By Anthony Paolucci

WHY HELL HADN’T OPENED up and swallowed this shithole by now is something Mary would never quite understand. Rudy’s Bar & Grille, known affectionately to its regulars as Satan’s Armpit. Or, “The Pit” for short. The last time she was here, over thirty years ago, she swore she’d never come back. Next thing you know, it’s Christmas Eve 2023 and she’s already two beers in. Mary sat alone at one of the dining tables, far enough away from everyone as to appear not worth the trouble of walking over and striking up a conversation. The last thing she needed tonight was a new friend.

Daring to look around, she took stock of the familiar sights. The neon beer signs hanging on the paneled walls still flickered obnoxiously. The clack of the pool balls hitting against each other made her flinch, just like they used to. The country music blaring on the ancient jukebox near the cigarette machine made her skin crawl, and she suddenly missed the piercing wail of Axl Rose demanding to be taken to Paradise City. The air still smelled like a smoke-filled living room at a family gathering in the 80s. It was illegal to smoke in bars now, but she knew the cops never bothered with this place, so there was no one to tell people they couldn’t light up. The linoleum floor, which probably hadn’t seen a mop since the bar first opened, was covered in sticky patches of spilled booze. Mary always hated the grating sound her shoes made whenever she walked across it, as if she had duct tape stuck to her soles. None of the tables sat flush against the floor, many of which had matchbooks stuffed beneath one of the legs to keep them steady. Some things never change, she thought.

Rudy’s was never the kind of place you came to in order to enjoy a night out with your friends. You didn’t come here to blow off steam after a hard day at work. You didn’t come here after spending hours getting ready in hopes of finding love – whether for the rest of your life or only one night. It was the kind of place you came to because you had nowhere else to go. Or the alternative was worse.

The dark and sullen faces at the bar were proof of this. Alone or in small groups, they stared into their bottles or glasses, as if the answers to all their troubles lay at the bottom and they had only to finish the toxic liquid inside to reach them. Few words were exchanged, if any at all, save those necessary to order another round. Sometimes a gesture would suffice. Most people left at the end of the night feeling unredeemed or unfulfilled, even deeper in their shit than when they first arrived. At least Mary always did.

The faces may be different, but it was as if time had frozen since she was last here. Or time simply didn’t exist in this tiny pocket of the universe. A virtual purgatory for the hopeless and the damned. Then what does that make me? she mused.

If you were a bored teenager, however, and gleefully aware that Rudy’s didn’t card, this place was nirvana. The bar’s unsavory ambience was easily ignored by those ambitious enough to indulge temptation. In fact, it only added to the establishment’s appeal. To someone that young, the bar reeked of all things adulthood, a mundane stage of life many kids naively anticipated. But when you’re on the other side of it, adulthood seemed like a land of adventure, freedom, and endless pleasure. All the fun and delectable things childhood unfairly denies you, with its petty rules and parental restrictions.

Mary had been one of them once, many moons ago. In a short period of time, she managed to accumulate an impressive collection of heart-wrenching memories. They clung to her all through adolescence, holding on for dear life while battering her spirit mercilessly. Every day was another battle, a perpetual struggle to keep the pain at bay. Unbeknownst to those who only knew her as a grown woman, many of these bitter memories took their first breaths here. Broken hearts, broken promises, broken people; they flowed steadily through Rudy’s doors like a nameless river that went nowhere. Mary was a fallen leaf, trapped in the treacherous current, and fated to never reach the shore.

For her, this place was an emotional crime scene, her heart having left bloodstains no detective would ever find. Whether in the ladies room or the men’s room. The kitchen. The parking lot by the dumpster, or the poorly lit booth in the far corner. A few times in the manager’s office. She hadn’t been a waitress or a bartender. She wasn’t the girlfriend of some musician whose band was playing on a Saturday night. She wasn’t even a patron. Not really. She was a childhood friend of the owner’s son, Jimmy. In time he became more than a friend. Even then, it was all good fun. Nothing serious, or so she told herself. Mary didn’t have time for anything more anyway. Not with school and her family. Her father hadn’t been well, and when she wasn’t at school, she was home helping her mother tend to his every need. Who had time to be someone’s girlfriend back then? Besides, Jimmy wasn’t the only one. Not even close. Rudy’s was a garden of earthly delights. And for a young, healthy girl like her, who laughed in the face of inhibition, every lost soul who entered was an unexplored world, a taste never sampled, a scent never inhaled, and another chance to breach the rift between her and what she imagined true intimacy felt like. She had crossed the bridge of desire many times over the years, and what waited for her on the other side failed to live up to her expectations. Every time. Yet that never managed to discourage her from trying again. Until it did, and her body became a jaded shell of emotional destitution. The only sort of protection she would ever know. A warning sign to all future prospects to stay away. Unfortunately, they listened.

