3

The Guest House

The guesthouse always looked alive, or maybe it was me as I approached it. I read the name as always, over the doorway, the heart of the inn: ‘The Lions Den,’ den—I liked the tone to that, I liked that word, back home in Minnesota ‘den’ —den, would be for some rich folks with an entrance in a house, up on Summit Avenue—the rich district in St. Paul, so it had a rich tone to it, echo to it; such rich and famous live the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald used to live there, back in the l920s and the tycoon John J. Hill. My uncle used to own an apartment complex not far from there on Dayton Street.

Anyhow, the “Lions Den” was two stories high, with a slanted roof, laced curtains and old German beer mugs on the window sills. The was wood on the lower part of the sills, varnished, which had a glow to them, fresh manure: I should have been an artist or photographer, for I liked taking pictures with my eyes, but never could afford a camera: but I’ll never forget them, they were shinny as a bald head freshly polished. Now that I’m on the subject: I loved great art, and the structures of buildings and bridges—the texture, and the colors of bricks, their tones, and mortar.

“Hello,” I said as I sat at a table near the window inside the inn, waiting for Ski, my friend, or perhaps Sergeant Mac, that’s what we called him—a sergeant from Vietnam, buck sergeant, he was part of the security platoon I belonged to; younger than I by a year or two, and being a machine-gunner on a helicopter I think got the best of him, but he only had ten months to go and he’d be home.

I was often mistaken for an office rather than a private, not sure why maybe it’s my smugness with these surrounding walls, it makes me put an air of insignificance sailing throughout the place with no lion.

You could see a portion of the building structures huge chimney across by the bar area: --it towered past the next level [second floor] and through the ceiling to the outside sky. I loved the iron stairs that linked the back of the bar to the upper floor. As you looked up, you felt you were in a courtyard of sorts, and as you walked about the upper level, it was like walking around a gallery.

I turned to my side, then half turning again, looked toward the door, it opened to the March air,--I then looked back at the bar and its twisting iron stairway again, there was a new waitress walking down the steps, laughing: ‘…she’s new, haven’t seen her before,’ I mumbled. But I’ve not been here for two months either, I told myself, could she have been coming here for possibly that long—I bit; she walks like she knows the place well (I always talk to myself).

Tonight maybe I’ll be dancing, if the bar fills up. Disco music is filling the air I don’t really like it, but I like dancing to it. I feel as if my guardian angel has something in store for me tonight, I shouldn’t say that, I’m not much with the God thing, but I do respect the angels, they got to be someplace, why not here, I’m still alive, and with all this drinking I do, only an angel could be responsible for my still kicking. Maybe Mac will come, he likes to drink, Ski, I like him but he doesn’t drink much.

I seem to get a silent sense of humor and a smug look to my continuance: damn, every time I drink I get into this mode. The Waitress is giving me a joyful smile, I like that: funny, every man things a smile from a pretty waitress is an invitation to the bedroom: I wonder way [?]

“Hi,” I said with a grunt, and then looked on.

Ski, came in, I see him standing by the side of the door, actually concealing the doorway of the guesthouse somewhat, it looks like he spotted me, not sure if he wanted to…. Especially after seeing the new waitress, he looked at me again. She had caught his eyes just like mine, a beauty, and she knows it. Funny thing, pretty girls are always so sure of themselves: I suppose they feel if you do not smile the other guy will: and if they want to give you more with the smile they will, and if they want to toy with you, with the smile they will; I think they got, and like power with them smiles. I think they test out how powerful their smile can be. She had walked to a table to put linen-sheets on it, as the disco-music started to liven up the joint a little more. It was getting louder: the club, guesthouse, bar, it all was getting louder.

Three or four minutes he stood by the door not quite taking off his hat checking out the scene, then caught my eyes again. She caught Ski’s eye again also I see, and was a little embarrassed it seemed, sometimes Ski can be like a bull-dog, and out stare anyone. I wonder if Mac is going to stop on by [?]

