This week, in honor of the coming release of The Desert King, I’m presenting a story featuring Jack Trexlor. This little story, though it takes place during the time span of The Desert King, does not appear in the book. It is an exclusive here. Enjoy.
I don’t know what the cue was, but they seemed to have one. When I came back from the bathroom, they’d turned their chairs around to face the bar–to face me. A dozen or more eager pairs of eyes looked up at me expectantly. The girl on the stool on the end had been sitting there all night, though I’d been doing my best to ignore her, which wasn’t easy considering I was the bartender and she was a customer. When I stepped back behind the bar, I knew what they all wanted even before she spoke up.
“Tell us again, Jack. Tell us your story.”
I looked at Buddy Robinson. He stood at the other end of the bar by the cash register, and he was beaming as much as any of them, though he’d heard the story ten or more times already. I noticed that he’d even turned off the television. “Go ahead, Jack,” he said.
“I, uh,” I said. I tried to smile, but I could feel myself frowning. “Nobody wants to hear that story again.”
“Yes, we do!” said the girl on the end of the bar. I looked at her. Her name was Pam, and she’d been coming here ever since I got back, ever since I got famous. She was not unattractive, I suppose. She was perky and she had her brunette hair in what was probably intended to be a cute perm. She didn’t really want to hear the story, though. What she wanted was to be near me. Because I was famous.
“It’s late tonight, and I’m tired. How about tomorrow night?” I suggested.
The hope on the faces in the crowd didn’t flicker for an instant. The possibility that I might not tell the story did not begin to enter their minds.
“Jack,” Buddy said, a bit of a frown beginning to crease his own forehead. “Come on, let’s hear it. People are waiting.”
Buddy owned the bar. He’d worked twenty years as an airline mechanic, carefully saving his money so he could retire to this: his own neighborhood bar. He’d settled into the life as a bar owner, living his dream. Now, though, it seemed he wanted something more. He’d had a taste of something, and he didn’t want to give it up.
“Maybe I don’t want to tell it tonight,” I said. “Whose story is it, anyway?”
“Come on, Jack,” said Pam, smiling big as if it was a joke and turning to pump up the crowd. “You have to tell us.”
Have to? I thought. I said, “Maybe I’ll tell you a different story. Maybe I’ll tell you the story of when I was up in Kingman.”
Suddenly Buddy walked over to me. His feet made squishing noises on the rubber floor mat as he walked, and he was wearing a full frown now. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a little huddle facing away from the customers. “What are you doing, Jack?” he asked, his voice low so the customers couldn’t hear and his face so close I could smell his Brut aftershave.
“Nothing. I just don’t want to tell that story tonight.”
“Jack, everyone’s come to hear the story.”
I sighed, beginning to feel resentful. “Maybe I’ll tell them a different story.”
“No, Jack. Don’t even joke like that. You have to tell the real story. The good one.”
I could feel my jaw setting. “I don’t want to tell the story tonight. Can’t we just turn the television back on, let people talk about normal stuff?”
Buddy glanced back over his shoulder at the bar, then pulled me even tighter. “No, Jack. These people came here to see you, to hear your story.”
I looked back at the crowd myself. The sea of hopeful, happy faces looked back at me. I turned to Buddy. “I don’t think they even listen to the story anymore. I don’t think they get it.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jack. It’s what they’ve come for. You have to give it to them.”
I looked back at the crowd. Into the corner of my mind crept the idea that maybe, just maybe, I had caused this. Maybe, in telling the story as an adventure, people had missed the point. The story was a tragedy, not something to cheer about, not something to demand more of. Maybe, though, if I told them again, I could emphasize the that, and maybe they would understand.
Buddy must have seen in my face that I was giving in. “Great, Jack,” he said. He let go of me and turned back to the little crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him make a sweeping arm gesture toward me. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jack Trexlor and his amazing desert adventure!”
I felt like a circus freak.
I took a deep breath, turned around, and began the story again. This time, I emphasized the tragedy of the story, the sheer pointlessness of the violence, the absolute magnitude of the loss.
They heard an adventure.
It was all they ever let me tell.