Jimmy was the closest she came to knowing the romantic love of another. Mary realized this in hindsight. It only took her nearly forty years to admit it. Giving a sixteen-year-old girl a boy’s heart was like putting a decrepit, old man in charge of the nuclear codes. You risked the destruction of something beautiful. Eventually, Jimmy moved on. Went to college like good boys do. Mary did too, but the one he went to was in another state. Far away from her. Good for him. He at least made it out of this town with his soul intact.

So what was she doing here after all this time, Mary wondered? This place that was a haven for her ghosts and demons yet somehow managed to lure her back. The prodigal whore returns. And what did it have to do with reminding herself what a foolish girl she had been? Why was she inviting every past mistake to slap her repeatedly in the face, begging them to do it again before they even retracted their hand? Mary was not the sort of person who allowed herself to feel vulnerable, not ever. It was an unspeakable crime against dignity – what little she had left. Yet here she was, an impoverished city with no defensive walls, all but asking the enemy to raze it to the ground. What would they find when they rummaged through the rubble? Anything worth salvaging? She doubted it. Let the wind carry away the dust and bones they leave behind. Let history erase her from existence, for all she cared. She didn’t deserve to be remembered.

Mary wrapped her hand around the pint glass on the table in front of her and lifted it to her painted lips. The warm beer felt good against her tongue, a reminder of better days. Keggers in the woods behind the school during finals week, and playing Truth or Dare around a fire where the only option anyone ever chose was dare. This was before the tether of maturity coiled around her young neck and choked from her any trace of hope and optimism. Before the magic of independence dissolved into dark shadows, transforming into the monotonous toil of full-time work with little time for play. The closer she inched toward 50, the less time there was on the other side to make things better. The less she dreamed and the more she grudgingly accepted the way things were – and would likely always be.

Mary moved the glass away from her mouth and stared at the cloudy splotches of red lipstick left behind. When the glass was empty, she would need to touch up in the bathroom. Not that she had anyone to impress; she just liked fooling the world into thinking she had her shit together.

Glancing around the room again, her eyes rested on aspects of the seedy atmosphere she at first had turned a blind eye. They were symbols of something greater. Physical manifestations of her gloom, resentment, and testaments of the fact that the best years of her life were behind her. An artificial Christmas tree stood against one wall, no taller than she. The branches were spaced apart far enough so you could see the pole in the center to which they were hopelessly attached. Nothing about the tree appeared natural. The green of the needles didn’t even look like a color found in nature. She used the term “needles” loosely as they looked more like old pipe cleaners, twisted into awkward angles in a feeble attempt to resemble something alive. They put this tree out every December for as long as she had been coming here. No doubt it was older than her, she presumed, likely purchased on clearance at some retail store that no longer existed, like Bradlees or Caldor. From its pathetic branches hung a few red and green balls, their glass shells streaked with dark scratches that marred the colored coating. Like a snake too old and tired to squeeze to death its captured prey, a limp strand of colored lights wrapped around the length of the tree. Some of the lights even worked. Mostly, they just flickered weakly, like dying fireflies at summer’s end. There were no gifts beneath this tree, no colorful skirt to hide the ugly metal stand that kept the tree upright. No one paid the tree any mind, and if they never put it on display during the holiday season, she didn’t think it would be missed.

Along the entire length of the bar was another strand of colored lights, tucked beneath the overhang. Every foot or so, the strand was attached to the bar with masking tape, the drooping sections in between resembling a string of weak smiles. These lights also flickered, struggling to remain lit for the duration of the month.