All kinds of people must have seen her walking down those stairs, they were all watching those shapely legs, and her wiggled that ass, and those fine looking hips,-- her silky white German skin. She brought the drinks for the four GI’s in the center of the guesthouse. They looked like they were still chilled from the frosted air outside, as they were rubbing their hands together. She had told one of the four gentleman in advance to be patient: —as he asked for two drinks and she only brought him one, matter-of-fact, she only brought each person, each one drink, one at a time; it is her first night I over heard her say to the group. That was bullshit, it was their first night, not hers, and she just wants a bigger time I bet:

”Just hurry up with the drinks bab…!” one of the GI’s replied as she walked away to get their second order in advance, as they turned their heads to watch her walk away, checking out her ass more, making cat-calls. She paid no attention, and just went about her business.

I noticed Ski now, he noticed me noticing him also, and Ski noticed the man that was a bit demanding, if not rude, to the waitress. Even at his best, Ski has a triggered temper that is almost uncontrollable. Life had treated him harshly I felt, especially in terms of respect. And god-forbid who would got on his bad side, although we were about the same height, both built solid and fighters, he avoided getting me mad, or mad at me, I suppose he needed a friend, and was never sure of me.

Ski, seemed to me as he was at one time involved in some kind of unthinkable institution, his guard was always up. He had explained to me a few times: friends were far and in-between for him. But for some reason, he tried hard to keep me from running away from him, or better put, turning on him; I being his only real friend I suppose. That’s how I felt at any rate. I liked Ski, but I wasn’t about to be controlled.

It was out of respect Ski went straight from the door to my table without stopping at the rude soldiers table and letting them know how he felt: which would had been normal for him. But he had it on his mind none-the-less, I’m sure; when he sat down with me, putting a dollar on the table for a beer, it took a little doing for him to put a smile back on his face, twisting a ting to see the rude table of soldiers.

“You find something funny?” Ski asked me.

“Mr. Ski, who are you going to hit tonight, cool down, the night hasn’t even started yet.” Ski smiled, kind of laughed: I read his mind and he knew it.

“I’m ready ☻,” he explained.

Ski was pleasant enough, even had some wit to him, and at times that is: he even could be charming, and in another way, happy to catch a new lady’s eye. But if I prayed, I’d pray for that table to be gone when Ski got weighed down with alcohol; but, but then he usually didn’t get as drunk as I.

I continued to drink and look about, I was one who didn’t quite know when to stop drinking I expect, that…that was fun for me, and yes I like to drink, drink and drink; like Mac, he liked to drink, drink and drink until he could forget those machine-guns in Vietnam, and the helicopter that fell, I mean crashed. He had some of the Post Traumatic Stress stuff; he was seeing a doctor at the clinic, and sometimes went to Frankfurt to see a doctor there. He told me once they had to take him out of Vietnam before he went local, crazy, and fanatical as a bat.

Ski on the other hand drank slowly, was cool and calm, a thief in disguise, not many people liked him, but I did, and that allowed him to join with the others I suppose; and if, and I say if, because I’ve seldom seem him drunk, but if he got drunk, usually I couldn’t tell, perhaps I was already drunk, but like I said, he was more into other things: stilling cloths at the PX, finding girls wherever he could, fighting whenever he could, but he could be fun. But Mac was wild fun, not dangerous fun like Ski.

Ski said, surprisingly, “That gal over there keeps looking at you, she even took her finger and waved: signed you over to her.”

“Ski, I think you are checking her out for yourself, she is waving at you,” I replied.

Having said that, I did a double take on the young lady over in the corner, she was with a few girlfriends, her presence did seem to stand out: somewhat animated. A sudden anxiety came over me —she did take her finger and wave it at me, I’ll be, she really did.

“See….Ski….see, your right!” I said, hastily.

“Should I expect her to come to me, or I to her?” I asked Ski’s advice, adding, “I was just thinking out loud?”

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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