Saving Daisy

By Rob Barbee

In this collection of stories, Rob Barbee has created a coterie of memorable characters: good people, whose ill-timed choices lead to volatile situations. In the title story, a young woman is jilted by her fiancé in desolate, dusty West Texas, left two thousand miles from home with nothing but her purse. Daisy’s unlikely savior is a man who has plenty of his own problems, and little patience for her brassy attitude. When she finally accepts his help, the comic banter they share on the road can’t possibly prepare them for the dire decisions that lie ahead.
In”Bacon Hawk,” a grill chef is enlisted as a reluctant Good Samaritan. He reaps a stunning reward for his kindness, but before he has a chance to revel in it, he suffers an unexpected disappointment at the hand of his rewarded.
“The Sacrificial Husband” features a wife who drives her forbearing husband beyond the limits of his tolerance, resulting in dire consequences for both.
These stories and the rest of the collection will keep you reading, racing ahead, wondering what will happen next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Barbee
• Release date: Feb 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463412343

Rob Barbee

Rob Barbee has traveled throughout the world, to more than seventy-five countries and all seven continents. In 1967, he flew fifty-one combat missions in Vietnam as a B-52 navigator. He is also an award winning watercolor artist, obtaining awards and placement in several national watercolor exhibitions. Now retired from a long career in civil engineering, he lives with his wife in Greenville, South Carolina.

Book preview

Goodwill Guy

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It’s been a great Friday waiting tables. Cleared almost three hundred dollars after the tip-out, my best night in the six months I’ve been waitressing. I worked my pert little ass off for this payday and I was tired but wired. I didn’t want to let the night go. So I had two martinis at Chadwick’s, my usual after-work watering hole. Then I hit a party I’d been invited to in the East Village. Now I’m headed to a bar I heard about called Willie’s on the Upper West Side, to escape this guy with a mouthful of silver teeth who started hitting on me the second I walked into the party. He’s one of a string of bitch-slap crazy guys that have infected my life like wharf rats lately. Seriously, he had silver teeth that shone like the chrome grill on a Dodge truck. And he wouldn’t leave me alone.

What is it with guys these days? They can’t read body language, tone of voice, or facial expressions. They can’t seem to understand rudimentary English, like, No thanks, I’m busy, or No, you can’t have my number. Is it just me or have men changed? But I guess the real question that’s been plaguing me is why at twenty-two, I don’t have better luck with men. I mean, four boyfriends in the past three years. The last time I checked the mirror, I looked pretty put together at five-four, size two, and sporting a 34C in the bra department. It’s not the attracting part that’s the problem, it’s the kind of guys I’ve been attracting.

Bar-hopping has been my nightly routine since I started waiting tables. When I’m finished my shift, all I want to do is find a bar and sit and chill. I had to get a job since I’d been putting a pretty big dent in my inheritance, which I need to conserve so I can finish my degree. Waitressing was the quickest stopgap job I could get. But it came with its own set of problems. I mean, working nights puts you in this vampire existence, going to bed at four a.m. and getting up at noon. I like this offbeat aspect of my schedule. But the guys I’ve been meeting after I get off work are like these ghouls, weirdoes and freaks, the other extreme from my last four boyfriends who were all nine-to-fivers; very attentive, self-aware, no-student-loan types. The thing is, I’m not about to give up working a lucrative weekend to hang out with some nine-to-five dude.

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I’m standing in the entrance to Willie’s, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. It’s like wandering into a smoky cave lit with testosterone torches. You’re hit with this nose-twitching aroma of stale beer coming off the wooden floor that hasn’t been swept since La Guardia was mayor. Things are jumping. A backbeat of music, voices, clinking glassware and the clacking of pool balls reverberating off the high ceiling gives the place this hot pulse. A low-tech DJ is presiding over a small dance floor of a half-dozen writhing couples. I can feel my hands getting damp. I just want to hang out, find a nice guy to dance and have a few drinks with before I call it a night.

