The Women of Custer City Ch. 01

It didn't matter how many times I spoke to Amber, the butterflies never went away. She always sat in the same corner of the bar, always dressed in the same leather jacket and leggings, her jet-black hair always slick back. She wore mascara that formed cat eyes, and she kept her skin almost ghostly pale. She always toyed with her necklace when she was nervous while her other hand ran a finger around the rim of her margarita glass. Every single time I saw her she got there right at seven thirty, and every single night, no matter what I tried, she ended up going home with Paul Bosman. Not me.

I think that must have been my eighth time trying. I'd tried corny openers, tried to talk about her interests, even went for straight compliments. Nothing worked, and I knew the reason. Amber was out of my league, and it wasn't even close. I knew it was hopeless, and I definitely felt that way, but what choice did I have? On June 16, 2017, there were four thousand six hundred and eighty-three of them. Some would be easy to talk too, others near impossible, but one way or another, I'd keep on trying until I won them all over.

On that particular try, I sat in the corner opposite her. I faced away from her, but if she looked at me she'd probably see the back of my head poking over the booth. I'd gone shopping that morning, and dressed as far from my normal self as possible. I wore black nail polish on one finger in each hand, dyed my hair black, and kept my wallet on a chain.

"The one and only benefit," I thought, "Of all this shit is this will all be gone when I wake up tomorrow."

For the time being I was just waiting. The bartender, a woman named Chrissy, she was on my side, and she was pulling every string she could to get Amber to talk to me.

"Tonight," she'd suggested that morning, "We're gonna try to get her to come to you. She doesn't like it when desperate guys come after her, and honestly, I smell the stink all over you. You're desperate, and it's a turn off. Let's try it my way. Try to look as appealing to her as possible, and I'll send her a drink, get her looking in your direction, ok? All you've gotta do is sit there."

So that was the plan we went with, and I was bored out of my mind. I couldn't stop my fingers from playing with the wallet chain, and no matter how I sat, the pistol's barrel at my waist dug into my thigh. The bar was called Mumble's, and for the most part it was quiet, save for the gently playing rock that, after hearing the same playlist eight days in a row, was starting to drive me to insanity. I sat there, nearly drifting off, until I heard Chrissy start talking, and when I turned, she was holding the drink and pointing me out.

I tried my best to flash a smile, and per Chrissy's instructions, I turned away just as quickly. "Let her come to me," right?

The problem with letting her come to you is that it makes you feel like a fuckin' moron to put it lightly. I sat there, drink in hand, staring at the stupid table, wondering if she was coming over or if I was just wasting my time.

It felt like the seconds turned to minutes, but finally a felt a tap on the back of my seat, and I turned to watch her brush the hair from her eyes.

"Thank you," she said, "For the drink."

I tried to flash another practiced smile, and she inched closer to me. She stretched her legs back, then draped herself over the booth.

"I really like your shirt," she said. She was trying to whisper, but the music forced her to speak more loudly, "I've seen Bloodwyrm, probably, ten times. They're my favorite band. What's your favorite song of theirs?"

I should interject here to say the eighth time was not the magic number with me and Amber, because as she slid into my booth, a smile already curling around her lips, I got to feel like a fuckin' moron again. Besides seeing their logo, I'd never even heard of Bloodwyrm, but Chrissy and Ginger promised me I had to buy the shirt and that Amber would love it. They didn't prepare me for follow up questions.

I think my mouth literally hung open. I probably drooled like the idiot I am. I think I probably tried to say something, but it clearly didn't bring her back around because the next thing I remembered I saw her short shorts walking away.

Another failure. So, I reached for the pistol, brought it to my temple, and pulled the trigger.

Every morning I had about an hour before I would hear the first knock at my door. Alley usually came first, normally in her police uniform, but occasionally Chrissy would beat her. Ginger never even came close. Most mornings we'd be lucky to see her by noon.

"On June 16th," she'd always say, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "I slept in ok? I can't change when I wake up."

If I can tell the God's honest truth, I think Alley likes that she rarely has to see Ginger. Most mornings Ginger's hair is unkempt and bunched with THC, and the smell of pot seemed infused into her skater-girl skin. It didn't matter how many days the four of us spent together, Alley never shook her cop reflexes, and her eyes turned angry whenever she caught a whiff of Ginger.

