Portland, ME 9/30

An arrival. A departure. A few mouthfuls of gasoline.

You’re spread out as best you can in a revolving lounge chair that’s set before the fireplace in your room. The ornate brickwork stretches from floor to ceiling and alludes to being an original feature, though an electrical cable snaking into its base betrays the fact it is in fact entirely electrical. Regardless, it conveys the rustic aesthetic the hotel shoots for. You survey the drink in your hand, holding it up against the undulating light of a faux flame lamp on the mantelpiece. The bartender downstairs definitely over-poured. You count four fingers in the glass instead of two. More than enough to hold you over for a few more hours until you put this day to bed.

The rental car had coasted into town on fumes, rumbling over the cobbles of Old Port towards your hotel before coming to a stop perfectly beside the valet stand outside the main entrance. You’d explained your predicament to the young guy in a navy varsity jacket with yellow leather sleeves who’d then offered to siphon gas from another guest’s car in exchange for a few extra bills in his tip. You’d shook on the deal. “She’ll be all ready for you by check-out tomorrow.” You’d thought it strange how cars tend to take on female identity. Just like boats. You’d watched as he’d steered the rental over to the hotel lot and slipped it between two cars with out-of-state plates. You’d thought hard about what your car should be called.

You’d headed down towards the waterfront looking for a beer, finding your way through the doors of a bar perched on a pier that’d been recommended by a former lumberjack you’d met before leaving Boston; a man with forearms as broad as any tree he’d ever felled. While his recommendation hinted the place could provide a good time it’d said nothing of the thick stench of dead lobsters and fish you’d need to cut through to gain entrance. That oily smell secreting from old rope and wood hung heavy on the pier, draped upon it like a veil. Pushing through was like navigating a dense fog populated by the weed-smoking busboys that lingered behind the seafood restaurants, along a route marked by dried-up tuna fins nailed to the pilings like warnings to those swimming beneath the waves.

Out back on the bar’s deck, the spirit of an old sailor had taken up residence in the body of a gull perched atop the wheelhouse of a partially sunken trawler. It catcalled the waitresses in its coastal tongue and eves-dropped on the conversations of your fellow patrons. A group of baby boomers at the next table spoke at length about late honeymoons and an alcoholic invalid father. “I got him down to half a litre bottle of the cheapest white wine. I’d buy one, pour half out, then add water to top it up.” You sat for a few hours with seasonal beers and a plastic basket of fish that tasted better than it looked, listening to the ways they tricked the father into drinking less.

After sundown you’d passed from block to unknown block, searching for another dive bar but failing to find one. In the end, you’d stopped to sit with those sleeping rough along the street you’d wound up on away from downtown. You’d shared a communal quart of liquor being passed around the small circle of faces like a bottled flame that imbued each holder with a private warmth. There’d been a show of dressed-up out-of-towners and squad cars rolling through that thoroughfare. Lost souls new to the city and those locals out in force to guard them; a procession running at steady intervals through the bottle’s rotations until the last drop was drained. You’d spared a few dollars for the next round, bid your companions well, then headed on your way.

In the hotel room you can still smell the old lobster meat of the docks on your shirt. Some poor individual in an alley outside gags loudly enough you can hear it through the sealed double-glazed windows. You can only assume it’s because of the same stench working its way into their body as it had yours.

You sit and sip, thankful the hotel bartender had poured your glass with a lazy eye to the measure. You’d thought of ordering a beer to tagalong with the whisky but thought better of it upon seeing how much brown liquor had made its way into the tumbler.

You ruminate about the life of the bartender beyond the borders of the hotel. For the sake of the narrative you christen him Richard.

So, Richard’s been working the counter long before your arrival this evening. There’s something in his don’t-give-a-shit demeanour when you first set eyes on him that told you creating a memorable ambiance for hotel guests wasn’t high on his agenda. This worked in your favour. In between the couples preparing to swap room keys with fellow travellers, he spotted your lone cause lingering at the bar and made his way over. Room number and signature down on his pad, he’d remarked on the measure poured saying you looked like you needed it, before moving off into the long hours still to go before he could stamp his timecard.

Perched on the lounge chair in your room, you wonder about Richard’s life. You wonder if he’s happy. You wonder if he dreams of something more than the routine he has. You raise your glass to Richard and down the contents.

Come morning you collect your car from the valet, the engine now running smoothly on its illicit donation. You notice his varsity jacket gives off a heavy scent of gasoline and hope to God no-one lights a match in his vicinity any time soon as you pull away from the curb.

You open the windows as you leave town to clear the smell, thinking to yourself how it might void the rental warranty and how you still hadn’t named the car.