Scanning through the smoky murk, I spot the only empty seat. It’s at the bar between two guys. One is a twentysomething shaved-head smoker in a blue jersey with a big eighty-eight on his back, and the other is a thirtyish blazer-wearer with an eighty-dollar haircut. The place is jammed. My feet are killing me and I need a drink. At least it’s a seat where I can scout out prospects.

Stepping up on the brass foot rail, I slide into the wooden seat and try to catch the bartender’s attention. Finally, he sees me and comes over. Cute, sandy hair, soft brown eyes. Kind of tall. He wipes down the bar in front of me, gives me this raised-eyebrow look. Vodka martini, I say.

On my right, I catch the blazer-wearer hitting on this skinny blonde in black, with too much makeup and plucked eyebrows that she’s painted back on. Looks like she’s wearing a Kabuki mask.

The bartender brings my drink and I take a long sip. I’m about to swivel around to survey the room for possibilities when I glance at the smoker on my left. His three-day stubble frames these expressive lips that hold his cigarette in a delicate embrace. Right away I get this feeling about him I can’t quite identify. I’m trying to figure it out when he turns toward me and his hauntingly pale blue eyes lock onto mine. And I’m hooked. My heart jumps in my chest. I hear myself say, Hi, how are you?

Hungry, thirsty, and horny, he says.

Even though I see his lips moving I don’t hear another word he says. I have to look away before I pee my pants. I say, Well, I can help you out with only one of those three.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, tilts his head back and launches a stream of smoke at the ceiling. Your place or mine?

No, I don’t think so. I mean, can I buy you a drink? I’m feeling generous since I’m still riding the high of my record night.

You can buy me a butt load of drinks.

Don’t you mean boat load?

Butt load is a more picturesque metaphor, don’t you think?

It’s an image I’d rather not entertain.

As I shrug out of my coat and drape it on the back of my stool, I catch him checking out my boobs. Then he looks away. And I tell him my name is Lana. What’s yours?

He kind of sits there not saying anything. Like he’s forgotten his name or something. But then he says, Lake. Lake Waters.

Lake? Are you serious?

Serious as the Pope at High Mass.

You’re pulling my leg. I start to ask to see his driver’s license but change my mind for some reason and don’t.

Nope. My father just had a sense of humor.

What kind of name is that?

It’s Southern. And it’s not that uncommon. You ever hear of the NASCAR racecar driver, Lake Speed?

For real?

Google him and see.

I’ll take your word for it. Catching the bartender’s attention, I point to Lake’s empty beer mug and hold up a finger. Then I ask Lake where in the South he’s from.

He’s sitting there staring straight ahead, like he’s watching himself in the full-length mirror behind the bar where gleaming bottles line under-lit shelves. Then he stubs out his cigarette and says, Memphis.

Oh yeah? I’m trying to hear that Elvis twang in his voice but can’t. What brought you to New York?

It’s a long story.

The bartender sets down Lake’s mug of beer, which sloshes over the rim and makes a little puddle on the bar. Lake lifts the mug and nods, which I take as a thank you.

Alright. Maybe later, I say.

He sits there squinting at me for a while. Like he’s trying to size me up. Then he says, After my second tour in Iraq, I was discharged down in D.C. Took the first train up here. Wanted to live in a place where I didn’t have to drive.

Is this the long story?

Yeah.

Will this be a series?

No. Why?

The plot line seems a little thin.

"Well, winning Iraqi minds and hearts kept me on the edge of my seat."

You were sitting most of the time?

In a Humvee out on patrol, scared shitless.

Army?

He glares at me like I insulted his mother. Marines.

Ever kill anybody?

Now that’s a dumbass question.

Well, inquiring minds want to know.

So, let me ask you, Lana, what kind of work do you do?

Right now I’m a waitress.

Waitress, huh? Ever spit in anybody’s food?

No. What kind of question is that?

The same kind of dumbass question you asked me.

