A Handful of Joy

  A Handful of Joy

  By Pat Henshaw

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2021 Pat Henshaw

  ISBN 9781646569793

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Sending a big round of thanks to my family, who have been incredibly supportive of my crazy endeavors. Thank you, Jake, Sarah, and Becca, for all their helpful hints on polishing this story. I love you past the end of time.

  Also, thank you, Liz Loud, whose comments and suggestions made the story much, much better.

  * * * *

  A Handful of Joy

  By Pat Henshaw

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 1

  I’m not sure why I decided to grab a quick drink at a bar I hadn’t visited in maybe fifteen years. Possibly because I was exhausted by the day, the week, and my colleagues, including executive management, creative, planning, R&D, my fellow accountants, and everyone else employed by Manzanita Imports in Sacramento.

  The November end-of-the-year product review had literally been a pain in the ass. I’d had it with forced sitting and listening to company hype with a smile on my face and nods of agreement. Too much coffee, too many pastries, with the bullshit rising and no end in sight had nearly drowned me.

  Usually I enjoy being around my colleagues, but at the end of the day, happy hour and socializing had been a solid no. I’d walked out with the excuse that I had to go home.

  Unlike most of the other overpaid execs, who lived in mega-houses, I owned a modest three-bedroom, two bath midcentury modern in tiny La Rosa, California. I’d been born and raised there before it had become just another highway turn off between Sacramento and San Francisco. I had returned after a brief fling at finding myself and my place in the world on the East coast.

  My middle-class neighborhood had changed very little between its days as up and coming to now. No gated community or home owner fees here.

  Driving out of the Sacto metro area, I passed countless middle-class neighborhoods with workmen, housewives, and children. It was as if I were traveling to another state where I’d be able to live a more normal life.

  When I exited the freeway onto the main feeder street, once a major east-west highway, I remembered all the good times I used to have at the Roost. Why not see how the tiny neighborhood bar was holding up after the pandemic that closed so many others like it?

  The Roost of my childhood had been a comic book mecca and used bookstore. My friends and I had spent hours reading and debating the merits of superheroes there.

  When I’d first turned drinking age—or maybe a few years before—the Roost morphed into a bar, the happening place. Live music from classical to jazz and beyond, fiction and poetry readings, a room devoted to chess, checkers, and board games. A collection of easy chairs and couches in case someone wanted a quiet conversation. It was a bar off the beaten path of drunk-and-passed-out or one-night-stand.

  Unfortunately, the old guy who owned it turned curmudgeonly and drove off most of the hip young crowd. The furniture went from cozy to barroom. The music slid from live to elevator. The clientele from needing to be carded to barely a head nod.

  When I returned from my wandering days, I realized the Roost had turned from one kind of perfect into another. At least for me. Here I could get away from my work life and hide. I could sit over a beer or two or three and think no thoughts at all. I could become invisible in the middle of a friendly crowd.

  But then Manzanita Brothers changed into Manzanita Ltd. My accountant position became a department with me as division head. I didn’t have time for neighborhood bars. I barely had time to go home, eat, and sleep.

  So returning to the Roost after a week of internal company review was a little like going back to a simpler time when I was making less money and was much happier.

  The Roost of my memories had been a bright yellow cinderblock shoebox with orange and blue trim radiating joy and happiness to everyone who walked or drove by. Now a dull mustard with chipped, dirty mud trim, the building seemed to have dug a hole in old age misery.

  I hesitated at the doorway. The parking lot, once a beehive of side parties and friendly greetings, held my car and five others. At least I wouldn’t be the only one inside. Or had the cars broken down and been abandoned?

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  I paused before opening the door and walking inside. Had I aged as badly as the bar? At nearly forty, I hoped not.

  The place was too quiet and felt almost deserted as my eyes adjusted to the gloom of low wattage bulbs. One glance around the room told me how much had changed. The faux wood paneling along the walls and the acoustic ceiling tiles still looked like they came from someone’s basement rec room. Life had been sucked out of the place, and only a dull shell was left.

  Six round tables for four were scattered around the linoleum floor space. Lining the walls at tables for one were a handful of older men nursing drinks and staring at me.

  I was one step inside the door and suddenly had become the evening’s floorshow.

  What was I doing here?

  Any idea of reclaiming the days of my younger self when I listened to a local band or heard authors reading from their books was shattered by this tired, worn, and debilitating shell of a bar. All the good times had fled and left only half-ghosts of fun, engagement, and life.

  As entertainers went, I was a dud, so the drinkers went back to staring into space. They probably were enjoying the visions of the past I’d subliminally been seeking.

  Behind the bar, the bartender bent toward a man in a suit with a briefcase at his feet. Since they looked to be in an intense, but quiet conversation, I realized the only way to get a drink was to approach them.

