Most of the city is asleep, or nearly so, since it’s late on an October Sunday night. Downtown Anchorage is deserted, but crackling with the sound of ice pellets bouncing off pavement, windows, rooftops. Just the night before, hordes of people—boy-men, soldiers, bachelorette parties, and the last tourists of the year—flooded Fourth Avenue, their full, round faces gleaming with sweat after emerging from the Gaslight, the Avenue, the Pioneer or the new dance spot where Club Soraya used to be, which no one seemed to know the name of, if it had one at all.
Now there are no shouts, no clouds of breath or taxis double-parked. Cars navigate the slick streets cautiously, purposefully. The lights of Fourth Avenue still shine behind bar windows, but as the glass becomes clouded by ice and freezing fog, “OPEN” and “COORS LIGHT” look less like advertisements and more like disembodied thoughts floating in the night.
A figure pauses at the corner of Fifth and C, then turns east, holding the hood of his red sweatshirt low over his face. The wind is blowing directly at him now, and he walks diagonally, almost sideways, so the ice pellets won’t blow down his shirt.
The clouds over the city are churning rolls of sea foam, glowing a dirty yellow as they absorb the lights of the city, as if lit faintly from within.
Mad Myrna’s is dead, even for a Sunday. There are four people inside, and each is wondering why he’s there. At this point, they’re mostly waiting around to see if the sleet will let up.
Like the other downtown bars, Myrna’s has had a rowdy Friday and Saturday, so its regular crowd is mostly at home recovering. There’s still a dusting of glitter and confetti on an unswept corner of the empty dance floor, and the marquee over the doorway to the cabaret room still reads, “CHARLOTTE’S HARLOTS—1 NITE ONLY $7.”
The stocky bartender is unloading glasses from the dishwasher under the bar as he chats with the young bar-back, who’s leaning against one of the pool tables. They’re commiserating about someone named Brian. One of the old Star Wars movies is playing on the muted TV.
The two patrons are seated at opposite corners of the rectangular bar. In the corner by the cigarette machine, a bald middle-aged man peruses a copy of the Press while his bottle of Blue Moon goes warm. At the other corner, by the pool table, an old man in unconvincing drag is perched on a stool, sipping a Mai Tai and peering out over the room with the eyes of a vaguely annoyed cat.
“Yeah, I mean,” the bartender sighs, “that’s all he would’ve had to say. You know me—that would’ve been fine.”
“Yeah, totally,” nods the bar-back. “Just be real. Nobody has time for those—”
The door swings open. For a second or two, the sound of sleet crackling against the pavement outside carries into the bar, clear and crisp. The man in the red hoodie steps inside. The door shuts with a metallic clunk. He’s a young man. The draft of cold, damp air washes over the bar. He removes the hood of his sweatshirt; a rosy blush lingers around his nose and cheeks. He’s just a kid.
He shuffles over to the bar, rubbing his hands together. His eyes dart back and forth as he surveys the scene. He settles on a stool halfway down the bar, near the bald man, trying to appear as casual as possible. The bartender sets a glass up on the shelf and leans forward.
“ID, please?”
He digs an old snakeskin wallet out of his pocket, along with a crumpled piece of paper, which he quickly stuffs back inside. He takes out a Delaware driver’s license and slides it across the bar. The bartender holds it up and studies it, his eyes flickering back and forth. Then he stares into the young man’s eyes for a long moment. He sets the license down.
“What can I getcha, sweetheart?”
“Um . . .” He looks up at the rows of bottles. “I’m not sure yet.”
“OK,” the bartender laughs, turning away. “Well, when you—”
“Do you like Irish coffee?” the bald man asks, swiveling on his stool and setting down the paper. “You look cold. It’ll warm you up.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
The bald man holds up two fingers. The bartender nods and walks down to the coffee maker at the other end.
“Thanks,” the young man says.
“Sure.” The bald man smiles and looks back down at the paper for a while, then folds it closed and pushes his glasses up to the top of his head.
“So,” he says. “Delaware?”
