North Star
Gabe was late for a registration renewal appointment at the DMV, so he was overjoyed to see a tight but available parallel parking spot at the curb across from the building’s entrance. He backed carefully into it at an angle, cranked his steering wheel to straighten out, and before he heard it, felt his rear fender meet metal.
“Shit,” Gabe muttered and inched forward.
He left his car idling, scrambled out, and inspected the results. There was a small indentation in the front bumper of the late model pick-up he’d struck, as well as a scratch that had transferred its white color to his fender. He wasn’t sure, but thought it might be possible for the dent to be tapped roughly into place and the scratch to be rubbed out somewhat. But that wasn’t what the sinking feeling in his gut told him. Gabe glanced around him where he saw no other vehicles or pedestrians present, then blew out a breath, got back in his car, and hurried up the street where he found parking in a paid lot.
He jogged back to the DMV but was told by a clerk that too much time had lapsed to keep his appointment, so had to sit with all the other walk-ins waiting for the number he’d been issued to be called. Forty-five minutes later, he finally completed his transaction, and pushed outside with his temporary new registration. His eyes traveled immediately across the street where he found the pick-up truck gone and a red sedan occupying its previous space. Like a passing cloud, relief combined with regret enveloped him.
“It wouldn’t have taken more than a minute for me to scribble a note along with my phone number,” he thought. “And I missed my damn appointment anyway.”
The gray afternoon had already begun its descent towards gloaming, further diminishing his spirits as he started walking back towards the parking lot. Along the way, he stopped abruptly when he saw a narrow, low-lit tavern called “North Star” at the next intersection. Its name and assortment of bright neon window signs greeted him like an unexpected beacon.
~
A heavy-set man named Warren dressed in enlisted Navy camos sat inside at the bar nursing his second draft beer. The bartender was slightly older, fortyish, and stood working at the prep sink listening to Warren explain how he came in to celebrate recent robbery charges he’d faced just being dropped.
The tavern’s name was a nod to its proximity to the naval base and was a popular watering hole for sailors. The bartender was used to hearing their varied stories, so just responded with a short nod and asked, “What were you charged with stealing?”
“Bunch of nothing, really.” Warren pursed his lips. “I live on the first floor of unaccompanied housing. Guy next door is an Indian, Native-American, whatever. He discovered some things missing from his place one night after he stood graveyard duty…a little cash, an old laptop, bunch of Indian artifact crap. MPs got called. They investigated, found his window pried open, and uncovered grainy time-stamped security camera footage showing the back of a big guy like me in camos climbing inside. It had been raining, and they also found mud on my boots consistent with prints they found outside that sailor’s window.”
“No kidding.” The bartender’s voice had taken on a hint of apprehension.
“Nope.” Warren took a swallow of beer. “Had to appear before ‘Captain’s Mast’.” He watched the bartender frown and clarified, “NJP, Non-Judicial Punishment hearing…where they decide guilt, punishment, or if it’s bad enough to elevate things to court martial proceedings.”
“Okay.” The bartender dried the shot glass Warren had used to knock back before his last beer. “So how’d you get off?”
Warren took another swallow and huffed a chortle. “Guy down the hall showed up at my hearing completely unannounced and told the CO I’d been in here drinking with him all that night, we’d got too soused to make it back to the base, so we stayed over together at the hotel around the corner until the next morning. Said he paid and even had a credit card receipt which he held up to prove it.”
“That really happen?”
“Nah.” Warren finished off his beer, wiped his lips, and pushed his mug forward for a refill. “We were both in here drinking that night, that much was accurate. I was with some other squids, but he was by himself. We nodded to each other from across the bar. I did get pretty loaded, but went back to the base with my buddies before midnight while he was still here.”
“What the hell…”
“Right? What I thought exactly when he showed up with that story at the hearing.”
The bartender tipped the mug at the tap until a film of foam nudged its lip and set it back down in front of Warren. He shook his head and mumbled, “Why would he do that?”
The gaze Warren returned was glassy-eyed and uneasy. His mouth closed into a tight line before he said, “Want the real truth?”
“Sure.”
Warren used his chin to indicate the whiskey bottle between them and tapped the bar with his fingertip. The bartender poured a shot, watched the big man toss it off with a grimace, then return the same gaze his way.
The bartender waited a beat, then said, “Well?”