The bartender, a woman who Mary could swear she went to high school with, was wearing a Santa hat, clipped with bobby pins to her bleached-blond hair. The hat invited a lot of unwanted comments from some of the men, mostly about sitting on their lap, asking her if she’s been naughty or nice, or whether she wanted to visit their North Pole. The few women standing close by either stared awkwardly at the ground, or pretended to be distracted by something on the other side of the room. With every crude and uninspired remark, the bartender either ignored these men or smirked – depending on their level of creativity and how much they tipped, no doubt. Like Mary, she probably knew they were harmless, defeated by life, and it was simply a lame display of male prowess, of asserting their dominance over the female species in the wild. But their efforts were hollow; they were merely peacocking, more for the other men’s amusement than because they expected the bartender to be flattered by their attention. These weren’t the same men who Mary would’ve once charmed into buying a girl young enough to be their daughter a drink. Cut from the same cloth, perhaps, but not the same. These men lacked the cold, predatory edge of someone freed from the constraints of morality and would likely have sooner driven her home or insisted she call her mother.

Christmas. Perhaps the only time of year when Mary felt a slight breach in her defenses, the hardened shell she came to rely so heavily upon the rest of the time a little softer in places. The feeling terrified her, and she likened it to thinking about her reckless youth. Both made her feel uncomfortably exposed and her only means of staving off the pain was to embrace it. Like her past, there was no avoiding Christmas – the queen mother of all holidays. There was nowhere in the country you could escape to where it wasn’t celebrated. As a kid, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. As an adult, it was a malicious specter who callously haunted those for whom the holiday once brought joy. With the passing years, time took from her some of the key people with whom she once shared this glorious holiday. Her father and grandparents, for starters. Until Mary was well into her twenties, both her grandmothers had been the high overseer of their respective Christmas celebrations, supervising every aspect of the festivities – her father’s mother Christmas Eve, and her mother’s mother Christmas Day. From every plate or bowl of food that appeared on the dinner table to when the children – wracked with anticipation – would be relieved of their suffering and finally allowed to open presents. You would have thought Christmas began and ended with her grandmothers, so thorough and absolute was their presence. Their beautiful faces were ingrained in the very fibers of each decoration, their lively spirits every intonation of the voices singing holiday classics on the stereo, as if these women themselves were a sacred Christmas fixture. Their laughter wove a musical tapestry of merriment that permeated every inch of the house and the idea of Christmas occurring devoid of the sight and sound of them seemed agonizingly preposterous.

Mary could still recall being one of the children running around during each of these occasions, weaving carelessly in between the gathered adults, who either stood or sat about with their glasses of wine and cigarettes, immersed in conversation. Where once she and her cousins bonded over such revelry, either speculating on Christmas Eve what Santa would bring or sharing news of what treasures he brought that morning, these people were now strangers with families of their own who had since moved away. She still received Christmas cards from some of them, but they felt more obligatory than because they genuinely wanted to stay in touch. Mary didn’t hear from them any other time of year, not that she bothered to maintain contact with any of them, either.

There was a time when she even bought into the whole religious thing and believed Christmas was the day Jesus was born, the guy who said everything would be okay if you only believed in him. Kind of like Santa Claus. If you believed in him, too, you would get presents. In the case of Jesus, you would get a place in Heaven when you died. Both were enticing to an impressionable child, especially when it was adults who first explained all this to you. Adults like her parents who she trusted unconditionally. Time would prove otherwise, of course. It wasn’t long before she learned there was no Santa Claus – he suspiciously had the same handwriting as Mary’s mother, and used the same wrapping paper. Soon after, the idea of Jesus and Heaven seemed just as absurd if not impossible. And just like that, all the magic that filled her childhood with mystery and wonder was gone. Vanished in a flash of cruel logic and sensible deduction. Murdered by maturity. But for a while, the delusion had been enough. These things gave Christmastime a purpose, a substantial reason for being, and not just an excuse for gaudy decorations and time off from school. Christmastime in a person’s forties was a reality check, a time to pause and reflect on the good times gone. A reminder that this time of year will never be the same and there was nothing about it worth looking forward to. It was a mental prison of sentiment and nostalgia whose high concrete walls were covered in cheap plastic images of anthropomorphic reindeer, manically grinning elves, and fat bearded men; an abyss whose icy winds were the ghostly voices of Bing Crosby and Burl Ives. And in the distance you could hear the foreboding clink of Jacob Marley’s rattling chains.

