goes off in my periphery. Those little brightly contoured filaments, they call my name with the debauchery that is promised inside. This one in particular should be innocuous. It just says 'Open'. But the scene illuminated behind is what strikes my interest: shelves of liquor, and a string of taps across a bar.
I glance down at my watch. It's eleven fifty-seven. The clock in the joint must be a few minutes fast. In three minutes I could be inside of Stanley's, standing at the counter and placing Lisa's order before breakfast stops being served. I check my phone. There are ten missed calls already, all from my wife. There's only one voicemail, which I delete unchecked.
As if prescient, the phone starts buzzing in my hand. The screen says 'Lisa' in big, bold letters. I thumb the button that sends the call to my answering service. Instead of crossing the street to the diner, I head into the bar.
"What can I get you?"
The voice comes from a petite brunette, her back to me, facing the register as she does the opening count. Her hair is almost down to her ass, where the slick silver of a stainless-steel bottle opener sticks out suggestively from the pocket of too-tight jeans.
"Just a Bud," I answer.
When she turns around, there's a flicker in her eyes and she turns on a smile that seems to hint that she's chasing more than just a good tip. "Oh hey! You want me to keep putting them on your tab?"
"My tab?"
"Yeah, you left your card here last night. I didn't close you out yet. Figured I'd let it ride since you're in here all the time."
I've never been here before. Hell, I never would have walked in here if I wasn't looking to commit marital suicide. Nonetheless, I take out my wallet and check for my credit card. Sure enough, it's still there. Whatever. I'm not gonna turn down drinking on some other schmoe's dime.
"Yeah, my tab," I say with a little more confidence. "And let me get a single malt. On the rocks."
She bounds over to the rows of bottles to make my drink. Her eyes cast quick glances at me in the reflection from the bar's mirror. "Long night?" She asks.
"How's that?"
"You're usually so....." She gestures about her figure, "fashionable."
I look down at my just-south-of-casual ensemble. "Yeah, these passed the smell test."
"Nice to know you're human like the rest of us."
My fingers pick at a bowl of salted peanuts. The air inside the place signifies that it's one of the few places you can still smoke indoors. "What else would I be?" I pop one of the peanuts into my mouth.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until just now. I take turns eating more peanuts and fidgeting with a straw from the holder in front of me. The phone in my pants begins to buzz, reminding me about breakfasts, broken rubbers, and impending arguments. I hold a small side button and the ringing stops for good.
The bartender swings around and places my drinks in front of me. "Well, you have a reputation for being a bit of a dog." Her eyes narrow as she sidles up to the bar across from me. Her smile stays predatory.
I laugh around a mouthful of peanuts. "I promise I don't bi-"
Before I can finish my sentence, my jaw drops open. I'm pretty sure I lose a couple of peanuts.
The man that just walked in, his mouth is agape as well. He pulls a pair of shades from his face, slowly, like a TV detective. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."
It's like looking into a mirror, if that mirror had more confidence and a better sense of style. He wears a charcoal linen blazer over an Armani tee, with beige chinos and a pair of dark navy suede boating shoes that look like they own the whole dock. Christ, his aviators probably cost more than my car. His hair is that perfectly tousled that guys must have after they've recently banged a supermodel.
I fucking hate him.
"Jase?" The waitress is just as flabbergasted as we are. She shoots a look over at me, does a double take back to Mister GQ.
He cracks a sly smile, and approaches me with a hand out. His stance is slightly leaned back, somehow both cautious and assured at the same time. I shake with my non-peanut hand.
"Jason Kimmel. People call me Jase. You," He points a manicured finger at me, "call me Jase."
"Fuck, I thought this guy was you, Jase," the bartender butts in. "I was gonna put him on your tab."
He dismisses her with a wave. "That's fine, Tam. Maybe he is me from a harsher, shittier future. I look like I could use a drink. Keep him on my tab. And bring me a Glengoolie, neat." His shark eyes never leave me.
I finally regain enough sense to close my mouth. I wipe salt and slobber away with the back of my hand. The straw I'm still holding brushes my nose, and I quickly pocket it. All I can think of doing to recover is to push the small bowl of snacks out to him as an offering. "Peanut?"
Jase sneers at me, "I'm allergic. What are you trying to do, kill me?" He shouts back to the bartender, "I take it back, Tam. He's not from the future. Maybe some alternate universe. Where I'm stronger than peanuts, but everything else about me sucks." He's still smiling playfully, but his tone belies obvious alpha moves.
"And you must be from the universe where douche is a paying job," I shoot back, regaining my composure.
For a second, he looks like I've slapped him in the face, but that is followed by a deep belly laugh. "Goddamn, I'm still quick as shit though." He nods at me, "You're not as hopeless as you look. What's your name? Where do you work? How much do you make? Who do you fuck?"
"Carl Bixly, none of your business, and an ex-prom queen, thank you very much." Am I actually bragging about my harpy of a wife?
"Not bad, man. But Carl? Really? Nah, you're Bix now."
