Something About Sammy. Blaine Sims

struggled to comprehend this. How could this kid sit for hours playing on his cellphone? Why did he sit in a bar by himself and at times with older people?

      It's rare when younger ones come in, and when they do, they're tourists (the more youthful crowd comes in later when they have a DJ, around 10 pm.

      Long after he and crew have left). Why did he seem so popular? It was a mystery. I couldn't understand it. Determined to learn more, I found in addition to drinking alcohol, he’s a heavy marijuana smoker, as is Allison.

      Weeks evolved into months. He was so close, and yet, so far away. I couldn’t talk with anyone at the bar about him or my enchantment.

      As time ticked by, we became cordial. On weekends, it was me and him in the place for hours or one or two others who weren’t regulars.

      We didn’t converse much. I’d watch television, and he’d engross himself in electronic entertainment on his phone. He or I chatted with Allison, or she’d speak to one or both of us.

      If there before he arrived, I’d say, “You’re late!” And vice versa. We sat together more and more. We started exchanging, “Hi, Sammy!” “Hi, Andrei!”

      His magnetism and sensations trapped me. He has the most peculiar laugh I’ve heard.

      Ever since hearing his name, “Samuel” was the standard version. It was rare when I heard him called “Sammy.” I call him Sammy but inquired which he preferred.

      “All my friends call me Sammy,” he said.

      I didn’t give it much credence, but it weighed on me. Allison, his circle of friends, other bartenders, regulars, all called him Samuel. I’d hear his name often. People in his clique, Allison, even other bartenders, often shouted out, “Samuel’s on his way!” after having received a text. In a convoluted way, it’s as if he’s the center of the universe, at least at Rusty’s. Everyone loves Samuel.

      I absorbed information, yet understood little. It became apparent he’s gay, not in the flaming queen sense (although instances, when he’s taken on such persona, have shown), but it’s clear in his mannerisms and speech. I want to interject: Rusty’s is not a gay bar. I began to associate with other patrons.

      One, a lady named Sandra, took an instant liking to me. She doesn’t keep company or converse with anyone except Allison.

      Over the months, I became aware of her collection of painful events and memories. Her husband passed away years ago, and her son died of a drug overdose. A longtime male friend committed suicide.

      Despite misgivings, I liked her. A tendency to toss her head back in a jerking manner concerned me. Was it a symptom of nervousness, or a sign of arrogant brashness?

      I enjoyed her company and our talks. We empathized with each other, and she often told me she loved me. I saw the possibility of a closer relationship.

      Another patron, Jack, is a quiet and low-keyed gentleman in his forties, who is a hard worker with a tale to tell.

      I never joined or became involved with Sammy’s clique. We could be sitting together for hours, yet when one or more of his group came in, he'd sit with them,

      without saying, “Goodbye.” Although it made me sad, I understood. I relished the heaven-sent moments of his proximity and presence.

      I wondered why Sammy didn’t have a boyfriend. I heard him utter the term in the past tense once. What happened? Had he been so damaged he never sought anyone else?

      I pondered whether he received abuse. Is he embarrassed to be gay? Did he ever have a girlfriend? I never heard the term come out of his mouth. Had he ever partaken in sex with anyone?

      At no time did I hear him mention or discuss sex. Why did he prefer to be with older women? It entered my mind he didn’t like guys to hit on him. I discerned he felt protected and secure in the bar.

      I’ve regretted not trying to get him to open to me. To find out his likes and dislikes. What his favorite foods are; his least favorites; does he have a preferred color, and so forth. I never asked on account of I didn’t want to interrupt his game playing, stupid ass me.

      I told him about the skydiving adventure my son and I experienced. I told him I had my heart set on doing it again.

      “I’ll go skydiving with you, Andrei!” he shouted.

      Excitement enveloped me, and I looked forward to performing the feat. Dreams and visions of sharing enjoyable times together outside Rusty’s occupied my brain — dinners, concerts, quality time spent, predicted a future I envisaged with elation.

      Allison and I discussed the sad state of our respective finances. I heard a chat between her and Sammy in the past in reference to his. He alluded his were not the greatest.

      “Well, I can always move in with Sammy,” I said.

      I had no idea where he lived or what his residence is like. I had insight he lived alone with his dog, Fritz. He showed me photos on his phone of Fritz.

      “You’ll have to walk my dog,” he said.

      Several times after, I made the same statement whenever the problem of money arose. I commented, “We can always move in with Sammy!” He’d have the same response with respect to walking his dog.

      “I live in an efficiency apartment,” he would say chuckling after the banter.

      “I never saw him lash out at anyone or show anger,” I later said to Allison.

      “Oh, I’ve seen him go off,” she replied. “He can get infuriated if people get on his nerves or if he’s wronged.’

      “Two years ago, a customer went through a stressful divorce,” she added. “Samuel badgered him to try CBD oil and bought him a bottle. At first, the guy showed no interest but relented. Samuel made no mention of repayment. The next day, Samuel demanded the man reimburse him. He hounded the man for weeks. He hounded him.”

      By now, Sandra and I became friendlier. A regular customer asked one day why she wasn’t with me and referred to her as “your wife.”

      I advised him we’re friends, not husband and wife. Sandra always talked with me, whether Sammy sat by me or not.

      On the days I stayed late, I bought Allison a beer or two after her shift ended. A couple of times, I brought a takeout dinner from a local restaurant for her to munch on, and cart the rest home. She’s not a big eater.

      I told Sammy he reminded me of my son, and the fact made him important. We became a little closer. By this time, I bought him a shot every day. Now and then, two. When it came time to knock one back, he’d raise the jigger in toast.

      “Bottom up, top down, Andrei,” he’d say.

      A good thing I was always sitting. He drank far more of them, along with pitchers of beer. Over time, I noticed Allison rolled her eyes when I’d buy him one.

      “Why are you doing this?” she asked eventually.

      He has a frequent cough. Not continuous but an occasional, single cough. He began to hack more than usual one day.

      “Are you okay?” I asked.

      “Smoke too (cough) much (cough) pot,” he said.

      Chapter Two

      Seven years ago, I decided to move to Bluewater Springs, Georgia after retiring from the Georgia Department of Corrections. A compulsory retirement after a sixteen-year career, I had entered the state of Georgia’s Deferred Retirement Option Program.

      In the fall of 2008, a voice mail message from my son Cody arrived. We had no contact or communication for ten years. He found my new phone number, called, and left a voicemail message.

      Reluctant to return his call, I reached out to longtime friends who were aware of everything borne through the years. As he’s offspring,