After Hours

by Nicole M. Wolverton

It’s the bagpipes — droning, keening, high-pitched. The sound should be annoying, and yet everything in me wants to cry along. The lonely woman wail of the instrument shuffles across the green lawn, and I falter, my guard dropping for just a second. That’s all it takes.

He catches me staring, my eyes too curious for three in the morning. I abruptly look away, pretending to check for the bus. It’s late, and the club closed an hour ago. As the howling grows closer, louder, I’m cognizant of the three hundred in small bills hidden in my bra, the product of six hours of slinging drinks to assholes.

It’s cold. The bitter air rips the lining of my lungs as I breathe out a syncopated cloud through my chattering teeth. Temperature notwithstanding, I’m grateful for the coat I’m bundled up in. If he stops to look closer — to see me — my cleavage won’t be obvious. The boobs increase my tips behind the bar, but it’s not something I want to flaunt in front of a stranger. In the dead of night. In the silence of the city. This is a tourist area, so the danger exists. Bad men looking for an easy target. Tara, the relief bartender, was robbed last week by some huge fucker who threatened to stab her. She was lucky; he only took her money.

The bawling pipes breaks off, and the air charges with anticipation. Should I run? Should I stand here and try to act cool or tough or crazy? I don’t know, but a voice rattling in my brain tells me it’s stupid to suspect this guy of doing anything other than disturbing the peace with his song. It doesn’t matter that it’s late — or early, depending on how you look at it; it seems unlikely someone playing the bagpipes would be interested in stealing my cash. Bulky instruments don’t lend themselves to quick escapes nor being unmemorable. That time I’d gotten mugged at college, the guy had been going for nondescript, I think, so I couldn’t ID him. It had worked.

This guy, though. I imagine stumbling into the police station and panting, “Oh, yeah, he was tall and played the bagpipes.” They’d think I’m kidding, drugged up, or thankful it won’t be too hard to find a man hauling ass with a set of bagpipes and a bunch of wrinkled cash on his person. The range of suspects fitting that description is limited. I’d rather not have to deal with the bureaucracy of law enforcement, though.

He clears his throat. “Uh, excuse me, miss.”

Polite. Well, if he is a criminal, his mother taught him good manners. I detect a bit of a South Philly accent, making the second syllable of ‘excuse’ sound more like “eyxkyuuze.” Maybe his mom is one of those old women I see at the market, all big, eggplant-colored hair and velour tracksuits. The kind who decorates the bay window of her rowhome with tinsel and ceramics for every holiday.

“Yeah?” I try to sound tough, remembering what my self-defense instructor taught me. I took a few classes after the mugging. No fear. Stand up tall. Loud voice. Make a scene.

“There’s a huge accident a few blocks over — if you’re waiting for the bus, it’ll be a while. Apparently, this line is running up to an hour behind schedule.”

He’s older. Not old — just older than I am. Maybe mid-thirties, floppy hair dark against his forehead. He’s not unattractive, but that makes me even more uncomfortable. A scenario is playing out in my head where I end up in the hospital, being blamed for whatever put me there, a cop saying, “Well, she did think the perpetrator was kind of hot — she was clearly asking for it.”

“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say because now I’m worried about seeming to friendly… and about getting to my dog before he pees all over the house. I should call a cab, but I don’t want to spend the money. Rent’s due in a week. Plus, it’s a toss-up over what’s more dangerous: random stranger on the street or random stranger in a car.

“I can wait with you if you like.” The man’s voice is cautious. I don’t know whether he’s harmless or practiced. “I’m waiting for the bus, too.”

I wonder if he lives along my bus route or the other one that picks up here. It’s tempting to ask, to see if I can trap him into admitting something nefarious. But I’m a stranger to him, too. He’s bigger than me, stronger. He’s carrying a potential weapon — the bagpipes. But he doesn’t know me. I could have a gun under my coat instead of four hundred dollars. I could be a sex worker, and my pimp could linger around the corner, waiting to beat the shit out of him.

“Okay. Thanks.” I attempt a smile, which likely comes out more like a grimace.

“I’m Ethan.” His hand hovers in front of me; he’s not wearing gloves. It’s probably hard to play the bagpipes with something on his hands. I’m not wearing gloves either, but my fists have been shoved deep in the pockets of my coat. My fingers still feel like ice.

“Brooke.” My real name just pops out of my mouth. I’m still mentally kicking myself when he takes my hand. His leathery, calloused palms tickle my skin.

“Walking is better than standing still. Keeps you warmer.”

“Yeah, I heard you playing.”

His chuckle floats vapor around us. “Yeah, you really can’t help it — the bagpipes are loud.”

