Tiny Guillotines
    Jason DeBoer
Eleven o’clock meant free drinks and Jack entered the bar seriously, as if on important business. Lou, a grizzled, aproned mess, washed glasses while he talked at the few faces there. “Breakfast, Jack?” He was the generous sort before noon. The room foundered, already grayed with smoke. The Old Man was in place, gnarled at his stool, cigarette like a sixth finger aimed accusingly at the wall of bottles. He stirred his drink mechanically with a gnawed straw, mumbling to himself. The neon was in spasms on the wall and Sinatra staggered out of the jukebox as Jack unloaded his armful of newspapers on the bar with two nods.

“Lou...Old Man.”

But the latter never acknowledged anything. A tumbler appeared. Gin slogged out the bottle and ice struggled dumbly for a time before it disappeared.

Jack set his scissors down next to his glass. He picked at the calluses on the sides of his thumb and forefinger as the drinks burrowed into him one after another. The rail gin tasted like pine cleaner since Lou always bought the cheapest shit possible, so Jack reached for the lime slices, mummified and speckled with flies in their plastic dish. Watching Lou serve a couple of guys in a booth, he noted to himself, “Plaid today.” He knew every crease in Lou’s three shirts. He was a pretty good guy, Lou. Grouchy but endearing. There was an anger in him that bubbled out like sweat. Lou swore at the patrons. He swore at deliverymen. If no one else was around he swore at the television. His snarl needed a Michelangelo, a great block of stone, to save it for the ages.

Feeling a bit antsy, Jack fondled his scissors, but it wasn’t time to work yet. Across the bar, the Old Man hunched over and spat plentifully into his hand. He stared at it for a minute with a kind of sorrowful wonder, as if cradling some tiny songbird in his palm, then slowly churned the saliva with another finger. Jack looked away, but his next drink tasted foul and somber. Nausea crawled in him like some rancid creature trying to get out. He ran into the bathroom and leaned panting against the wall. Embraced by stench, a waft of madness, Jack realized that someone had beaten him to it. Jack fled to the ladies’ room instead. He splashed his face with water and his guts somehow settled without coming up. Raw eyes pinked from the mirror. It was clear to him that he was in collapse and that liquor only lubricated the decline, easing him into some terrible place.

Jack composed himself and went back to the vinyl stool.

“Hey, Lou, somebody threw up in the men’s room.”

“I know; it’s from last night. That cocksucking lazy fuck Johnny should’ve cleaned it up after his shift... Thinks I’m gonna do it, but I’m saving it for him this time...”

He smacked his fist on the bar and ashes scurried away like frightened ants.

“Some goddamn college kid prob’ly. Little bastards. You don’t see it at night here, Jack. Nothing but snotty kids...Totally different place. Fuck and fight, that’s all they want. Puking. Breaking darts. All the broken glass...Place’s a fucking mess. And Johnny’s too busy getting drunk with ‘em to clean up after… trying to get laid.” His face imploded into scowl. “Prob’ly with some little bitch right now...” Lou looked at the phone as if he were going to call Johnny just to wake him up. Sputtering, he threw his rag and walked away.

The Old Man suddenly pushed himself back from the bar and, with a terrified contortion of his face, stumbled out gasping, “The beer is drinking us! The beer is drinking us!” It was silent except for Sinatra as the door hushed close.

Lou barely blinked. “I don’t know what his problem is. He drinks bourbon anyway.... Batshit insane, that guy.”

“So why serve him at all? Why take his money?”

Lou shrugged through his plaid. “Why not? Jesus, Jack, what does money care about men? It don’t give a fuck who gives or takes it. Why should I?” He walked away as if Jack were too stupid to bother with.

#
Jack migrated to the corner booth with his pile of newspapers. The scissor blades chirped methodically for a few hours. He worked hard, trying desperately to decapitate the world, so engrossed in his task that he only refilled his glass twice.

About three o’clock a woman with ratty, jaundiced hair came in and sat at the bar near his booth. Jack eyed the parabola of her chin, gauged the depth and tenderness of her throat. He had seen her somewhere before. Her name was Anne or Belinda or something like that. She noticed Jack as she waited for Lou to grumble forth a drink.

“What’s with all the newspapers?” They were strewn over the table, torn and shredded, like a battlefield of paper dolls. A mute carnage of black and white.

“My work.”

“What do you do... line birdcages?” She insulted him, but was smiling all the while. Playfully evil.

“What do you care?” He turned away and swigged his drink for dramatic effect. They were two face cards in a game now, playing at mock seriousness, trying to bluff their own loneliness. Within an hour, she was in his lap.

“You like gin?” Even though he’d just watched her down two scotches.

“It’s okay. Why?”

“I got a bottle at home.”

“Oooh. Is that an offer?” She was snooping through his bag. Jack snatched it away.

“I’ll show you that later. Come on.”

Lou cursed softly as they were leaving, but at the same moment Johnny came in. Lou forgot all about them as Lou hit Johnny with a broom.

#
For a drunk, Jack’s apartment was neat. The ashtrays were empty, and the fishbowl held only a frail castle in its sickly bulb of water. He put his things away while she slumped cross-legged and woozy on the couch. She was more thirsty than horny now.

“How ‘bout that gin?”

“Huh? Oh, I was lying.” Jack was in the kitchen out of sight.

He surprised her with a cheap Polaroid camera, “Say orgasm!” The flash made her angry because it caught her unawares. In natural pose. The picture farted out with a wheezy grind.

“Bastard. You don’t have anything to drink?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He chuckled and got two dented cans of beer.

She felt more at ease and circled the room with the arrogance that new lovers often feel. Her inspection found the walls lifeless and undecorated. The desk was conspicuously bare.

“Weren’t you going to show me something?”

Jack’s eyes lit up and he set down his beer. He came back from the bedroom with a monstrous garbage bag stuffed with rustles. She glimpsed a small label on it that read ‘HUMANITARIANS.’ Cupping his hands, Jack brought up a heap of paper bits and spread them over her dress. She stared and a thousand severed heads stared back. Tiny gray eyes, unblinking. Jack had cut each neatly below the chin with the careful elegance of a carnifex. There were all sorts and sizes. She recognized some: Gandhi, Madame Curie, a few bloodless nuns. Jack emptied the bag onto the floor. He spoke with a childlike excitement.

“I started doing this in college. There was this book with a scene from the Revolution––you know, the French––and I saw it and just thought ‘wow.’ I wanted to be on that scaffold, to release that lovely blade, to swing that axe just once.” He gazed gently at a head between his fingers. “Such beauty in beheading.”

He jumped up and gestured toward the bedroom. “Just name somebody! I bet I’ve got them.... You’d be amazed....”

She peeked into the room. In the corner, bag after bag was stacked to the ceiling. Jack was stammering, “Presidents, celebrities, popes—I got a shitload of popes. Three bags at least. I keep them all separated now, but someday... someday I’d like to fill a swimming pool... to the brim, you know?” He made a diving gesture. “It’s my dream. A sea of heads!”

For an instant, in her mind, paper turned to flesh. She thought of all those headless beings floating out there somewhere, abandoned, and suddenly felt very uncomfortable. She stepped backward onto a crowd of flimsy disembodied faces. Fear notched her throat. Jack was quiet now, watching her, holding a sack labeled ‘POETS.’

She left without bothering to close the door. A cigarette burned faceless in the ashtray. Scratching his head, Jack found the Polaroid of her, went to the drawer and took out the scissors.




 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 

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