The young man lets out an unexpected laugh, as if it had been a punch line, then quickly gathers himself. “Yeah. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” the bald man says, his smile inching wider. “I’m Marty, by the way.” He offers his hand as the bartender sets their drinks down.
“Oh, I’m James.” He puts his hand in Marty’s.
“God, you really are cold,” Marty says. “You don’t have a coat or anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” James wraps his hands around the warm glass and stirs it with the little straw.
“I guess you haven’t been here long, then.”
“Just a week, actually.”
“Ah, a cheechako!” Marty finishes off his Blue Moon and gives his Irish coffee a quick stir, then takes a sip. “So what brings a young man like you halfway around the world?”
James gazes up at the bottles again. Many of them bear the names of much warmer places: Malibu, Curaçao, Havana Club, Bombay Sapphire. Outside, a gust of wind whips a barrage of ice pellets against the window facing Fifth Avenue.
“I mean, it seems like everyone in this state has some kind of crazy story about how they got here,” Marty continues. “Except me. I was born and raised in Juneau. Lived there for most of my life. But I come up here every year for the pediatrics convention. That’s what I do—I’m a pediatrician.”
“Oh, OK,” James says. “Do you . . . have a partner or anything?”
“No. Not at the moment. Used to be married, though.”
“Oh.”
“And I have three kids. Two of them live with their mother in Juneau and one’s in college in Oregon.”
“Do you get to see the younger ones a lot?”
“I do. I’m very lucky. There’ve been times when I thought I wasn’t. Really bad times. But God, I realize now I was lucky all along. For all of it.”
The bar-back goes over to the stereo to play “Chandelier” for the third time. He hops up on the corner of the bar and sways lazily to the music, singing under his breath.
“So what’s your story?” Marty asks James. “Visiting someone? Working?”
“I followed someone up here,” James says, turning to face Marty. “A man.” He raises his glass to his lips and sips.
“Ah.” Marty smiles again, but looks a few years older this time. “And how’s that working out?”
“It’s not. It didn’t.” He takes a bigger sip. “I guess I knew it wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have expected . . .”
“He took you up here with him from Delaware? Or you came on your own?”
“I went with him. I wouldn’t say he took me.”
“That’s a long way.”
“Yeah.” James drinks, then sits up straighter. “You ever been?”
“I have, actually.”
“Oh, no way!”
“Rehoboth Beach. Beautiful.”
“Yeah.” James sighs. “I’m from Dover.”
“Mmm. Air Force?”
“He is.”
“Commissioned?”
James’s voice softens. “He’s . . . he’s high up.”
“Oh.” Marty sets his drink down. “I see. Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
The old drag queen sets down her empty glass and starts drumming her fingers along the side of it, her rings clinking against the glass, summoning the bartender back from the pool table.
“One more, Jolene?” he asks.
She nods sleepily.
“You driving tonight?”
Jolene shakes her head, her red wig hanging a bit askew. The bartender refills her glass, going lighter on the rum this time.
“So,” James asks Marty. “What’s Juneau like?”
“Smaller. Warmer. Prettier. More like Delaware.”
“Mmm. Is there . . . much of a gay scene there?”
Marty chuckles. “If you know where to look. Which is harder than it used to be, at least for me. I don’t have any of those apps that everybody uses now. When I was younger it used to be about certain places. Bars and cafés. And that’s still true to some extent, I guess. There’s the Triangle, which is kind of gay, but it’s not an actual gay bar. So every time I’m in Anchorage I like to come in here.”
“Is it always this quiet?”
“Oh God, no. You just came here on the wrong night. You come in here on a Saturday and you’ll be fighting guys off you.”
A low smile appears on James’s face for a moment. He lifts his eyes to the muted TV, where Yoda is mouthing his last words. There are no captions, and James hasn’t seen the movie in years, so he doesn’t know what Yoda’s saying. The only sound in the bar is Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” playing over the speakers. James is caught off guard by his own laughter.
“What?” Marty asks, laughing a little himself.
