The Lost Lounge

Hollywood Boulevard was supposed to be the street of dreams, right? So why couldn’t I figure out anything to do?

I needed to find a bar, pronto. One where they wouldn’t look at me too close. There must be one somewhere.

I approached a homeless-looking man standing on the corner of Vine.

“Hey, you know of a bar around here?”

“Musso and Frank’s,” he said. “Right up the street.”

“No, not a swanky place. A place for someone … like me.”

He looked me up and down.

“Yeah, I can see the problem. Not exactly rolling around heaven all day, are you? Been long?”

“Not very.”

“Try the Lost Lounge. It’s full of guys like you.”

“Where’s it at?”

“Dunno. Folks say, if you want it bad enough, you can find it.” He paused. “Or maybe it finds you.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Sorry.” He turned to leave, but halted mid-stride. “Hold on, though. I’ve heard it’s down a side street, not on the main drag. And it has a sign. Blue neon.”

“Thanks. You need some spare change? It might bring me luck.”

“No, I’m good.”

#

I traipsed until all the little bones in my feet began to protest. I swear, the complaints were nearly audible. Thank God it was dark now; the sign would be easier to spot.

But nothing. Until a faint whirring reached my ears. Down the street, a neon sign flickered on. I swear I’d looked down this way before, and it had been something else … something boring. A nail salon or a UPS store. But now …

The Lost Lounge, in blue.

I’d found it, or it had found me. I wasn’t choosy.

#

“Hi, stranger, come on in. Name’s Karen,” the bartender said.

“Awkward name, these days.”

“Tell me about it. And you are?”

“Walter.”

“Welcome, Walter. What’s your poison?” she asked.

“Rye. Neat.”

As dives went, this was the real McCoy. A cigarette vending machine sat in one corner; I hadn’t seen one of those in years. There was a phone booth, too, and a Wurlitzer, and an overhead fan, blades thrumming in a lazy rhythm.

Karen reached up for a bottle behind her and stripped off the thin paper going across the top of a brand-new bottle. Oddly, no mirrors on the backbar. I hoped I hadn’t stumbled into a vampire den. I wasn’t one of the Undead. Not by a long shot. She poured out—generously, I was relieved to see—and I slammed it back.

She, at least, wasn’t a retro souvenir from circa 1962. Not conventionally beautiful, but her—evocative? Elusive?—quality was interesting. Multiple braids hung to her shoulders, each ending with a bead. They looked like what’s-her-name’s snake hair, but I didn’t turn to stone, so I guessed it was okay. She seemed well-disposed, but no hint of a smile.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“What do you want it to be?”

“A refuge, maybe?”

“We can do that. But it’s a short-term solution.”

“And these people,” I said, nodding at the other patrons. “What about them?”

“They’re resting.”

“Resting? They look …”

They were gray. Not just pallid, pasty, or peaky, not just gray around the edges, but gray-looking through and through.

“It’s a long journey,” she said. “They’re tired. Eternity lasts a long time.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“No? You will, soon enough. Might come to you in a dream.”

“Sounds weird. Can I get another?”

“Sure.”

“How much do I owe?”

“On the house.”

“Really? Thanks.”

I took another look around while she refilled my glass. Three other customers, all talking to themselves.

“Why are they doing that?”

“They’re remembering key moments from their lives … the ones that brought them here. How far they fell.”

“Where do they go, when they’re not here?”

“Not everybody has a place to go.”

“Anywhere you hang your head is home?”

“Something like that. How about you? You got somewhere else to be?”

“I … I can’t remember. Seems like I was renting a room …”

“By the week, or by the month?”

“Week, I think.”

She nodded. “One of those. No housekeeping, right? You’re on your own. Laundromat nearby?”

“I don’t recall.”

“It’ll come to you. Some say regrets are futile. It’s not true.”

“No?”

“No. Listen to ’em. I’ll turn up the volume a smidge.”

One of the gray people became distinct:

“Oh Mable, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I mean it this time.”

The next voice:

“What do you mean, I’m a thief? I’d never embezzle from Baxter’s.”

And one more:

“I’m gonna kick this goddamn habit. Yes, I am. Starting tomorrow—”

“You get the idea?” Karen asked. She ticked them off on her fingers. “Joe betrayed his wife; Mark betrayed his employer; Steve betrayed himself. Who did you betray?”

“What the hell? Am I supposed to have committed some big sin?”

“Most people do. Although, according to them, it’s never their fault. It was bad luck, or lousy circumstances, or provocation. That last one is popular with abusers.” She paused, doing another pour. “The sheer passivity of it gets me down. So. You?”

