More Than Beat by Shelly Lynn Stone

More Than Beat



Ethan slid his hands inside the waistband of his jeans and rubbed his lower back. His throat longed for a drink, needed carbonation to tickle and moisten the dry tissues. His eyes burned from working in the dusty woodshop all day. But he’d made it through a full week at his first real job. He looked forward to going home after his drink to crash in his own shit-hole.

First apartment, first job, and his first time in a bar. Last week he had been in high school, his nights spent wandering the streets and driving around or shut inside his room playing video games. But this was his life now; these were his choices to make. The guys from the shop went to Buddy’s to unwind, so Buddy’s it was. If anything, chugging a ginger ale on a barstool would be a welcome change from playing Mortal Kombat on the couch.

Most of the guys at Buddy’s worked in the shop. He hadn’t met them all yet, just his boss and the seven from his room. They had been friendly enough, not that he needed friends. It was enough to watch them, try to figure them out. Who were the tough guys? The pussies? Who should he avoid? He had expected more girls to be there, but so far it was only Putty’s girlfriend, who was off limits and not that fun to look at, and the one serving drinks.

His eyes lingered on her, middle-aged with a pleasantly wide ass. He watched her deliver beer and smiles around the room. When she brought him his second ginger ale, she gave him a wink that reminded him of the sluts from back home with their alcohol-induced confidence and stupid giggles.

He asked her if she wanted to meet up after work, and she laughed flirtatiously. “You’re cute,” she said, “but I don’t date customers.”

Ethan wasn’t sure she meant it. The way she looked at him suggested otherwise. He kept watching, especially when she cleaned the tables and the denim strained over her cheeks.

In the corner where the light was brighter, Putty, Roger, and Bill played pool. Beyond them, Choo had challenged their boss to arm wrestle. They cleared a circle and picked sides. Bossman Owen was an ex-football player who had stuck around town after high school to work his way up the furniture company. He still had his linebacker-build, but Choo was getting lots of support. No surprise. He may have been old and scrappy, but if something in the shop needed lifting, Choo was the one you called.

Ethan headed over to watch and maybe stand beside the waitress, accidentally rub against her, find out what she smelled like.

“You’re going down,” his boss threatened.

Choo was unphased.

Owen sat at the table, arm raised and ready. Choo grasped his hand. The waitress counted down and the fight began. Owen stared at Choo with a smirk on his face, his forearm muscles tensing, veins popping from his skin. Choo struggled, groaned, leaned his body into it. But Owen was too much for him. With one last grunt of exertion, Owen pushed Choo’s hand to the table. Cheers went up across the room.

When the cheering subsided, Owen hugged Choo and said, “I love you, man.”

As the men went back to their drinks and games, Owen helped the waitress put the table chairs back in place.

Ethan returned to his spot at the bar and watched his boss make the rounds with high-fives. They respected him. Ethan had to admit he was a good boss. The shop ran smoothly, and even though Ethan didn’t know much about carpentry, Owen had been helpful without being a prick.

Owen eventually made his way over to the bar. He clinked his beer against Ethan’s glass.

“I’ve been losing against that fucker for three years. Feels good. Like the first time you beat your dad at something, you know?”

“My dad’s dead,” Ethan said.

He had never held his father’s hand to arm wrestle or for any other reason.

Owen apologized and motioned for the waitress. “What’re you drinking?”

“Nothing,” Ethan said. “I’m done, heading home.”

He pushed away from the bar and headed for the exit without returning his boss’s goodbye. The last thing he wanted was to get into a conversation about his father. Asshole had been gone six years now. Nothing needed to be said. Besides, he’d rather be home playing video games.


His shit-hole was on the third floor of a sad-looking building. People were always coming and going. Drugs and hookers, Ethan suspected. This place was only temporary, until he saved enough for first and last somewhere else.

When he got to his floor, the neighbor’s angry shouts filled the hallway. She’d fought with her boyfriend every night since he’d moved in. Her voice was muffled, probably talking on the phone. By the time he collapsed on the couch and turned on the TV, she was crying. He didn’t know what the fuck she had done to her boyfriend, but if she didn’t want to cry, why the fuck would she get into it with him in the first place?

He hit the wall a few times, yelling, “Shut up!”

But the cries continued. He turned up the gunfire and screams on his game and blasted some heads.

When the crying finally stopped, he shut off the game and opened his computer to his favorite site. He searched for videos of women with big asses, imagined the waitress in their place, closed his eyes, and thought of himself banging her, banging the high school sluts, banging the neighbor.


On Friday, Ethan cashed his check and headed to Buddy’s again. He could get a burger with his ginger ale this time. He spotted an empty parking space in the lot and quickly pulled in, cutting off another car as he did. He turned the engine off and opened his door, groaning as he twisted to get out. It had been another long week, and his back was really feeling it.

Putty jumped out of his car and stormed towards him.

“What the fuck! You didn’t see me turning in?”

Unthreatened, Ethan answered, “Nope.”

“Punk-ass kid. I should beat the crap out of you.”

Ethan threw his keys down. “Try it.”

Piece-of-shit wasn’t going to scare him.

As Putty lunged, Owen jumped between them, pushing Putty back.“Knock it off.” .

Ethan stepped away.Owen calmly looked back and forth at the two of them.

“Putty has to go home to his three-year-old son tonight. Nobody wants him going home with bruises and blood.”

