Warren Adler Fall 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

See complete contest information including other winning stories.

The Longbranch bar was one of two places people gathered in the village. The other was St. John the Baptist's Church, old and ornate and with a special enough steeple to have earned it a historical plaque from the county. That shiny plaque sat on a wooden stand in the old churchyard, facing the heavens. During summer nights, when it was too hot to stay cooped up, town folks would roll out of the Longbranch across the street, have a chat and rest their beer on it.

In the Longbranch, every regular had their barstool. People ate peanuts out of buckets and spat shells on the floor. The water in the restroom poured out of an old well pump under which many a drunk was reawakened. Birthdays flashed across a neon sign above the fridge and every barmaid knew how to twist a washrag into a rubber chicken. There was a saying on the matchbooks stacked alongside Bucky Crane's false teeth. "If you Drive Your Old Man to Drink, Drive Him in Here."

On Sundays, the bar opened up at 6am, but you couldn't pay for your drink until noon because of county laws. Sunday School, it was called, and it was sacred.

Doyle Hubert and his wife, Cindy, were regulars. Doyle wore his jean overalls like a second skin, pulled tight over his beer belly, proud and plump as an Easter egg. He drank Pabst Blue Ribbon, nothing else. If the Longbranch ran out, he was known to pull a cold one out of the back of his truck.

"So what you making me for supper tonight, Hog Ass?" Doyle would yell at Cindy, all the way across the bar like he was ordering another beer, loud enough so that anyone could hear. "What's it gonna be, Hog Ass?"

"Whatever you manage to hit on the way home," she'd say.

They'd go back and forth like that for hours. Folks said Doyle had once put a sign up in their circle driveway that read "Hog Ass Circle." It'd sat there three days before Cindy noticed, and had the lawn mower boy drive over it with the John Deere.

The thing was that anyone with two good eyes could see that Cindy was skinny as a cornstalk, especially next to Doyle. And anyone who'd ever had a word with Doyle knew that he'd taken up gourmet cooking off the television, years back when he'd been laid off. Cindy had never done a thing in the kitchen since.

Outsiders were rarely seen in the Longbranch. If any showed up, everyone assumed they were either lost along the road or there to see about the church. Once a skinny young man with a backpack pulled up on a bicycle, planted his kickstand in the mud, and came in asking for a glass of milk. Another time, a couple passed through town living out of a campervan. Turned out to be quite a pair, the type who liked to share. A few of the boys chased those swingers out like coyotes from the henhouse.

Nope, other than the occasional drifter, outsiders weren't common. Until Mel & Sue got a bit greedy and put up that sign along the highway, just a couple miles away. "Turn Right For The Longbranch. Experience A Maple County Tradition."

"That goddamn signs gonna bring all sorts of trouble." That's what Bucky Crane said as he stood on the steps on a hot Sunday morning, holding his teeth in one hand, pointing towards the highway. "That goddamn sign's gonna draw 'em in this place like flies to dogshit."

No one else thought much about it. A few people made jokes at the bar. "I had myself a Maple County experience last night," said Doyle Hubert, slapping the back of his wife's Wrangler's. "Ain't that right, Hog Ass?"

"Sure did, sweetheart," said Cindy, before cracking a peanut open with her fingernails. "All ten seconds of it."

Truth was they liked to leave the Longbranch an hour before closing and park their truck out by the river like two teenagers. Anyone who passed could see that was Doyle's truck still sitting out there, an hour after clean-up.

Sometimes when people came into the bar on Sundays, they'd been to church first, maybe even confession. And sometimes they hadn't. It was the same parking lot anyway. Sometimes they rolled straight out of bed with Saturday night on their breath. No matter how they came in, they came often. They knew each other's faces and like any family, knew the rules. When to speak, when to be spoken to and what you just don't speak about. Like Doyle Hubert's missing fingers.

Bucky was right. Things started to change when that sign went up. It wasn't the folks stopping in off the highway to ask about breakfast that stirred things up. Those poor saps thought Maple County had something to do with maple syrup. They always turned around nearly as quickly as they entered. The closest thing the Longbranch served to a buttermilk pancake was a drop of Aunt Jemima's in your beer, and that was special for Bucky since he'd gone and acquired a sweet tooth. "Misleading," those folks called that sign, shaking their head.

The people that got to the place, that really changed the flavor, were the city folks. They came into the bar talking about fresh air, dressed in fishing boots or orange hunter's vests with the price tags still on. They liked to speak about the madness back in the city. Ask about the best fishing spots like someone might tell them. Start the jukebox up on a Sunday morning when everyone else was just after a bit of peace. That sign on the highway seemed to call to them.

A few of the regulars started to shy away from the place, but not Cindy and Doyle.

"As long as you keep my stool warm and my beer cold, then it's all the same to me," Cindy said.

"Well, Hog Ass," said Doyle, "I reckon just about anything warms up pretty well under that behind of yours."

"You'd have thought so," said Cindy, staring him straight in the zip-fly of his denim overalls.

On the morning of Cindy's fortieth birthday, three months after that sign had gone up, Doyle and Cindy showed up bright and early. Doyle came in first. "Wife's finding a place to park. I like to let her practice in the lot. Lord knows she ain't safe on the roads."

Cindy came in, balancing a tray full of cupcakes. "Ain't no point in me eating them all," she said, putting a hand in front of Doyle's mouth as quick as she said it, and laying the tray on the bar.

"Hey, Sue," said Doyle, slapping Bucky on the back. "How about you rustle up some grasshoppers to go with these cupcakes? The old lady's gone to some trouble."

"I got one commandment," said Sue, packing the blender down below the bar. "No ice cream drinks on Sundays. It's a pain in the ass." She pulled a beer out of the fridge. "Even God rests on Sunday."