Mary believed you have three chances in your life to experience the magic of Christmas: as a child yourself, when you had children of your own, and when you had grandchildren. As a child, you’re unaware of these three precious phases because you’re only living in the here and now. The future was centuries away, and you could never imagine yourself as a parent much less a grandparent. But youth is fleeting and deceitful, and in no time, you’re poring over unpaid bills and realizing you have a favorite stove burner. When you’re a kid, you think you’ll be young forever. Adulthood is for those who stopped believing in magic, or so the cheesy kid’s movies we grew up with assured us. You never really get older if you maintain a childish quality, a pure and innocent perspective. Bullshit. Adulthood sneaks up on you when you least expect it. A classmate you play with every day at recess dies in a car accident before you’re able to comprehend people your age can die too, not just the sick and elderly. This means death could take you any time, another unfathomable event when you spend every waking moment in the comforting illusion of youth’s safe and loving embrace. Harsh realizations like this force kids to grow up quicker than they deserve. Mary could still see the little girl’s face in her mind; her name was Rachel, and she wanted to be a famous actress someday. Whenever Mary thought about her, she tried not to imagine Rachel’s small, lifeless body amid a pile of twisted wreckage. But it was hard, and never got any easier.

Mary eventually had a child of her own, Sarah, but she grew up as well. Sarah told her she was gay and never wanted kids, so Mary would miss out on the grandchild stage of Christmas bliss. Sarah moved out of state with her partner five years ago and she almost never calls or emails her anymore. Still, Mary had the early years with her, the ones where parents get to re-experience the magic of Christmas vicariously through their children. It was different, though. Muted, in a way. Mary never expected to feel guilt when first telling her daughter about Santa, the trusting gleam in her bright and innocent eyes. Again, children trust their parents unconditionally, and Mary was telling Sarah a bold-faced lie that would someday be found out. Mary always believed Sarah would resent her and perhaps develop trust issues. Sarah would someday tell her therapist how it all began when she was duped into believing in Santa Claus because her so-called loving mother told her he was real. Mary never looked forward to the impending disappointment and the inevitable dissolution of the magic for her daughter as well. So, Mary bided her time, watching Sarah open presents on Christmas morning with Christina Aguilera’s Christmas album playing in the background. Sarah still believed there was genuine magic in the world. How envious Mary had been of her in those moments. She should have been grateful she could give Sarah these memories. Instead, Mary berated herself for allowing her daughter to believe the magic would last forever. She never told Sarah otherwise, never advised her to appreciate every magical moment because they would one day disappear into the dark and moldy cracks of adulthood. Perhaps one day Sarah, too, would be sitting in a bar like this, lamenting the past and remembering how much better things used to be.

And yet, after going out of her way to forget this place existed for so long, none of this explained Mary’s reasons for being here now. Why would she sit stewing in her own misery inside a dismal place like Rudy’s on Christmas Eve, she silently inquired? The bar was an open sore on the thin walls of her heart, a putrid stain on her formative years. They say a killer typically returns to the scene of the crime. A seemingly innocent bystander watching the forensics team work to uncover his identity from the safety of a crowd, an air of smug satisfaction enveloping his soulless form. Similarly, an earthbound spirit haunts the place where its body left this plane of existence. Usually, the death is sudden, violent, or tragic and the ghost isn’t aware it’s dead. In both instances, someone is inexplicably drawn to where an experience shaped them or altered them forever. Metaphorically speaking, either of these were acceptable explanations regarding Mary’s presence here tonight. Though in her case, she was both the murderer and the lonely phantom adrift on the seas of eternity.

Truth be told, Mary had no idea what compelled her to come here. Why she suddenly got up from the couch in her apartment and journeyed to this location. It was as if the decision hadn’t been made with her rational mind, but rather her other self, who operated solely on emotional instinct. Her body had moved on autopilot, vaguely confident some sort of explanation would be waiting for her once she arrived.