“The truth is…” Warren paused, shrugged. “Truth is, I think he was sweet on me. The way I’d find him looking at me all the time…staring, you know. We never spoke, but just a pretty strong feeling I got. In fact, happened that night in here. Sort of freaked me out, to be honest.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, will never know because he shipped out the next day.”
There were only a dozen or so other people in the tavern. No music or television played, so the collective voices were just a muffled din, and the air was close enough to create a condensation ring around the window’s edge. Another moment passed before the bartender shook his head again and muttered, “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Warren replied. “Go figure.”
Gabe entered then, squinting to adjust to the dim light. He took a stool one removed from Warren. When the bartender came over, he ordered a draft beer, too, then took off his jacket and folded it across his lap. Warren had turned to regard him, expelled an affable grunt when Gabe mirrored his glance, and pointed.
“The Nautical Star,” Warren said. “Nice.”
Gabe looked at the tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, then watched Warren raise his right forearm revealing a larger version that was almost identical. After they’d exchanged small smiles, Warren asked, “When’d you serve?”
“Went in right after high school and did my four years. Got out in January.”
“Deploy?”
“Twice. First time just cruised the Western Pacific. Second was part of an operation giving humanitarian assistance in Afghanistan.”
“That must have been interesting.”
Gabe cocked his head and said, “Sort of.” His shoulders fell a bit at the memory in contrast to the parking incident he’d just initiated.
The bartender set down his beer and sauntered off to the far end to serve other customers. When Warren extended his mug, Gabe tapped it with his own. They each took healthy sips, then the older man said, “Name’s Warren.”
“Gabe.”
They reached out and clasped hands. Warren nodded several times, studying Gabe’s troubled eyes, before asking, “So, brother, what brings you in here this fine afternoon?”
“Oh, you know.” Gabe paused. “Suppose the same sort of reasons most people come into a bar alone and order a drink. You?”
“Celebrating.” Warren watched Gabe give a grim nod of his own, then asked, “How about yourself?”
Gabe cocked his head again, lowered his eyes, took a long swallow, then looked back to Warren. “Opposite for me, actually” he said. “Guilt.”
“That so?”
Uninvited, the image invaded Gabe’s mind of his father’s firm, steady hand on his shoulder before getting on the boot camp bus. A kind of flush spread over him before he said, “Yeah, just passed up a chance to do the right thing.”
Warren felt himself blinking, then said quietly, “We’ve all done that.”
“Just the same.”
Warren watched the young man finish off all but the dregs of his beer and take a money clip out of his pants pocket. “Hey,” he said, a different sort of flush creeping up his back as he reached over and put his hand over Gabe’s. “No worries, soldier. That one’s on me.”
Their eyes met and held until Gabe said, “Appreciate it.”
Warren hesitated until he saw the bartender move off to clear a table before reaching into his own camo pants pocket and removing a wallet-like catch. Its top was covered with colorful, intricate beadwork. He kept the catch below the level of the bar, slipped a credit card out of it, and set it on top.
“That’s beautiful,” Gabe told him, pointing. “I grew up on a farm near the Lakota reservation. Reminds me of their handiwork.”
Warren gave a tepid shrug and quickly replaced the catch. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “Some sort of Plains Indians, I guess.”
Laughter arose from one of the tables, followed by a clink of glasses. Gabe climbed off his stool and shrugged into his jacket.
“Thanks again.” He extended a fist that Warren bumped. Gabe gestured with his chin towards the big man’s tattoo, fashioned a little salute, and said, “Stay the course.”
Warren offered a reluctant nod in return. He adjusted his girth and rolled his shoulders as if they hurt. Turning forward again, he didn’t watch Gabe leave the bar.
Outside the North Star, it had grown colder, but the clouds had broken and the blue hour’s visages had begun. Gabe rubbed over his shirt pocket and felt the pen he always kept clipped there, then started retracing his steps back toward the DMV.
He said to himself, “I’ll just take a quick look through the neighborhood and see if that pick-up truck is around. It might have returned by now. If so, I can leave a note on my registration envelope.” He turned his jacket collar up against the chill and gazed off towards the western horizon’s streaked, vermillion tint. “You never know,” he whispered. “It might not be too late.”
William Cass has had over 380 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, he’s also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections were all published by Wising Up Press. He lives in San Diego, California.
This story originally appeared in American Writers Review.