{"id":262,"date":"2013-12-01T20:58:41","date_gmt":"2013-12-02T03:58:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/wordpress\/?p=262"},"modified":"2014-01-18T20:17:04","modified_gmt":"2014-01-19T03:17:04","slug":"loser-pays","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/?p=262","title":{"rendered":"Loser Pays"},"content":{"rendered":"

This is a short story. For more short stories,\u00a0click here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

We drain a few cocktails at the hotel bar and just start walking. We are passersby in Meridian, Mississippi; its red-brick cityscape is terra incognita. But any bar will do. We\u2019re celebrating aimlessly.<\/p>\n

Deb\u2019s Watering Hole is a dive somewhere between downtown and Section Eight. It\u2019s the kind of place where concealed weapons and vulpine grins are required by dress code. Where a pair of button-down, comb-over salesmen from Birmingham is liable to end the night outlined in chalk.<\/p>\n

But fuck it. We\u2019re young and invincible and we\u2019ve got signed contracts in our briefcases and big commission checks in our future. The world buckles where we walk. We drink where we please.<\/p>\n

So we traipse into the place laughing and staggering and slurring our speech, oozing big-city hubris through wrinkled suits.<\/p>\n

\u201cCheck out these guys,\u201d says a drunk in a swivel-chair. He doesn\u2019t bother to whisper.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey must be lost,\u201d says his buddy.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re the only white people in the place, except for a little old lady sitting at the bar watching a Carter-era television through a nimbus of cigarette smoke. Visually, she\u2019s as conspicuous as a switchblade on a nudist, but she seems oddly at ease here with her malt liquor and Marlboros. She can only be Deb, the bar\u2019s namesake. An unusual breed of slumlord.<\/p>\n

We look around. Deb has divided her derelict kingdom \u2013 all five hundred square feet of it \u2013 into three provinces.<\/p>\n

The first of these is a realm of flightless birds; here, a row of wide-eyed video poker hunchbacks roost on wobbly barstools and peck at glowing touch-screens. They avert their gazes rarely, and only to root through pockets and purses for loose change and small bills.<\/p>\n

Then there are the drinkers. They are four in number, counting Deb, and they, like the gamblers, sit in a single file. These oily individuals perch on poorly oiled swivel-chairs, sipping dirty beer and telling cheap jokes. There is no bartender. When one is required, Deb rises to the occasion.<\/p>\n

The third province is for the bipeds, the uprights. It is the pool table. We quickly lay claim to it.<\/p>\n

Scott fetches beers. He laughs when Deb tells him the price. \u201cChrist, we should have been drinking here all night,\u201d he says. \u201cWe could have saved a fortune.\u201d<\/p>\n

The pool cues are of curiously different lengths, like a grade-schooler\u2019s pencils. Most have flat tips. They\u2019re all warped. One is duct-taped in the middle. I look for bloodstains and bone fragments, but none are visible.<\/p>\n

\u201cI bought the beer,\u201d says Scott, handing me a can of something I don\u2019t recognize. \u201cThat means you rack.\u201d<\/p>\n

During business hours, Scott cleans up pretty nice. He dresses adroitly, shaves closely, and sucks in his gut. But now his collar is halfway unfolded, there\u2019s a wet spot on his shirttail, and he waddles like a guy who\u2019s bankrupted a couple of all-you-can-eat buffets.<\/p>\n

He does not possess a monopoly on fat. One of the gamblers, female beneath layers of sexless flesh, has been eyeballing Scott since we walked in. As he chalks his cue, she rises; calories melt off her by the hundreds; she winks at me conspiratorially and tiptoes toward my friend. Somehow this plodding predator catches Scott unaware, and reaches between his legs just as he leans over the pool table to break.<\/p>\n

He straightens up like a soldier at reveille.<\/p>\n

\u201cLord, woman!\u201d he yelps, turning to face his handler. He flushes and grins.<\/p>\n

She covers her mouth and giggles. \u201cHow about a drink, big boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAlready got a full one.\u201d<\/p>\n

She steps back and leans against a wall, still beaming lewdly. There she lies in wait while we shoot pool and my friend\u2019s beer gets gradually less full.<\/p>\n

Scott and I shake heads at each other. Are we become princes in some Mississippi underworld, where we are fondled and liquored and hounded by behemoths, and where beer flows more freely than water?<\/p>\n

I\u2019m outshooting Scott. He\u2019s got more tolerance for booze than me, being twice my size, but I\u2019ve had more practice. And a low center of gravity counts for something in a drunken-spinning universe that\u2019s always trying to knock you off your feet.<\/p>\n