Taking another swig of beer, she thought about the old saying “hair of the dog.” In Medieval times, it was believed the most successful treatment for a rabid dog bite was to press the hair of the dog that bit you against the wound. This same concept was later applied to the idea that a cure for hangovers was to drink more booze. When you stop drinking, you deprive your body of alcohol and it goes through withdrawal. Some people actually believed this worked. So when Mary thought about spending the evening at Rudy’s, reminiscing about everything wrong with her life, and everything unfortunate that transpired, she came to a logical conclusion. Being somewhere that caused you immense pain was an effective distraction from whatever was causing you lesser pain. Like her first taste of love, Christmas never set out to break her heart or betray her. Yet somehow it did when she wasn’t paying attention.

Mary sat back in her chair and folded her arms, her weary gaze trailing off beyond a scattering of empty tables and chairs. Her vision blurred in deep contemplation as her existential predicament fell into focus. There are significant parallels between our first brush with heartbreak and the end of childhood innocence. Both changed us forever and left us feeling profoundly susceptible to further damage. Our only hope of survival depended on whether scars formed over these wounds, serving as a reminder of what we risked, lost, and sometimes gained. Whether what we acquired was priceless wisdom, a bittersweet memory worthy of occasional reflection, or the ability to appreciate an imperfect life. Someone once said you can’t go home again. Yet someone else also said the best way to find something you lost is to retrace your steps.

Mary pulled out her phone and stared at the black-mirrored face, contemplating drastic measures. Setting her glass down on the table, she reluctantly dialed the number and lifted the phone to her ear. Three rings resounded until a familiar voice broke the repetitive noise and said her name.

“Hi, mom. Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing?…Watching A Christmas Story?…No, I stopped watching that one a long time ago…I know it reminds you of me when I was little. You might find this hard to believe but they’ve actually made a lot of really good Christmas movies since then…Like what? Oh, I don’t know, there’s one I like on Hulu called Happiest Season. Came out a few years ago…Yeah, it’s a feel-good flick…Why? I don’t know…No, I don’t have anything against the classics…Because I spend too much time in the past this time of year, that’s why. I need to get out of my own head, and sometimes that means watching a new Christmas movie. Maybe it’s my only hope of ever finding peace during this freaking holiday, you know?…What?…No, don’t worry about it…I know I’m not making any sense. Everything’s all right, I promise. Haven’t jumped off a bridge yet, have I?…Sorry, I know you don’t like talk like that. No…I haven’t heard from Sarah. Maybe tomorrow. Wishful thinking, right? I’m due for a Christmas miracle…What, come over now?…You just got Hulu? Is anyone else there?… I don’t know, maybe you have a gentleman friend over…I know how old you are, mom, that shouldn’t make a difference…Ok, yeah, fine. Want me to bring anything?…No? You sure? I’ll bring some wine – the stores are still open…I know you don’t drink anymore, it’s for me…Yeah, I realize that too. It has been a long time since we spent Christmas Eve together. Don’t remember why we ever stopped…Yeah, I know, traditions change when we get older. Well, look where tradition got us. I’m alone at a bar that should probably have been burned to the ground decades ago, and you’re home alone watching Ralphie Parker daydream about a freaking gun for the fortieth year in a row…Ok, yeah, I’ll be there soon. No, it’ll be good…Yeah, me too.”

For the first time in years, the howl of Christmas devils seemed quieter, as if their rage had all but dissipated with the tapping of the button on her phone. The bartender in the Santa hat suddenly didn’t look so silly or desperate. The men didn’t seem so annoying or sad. The bloodstains in the places where her memories cowered were harder to see. And the Christmas tree against the wall didn’t look so shabby. Most of all, the warm beer in her glass tasted awful. Why did she ever settle for this swill? Mary set the glass down on the rickety table and stood up from her chair. Sauntering past the other people inhabiting the bar, she headed for the front doors without the slightest glance behind her. There was a corner store nearby that sold wine and Mary had just enough money in her pocket for one bottle.

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Since 2009, Anthony Paolucci has self-published over 40 books, age levels ranging from preschool to adult. He works at Park Group Solutions, an advertising agency in Connecticut, as a proofreader/writer, and is the drummer of indie piano-rock band Passing Strange (Neurotronix Records).