I was never in a rush in the mornings, and lately I'd been having a pounding headache, as I pulled on my ratty old robe. I'd thought about buying a new one, but like all that Bloodwyrm crap, it'd always be gone by the next morning. What would be the point?

I shuffled slowly towards the dark kitchen, and groaned at the idea of yet another omelet with the same three leaves of spinach I couldn't even remember buying. Despite my groaning, I twisted the stove to on, and waited for the butter to melt. I twisted it across the pan, leaving a snail trail in the butter's wake, and stifled a yawn.

I knew the sun wouldn't rise for another few minutes, and until the sky turned blue and bright, I'd never stop yawning. On the morning of June 16th I had the opposite problem Ginger had. It was one of the few mornings I actually beat the sun, which meant every single morning, I had to sit around and do nothing for half the day. I'd tried going back to bed, but sleep was a catalyst for the reset. Whenever I fell asleep or died, I'd wake up exactly where I was on the morning of June 16th, in that same tiny twin bed in my same tiny apartment. Some mornings I watched TV, but it was the exact same programming. Every. Single. Day.

I finished turning over the spinach omelet, an act I'd perfected over thousands of attempts, and went to sit at the table. I barely finished blowing the steam from the first bite when I heard Alley's knock at the door.

"Come in," I called between bites, and the police officer let herself through the door.

"Morning," she said. She stretched in the doorway, but her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun and didn't fall, "Any luck last night?"

I looked back at the plate. It wasn't just myself I let down, it was all of them, every single one that was trapped here with me, living the same day over and over. I couldn't find my voice, but I managed to shake my head.

I heard Alley sigh, a disappointment that was worse than anything she could have said, then she took a seat opposite me. "Before I forget," she said, pulling that same pistol I had the night before from her waist. She placed it on the table, and I slid it next to my plate.

"I can make you some breakfast," I said, finally looking up at those angry hazel eyes, but they stayed cold.

"We're not friends," she said simply. She rocked back in her chair before speaking again, "How many more?"

"One thousand, two hundred, and twenty-two," I said, taking another bite, "But they're only going to get harder. Married women. Girls working weird schedules. Girls like Amber, a million times out of my league."

Alley rolled her neck. It was a tick of hers, something she always did when she was deep in thought.

"That's still only a few years," she decided, "We can do it."

Alley was right. She and I weren't friends, but she knew none of us could break the loop until every single woman in Custer City joined our little timeloop, so for now, it was in her best interest to work with me.

"A few years," I laughed. I stopped just long enough to take another bite, "Do you have any idea how meaningless that is to me?"

Alley's eyes narrowed, just enough to question me. "How old," she started. She was cautious, feeling out my reaction with every word, "Do you think you actually are."

I'd never given the question serious thought, and the second knock at the door saved me from having to.

Alley might not have been my friend, but Chrissy was, and the two of them had become friendly as well. They smiled when they saw each other, and Chrissy was quick to join us at the table. Her smile faded when she saw Alley's gun.

"That's the-" she started.

"Yeah," Alley said, "I give it to him every day so he can reset if things go bad."

"But don't you-"

"I know June 16th pretty well," Alley said, "There's no violent calls. Nobody notices I don't have my gun. It's fine. What about you though, you find out anymore about Amber?"

Chrissy scoffed, "What do you think happens after you reset?" she laughed, "My world keeps on spinning until I reset. People were screaming. I had to deal with the cops, so no, I didn't get to talk to Amber."

Alley interrupted, "Ok, so fill me in, what went wrong?"

It was my turn to laugh, "You guys dressed me up like a punk rocker, but I don't know anything about it. The second she started talking it all fell apart."

"Ok," Alley reasoned, "So we just need to get you up to speed, buy some of their albums-"

"No," I said, as firmly as I could, "We don't have time to invent a whole personality. We need another angle."

"One thing I was thinking," Alley said, "Maybe you need more time. I could try to block Paul from going to the bar, give him a bullshit ticket or something. It couldn't hurt at least, right?"

Chrissy nodded along, and Alley continued, "And couldn't we try another approach? Why does it have to be at the bar?"

I finished my plate and spoke as I walked across the kitchen, "Because," I said, "We have no idea where she comes to the bar from. We know she leaves and goes to Paul's house, but it's not like we can follow her backwards. As far as we can tell, from our perspective, her day starts the second she walks into Mumbles."