  When I got closer, the guy in the suitcoat appeared to be in my age range, slumped as if he, too, had been sitting in interminable meetings all day. His brown tweed suit with its complimentary beige and white striped shirt and forest green tie might have been snappy and pert this morning, but his outfit was discouraged tonight.

  “Hi. Mind if I sit here?” Since we were the only two at this end of the bar, politeness required I ask. I didn’t want to seem pushy or crowd him if he wanted to be left alone.

  “No. Go ahead.” He moved with a slide of his butt away from the stool next to his. “Help yourself.”

  With his slight movement, our shoulders weren’t in jeopardy of touching. Since I wasn’t there to hook up, I didn’t take it as a rejection. He was merely being polite.

  The bartender had wandered away during our adjustment, but now he ambled up and leaned toward my companion, who gave him a nod.

  Even though I was slightly curious about the lean and the nod, I ordered as if nothing odd had happened.

  “Nice night. Fortunately, the winter rains haven’t started yet.” I took a sip of my favorite ale. At least my drink of choice had survived all the changes and was still on tap. “By the way, I’m Ted.”

  The stranger sighed.

  “Matt.”

  I took another sip of ale.

  Beside me, Matt muttered under his breath, “I just landed here from the Midwest.”

  Okay, I’d started the ball rolling. He’d pushed it gently back into my court. I could either let the ball lie at our feet and ignore it or I could push it a few more inches toward a conversation.

  With a side eye glance at his weary face, I let the ball die. I’d been talked out at the yearly state-of-the-company meeting.

  One of the things I’d always really liked about the Roost was the absence of wide screens and inane sports chatter. I turned on my bar stool, faced the almost empty space, put my elbows back on the bar, picked up my glass, and surveyed the room.

  Not only was Patsy Cline singing about walking after midnight but some of the old-timers swayed like they could see themselves dancing with her. A quiet charm settled around the room, changing the gloom into gentle arms holding us away from the bustling world outside.

  I’d almost forgotten about Matt sitting next to me until he nudged my arm softly. The song had changed to a very scratchy rendition of “At Last” by Etta James.

  “Want to dance, Ted?”

  At first I thought he was joking.
One look at his somber eyes convinced me he was serious, very, very serious.

  “Oh, um, I don’t really—” I stood. He blocked my way.

  “It’s just a dance. Why not? Please.”

  A quick glance around the room showed me no one was watching. We could have been invisible.

  He was right. Why not? Why not dance? When was the last time I’d put myself out there?

  His eyes changed to delight without my having to utter a word.

  We turned and stepped closer together. When he held up his hand, I took it in mine and put my other hand on his waist. We stopped, dropped our hands, shucked our coats, took off our ties, and rolled up our shirt sleeves. This time when we came together, I could feel his heat. He tugged me out onto the barroom floor, and we danced.

  “Once upon a time.” His breath brushed against my ear, the words a soft croon blending in with the singer’s voice. “When I was in junior high, I fell in love with a guy in high school. Day after day I watched him in the shared hallway. He was taller than me, lithe and handsome. Every once in a while he would glance my way and nod a hello. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to do with him what we’re doing now. Dance. Hold him close, feel his body next to mine, and whisper in his ear.”

  Matt and I sighed at the same time. I’d had dreams like his when I was a teen. I could understand sitting in a nearly deserted bar, hearing an Etta James tune start to play, and letting memories and longing overtake common sense and polite behavior. I knew how loneliness could gnaw on a person until doing something impulsive and potentially disastrous could seem not so crazy after all.

  We twirled between empty tables and in front of old men, whose eyes followed us as if they were sharing in our dream. The music washed over us, changing the drab bar into a romantic hideaway.

  “Thank you,” he breathed as the song came to an end. “Thank you.”

  We dropped our hands and stood facing each other.

  Into the void of indecision crept Nat King Cole singing “Unforgettable.”

  My new friend’s lips lifted in a smile. For one crazy second, I wanted to kiss his smile.

  Instead, I answered by lifting my hand and putting my arm around his waist again.

  The smile reached his eyes, and my boring day vanished completely. If I’d been asked, I probably wouldn’t have remembered I’d spent nine hours sitting in a conference room correcting department heads about what their budget numbers were. I was dancing.

  When we started another box step around the room, I did a long, hard assessment of my dance partner.

  He was taller than I, more muscular, too, his hands rough as if he’d been working labor instead of sitting on his duff all day. His scruffy, unstyled hair complimented hound-dog brown eyes and a long nose. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, more personality handsome than physically good looking. His dimples and low, soothing voice were door-openers.