He gives me this flicker of a wink. But I can’t be sure. My head’s buzzing and my stomach is gnawing. I look at my drink and it’s empty. I don’t remember finishing it, but the only thing left is the olive, which I gratefully suck into my mouth. The salty sourness swirls around my tongue, twisting my lips into a pucker.

Your number in high school? I ask, glancing at his jersey.

No. My IQ.

I laugh.

He gives me this half-smile like he’s surprised at his own quip. This is something I picked up at my Fifth Avenue clothier for eight bucks. He fingers the sleeve. Giants NFL jersey. Brand new, still had the tags on it.

I raise my eyebrows like two question marks and just stare at him.

He sees the puzzlement on my face. Goodwill, just north of the Empire State Building. I get a lot of my stuff there.

Wow. No pretense here.

He lights up another cigarette and lays it in the ashtray. I think about asking him for one.

I’d love to have something to occupy my hands, but I know I won’t stop at one. Because it seems like lately I haven’t been able to stop at one of anything.

The bartender comes over, picks up my empty and asks if I want another martini. Sure, I say, and before I know it he’s back with my drink. So I’m sitting here sipping and thinking, obsessing about Lake and getting depressed about the whole situation. I’ve never been, like you just meet a guy in a bar and then you just go home with him. I’ve got to know the guy. Like him. And what do I really know about Lake? He could be a psychopathic killer for all I know. The thing is, he was a Marine. They’re trained killers. How do I know what happened to him in Iraq, that maybe twisted his mind? Or he could be lying about even being in the military. Guys do it all the time. But still, I find him intriguing and more than a little mysterious. For some reason he’s not falling all over himself to impress me. That’s like, so different. What makes him almost irresistible is the fact that he doesn’t find me irresistible. The longer I sit here, the better he looks.

Lake, do you like to dance?

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, watches the smoke rising from his cigarette. Then he turns to face me. You know, that’s one of the things I regret, that I never learned to dance. Didn’t really date that much in high school. Spent most of my time playing sports. Never had a girlfriend to teach me, I guess.

Regret? You’re talking like an old man. It’s never too late to learn.

I don’t know… He shrugs and looks away. I guess dancing’s out tonight.

You been here before? I ask.

Two or three times a week. I live three blocks away.

Convenient.

It’s part of my exercise routine. I try to stay fit.

I laugh. It’s working. You look like you could run a marathon.

Maybe you haven’t looked close enough. He cuts his eyes at me and takes a long pull on his beer.

I think about that a minute while I sip my martini. I’m about two-thirds hammered. So, Lake, what do you do?

He eyes me for a moment, flicks his ashes in the ashtray and taps his cigarette on the rim like he’s playing a tune. I lean closer to him to hear over the noise. Maybe the noise is in my head, it’s pounding. I’m so close I can count the hairs in his stubble.

I coach a CYO basketball team, teach an ESL class to a bunch of Vietnamese on Tuesday nights, and I’m into Faulkner pretty heavy, he says.

Interesting. Does that pay the bills?

No, not exactly.

Then what exactly does?

Inquiring minds?

Yeah.

He takes a drag on his cigarette, rests it in the ashtray and blows another slow stream of smoke at the ceiling. My disability check and my grandfather’s trust fund.

Disability? What disability?

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, like he’s trying to make up his mind whether to answer. Then he swivels on his stool to face me, and raises his pants legs to reveal two shiny metal tubes where his legs should be.

Oh, God, I’m sorry.

Nothing to be sorry about. I can get around fine—now. I do get a little help from this. He holds up a metal cane that shines like his artificial legs.

But I mean—

Hey, I’m fine. Got all my other essential extremities. He smiles. And I’m a lot better off than some of the poor bastards I met in rehab at Walter Reed. I was lucky. I’m a BK amputee. Below the knee.

You sound so positive. How’d you manage that?

Hah. You should have seen me two years ago when I got to Walter Reed. I was a mess.

What do you mean?

He takes a long drag and speaks the smoke out of his lungs in short bursts. Had to work my way up from wanting to die to wanting to walk. His eyes flash. It was a long haul.

