On a Friday night, Sammy’s is always dimly lit and overcrowded. Two good ol’ boys with guitars sit up front, taking requests from the scantily clad college groupies who know all the lyrics to go along with every twangy chord. Endless pitchers of frosty, watered-down beer are served, and greasy cheese fries are the most popular menu choice. Sammy’s is downright trashy, but I have to come so I can watch Leila.
Leila is as much a staple here as the creepy forty year olds who hang back and wait until the young girls are drunk enough to hit on. She is beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Her features are a little too sharp, and her hair is wild and red. She sits in the zebra patterned booth closest to the musicians, always with a different guy, chain smoking cigarettes and closing her eyes when the singers happen to play a song she finds deep. After a few drinks, Leila grows brazen and yells out requests. She makes her rounds through the bar barefoot, hugging all the regulars, even the slightly scary ones who don’t remember her name. She forgets that she is not conventionally pretty and dances with wild abandon. Her spirit seems to be freed when she is drunk, but these glazed-over moments aren’t the ones I’m hooked on.
I like to watch Leila when she first arrives—the way her eyes glance around nervously in fear that someone might have taken her spot, the way she self-consciously sidles into her signature booth. I watch her work her magic on her man of the night. She pretends to be totally interested in whatever idiotic thing he must be talking about, blinking those sweet green eyes and nodding. When it’s her turn to talk, she quotes Kerouac and makes up lies about her past, drawing her victim into her carefully constructed web. I bought her story the first time I heard it, but my eavesdropping habit has taught me to sift through the kinks and inconsistencies. I know Leila isn’t really as tough as she seems. There are sad little lines around her mouth and underneath her eyes that she tries to hide with concealer. I see them. I see every part of her.
Now, before you start thinking that I’m in love with her, or that I’m some stalker, I should tell you how this whole crazy thing began. I was dragged here for the first time almost six months ago, on a blind date with a friend of a friend of mine named Cal. I should have known better from the moment Linda told me his name was Cal. No self-respecting or decent man would allow himself to be called Cal. Even thinking those three letters, that one sickly syllable, puts a sour taste in my mouth.
He was one of those awful, conceited types. He talked about himself endlessly, and the fact that the vanity plate on his car said THECAL did not escape me. He got drunk quickly, and the conversation became even more unbearable. I was listening to him talk about what a great catch he was when she walked in. My Leila. I’m not even sure what drew me to her.
It might have been the bright green dress she was wearing. She looked so out of place in that long, flowy hippie garb yet seemed right at home. She walked ahead of her date, knowing exactly where she was headed. Her date, somehow, was worse than mine. He was gangly and hunched over when he walked, and he had mean eyes. He seemed pretty unaware of his ugliness, because he flirted with and blatantly stared at the chests of every waitress who walked by.
“You got a lesbian crush or something?” Cal had asked, following my gaze.
“No. She’s just…there’s something striking about that girl.”
“She looks like a freak. Nothing like you, Amy. She ain’t got nothing on you.” Cal leaned across the booth, making a watery attempt at gazing into my eyes.
“Abby,” I said.
“Who?"
“Abby. My name is Abby.” I tried not to let the annoyance show on my face.
“That’s what I meant. I gotta take a piss. Excuse me, please,” he said, making a feeble stab at politeness.
Once he was gone, I eagerly awaited a lull in the music so I could hear the girl’s conversation. The song, something about Christmastime in a hick family, was on its last few drawled out lyrics.
“So I got out of there, and now here I am. I don’t know for how long. I don’t like to stick around anywhere for too long,” she was saying.
“Well my couch is yours for as long as you need,” her date, whom I’d mentally dubbed Skinny Redneck, replied.
“You’re a doll.” She kissed his oily looking cheek, and he beamed goofily, revealing a browned left front tooth.
The music started up again. Recognition flashed on the girl’s face, and all at once she seemed to somehow disappear from the bar. She was still sitting in her seat, of course, but the look that came over her said she had been full of rapture. I wish I could do it justice. Her eyes closed, her hands occasionally went up in the air in that way that Christians are so fond of doing during praise and worship sessions at churches. Her lips mouthed every lyric, her body relaxed, and she seemed to fall into and become part of the music. She was so obviously free from the prison of life. Somehow, this girl had found the escape hatch, and I had to know how.
Tonight when she comes in, for the first time ever, she is alone. Leila is cloaked in more of that quiet sadness than she usually is. She makes her way to the same seat, but she does so in a way that seems desperate instead of excited. Her first drink is a small shot of poisonous looking liquor instead of her usual beer. Somehow, I know that tonight is my only chance.
I order what I think is the same drink as hers after asking a few questions of my gaudy waitress. Then I go over the scenarios stored in my mind of how to go about approaching her. By the time the waitress comes back a second time, Leila’s glass is empty, and I’ve made up my mind.