“I don’t remember anything like that.”

“You sure? Try harder. Think back … that room you rented. What was it like?”

I shrugged. “Typical room at a cheap motel. Bed. Nightstand. Microwave. Crappy old TV with rabbit ears.”

“No family with you?”

“No, I don’t have any. Bounced around foster care until I was eighteen. They couldn’t see the backside of me quick enough after that.”

“Sorry to hear. Roommate? Friends? Romantic partner?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. It’s usually one of those: the usual suspects, you know. What about the neighbors? Anyone you were close to?”

“Nah, they’re pushers and crackheads, mostly. Some Mexican immigrants … they’re the only ones with real jobs.”

“Any gang activity?”

“No, but wait. Seems like there was something …”

“Dig deep.”

“I remember a fight.”

“Guns?”

“No, knives.”

“What was it about?”

“Drug deal gone bad, I think.”

“And your role was …?”

“Not sure I had one, except as a witness.”

“Don’t give me that bull.”

I felt myself getting hot in the collar region. “How did you know?”

“It’s my job.”

“You’re not just a bartender, are you?”

“Heavens, no. This is just a side gig. The rest of the time, I skipper a ferry.”

“A … ferry boat? What, to Catalina or something?”

She shook her head, and the beads winked at me, like amber eyes. “No, the Terminal Island Line.”

I’d never heard of that ferry, but L.A. is full of strange crap almost no one knows about. And Terminal Island is way down past San Pedro. Not my scene.

“Tell me about the fight,” she said.

“One of the dealers, Frank, accused Miguel, one of the Mexicans, of stealing his stash. Frank said Miguel had jimmied the lock of his room and swiped the dough. Frank was really steamed.”

“But that wasn’t true. What did you do?”

“Just sat there on the stoop.”

“Until?”

“Until I went back inside my room, and locked the door.”

“I get angry when people lie. I don’t recommend it.”

I sighed. “Okay. Frank started swearing a blue streak, calling Miguel all the worst things he could think of: wetback, greaser, lubricano. You know the drill.”

“Only too well.”

Miguel didn’t have much English. He worked construction—”

“I don’t appreciate delaying tactics, either.”

“Miguel tried to deny he’d stolen anything, but he couldn’t get the words out in English. Frank stabbed him. It looked … bad.”

“You call nine-one-one?”

“No …”

“Why the hell not?”

“They can trace those calls. I didn’t want any cops giving me side-eye.”

“Been away, have you?”

“You mean inside? Yeah, once. Don’t want a repeat.”

“What you in for?”

“Armed robbery. What a joke.”

“How’s that?”

“I was the getaway driver, also known as the patsy.”

“So the joke was on you. You got the time, they walked away.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What you been doing, since you got out?”

“Damn all. Jobs are scarce, once you got a record.”

“I hear you, I do. But you don’t look like a trust-fund baby, so you must have been doing something. You got to eat.”

“Yeah … I’m not proud of it, but I …” I flinched; couldn’t help it. “Well, I hustled.”

“Nothing shameful about sex work, unless it’s coerced. And then the shame is on the other side. It’s just a different kind of job.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But that’s not what’s bothering you, not what’s eating you up inside.”

“How do you know anything is?”

She made a grimace. “Sticks out all over you, worse than a pissed-off porcupine. Not hard to spot. So what is it? What aren’t you telling me, Walter? Do you want to end up like them?” She tilted her head toward the others. “Nattering on for all time? Stuck here?”

I squirmed until I blurted it out.

“I was the one who stole Frank’s money, not Miguel. I didn’t mean anyone to get hurt.”

“Dude, don’t you know that’s what everybody says? ‘I didn’t mean it’ is kind of a slogan ’round here.”

“What the hell do you want me to say?”

“I can’t tell you. Figure it out.”

“Didn’t I pay the price already?”

“You mean because Frank finally realized it wasn’t the Mexican—that must have been hard for him to accept, white trash that he is—after he’d terrorized Miguel’s wife and daughter, looking for the money? No.”

“But I—”

“Listen up, homeboy. Just because Frank—having considered the other possibilities over a bottle or two—came after you, kicked your door in, and stabbed you, too? Still no.”

“Christ, Karen, I died.”

“Welcome to the club. Last chance, friend.”

I gulped, and gulped again. “It was my fault. All my fault.”

Her braids swung and she smiled.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“One more for the road?” she asked.

“Where am I going?”

“We’re going to take a little ride,” she said. “On a ferry.”

BIO: Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon. Dale has had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha Press, Bristol Noir, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, Mythic Picnic, Private Dick Fridays, and Pulp Punch. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.

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