And then Owen got in Putty’s face.

“Do you really want to beat up this kid who lost his dad and is out here trying to make his way in the world? Beat him up over a parking space?”

Putty held his ground, and Ethan didn't budge.

“Show Buddy some respect,” Owen continued. “He doesn’t need the police or an ambulance coming here.”

Putty turned back to his car, grumbling under his breath. Ethan picked up his keys. Now he was starving.


Inside Buddy’s, Ethan ordered his ginger ale and burger from the waitress. Her jeans were even tighter this week. She smiled but didn’t wink.

Putty entered and went to the pool table, followed by Owen, who came right over to Ethan.

Sitting on the stool beside him, Owen ordered a beer before speaking to him. “It ain’t worth it.”

“I know,” Ethan said.

He wasn’t going to say thank you. He just wanted to eat.

Owen talked a little about a camping trip he was going on with his wife then excused himself to play pool. He didn’t invite Ethan, and Ethan didn’t want to go.

After four ginger ales, Ethan went out to the parking lot and sat in his car. Instead of driving home, he watched. His boss shook hands with the crew as he left. Choo and the others came out one by one and drove away. Putty stumbled to the back of the lot. And then the waitress exited.

She studied her phone as she walked to her car, oblivious to him. He watched her ass wiggle, half-expecting a knock on the window from a third-shift cop. He thought about where she might be going, where she might live, how she might take her clothes off and shower before bed. He thought about her soapy ass as he watched her drive away.


As he unlocked his door, he heard his neighbor crying, sounds of pathetic tears that reminded him of his mom’s. She had cried when his father treated her like shit, cried when he died, cried when she was alone, cried when something reminded her of him. The neighbor’s sobs were just as desperate and depressing.

Inside, he leaned against the door and checked the peephole to see if she would come out of her apartment. Her ass was nothing like the waitress’s; she was scrawny with no shape. He watched until the boyfriend came up the stairs then Ethan quickly backed away from the door.

He listened to them fight for a while, to the sounds of furniture being thrown around, the sounds of slaps and punches. When things settled down, he laid in bed and imagined filling her mouth with his fist, making her suck, gagging her cries till she was silent.


Ethan had been looking forward to the bar at the end of the week again, to seeing the waitress and treating himself to a meal instead of frozen food.

At the bar, Ethan grabbed a table in the corner and ordered his food. A few of the guys said hello as they passed on their way to the bar or the pool table. He waved to Owen, who came over and sat on the other side of the table.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

They chatted about work, the dust, and the long days until the waitress, wearing a skirt and showing off her bare legs, delivered Ethan’s food. He could not get enough of her body.

“She’s got the nicest ass,” he said.

Owen didn’t disagree, just said, “Penny is the kindest person I know. A very hard worker.”

Ethan dug into his burger, famished. Penny.

“You got a girl?” Owen asked.

“No.”

He’d been with girls, had plenty of sex. Just didn’t see the need to have someone permanent.

“I’ve got a wife. She’s my girl.”

Ethan nodded while chewing. Marriage wasn’t a concept he really got.

His boss kept talking. “Do you miss your family, being out here alone?”

“No.”

“Sorry,” Owen apologized.

Ethan knew he meant sorry for the question. “My dad’s been gone since I was twelve. He was a jerk.”

“Must’ve been tough.”

“You have no idea.”

“I don’t.”

His boss didn’t try to get him to talk like the school counselor after his dad died, or try to tell him it couldn’t have been that bad like the girl from shop class he dated for two weeks. Owen just sat beside him and drank.

“He beat the shit out of my mom regularly,” Ethan said. “I watched him smack her around my whole life.”

When he hadn’t seen the beatings, he had heard them or seen the evidence the next day. In his memories, she always had bruises.

“Fuckin’ pervert, too.” Ethan shifted on his stool, uncomfortable. “If he hadn’t died before I grew up, I would've killed him. I’m sure of it. She didn’t care, did nothin’ about it. To fuck with a five-year-old kid, that ain’t right.”

“He beat you, too?” Owen asked.

“Did more than beat.”

Ethan had never told anyone about those nights, nights when his mother turned his father away and his father would make his way to Ethan’s room.

“Fuck,” Owen said, shaking his head.

More than beat. The words brought shame. Hate. Relief.

Penny walked by with a tray of empty bottles. Ethan glanced at her then looked away.

Owen finished his beer. “I haven’t told too many people this, but I see a therapist for some shit I deal with. He’s helped a lot. If you ever need someone to talk to...” Owen took a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the table.

Ethan stared at the number. “I’m fine. He’s dead.”

Owen stood, pulled a five out of his pocket for a tip and patted Ethan on the back. “I’ll see you Monday morning. I’ve got to get home to my wife. I miss her, you know?”

Ethan didn’t know, had no idea.

As Owen left, a few of the guys hollered goodbye from across the room.

Ethan finished his burger alone. When he was done, Penny came to take his empty plate away. He scooped up the business card and pocketed it.

“Thank you,” Ethan said to her before he stood to leave. ​

​

Shelly Lynn Stone lives in a small town in Central Massachusetts. She writes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. When not writing, she works a day job, moonlights as a massage therapist, and tries to find more time for tap dancing. Her work has appeared online in Resistance Poetry, Feminine Collective, Sad Girl Review, the Same, CEO Lit Mag and The Junction. You can find her on Twitter @storybyshelly.

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