“I’ll have another one, and do you think you could send one of these over to her?” I ask, directing my gaze.
“To Leila? Sure. She’d appreciate it, I think. Should I tell her who it’s from?”
“Yes, tell her. I’m an old friend.”
The waitress nods and sashays away with my empty glass. My palms begin to sweat, and I feel like a bad child awaiting her sentence in the principal’s office.
The waitress serves Leila the drink, and I see her smile and glance around the bar with hopeful eyes. My heart pounds, and I pretend to look through my purse as the waitress points at me. Come on, Leila, don’t disappoint me.
In just a few moments, she is walking over to my table.
“Hi,” she says, sitting down without being asked.
“Hi."
“Thank you for the drink. I needed it tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I’ve seen you in here before, and I’m sure you’ve seen me. Is this your way of finally saying hi?”
“Sort of. I’ve always…I’ve always wanted to talk to you, and I’m not sure why.”
She doesn’t look taken aback as I imagine most people would. Leila understands.
“Well, maybe we’re kindred spirits…although, we certainly don’t look like we have anything in common.
She is right. I’m wearing the name brand clothing I bought with my father’s credit card. I never liked these clothes, and in this moment, I hate them even more. They’ve been my safety net, loudly proclaiming that “I, Abby Monroe, fit in.” These clothes are a lie, because I’ve always felt empty and completely alone. I want to tell Leila, but my mind stumbles over the words.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I say instead. The old cliché seems appropriate, but I worry that it comes off as cheesy.
“That is completely true. What do I look like?” she asks, taking my untouched second drink and throwing it back.
“You look a little bit lost, except when the music plays.”
“Well then, I guess looks aren’t always deceiving. I’m good at pretending, you know.”
“I know. I’ve seen you. I’m good too.”
I love that nothing I say seems to shock her, and I feel like I’ve finally met someone who understands. So far, she is everything I’ve thought she was.
The waitress comes back, and Leila orders two more strong drinks.
“Whose tab?” the waitress asks.
“Hers,” Leila answers, without looking at me.
As the waitress walks away, Leila doesn’t meet my eyes. When she does, a stream of talking starts to pour out, and her pull is so strong that I forget about my growing bar tab.
“I can tell you’re a lot like me. You’ll get through all the bullshit, sweetie. I’ve got this little hidden hope that everything will work out in the end. When I’m really sad, I dream about going home. It’s a home I’ve never been to, but I know it exists. It’s somewhere out in the world, just waiting for me.”
I am enthralled.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Abby.”
“Well, Abby. Will you believe me when I tell you it’s all going to be okay? It’s always okay…somehow.”
I nod.
“Good girl. You know, you’re lucky we talked tonight. It’s my farewell to Sammy’s. Time for me to be moving on, getting closer to that home I’ve gotta find.”
“You always say that,” I say. Immediately, I blush; I’ve revealed too much.
Leila laughs and runs a hand through her hair.
“This time, I mean it. Guys are running low, and I’ve got just enough to go to a different place and see what I find. Don’t let life get stale on you, Abby. When the pain finds you, just keep on moving. That’s the best advice I can give.”
She is brilliant. I feel compelled to write down her advice, even though I know I’ll never be brave enough to take it.
The good ol’ boys sit down on their stools up front and begin tuning their guitars.
Well, doll. I need to make the rounds and feel my good-byes for this place,” Leila says.
“Feel your good-byes?”
“Yeah, I never say them. That makes it seem too real. I just like to look at the people hard and remind myself it’s the last time I’ll see them.” She downs the second drink.
I stare at her, feeling my own good-bye.
“Thank you, Leila."
“For what?”
“For talking to me tonight.”
She reaches across the table and hugs my neck, something I’ve seen her do to countless others, but this time it’s different. It’s me.
Just like that, she is gone, flitting away from the table, not looking behind her as she wiggles her fingers at me. I wonder if she really won’t come back here, and I am filled with sadness either way. The moment has passed. There were a million more questions I wanted to ask: Who are you really? How do you get by? Where are your parents? I’d been too afraid of hearing the same recycled lines.
I watch her casually for another hour or so. She talks to her favorite drunks, sways to the music, and occasionally orders drinks at the bar. Several times, she flits her thumb in my direction, but I don’t put the pieces together until she is gone. When I go to pay my tab, it is over a hundred dollars.
“Your friend said they were on you tonight. They’re always on who she’s with,” the bartender explains.
“It’s fine,” I say, signing the bill. I make my way to my car, feeling more alone than ever. I would’ve bought her drinks all night if she’d asked, but I still feel swindled. The delicious words she’d said just a couple of hours before sour in my brain. As I sit in my car, I begin to cry, little sobs at first, but soon I am crying in the same way Leila dances: with wild abandon. Home, I think, I just want to go home.