As I'm about to protest, the waitress comes back with a round of scotch for us. "Hey Tam," Jase says, "you mind opening up that back patio for us?" She grabs a rag and leads the way to a door in back of the bar. My doppelganger throws an arm around me.
"I'm gonna teach Bix here how to party."
My eyes had been given enough time to adjust to the dive's low light, and when Tam opens the door, the natural light blinds me for a split second. She throws the bar towel up above the entryway. It seems to hang mid-air, until we pass under it and can see the surveillance camera the bartender has cleverly covered.
"I have to go stock up and watch the place. Maybe we'll party when I'm off." Tam turns to walk back into the bar. "You gonna let me drive the Ferrari?"
"I'll let you drive if you let me ride." Jase pulls out a gram baggie of white powder and starts to rub the seal between his thumb and forefinger.
The waitress rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say no. As soon as she's through the door, Jase dumps half the baggie onto a table. He pulls an ebony-colored card from his wallet and presents it to me. "The Centurion. Don't cut stones without it." The fucker actually laughs at his own joke before he starts to crush the rocks and slide the powder into long lines. "So, you got a picture of your old lady?"
I dig the one photo I keep of her out of my billfold. It's about five years old, when we were thinner and less jaded. When we were still in love.
Jase nods at me. "Yeah, I'd hit it. You ever wanna do a prince and the pauper thing, let me know." He points at the skinniest line, which he has drawn to the closest edge of the table. "Ladies first."
I take the straw I hid away in my pocket, bend it at a quarter, and put a lighter to it. The flame sears away a perfect delivery system. Fuck me, I haven't done anything like this in years. With a quick sniff, the line is gone. I lick a finger and roll up the remaining dregs with it. The base of my head starts to buzz, where it meets the spine. I rub my gums with the cleaning finger and my teeth start to go numb. There's a spot around my jaw where the buzz and the numbness meet.
"So what are you doing here?" I motion to the run down patio we're standing in. "Isn't this slumming for you?"
"Did you see Tamberly's tits? I have. And I want to see them again. So yeah, I'm slumming it. And yeah, I'm probably gonna let her drive my Ferrari." He digs into his pants. "Check it," Jase says, and hands me his phone. On it is a picture of a girl I recognize.
"No way! Is that the Channel Seven weathergirl? The one with the –" I make a set of lower curves with my hands.
"Maria Kalos. Yeah."
"You're full of shit, man. That's just a picture from the internet."
He swipes through his phone and pushes a button. This one's a video. That is definitely the local weathergirl's face bobbing up and down. If I didn't know any better, I'd say what she was choking on was mine. I guess the similarities don't end at our faces. The camera video turns around and shows Jase giving a big thumbs up. I hand him back the phone.
"Pretty badass, huh?" Jase moves over to the table and scrapes a pair of thick rails closer to the edge. He holds out a hand without looking at me and snaps his fingers. "I don't carry cash."
It takes me a minute to get what he's after. When it hits, I reach back into my pocket and burn him off a section of straw. Jase takes a long, hard snort. He finishes, blinks his eyes forcefully, and wipes a clumsy hand across his nose.
"You know what's funny?" He asks. I shrug my answer. "Her ass? It ain't even real."
"What?"
"Fucking implants, man. No joke."
"I didn't even know that was a thing."
"You think that's fucked, I'm pretty sure she got the surgery done at some hack shop. Looks good in her skirts, but get this. One time, we're banging. I mean, we're goin' at it hard," He emphasizes this with a hip thrust while he forms another rail on the tabletop, "and swear to God her implants start slipping. Bad. Every time I slam her, that ass turns a different shape. It's like throwing wet clay on a pottery wheel.
"She starts crying, but we always go at it hard, so this just ends up turning me on. I can't tell if the bitch is using her safe word, because I'm hypnotized by whatever is going on with her ass. Anyway, after I bust on her, she doesn't tell me to go die or anything. We still fuck. She better still fuck if she don't want that video I showed you ending up on Pornhub."
Jase bends down and loudly snorts another fat line. "I got her in my contacts as Playdough." When he turns around, his face and neck look puffy. He rubs his palms into his eyes. "Something's wrong. If Dougie hucked wib is –" His tongue won't fit back in his mouth.
I'm suddenly and acutely aware of the light sting in my nostril that isn't just from the coke. I look at the straw. There's a slick film coating of peanut oil and salt. The buzzing in my spine turns up to eleven and I realize I'm grinding my teeth.
Jase kneels to the ground and fumbles about in his pockets. Something small and yellow drops from his hand, and he scurries to it. He doesn't quite make it, and points feebly. "Ehi hem. EHI HEM!"
Some people are born actors. Not like Hollywood, but in the sense that something happens and they react, swiftly and decisively. Instead of grabbing up the EpiPen, I rub my face and breathe deeply. I glance at the camera, which is still covered by a beer-stained rag. Nobody bursts through the door to save the day.
Jase is turning purple and splotchy. I think about the rest of the baggie of cocaine. I think about the EpiPen. I think about the onyx Centurion card. Still, no one comes through the door. I can't remember how 'The Prince and the Pauper' ends.
His eyes plead with me as I gently clasp a hand over his nose and mouth.