About halfway through our third game, something stirs in the Province of Drinkers. A dark shape assembles itself from the cigarette haze and saunters toward us. It is small and broad-shouldered and wrapped in a loose-fitting undershirt, and clenched between two fingers it carries a glittering challenge: a pair of quarters. These it lies like a gauntlet upon the edge of the pool table.<\/p>\n

I run my remaining stripes and sink the eight. Scott curses loudly \u2013 heads turn \u2013 and lifts his can of beer, only to find it empty. Before he can set it down his suitor is in motion, purse in hand, slogging her way toward the bar. Scott follows, leaving me to contend with our challenger.<\/p>\n

He collects the balls and begins to rack without speaking.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cE.J.,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cTrevor.\u201d I extend my hand.<\/p>\n

E.J. looks at it with drunk, uneasy eyes. His lips collapse into a frown. He sticks a cigarette between them, then, reluctantly, offers his own hand.<\/p>\n

I figure he just doesn\u2019t like me. I\u2019m an intruder in Deb\u2019s tenderloin, a suburbanite in four-hundred-dollar shoes and a leisure-class smile. I\u2019m a convenient adversary on the opposite end of a pool table, not some cordial acquaintance at a cocktail party. No point hobnobbing and handshaking.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m wrong, though. As soon as our palms meet I realize that it\u2019s shame, not resentment, that\u2019s behind E.J.\u2019s tension. His index and middle fingers are badly deformed, twisted and truncated like desiccated fruit. I try not to squirm as I shake the man\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou from around here?\u201d I ask, chalking my cue.<\/p>\n

\u201cBorn and raised.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nod. \u201cWe\u2019re passing through. From Birmingham. Pretty nice little city, Meridian.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all right.\u201d<\/p>\n

I break in a solid, then pocket two more. Scott and his leviathan are at the bar, giggling and toasting and touching each other between swills of beer like a couple of post-prom seniors with a pair of fake IDs.<\/p>\n

E.J. is a decent pool player, but I\u2019m better. I win the first game handily. When I offer to pay for the next one he balks. \u201cLoser pays,\u201d he says. And he makes those two words sound like an article of faith, like an answer from a catechism you memorize as a child.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what do you do, E.J.?\u201d I ask while he racks. Racking, like paying, is a loser\u2019s chore.<\/p>\n

\u201cAuto work, here and there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah? What do you drive?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA Civic. It\u2019s a piece of shit. Bet you got a pretty nice ride, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m in sales, so I\u2019m always on the road. Drive all my cars into the ground. Why own anything nice, right? I\u2019ve got a Jeep.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nods. \u201cWhere\u2019d you learn to shoot pool? You\u2019re pretty good.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHad a table growing up. Got really good as a kid, been getting worse ever since. Comes back to me from time to time, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike riding a bike,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Not at all, I think. \u201cExactly,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

The next game is closer, but I eke out the win.<\/p>\n

I try to drum up another conversation with E.J., but he\u2019s gone monosyllabic, unresponsive. He\u2019s interested exclusively in my defeat. He\u2019s zeroed in on the felt, now. He\u2019s even letting his beer go warm.<\/p>\n

For a moment I consider throwing the third game. I feel bad for E.J. and his mangled hand and his shitty car and his minimum-wage existence. But little as I know him, I\u2019m convinced he isn\u2019t the kind of guy who\u2019d be satisfied winning a mercy bout; he wants to beat me at full strength. So I oblige.<\/p>\n

Our third game isn\u2019t even close.<\/p>\n

At some point Scott returns, bearing gifts. He\u2019s shed his suitor — she\u2019s back on her stool in the Province of Gamblers — but he\u2019s picked up three brown bottles of a local brew. He keeps one for himself and offers the others to E.J. and me.<\/p>\n

\u201cTry this,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

But E.J. raises his mangled hand and shakes his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on now,\u201d insists Scott, thrusting the bottle. \u201cWe\u2019re celebrating!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI said no.\u201d<\/p>\n

What E.J. doesn\u2019t understand is that Scott grew up in a backwater Alabama home founded on Old South principals of hospitality and gentility and still untouched by Yankee notions of forthrightness and candor, where turning away a gift — especially a gift of food or drink — is an unthinkable solecism, a personal affront.<\/p>\n

E.J., on the other hand, was raised never to accept handouts. He sees no beer in Scott\u2019s bottle, only liquid welfare. If he had wanted a drink he\u2019d have bought it himself, thank you very much, and who says I want to celebrate your white-collar workplace victories anyway?<\/p>\n

Scott should just shrug it off. \u201cMore for me,\u201d he ought to say, and we should all be friends. But what few inhibitions Scott possesses drowned hours ago; he\u2019s all chemicals now, serotonin and testosterone.<\/p>\n

