When I think about The Mark now, I think of it as my father’s first love, the woman who really stole his heart. This first love didn’t happen until he was at least forty. He was always “on stage” performing for the guys who packed the bar. It’s true he may have owned the place, but even at the age of five, I wanted to be the real star, the reason men came back. Father treated me like a princess in the world outside of those swinging doors, pandering to my every whim, but his attention often drifted toward his patrons when we were at The Mark. Wasn’t it only right that these guys also showed appreciation of my splendor inside the bar’s world of perpetual evening and smoky air?

            Since The Mark was father’s first love, it only seemed right she served as the chaperone for mine. My first love wasn’t with a place; it was with a man. His name was Jack and he paid attention. He never gave me candy, cheap necklaces, toys or marriage proposals like so many of the other guys. Jack didn’t ask; he told me I was going to marry him. I thought he was so handsome with his short black hair and dark eyes. Jack was a quiet guy, usually staring at the bar, head down, hands around his glass. But when he talked, he treated me like a lady. And I ate it up. With Jack it was always “Miss Melody” and “Honey.” He made me feel like I was old enough to be wearing lipstick and high heels just like my Mom.

            “So don’t you forget, Miss Melody, you’re gonna marry me someday.”

            “I’m not old enough to get married.”  I giggled and felt my cheeks flush.

            “Oh, just a couple more years, baby.”

            Jack smiled. I could see the chip in his front tooth.

            “Can I eat chocolate cake for breakfast?”

            “Anything you want, Honey.” 

            “Chocolate cake for dinner too?”

            I had to show him I was definitely no pushover. I was actually in love with two men, Jack and Elvis. When I couldn’t meet Elvis, I decided Jack would do. Jack became my Elvis with his brooding stare and t-shirt sleeves stretched tight over straining biceps. Jack always had a piece of shiny black hair falling down his forehead, refusing to cooperate with the goop he used to hold it all out of his eyes. That rebellious lock of black hair was just long enough to make any mom nervous. Elvis had that same piece of hair and I wished Jack would quit trying to slick it back. There was always that visible part of them that wouldn’t conform. No wonder I spent hours listening to those well-worn Elvis 45 rpm’s like “Jailhouse Rock,” pretending I was Anne Margaret in her tight clam-digger pants, gyrating in front of my mirror with the concentration and movie-perfect smile only one of Elvis’s leading ladies could muster.

            
            Since those years in The Mark, I’ve learned there are two kinds of drunks: sloppy and angry. My father was in the first group. Jack was in the second. One night, I slid my stool over to where Jack sat staring blankly at the nearby television. I started babbling about everything and nothing in a breathless run-on sentence. Jack didn’t look my way. He didn’t say a word.

            I reached out and touched his sleeve.

            
            “Quit driving my crazy!”  Spit flew out of his angry mouth wetting my face like the cold sneeze of my dog. He cringed away from my chubby grasp, and shrunk in upon himself.

            
            “Tickle, tickle, tickle.”  I poked my finger into his side. “Tickle, tickle…” His face reddened. Spittle once again splattered my face as he screamed at me.

            “Keep your fat ass away from me.”  Everyone fell silent except for me. The only sounds were glasses being put down on the bar so people could give us their full attention.   

            “Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!  Shut the fuck up!” 

            “Jack?”  I slid from my stool, eyes locked on his face.

            “I told you, shut your fucking face.”

            “Jack, what’s the matter?”

            “You are the fucking matter!  Get the fuck away!”  He leaned forward as if he’d come off his stool any second.

            “Hey, you goddamned idiot!”  Father’s eyes locked on Jack.

            It seemed like hours, but in a matter of seconds, Father was there. He grabbed Jack’s arm, but I didn’t stay around to see what happened. Head down I avoided people and their outstretched hands. I ran into the kitchen in the rear of the bar and sobbed until it hurt to breathe. Curled next to the industrial sized dishwasher, I found comfort in its warm and moist caress of steam.

            
            I don’t remember how many years went by, maybe three or four, but I did run into Jack one more time on a hospital visit to see my father, the first of his many failed attempts at rehab. When Father pointed him out in the corner of the hospital’s yard, I stared hard before recognition flashed through my brain.

            “Go say hello, Melody.” 

            “I don’t want to.”  I stared at my scuffed dress shoes.

            “It’s okay. Go ahead.”  Father smiled.

            “He’s different.”

            “Honey, he has something called cirrhosis and he can use a kind word.”

            Kind words?  I remembered Jack’s cruelty before I remembered how much I once worshiped him. My Elvis looked so sad and old. One more look at my dad’s eyes told me I had no choice so I walked over.

            “Miss Melody!”  A smile flickered on his mouth. Jack suddenly bent forward and coughed into his palm. It sounded deep and rattling. He fumbled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his robe pocket and wiped his mouth.

            “You still my girl?” 

            “Sure.”

            “Well that’s a good thing because you said you’d marry me in a few more years. Remember?”

            Then he leaned forward and touched my bare arm. But his skin was so moist and cool; I pulled away and ran back to my father where he remained on a bench with Mom. I didn’t want Jack to ask me things like that anymore. His beautiful black hair now clung in a matted helmet to his skull and his dark eyes were rimmed in a grayish puffiness. No more blue jeans and t-shirts with a pack of cigarettes rolled up into one of the sleeves. Now, a dingy white bathrobe covered his bony shoulders. He pulled the terry cloth closer even though the rest of us sat sweating in the summer heat.

            I wish I could say that Bobby Coleman, that boy from my seventh grade class, was my first love. He did give me a blue binder topped with a squashed blue bow at our first junior high dance; his large hands trembled as he stuck the gift of love in my face. I wish I could say such a kind boy gave me my first kiss and my knees buckled. But at least I won’t remember Bobby as the first guy I feared.