Bombera – by Josefina Huq
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Sad rock music slips out of the new speakers. She scans the bare furniture and blank walls. She smokes, inhaling deeply, taking in the smell of burnt plastic from the old speakers, still lingering. And yes, it does sound different, the music expanding in the vast space. Sometimes she will hear one of the songs out there, in the outside, and feel the urge to sit in her wooden bench and sip from a beer. Now she squirms in the new seats, which have not yet eroded to fit her body. When she knocks back the remains of her drink she sees burnt branches above her, still clinging to the brick of the building. The toilet window behind them is a singed, square hole in the wall; inside, the toilet seat is stained in black chalk. She would often sit there, steadying her pint on the edge of the sink, and contemplate walking home. Oh, she thinks, the roof is gone. She does not feel sad exactly. She gets another drink, feels annoyed instead.
“Oh, she thinks, the roof is gone. She does not feel sad exactly. She gets another drink, feels annoyed instead.”
Her friends arrive, taking in the new landscape, post-fire, trying to locate the old things and squinting through the setting sun. For a moment the scene reminds her of home (homehome) in the dry season. The air is cool and smells like barbecued meat, or fireworks. But she’s not waiting to throw smoke bombs under chairs, and she’s not about to yell bombera bombera! at her mother as she hoses off the long grass that has caught fire from the crackers. She imagines bringing her mother here – how rigid she would become, sipping a coke through a paper straw gone mushy with red lipstick, watching her daughter sink into the bench.
“One of her friends comments on the mirrors being gone, and having to stare at each other instead of themselves.”
One of her friends comments on the mirrors being gone, and having to stare at each other instead of themselves. She laughs and immediately tries to find her reflection, making sure she doesn't laugh too big, the way she does when she is drunk. Somebody asks her how it felt having her birthday on the day of the fire. What’s it matter? she says. Even starting a fire couldn’t get people to come. They laugh, and she tries to laugh hard enough so as not to feel hurt, thinking about that night. How she was across town and saw the firetrucks zoom down the main road, headed straight towards her wooden spot in the corner. The sirens cutting through the lyrics of Happy Birthday. She felt guilty then, in a way that compelled her to do nothing but blow out the candle. And then sad again. Idiot, she thought often that night, just be happy! Not that she didn’t have friends, but the people who came were unexpected, and the people who didn’t wounded her more than she thought possible. It was a Saturday night, and by midnight she was in bed reading obituaries for the beer garden.
A thick string of colourful lights now cuts across the length of the garden. Something about them, taut against the open sky, reminds her of birthday parties, and then dirt-covered feet, moist hands. Her friends grafted onto her childhood. She wipes her hands on her thighs. Maybe she was trying too hard to feel at home again. And are these people friends? What do you call the people between friend and acquaintance, someone you speak to often, but incidentally? She types the thought into her phone browser and it tells her the in-betweens are ‘mates’. Mates, she thinks, is still too chummy.
“What do you call the people between friend and acquaintance, someone you speak to often, but incidentally? She types the thought into her phone browser and it tells her the in-betweens are ‘mates’. Mates, she thinks, is still too chummy.”
She feels exposed. Maybe she has overestimated her attachment to this place. She disappears into herself, disengaging from the gossip, the rumours about insurance scams and rival businesses and former employees, drunk and still in possession of the keys. She thought the owner would be in a bad mood for the rest of his life, but he walks out into the beer garden supporting his arm at the elbow to steady his cigarette, smiling. She can hear the trucks backing up in the alley and feel the sun prickling her skin, and smell pho from next door. She looks at him – he is still smiling. Stupid man! Everything is annoying, and it’s about to rain, the kind of hot rain you can smell before you feel. She could never distinguish the fragrances on her mother’s old block of land – was it rain, or cow dung melting in the heat? She looks around the table, thinking to tell someone about these memories, but it would be too personal and boring.