"Amen," Doyle said, raising his can and stuffing half a chocolate with rainbow sprinkles in his mouth. "I suppose Pabst washes down just about anything."

As Bucky took out his teeth to grab a cupcake, three out-of-towners came rolling in, wearing the full get-up. Just as he always did, Bucky made a point of standing up and going out to check on the license plates. "Detroit," he huffed under his breath, as he sat back down to sink his gums into some frosting. "Bastards parked sideways across two spaces."

"Where's the menu?" one of the outsiders asked, eyes bloodshot.

"You're looking at it," said Sue, pointing her fingers towards the beer fridge. "Or I could do you a Bloody Mary. We don't serve food on Sundays, sweetheart."

"You're joking," said one of the men, leaning on the bar. "What's the closest place?"

"You got Huck's Truck Stop a half an hour down the road. They're open early."

The men shook their heads. "We're hunting here, so we stay here," the first one said. "Make it three bottles."

By the look of things, they'd already had quite a few. But no one cared as long as they kept to themselves. The outsiders grabbed a few cupcakes and Cindy smiled.

"You trying to give this round away?" Doyle yelled over his hand of cards, just like he was shouting for another beer. His voice always got louder after a few drinks. "I've seen you bluff better than that, Hog Ass."

"Last night, for example." said Cindy, laying down a queen of spades.

"Women are just like dogs," said Doyle to the table, loud enough that it was to the whole bar. "Sure you can teach them a trick or two. But take 'em out and they'll still piss all over things."

A swift kick met Doyle's leg under the table. One of the outsiders slid off his barstool and started to stagger over from across the room. The bloodshot one, on his fourth beer since they'd come in. He set his bottle down on the Hubert's card table.

"I want to hear you apologize to that woman."

"You what?" Doyle said, not lifting his eyes from his cards.

"You heard. Where I come from, we don't talk to ladies that way."

"It's sweet of you," said Cindy, giving him a little wink and shuffling the cards. "But we're just fine."

"Get your ass back here," called one of the others to his bloodshot buddy.

"I suggest you keep to your hunting crew," said Doyle. "My wife's good enough at throwing her own weight around. Aren't you, Hog Ass?" He put his arm around Cindy and gave her a firm squeeze on the shoulder. "Go sit down, city boy. You need rest before you go out aiming for the deer and shooting up the trees." He raised a cupcake towards Bloodshot. "Take another of these with you."

The outsider didn't move. He stood there swaying a little, his eyes glued firmly on Doyle's misshapen hands.

"I suppose you can't be much good at pulling a trigger," Bloodshot said, in front of everyone at Sunday School. He started to laugh, his face turning red like his eyes.

Doyle got to his feet, knocking back his chair, three fingers and two nubs cupped in a fist on each hand. Bucky Crane's teeth rattled against the table.

"You best watch what comes out of your mouth," said Doyle. Everyone knew Doyle's first memory was losing those fingers, when his drunken daddy had tried to teach his three year old boy a lesson about playing near the tractor. It'd been in the papers, the sermons too.

"Bet you're a bit clumsy at working your way around tight spaces too, if you know what I mean," Bloodshot winked, tilting his head in the direction of Cindy.

Someone snickered. Then there were more.

The other outsiders stood up, but they weren't fast enough. Doyle had never taken a hand to anyone. But that day he swung like he'd been practicing all his life. He swung one awkward fist, then the other. He swung so that when his hand met Bloodshot's jaw, you could hear the crack against the bone.

No one could later say if it was Bucky, or Cindy first, but someone else joined in that fight with the outsiders, and then a lot of someone elses joined in. That fight got bigger, not just in numbers but in size. Somehow on that summer morning, that fight spilled right out of the bar and onto the churchyard across the street. It threw blood on the shiny plaque.

The churchgoers in St. John's the Baptist were still waiting like normal at five past ten for their priest to enter, and they heard the commotion. They came out of the church to stand on the steps and see the fight.

Mothers yelled "What in heaven's name is going on here?" Boys rolled up their sleeves and got ready to join in. Little girls in dresses peeked out from behind their daddies' legs, hiding.

The police car showed up sirens a-blazing, with Statler inside. There was no other cop in town. Statler got out, stood in the churchyard and fired a clean shot into the air. The crowd hit the ground.

"Who started it?" Statler said.

Standing in the middle of it all, face dripping with sweat and hands bloodied, was Doyle Hubert.

"It was the goddamn outsiders," somebody yelled. But it made no difference.

Everybody watched as Statler fitted the handcuffs around Doyle Hubert's wrists.

"Daddy, look," gasped the voice of a young girl. "I bet you could sneak out of the cuffs with those hands." Tiny giggles broke through the crowd.

Statler walked to the car, tucked Doyle's head down and shoved him in the backseat. The giggles were silenced by a second shot in the air.

"Who else?" Statler yelled. Fingers pointed at a man crawling across the street towards a jeep with Michigan plates.

"The hell you are," said Statler, grabbing Bloodshot's leg and yanking him down.

"The freak attacked me," shouted Bloodshot, struggling to get loose. "We came here to hunt. We weren't looking for this."

"You still found it," said Statler. He kneeled on Bloodshot's back as he handcuffed him. "Get on your feet." Statler heaved him towards the car and threw him in next to Doyle.

Cindy banged on the car window, "I'm going with!"

Statler just shook his head. "Now it's Sunday," he shouted. "I know you folks all have something more peaceful to do. Get in that church or get the hell out of here." He started the engine and away they drove, cutting clean tracks through the muddy road on the way to the county jail.

It wasn't long until that sign on the highway came down, once and for all. Mel and Sue decided it was attracting the wrong kind of folks.

"Finally got the old place back," Bucky said, completely toothless now. They'd been lost somewhere in that fight.