So he frowns disdainfully and he waits until E.J. is leaned over a carom shot calculating angles before saying: \u201cWhat happened to your hand?\u201d<\/p>\n

For Christ\u2019s sake. I consider breaking my pool cue over Scott\u2019s head. We\u2019re supposed to be transient merrymakers in this town, kicking up our heels and buying rounds and leaving big tips on our way back to Birmingham. Now we\u2019re just marauding drunks poking fun at cripples. And we\u2019re severely outnumbered.<\/p>\n

Before I can apologize for my friend\u2019s crass question, E.J. answers it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour mama got hungry, tried to eat it.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s an awkward response, but it\u2019s more than enough to rankle Scott\u2019s hair-trigger ego.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck you,\u201d he says, loudly enough to attract disapproving stares from around the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right, guys. How about we just relax and play some pool? No use getting all riled up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d says E.J. \u201cYour fat-ass friend owes me an apology. What are y\u2019all doing in here, anyway? Shouldn\u2019t be here, dressed like a couple of fucking big-shots. It\u2019s a miracle you haven\u2019t been mugged yet. You will, though, you keep walking into places you don\u2019t belong and talking shit about strangers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI ain\u2019t \u2018talking shit\u2019 about anyone. I just asked you about your hand, and you started with the mama jokes and the fat-ass comments.\u201d<\/p>\n

E.J. hesitates. \u201cWhatever,\u201d he says. \u201cYou and me are done talking. You just sit there and keep your mouth shut while I finish playing pool with your friend here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy bother?\u201d says Scott. \u201cYou ain\u2019t going to win. You can\u2019t shoot straight with that fucked-up hand.\u201d<\/p>\n

The whole place falls silent. Our lighthearted jaunt-about-town is over; we\u2019re now the center of attention in a room full of Medusas.<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus Christ, Scott,\u201d I say. \u201cYou\u2019re hammered. Apologize to the man and let\u2019s get out of here before we cause any more trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFine.\u201d He slams his bottle onto the bar so hard I\u2019m sure it will shatter. It doesn\u2019t, thank God. \u201cLet\u2019s go. But I won\u2019t apologize.\u201d<\/p>\n

That\u2019s fine by me. Deb\u2019s Watering Hole is a dangerous place now; I want out, back to the sanctuary of our downtown hotel with its complimentary cookies and on-demand porn. I finish my drink, put up my pool cue and throw a few loose bills on the bar for Deb, a propitiatory offering.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re halfway out the door when E.J. shouts after us: \u201cWait a minute, fat-ass.\u201d<\/p>\n

We turn around.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll bet I can beat you at this game, fucked-up hand and all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBullshit,\u201d says my friend.<\/p>\n

E.J. reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a keyring. He tosses it onto the pool table. \u201cYou win, you can have my car.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scott scans the gravel parking lot in the back of the bar. \u201cWhich one is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlack Civic. Ain\u2019t a Benz, but it\u2019s turbo-charged and them wheels is worth two grand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s shit. If I win it I\u2019ll probably just take a baseball bat to it for fun, let you watch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSuit yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scott takes a step toward the pool table. \u201cWhat if I lose?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI get to smash your hand in that doorway.\u201d<\/p>\n

E.J. nods at the Door I\u2019m holding open. It\u2019s the only thing in the bar younger than twenty-one, an enormous iron overreaction installed by Deb after the last break-in. It demands to be capitalized. It would obliterate a human hand. I wonder, briefly, if it has.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is nuts,\u201d I say. \u201cLet\u2019s go, Scott. No one\u2019s waking up tomorrow missing a car — let alone a goddamn hand — just because you got too sloshed to think straight. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n

But he and E.J. are staring fire into each other across the room. They\u2019re not listening to me or reason or anything else now.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine,\u201d says Scott. \u201cBut I break.\u201d<\/p>\n

You might think we\u2019re in a church, it\u2019s gone so quiet. Deb and the gamblers and the drinkers are a single congregation now, attentive parishioners waiting on tenterhooks for whatever dark ritual is about to unfold at the billiards-alter. The old TV in the corner provides music, a distorted low-fi drone that sounds like an organ might after too much cough medicine.<\/p>\n

I can hardly walk straight, yet I\u2019m too sober for all this. I trudge over to Scott and seize his shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, we\u2019re through here. Time to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