  Most of all at this moment, he was a dancer. The sway of his hips, the lightness of his step, and his gentle command as he glided us around the tables made me perk up in surprise. I wanted him. I ached to kiss him. I longed to cuddle. To make love. To fall where I’d never fallen before.

  Nat King Cole carried us into Sam Cook’s “Darling, You Send Me.” We didn’t even break apart this time, but kept going through Sam, Elvis, Frank Sinatra, and a list of performers whose names I’d long forgotten, but whose tunes were all too familiar.

  At one point, Matt made a little sound, almost a soft clearing of his throat.

  “Ted, I’m afraid I’m out at the end of this song.” He sounded as if he were trying not to hurt my feelings.

  “No problem. I think I need a drink after all that exercise at the end of a long day.”

  We drifted to our abandoned barstools and sat before the last notes faded into another song.

  “Bad day?” he asked after we’d signaled to the bartender for refills.

  “Not so much bad as tedious.” I took a sip of my refreshed ale. “Yearly review. How we’re doing going into the new year. The same old, same old. The company’s an established one. It would take a massive embezzlement or unthinkable catastrophe for revenues to dip, much less dwindle. I’ve been there over ten years. The company could be a rock.”

  His little huff signaled he understood.

  “So you just got here from the Midwest, Matt? Where?”

  “Here and there. I moved around a lot. First college around Chicago. Then a job in Omaha. Finally settled back in the Windy City.” He shrugged. “My degree’s in engineering management. I ended up a contractor. One high rise after another, whether the city needs it or not. The job wasn’t my first choice, but not my last by any means.”

  I knew how he felt. I’d rather be a personal accountant than a corporate one, but the time had never been right for me to make the move. I said as much and got another grunt of understanding.

  “Anyway, thanks for not decking me or laughing when I asked you to dance. When I got to California, I decided what the hell, I’m going wild. Live it up. It’s not Vegas, but, hey, it’s California, right?”

  We caught ourselves looking at the other’s left hand ring finger.

  I laughed first.

  “Not married, I take it, Matt?”

  When he grinned, his eyes lit up and his hang-dog look changed to physically handsome, what I’d term model handsome.

  “Nope. And you?”

  For a moment I was speechless. Then my brain kicked my libido in the balls. I still had one more day to go in the annual review process. A one-night-stand tomorrow night was fine, but tonight? Bad, bad idea.

  “You’re married, Ted?” he prodded.

  “What? Oh, uh, no.” I glanced around the room and realized we were the only ones left, except for the bartender. My phone said it was almost one. I was so far past my bedtime, I was going to be miserable tomorrow morning.

  “Look, I’ve got to—”

  “Hey, boss! Okay if I close up?” The bartender was standing in front of us, talking to my dance partner.

  “What? Oh, uh.” Matt checked his phone. “Yeah. Go on and close up. We’ll get out of your way. Remember to come in a couple of hours early tomorrow. We need to figure something out here.”

  The older man nodded, gave me the once over, nodded again, and moved to the other end of the bar, picking up a rack of dirty glasses on the way out the door to the back.

  “You own this place?”

  Matt’s eyes slid to mine.

  “Since last month after my uncle died. It’s taken me that long to wrap up everything in Chicago and get here. Tonight…” He sighed. “Tonight was a present to myself before this next week when I get caught up with his affairs. I came out tonight to see if this bar can be resuscitated. I always wanted to own a bar. A place where everyone knows you exist.”

  He finished the last sip of his beer. He shrugged.

  I was still struggling over his last comment.

  “You danced with me, Ted. Thank you for making one of my earliest dreams come true. I have now danced with a handsome stranger on a romantic evening.”

  I laughed because handsome? Not hardly. I am five ten, slender, and so average that I’m sure I can pass for Every White Male. As far as I know, I’ve never turned a head or made an eye stray. I am the crowd.

  And romantic? The bar was worn, not in an attractive way, but in an old-toad-in-a-stagnant-pond way. It was a lonely outpost at one end of a five-store strip mall, rounding out the chorus line of convenience store, nail salon, laundromat, and donut shop. The aroma of sugar glaze had permeated the buildings, the streets, the parking areas, everything in the area. You couldn’t escape it once you left the bar, even if you wanted to. So romantic? Only if someone thought standing in a discarded Krispy Kreme box was romantic.

  Still, there was the dance. Or dances. They had been romantic, no question about it. If Matt wanted to believe I was handsome, who was I to contradict him?

  He was thanking me for tonight? I nearly laughed at the absurdity.

  “Thank you for asking me, Matt.”

  He’d pulled down his shirt sleeves, put on his coat, rolled his tie to stuff into a pocket, and was standing as if we had unfinished business. While I got myself put back together in my accountant’s costume, we stared at each other.