Mr. Sisombath and His Scarf

-- Keri Woodward

"I don't want to know exactly how far luck will carry me," she said. "I have no desire to be there when my luck puts the bus in park and says 'This is your stop, sweetie.'" She put fifteen dollars on the bar and slowly walked towards the door, tugging the hem of her skirt down with one hand and pushing the door open with the other.

Mr. Sisombath stared at the space where she had been, and put out his hand to feel its emptiness. He touched his fingertips to his tongue to see how emptiness tasted, and decided it was somewhat spicy. He picked up her scarf from the floor, where it had curled gently around the legs of the stool next to him. As he drew it slowly through his fingers, small orange fibers from the angora fluttered through the air, sticking to the front of his sweater. He lifted his drink and there were also tiny scarf-hairs floating in his whiskey. Sisombath drank it anyway, throwing back the entire glass in one gulp. Closing his eyes tight, he let the warmth course through him. Then he slid his shoes off and let them drop to the floor, stretching his toes and flexing his ankles. He slapped the palm of his hand on the bar, signaling for more whiskey.

The bartender set another glass in front of him and swiped his crumpled bills off the bar without looking up, putting them in his pocket before grabbing the girl's money. He added the bills to the others and returned to the far end of the bar, where he was watching a horror flick which had been edited for television.

Mr. Sisombath slipped off his stool and padded slowly to the bathroom in his stocking-feet, like a child going off to bed. The door was locked, but he twisted the handle a few more times just to be sure. He propped himself up against the door with one arm, eyes closed, at a forty-five degree angle. Lungs expand, lungs contract. He felt the need to concentrate on his breathing. Once it had begun to regulate itself he opened his eyes, and for the first time noticed the sign on the door. A triangle with a circle on top. Mr. Sisombath cocked his head, and the motion threw him off balance. He stumbled, and caught himself in a crouching position with one hand on the floor. Turning on his heel, he opened the opposite door a crack. It smelled like a men's room, so he stood up slowly and went in.

The bartender picked up the orange scarf from where Mr. Sisombath had neatly folded it on the bar. He held it by one end and shook it, watching lint fibers circle through the air. Mr. Sisombath grabbed the scarf as it cycled towards him. "Mine," he gurgled.

"I don't think so, buddy." The bartender pulled the scarf out of his grasp and coiled it around his neck. "The girl left it here, in my bar, therefore it's mine."

Mr. Sisombath slumped on his stool. "Mine," he mumbled into his drink.

"OK, if it'll make you feel any better I'll put it right here in the lost and found." The bartender unwound the scarf from his neck and lowered it into a cardboard box on the floor behind the bar. "And if it isn't claimed in two weeks, it becomes property of the bar."

"It's mine. I'm claiming it."

"Rules of the lost and found -- item must be claimed by the person who lost it."

"I lost it." Mr. Sisombath sipped his whiskey. "And how's that supposed to make me feel better anyway?"

The bartender poured himself a beer and scratched his chin. "Well, if the girl really meant for you to have it, she can come in, claim it, and give it to you." He sipped his beer and gave Mr. Sisombath a smug grin.

Mr. Sisombath grunted, resigning himself to the fact that he was not getting the scarf back, and pointed to the whiskey bottle. The bartender moved to fill his glass.

"Want the whole bottle."

The bartender held the bottle up to the dim light. It was only about one third full. "Sure, buddy. If you can pay for it."

Mr. Sisombath dug in his trouser-pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill, which the bartender took before setting the bottle down on the bar. He pushed up his sleeves and began absent-mindedly wiping the bar with a sodden rag. There was a tattoo on his forearm, a bleeding heart with words printed underneath. Mr. Sisombath leaned a little closer to read the words, moving his lips silently as he read. -My Son Was Murdered 10/29/89-

He wanted to ask about it, to know the story behind it. He was in the mood for heartbreaking details, the whiskey always brought that on, but he felt that having such a tattoo was blatantly begging to be asked about it, and he refused to be bullied. He only wanted to talk about it if the bartender did not, to drag every minute, grisly bit of information out of him. But any time someone advertised a request ("Ask me about my ______!"), Mr. Sisombath immediately knew it was something he didn't want to hear. It took the pleasure right out. He drank his whiskey in silence, straight out of the bottle, glancing up at the television every once in a while to make sure nothing interesting was on.

"So, what do you do?" Mr. Sisombath raised his head from the bottle and looked around to see who the bartender was addressing. They were the only ones in the bar. He arched one eyebrow, and the bartender repeated his question.

"I drink."

"OK, but what do you do for a living?"

"I drink."

"But how do you earn the money to spend on drink?"

Mr. Sisombath coughed, and wiped droplets of whiskey from his chin. "Don't need to earn it. It's just there."

"But how do you get it if you don't earn it?"

He finished off the contents of the bottle in one long swig, and tried to set it on the bar. It wobbled for one expansive moment, and then fell over and rolled onto the floor, where it broke into three neat pieces. "I don't fucking know, all right? I've just got it. Look." He began piling crumpled bills on the bar. Tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds. He kept piling until both trouser pockets were empty, and then he moved on to emptying his coat pockets. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at the bartender, who was looking at the money.

"I'll give you this," he said quietly. The bartender began smoothing the bills and arranging them into neat stacks based on denomination. "But there's something I want in return." Mr. Sisombath watched him think about it for a minute or two, just long enough for the barkeep to imagine a few of the more distasteful possibilities.

"The scarf." Mr. Sisombath pointed towards the cardboard box.

"What?" The bartender scratched his chin with one finger. "Why?" He resumed sorting the bills. "There's got to be more than four thousand dollars here. Why do you want the scarf?"

"Are you suggesting," Mr. Sisombath paused and wiped his face with one hand, "that you'd rather do something else, something that might be worth more to me? Are you saying you'd rather work for your money?" He gave the bartender a smugly drunken grin. "How positively unamerican," he said as he leaned down to put his shoes back on.

Without a word the bartender pulled the long orange scarf out of the box on the floor, rolled it up, and set it on the bar. He then began collecting the stacks of wrinkled bills. Mr. Sisombath took the scarf, got up, and walked slowly to the door. He hung the scarf around his neck and stepped outside.

There was a light snow falling, and the air smelled like old Chinese food. The street was empty, no cabs in sight -- only the hazy ring of illumination from the traffic light at the end of the block. He considered for a moment whether he should wait for the 53 bus, but then decided against it. Mr. Sisombath wrapped the scarf snugly around his neck and began to walk in the other direction. He'd given all his money to the bartender anyway.

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