“Just this,” James says, gesturing to the TV. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m tired.” Then he falls into laughter again. “So, you know, this part of the song, when it goes into the robot voice—I mean, I know he’s saying ‘we’re up all night to get lucky’ but I always hear it as ‘we’ll rob a Mexican monkey.’”
“Huh.” Marty listens and grins.
“Right? You hear it?”
“Yeah, I do! You know, there’s a word for that. One of my favorite words in the English language.”
“A word for what?”
“For when you mishear song lyrics and your mind substitutes something else. It’s called mondegreen.”
“Mondegreen. Mmm.”
The door opens—halfway at first, cautiously, then all the way. A man dressed in hunter’s camo and a beige safari hat and a woman wearing what seem to be pajamas step inside and hover near the back wall. Water is dripping off the man’s hat onto his shoulders. He leans over and whispers to her, dripping onto her as well. They stand in silence. After about a minute, she walks back out the door and he follows.
“Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you with him,” Marty says. “Do you have any other connections here? Family or . . . a job or anything?”
A resigned smile. “I . . . no. You have to understand. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .” He laughs, shrugs, looks Marty in the eyes. “I had no other plans. He’s got a big house on base here. Biggest bed I’ve ever seen. View of the mountains over there. I just wanted to live in his house. Sleep in his bed. Walk his fucking dog. Cook for him. Love him. But I guess he got scared. I still don’t really know why. He won’t answer my calls.” James finishes his drink.
“I’m sorry, James.”
“Yeah. I guess I just misunderstood. Or—I didn’t want to understand.”
Marty stretches, then reaches into his pocket for his billfold. He leaves a twenty on the bar. “Listen. I know this guy meant the world to you. And I know it feels like you’ll never get over this. Believe me. I know. But you will. Your life belongs to you, not anyone else.”
“I know. Thank you.” The corners of James’s mouth twitch a little. “It’s just scary. Suddenly realizing where I am. That I made a mistake.”
“Forget that. Things happened. They can’t be undone. The idea of a mistake is only in your mind, after the fact. So don’t look back. You’re here. You’re young. This place is . . . full of surprises. Go live your life.”
James wipes his eyes with his napkin. “OK.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“I’m at the Black Angus now. On Gambell.”
“Oh, honey!” Jolene interjects from across the bar in a loud, raspy voice. She shakes her head disapprovingly.
“She’s right,” the bartender offers.
Marty pauses for a moment. “Look,” he says, handing James a clean napkin, “I’m here for one more day. I have a nice, comfortable room at the Hilton. With two beds. This isn’t a come-on or anything. But you’re welcome to stay there, and maybe I can help you figure out something tomorrow. Up to you.”
James glances around the room. The bartender is wiping down the other side of the bar as he talks to Jolene in a hushed voice. The bar-back is on his phone, continually scrolling down with his finger. Through the small window facing Fifth Avenue, the sleet seems to be letting up.
“Thank you,” James says, flustered. “I mean, I just don’t want to . . . intrude—”
“Oh, it’s really no trouble. It would be nice to have some company. And again, just platonic—it’s up to you.”
“I think I’m OK. But thanks. Really.”
Marty nods. “OK.” He stands, pushes in his stool and puts on his jacket. “If you change your mind, I’m in room 1410. You can call me there too if you’d like.” He extends his hand, and James shakes it. “Good luck to you, James.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Marty waves at the bartender and heads for the door.
On Fifth Avenue, the sleet has turned into a light freezing rain. The street has become hopelessly slick, and two police officers are trying to push a car out of an intersection without much success. A few men slip out of the Polar Bar for a cigarette. Somebody flashes the lights inside—last call. One puts his cigarette out on the sidewalk, tucks it behind his ear and heads back in. The rest stay, shrouded in a haze of smoke and ice and breath.
Across the street, a lone man in a red sweatshirt emerges from the alley between Myrna’s and Mammoth Music. He pauses when he gets to the street and puts his hands in his pockets. He’s listening. He looks east. The sky is much darker now, a dusty violet. It’s quieter than before. He flips his red hood over his head. With careful steps, he begins to walk west.