The rain comes suddenly. Hard and fast, scattering pouches of tobacco over the new decking. They yell and laugh and climb through the droplets. Some thunder cracks weakly. It would all be fun if she didn’t so badly want a smoke. Maybe the owner will take pity and let them smoke at the bar. They huddle into a dark corner inside, watching the string of lights get soggy with thick rain. She watches the spot where she used to sit in her nook, behind the wall, and read and drink; in the mirrors, watching herself read and drink. Sometimes listening to the rain outside. Sometimes getting a well-lit glimpse of her face in the mirrors and feeling safe, healthy, where she should be, and other times having to work hard to recognise the woman there – deranged, pale and tired, full of beer and empty of something she could never place. She smiles at how dramatic the thought is. A mate asks, What’s so funny? Oh nothing, but also, I’m gonna have to cry later on and I haven’t worked out why. She laughs now, and recognises the feeling of getting drunk.
Water leaks in under the door frame, seeping into the hairy rug beneath them. She thinks, maybe they will have to spend the night here, like a sleepover, like a school camp. What if, when the owner passes out, they put his hand in some warm beer? What if they do a trust fall but from the top of the stairs? What if they’re forced to speak more than a few pints worth of words until they all come to know each other too well, and she has to call her mother to pick her up?
With the rug now completely soaked and the rain becoming violent, they move to the bar and complain about the sudden change in weather. They hang onto each other’s stools, trying to get words in, yelling over the storm and spilling things into the stream of water forming over the floorboards. They tease each other cruelly, in that drunk way that can always be forgiven. One of her mates describes the bar as an extension of their living room, and she responds with a short, wicked laugh. Don’t be so rude, the mate says. It’s allowed, she replies. It’s my birthday.
“Don’t be so rude, the mate says. It’s allowed, she replies. It’s my birthday.”
They hear the crashing of furniture outside and look to the owner, sitting at the bar, still smiling like a dope! Probably drunk enough to think the sun will return. Some customers look at the radar on their phones, sighing heavily or suddenly quiet, shooting back something strong. The water is soaking sneakers, forcing itself into the holes of boots, making thongs do that slippery, squeaky noise.
She is sauced and restless, swivels around to a stranger at the bar. She tries to explain why she comes here, forgetting if he’s even asked. She tries to angle for another, deeper explanation than the cheap drinks and what was once a cosy beer garden. Her friends look at her curiously, embarrassed for her. It’s my birthday, she says. How old? The man is indulging her for the usual reasons lonely men at bars do, but she can feel his apprehension. She sees a version of herself in her pint glass, the woman doing that smile she promised herself she wouldn't do, as if her favourite bar didn’t nearly burn down last week. I think my mum forgot it, she says to the stranger. She swivels away, too quickly, and falls into the water, which is now rising above knees, belt buckles. It is thick and grey, full of cigarette butts and tin cans. A customer climbs over the bar and wades towards the record player to turn the disc. She refuses to be helped up, letting the water soak into her jeans, laughing, feeling like a little tadpole – no, a toad.
People slip off their stools and float. The bartenders have given up. They flail around, tipsy, knocking over bottles, pouring well above the notch in the wine glasses, over the rim and into the water. One accidentally flips a beer tap open and laughs at herself, then flips over the others. They scoop up dirty beer water into their schooners. Like the games she used to play with her cousins in their pool. Picking up their dad's empty Peroni bottles around the edges and filling them with pool water. Pretending to be adults with the sting of chlorine on their mouths.
C’mon you lot, upstairs, the owner cheers. Everyone is paddling and scooping and laughing on the way to the second floor. The water chases them to the next level and she is floating, tracing the outline of the fake deer head on the wall, its expression blank and unhelpful. Her toes no longer reach the floor, and everyone is grinning, carrying on, not knowing why, only sensing that they are drunk and hysterical and never likely to leave. The grey water is up to her eyeballs. Her mate pleads with her, Hey, don’t cry, what’s wrong? His hands touching the ceiling. They try, half-heartedly, to swim back down, or break through the windows. Splashing, laughing at thunder. She wonders how long after all this the bar will reopen. You’re making the beer salty, her mate says. She looks around and sees no one she would like to die with. My mum is gonna be so mad at me. The sad rock music sounds much sadder underwater. ▼
Image: Andras Vas
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