“How long have you been playing?”

Ethan nods pointedly down the sidewalk, and I shove my hands in my coat again, following his lead for some reason I can’t quite explain. We cross the street, and a quiet wheeze staggers from his bagpipes, as if his coat has emphysema. I should be insisting on staying put — staying in the streetlights — but my legs keep moving.

“My grandfather taught me to play when I was a kid. I do weddings now and stuff like that.”

“Is that what you were doing tonight?” A barrage of questions are loading up in my brain, readying me to run if he answers wrong. Of course, my brain and body don’t seem to be syncing up tonight.

“Uh huh. I was over at one of the clubs around the corner. I don’t know why they wanted me to stick around for the whole thing. I only played when the bride walked down the aisle. But hey, I got paid for the night.”

He stops in back of the Liberty Bell pavilion and peers through the glass. I can just make out the security guard eyeballing us as he makes his rounds. That’s comforting. A witness. The overhead light shines down on the bell, and the building is otherwise completely empty inside. I’ve never been to see the Liberty Bell — not the new building, and not the old one. I’ve lived in the city for twenty years. It’s not that uncommon; of all my friends, only one has paid the money and waited in line. He told me he only did it because his parents came to visit. There’s something about living near precious things that renders them unexceptional.

“Did you know the bell has cracked three times?” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

He nods. “Yep. The last time it was repaired was 1846.”

I stare at the bell, wondering whose job it is to care for it. It’s got to beat tending bar or playing the bagpipe at weddings, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to be rude: I’m still not entirely sure Ethan won’t knock me over when I’m not looking. Instead, I say, “They didn’t have to fix it after that guy attacked it with a sledge hammer?”

“Now that I think about it, I do remember something about the damage being fixed after that. I meant the crack in it, though. That sledgehammer thing was pretty screwed up.”

“Nothing very exciting ever happens in Philly.” I don’t want him to think I’m complaining; the fact that this place doesn’t really seem to attract too many nutjobs or terrorists is a relief. The city has always seemed relatively safe to me, except at times like these. There’s such a thing as too quiet. Too empty. “Of course, I’ll take it.”

“Do you work around here?” He changes the subject abruptly. I tense.

“Yeah…” Once again, brain and body are at odds. My brain is swearing at me. My mouth is not cooperating.

“So, you’re in this area all the time?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s cool. I really like it around here, and there’s something about being here late at night.”

We walk around the building, following the path cut into the frozen ground. The wind picks up. His bagpipes give another quiet groan. The bus stop is within view now ahead of us.

He says, “You know, there’s a ghost that’s supposed to haunt this area.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There have been some alleged sightings of a man in a frock coat and a triangle hat, rushing up and down the lawn.”

“Sure it wasn’t one of the reenactors?” Ben Franklin loitered on the corner earlier today on my way to work. I saw another reenactor too; he was hiding in an alcove on his cell phone and smoking a joint.

His laugh floats over the grass, echoing off the buildings.

I wish I wasn’t so afraid of what could happen. Ethan seems like an okay guy, and even the silent suspicion of the city at rest can’t dampen how pretty it is. The feel of the city, even now, is familiar and comforting. The edge of insecurity is just…the price I pay for living here.

“Maybe it was a reenactor. I do like the idea of it, though. Ghosts, I mean. We have a real history, and it permeates everything about this city. I’ve even heard of a ghost playing bagpipes. Right here.”

He touches my shoulder.

I take a step back. This is way too intimate, and his words suffocate me. The money in my bra crinkles against my skin, heavy and conspicuous, as though I have a sign on my forehead that blinks “I have cash!”

“I suppose that’s why I play out here at night. Kindred spirits.”

I look around for the guard. My bus finally rolls down the street toward us.

With relief that’s probably a little too obvious, I shout, “Oh, there’s my ride!” I race toward the bus stop, shouting, “Nice to meet you!” and hoping he doesn’t follow. Hoping he decides to wait for the next one.

The bus pulls to a stop, and I clamor aboard, hastily swiping my transit card and heading toward the back. The lights are harsh, yellow. Everyone on the bus looks tired and drawn. Me, I’m wide awake. As I sling myself into a seat, I glance out the window. Ethan stands at the bus stop, bagpipe under his arm. For a moment he flickers transparent, like a snap in the air, then he’s solid once again.

My breath stutters. The bus pulls away.

Even through the glass of the window, I can hear the mournful sound of bagpipes.

Originally published in the now defunct Citizen Brooklyn, in their November 2012 issue.

Find Nicole M. Wolverton at www.nicolewolverton.com