What was the spark? A girl?

Yeah, but not like you’d think.

Love didn’t conquer all?

Just the opposite. Hate.

Hate?

Yeah. She ditched me as soon as she heard I lost my legs. That’s when I wanted to die. I was lying there one night trying to figure out how I could kill myself when my roommate said, ‘Man, if I was you I’d hate that bitch. You need to get outta that bed and get even.’ That got me to thinking and got me motivated. Hate’s a great motivator.

Did you get even?

He taps his cigarette on the ashtray. Absolutely.

How?

I’m walking, living in New York, doing what I want to do, with no financial worries.

And her?

Her who?

Oh, I get it.

Yeah. Last I heard she was still in Memphis, living in a trailer with some unemployed loser.

What about your current love life?

He laughs. I’ve developed this theory about women, especially beautiful women like you.

Who says I’m beautiful?

I do.

Well, thank you.

It’s not a compliment. It’s just an observation.

Now I’m almost in a frenzy to attract him. His artificial legs make him that much more mysterious. Does he take them off when he sleeps? Does he shower with them? How does he get groceries? I have to know. Observations are always colored by emotion. Don’t you think?

If you say so.

You were saying—

Oh, yeah. Women seem to go through this period where they sleep with about every guy they date, like they’re trying to find something or forget someone or make up for something. Then they realize it’s not working for them and they shut it down. That’s when I usually meet them, after they’ve bestowed their favors on other guys. Or maybe I’m rationalizing the rejection I get when they find out about the legs. I don’t know. In any case it’s hopeless. He stubs out his cigarette and turns toward me. What’s your story?

I’ve had four boyfriends in the past three years.

Perfect. My theory has become an axiom. I’m gonna call it Lake’s Law.

I drain the remainder of my martini, the warmth spreading inside me like a blossoming flower. The lights of the bar glow, diffuse and golden. I lean in closer to Lake. Let’s go to your place.

He gapes at me, mouth open. But you said—

Here’s a rudimentary fact about women you may not know. Call it Lana’s Law. We can change our minds at any time.

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Faint pink and purple strains of dawn lighten the sky as I slip out of bed and stand at the window in Lake’s twelfth-floor apartment. Wearing only a t-shirt, I clutch a blanket around me and take in the shimmering lights on the Hudson River and Lake’s gentle snoring. I could stand here forever. It’s like I’m in this warm cocoon, wrapped in a contentment I can’t explain but can only feel. I wonder what kind of trust fund his grandfather left him that he could afford an apartment like this.

It’s not just the apartment. It’s Lake and his liquid blue eyes. His gentle hesitancy, his almost bashful approach when we got here surprised and thrilled me. He showed me around the apartment, pointing out his collection of vibrant abstract watercolor and acrylic paintings by local artists. Then he made us sandwiches and coffee, telling me I’d had enough alcohol and that he could accept clear-eyed rejection but not drunken surrender.

He sat on the bed, unstrapped his prosthetic legs and slid under the sheets, laughing lightly. This is where you get to see me flop around like a trained seal. He pulled me close and I felt a shudder go through him as he framed my face with kisses, the softness of his lips punctuated by his prickly stubble. Pulling up the t-shirt he’d lent me, he whispered, Your breasts are magnificent.

Is that just an observation?

No. It’s a sincere compliment.

Afterward, we lay together, the pillows pungent with sweat and the lingering odor of cigarette smoke, caressing and sighing until we fell asleep.

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Getting out of bed is a laborious process for Lake. First he covers each of his stumps with a thick neoprene pad, then he straps on each prosthetic and over these a long elastic sleeve extending up his thighs. But he’s cheerful and matter of fact about it all even though he has to reverse the process when he gets into the shower, where he uses a plastic bench.

C’mon, I know a great place for brunch, Lake says, reaching for his jacket and heading for the apartment door.

With my hair looking like I slept in a wind tunnel, and no makeup?

"You look great to me, and we’re not going to the Plaza, just Moe’s Deli. I think you’ll