He wrenches free. \u201cSo leave, then. I can handle myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you kidding me? You just bet your hand on a game of pool.Your hand. And this guy\u2019s good, Scott. I\u2019ve played him. You can\u2019t beat this guy. Not sober, and certainly not plastered.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes I can. I\u2019ve been watching him play, he\u2019s not that good. I was half-assing it against you, Trevor. I\u2019ll beat this guy in three turns, just watch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut why, damn it? For a Honda fucking Civic?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shrugs. \u201cIt ain\u2019t about the Civic.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe doing this?\u201d asks E.J. \u201cBecause if we\u2019re not, you got no reason for being here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, we\u2019re doing this. I\u2019m just waiting for you to rack, asshole.\u201d<\/p>\n

E.J. gathers the balls.<\/p>\n

I decide to enlist Deb\u2019s help. Nebulous though her business ethics may be, surely she draws a line at sanctioned dismemberment. But when I ask her to stop this madness, to kick us out of her bar or call the police or fend off E.J., she just tells me to sit my ass down and enjoy the show. Your friend dug his own grave, she says, and a deal\u2019s a deal.<\/p>\n

Scott breaks in a stripe, then misses his next shot.<\/p>\n

E.J. pockets two easy solids, then nails an impossible bank shot.<\/p>\n

The rest of the game develops in slow motion. E.J.\u2019s working on his last solid when I notice something Scott hasn\u2019t: Throughout the game, a cluster of drinkers and gamblers has accumulated around the pool table for a better view. Two of them — big, joweled, missing teeth — have positioned themselves in front of the Door.<\/p>\n

They grin and salivate as the eight-ball drops noiselessly into a side pocket.<\/p>\n

E.J. locks eyes with Scott. He doesn\u2019t say anything; he just points to the Door.<\/p>\n

Someone claps.<\/p>\n

\u201cShow time,\u201d says someone else.<\/p>\n

Even Scott\u2019s former suitor giggles in anticipation.<\/p>\n

My friend tries to laugh things off. \u201cWell, hell,\u201d he says. He tries to smile but his lips tremble. \u201cGuess I owe you an apology.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSave the apology. You owe me your hand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow look, E.J… I know I got a little cocky. God knows I\u2019ve had too much to drink. And maybe I said some things I shouldn\u2019t have. But there ain\u2019t a snowball\u2019s chance in hell that I\u2019m putting my hand in that doorway.\u201d<\/p>\n

E.J. nods at the two bruisers guarding our only exit. They move toward Scott.<\/p>\n

He throws one desperate, clumsy punch. His target dodges. The crowd laughs. A moment later, Scott\u2019s arms are pinned behind his back and he\u2019s being dragged toward the Door.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor Christ\u2019s sake, E.J.!\u201d I shout. \u201cYou can\u2019t be serious. My friend\u2019s a mess. Just look at him. He\u2019s three sheets to the wind. He made some harebrained, offensive remarks that he\u2019ll regret in the morning if he can even remember them. But you can\u2019t possibly want to maim him for that. You\u2019re a good guy. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a good guy? You think you know me just \u2018cause we made a little small-talk about cars and pool? You don\u2019t know shit about me. I won your friend\u2019s hand, end of story. I mean to take it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, man,\u201d says Scott. His voice is broken now. \u201cI\u2019m sorry about what I said. I\u2019m drunk and stupid, like Trevor said. Just give me a break, just this time. I\u2019ve got cash –\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want your money. And no one gave me a break.\u201d E.J. holds his deformed hand up to Scott\u2019s face. \u201cNo one gave me the opportunity to win my way out of this fucked-up hand, but you don\u2019t see me groveling.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis has gone too far,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m calling the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCall the police,\u201d says E.J. \u201cBy the time they get here your friend will be missing his knuckles, and Deb will tell \u2018em you two drunk-ass strangers walked in here and started beating the shit out of each other before you took things too far. Ain\u2019t that right, Deb?\u201d<\/p>\n

She nods and smiles. I want to knock her teeth out.<\/p>\n

I think things through. I don\u2019t know these guys. Are they bluffing? Just giving Scott a well-deserved scare? Too tough to say. This isn\u2019t my world. I\u2019m in the demimonde, a den of punch-drunk bottom dwellers with nothing to lose. Suburban logic doesn\u2019t work down here.<\/p>\n

I know one thing, though: I\u2019m a better pool player than E.J.<\/p>\n

\u201cDouble or nothing.\u201d The words spill out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDouble or nothing. You and me. I win, you let us out of here unharmed. You win, you can crush both our hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

He hesitates. One of his oversized friends has Scott\u2019s trembling hand pressed against the door frame.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, E.J.,\u201d I say. \u201cSo you beat my friend Scott at pool. Big deal. Everyone beats Scott at pool. Pick on someone your own size.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d says E.J., \u201cFair enough. But I don\u2019t want your hand. The idea doesn\u2019t excite me at all. So I tell you what. I\u2019ll accept your offer — double or nothing — but on different terms.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cName them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou win, y\u2019all walk out of here just like you came in. No hard feelings. But if I win, you crush that fat motherfucker\u2019s hand in the doorway, and I get to watch. And you\u2019re gonna do it right. You\u2019re gonna swing that door as hard as you possibly can, like you\u2019re trying to win a stuffed animal at the goddamn state fair. You hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hear you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen rack.\u201d<\/p>\n

They let Scott go. He stumbles over and hugs me. \u201cKill him,\u201d he whispers in my ear.<\/p>\n

I toss the wooden triangle onto the felt and start arranging balls.<\/p>\n

Solid. Stripe, stripe.<\/p>\n

To hell with Scott for getting me into this mess. Couldn\u2019t have kept his big mouth shut. Had to get all fired up. And why? Because E.J. wouldn\u2019t drink a beer? Son of a bitch.<\/p>\n

Solid. Eight in the center. Solid.<\/p>\n

Now here I am, staring down a gauntlet of bloodthirsty deadbeats and their unlikely overlord. Fuck Deb, too. Fuck her for letting things ignite in the first place, and for stoking the fire afterwards. And fuck that eager grin she\u2019s got on her face now.<\/p>\n

Stripe, solid. Stripe, stripe.<\/p>\n

You too, E.J. I tried to be friendly. I apologized for my friend. You couldn\u2019t suck it up. Had to explode. You\u2019re not a gangster. You\u2019re a sociopath.<\/p>\n

Solid, stripe, solid.<\/p>\n

You want to beat me because you think you can. You haven\u2019t, though, not so far, and it\u2019s driving you nuts. Maybe you think you can now — now that my hairs are on end and my nerves are frayed and my back\u2019s against the wall and the stakes are outrageous.<\/p>\n

Stripe, solid.<\/p>\n

But you can\u2019t beat me. You\u2019ll never beat me. I grew up playing this game. I was sinking combo shots while you were playing stick ball or stealing car stereos or whatever it is you did in whatever miserable ghetto you crawled out of.<\/p>\n

E.J. splits the break: one stripe, one solid. He misses his next shot.<\/p>\n

He says something clever, but I\u2019ve gone monosyllabic, unresponsive. Seven balls, I tell myself. Seven balls and we can walk out of this nightmare with all of our appendages and most of our sanity in tact.<\/p>\n

I run six of them.<\/p>\n

Scott is cheering. Everyone else is frowning. They haven\u2019t been standing around this past half-hour neglecting their drinks and video poker machines just to watch us leave unscathed. They want to see pain inflicted, tears shed. And I\u2019m just an eight-ball away from denying them all that pleasure, and that makes me feel like a fucking god.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a tricky shot, though. The cue ball is at the opposite end of the table. I can slice the eight into a corner pocket, but I might scratch. It\u2019s close.<\/p>\n

E.J. still has six solids on the table. I shouldn\u2019t hurry.<\/p>\n

But I\u2019m on fire. I can\u2019t miss. I\u2019ve got an opportunity to end everything right now, with one shot, and as I look over the angles again I\u2019m pretty sure this isn\u2019t a scratch. Anyway, with just a little English I should be able to kick the cue ball out…<\/p>\n

I line it up.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sun is out when I get back to the hotel. I\u2019ve been awake for twenty-four hours and I\u2019m disappearing beneath whiskers and stubble; I have an overwhelming urge to shave. I shed clothes like dead skin on my way to the bathroom. When I get there I pick up a razor and fasten my bloodshot eyes to the mirror. I don\u2019t recognize my reflection.<\/p>\n

I shear the fuzz off half my face, then vomit into the sink. When I look up again I\u2019m two people, neither of whom I know.<\/p>\n

I shave the other half. I lean in toward the mirror for a closer look. Tiny stumps of hair are everywhere, buried in my pores. I change blades, I lather. I push a little harder on the razor, dig a little deeper.<\/p>\n

Still, my face is obscured.<\/p>\n

I keep shaving.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This is a short story. For more short stories,\u00a0click here. We drain a few cocktails at the hotel bar and just start walking. We are passersby in Meridian, Mississippi; its red-brick cityscape is terra incognita. But any bar will do. We\u2019re celebrating aimlessly. Deb\u2019s Watering Hole is a dive somewhere between downtown and Section Eight. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":264,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-262","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=262"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":289,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/262\/revisions\/289"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/264"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=262"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=262"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.vincentmaling.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=262"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}