The third and final knock came at the door. Ginger entered. She wore the same black beanie over her frizzy red hair. Her face was a pale canvas for a million tiny freckles, and she dressed in an oversized sweatshirt, the arms hanging half a foot past her fingertips. She draped her skateboard against the wall, and joined our small group at the table.

"Just based on the vibe," she said, her voice as slow and raspy as ever, "Things didn't go right again?"

I shook my head.

"Amber's an idiot," Ginger said. She pulled her beanie off just long enough to run her dainty fingers through her hair, before she took a seat next to me, and rested her tired head on my shoulder.

"So what's the plan?" she asked.

Alley was already rising from the table, "That'll be up to you," she said, "I've got my mission with Paul, and right now, I've got work to do."

I called after her, "Right, you wouldn't want to get fired."

Alley just flipped me the bird as she left my little apartment.

"I almost think," Ginger said slowly, "There's four of us, maybe it's time to hold her down."

The notion wasn't even worth joking about, and I stopped it stone-faced, "The second we do that, she'd remember."

I let the tension become palpable, and Ginger turned as apologetic as she could.

"The problem is," I said, trying to get us back on course, "Amber doesn't find me attractive. Full stop. It doesn't matter what gimmick I come up with, at the end of the day, she just doesn't want to go home with me."

Chrissy thought for a moment, but was still the first to speak. "She won't get real with me," she said, "Believe me, I've tried, but she just sees me as the bartender. Maybe though," she said, turning to Ginger, "Maybe you could talk to her. Get her drunk, get info, prop him up. If we have time now, we could do that."

Ginger blinked in the morning light, "Me?"

Chrissy took a moment to study the short little stoner, "We could make it work," she decided, "We'll have to scrub you with sandpaper to get the smell out, and we'd need to do a makeover, but you're our best bet."

Ginger took a subconscious sniff at her sweatshirt, before she nervously parted her hair again.

Chrissy inched closer and placed a gentle hand on Ginger's cheek to turn her head side to side. "I think," she started, "I can picture someone Amber would want to hang out with. We'll get that frizz out, go for long straight hair, maybe some bangs. We'll get you a sheer white long-sleeve top, a black cami underneath, maybe a necklace or something. You're already pale enough, if we just do some makeup around your eyes, I think she might actually start the conversation for you."

Ginger's hands wouldn't leave her bunched up hair. They twisted around the matted mess like Chrissy were trying to steal it from her.

"You'll have to read her as you go," Chrissy said, "Figure out how best to talk him up, but I'll be across the bar, ready to help wherever I can."

Ginger crossed her arms nervously against her breasts. Her pupils went wide trying to picture herself so drastically different, or maybe just imagining having to talk with a stranger, and not just any stranger, another woman.

"And what about me?" I finally asked, "What's my plan?"

Chrissy turned her attention from Ginger to me. She tilted her head while she thought, but when she made up her mind she was certain, "You shouldn't be alone," she said, "If we're going to be pointing you out, you shouldn't just be sitting there like a creep. It can't be Alley either, another girl might scare Amber off. Do you think you could invite a guy friend to go with you? Someone way uglier who you can laugh with?"

I shook my head, "I'm the only guy in this stupid loop."

"From before," Chrissy snapped, "Didn't you have any friends before, someone you could call up, ask to go to a bar with?"

"I guess," I lied, but it was good enough for Chrissy.

"Great," she said, and turned to grab Ginger's hand, "We all have a plan, and I have my work cut out for me. Let's go."

Truth be told, I had my work cut out for me as well. Most of the friends I had before all this started were just as nerdy as me, the type who wouldn't touch a bar with a ten-foot post, and from my perspective, it'd been probably forty years since I'd spoken to any of them. They'd seem like strangers.

In the end, I called three people before I finally got a yes. I had to go all the way back to a high school friend, but I found a guy named David who was more than happy to catch up. He was better looking than I might have hoped, but he could get the job done. I'd just have to make sure I sat so it was my face Amber would be seeing. That wouldn't be too hard, after all, I knew she'd sit in that very same corner of the bar as always.

We got to the bar around six thirty and the conversation came easily. He told me about his time in Foxwood and how his life had changed since Foxwood. For a moment, I almost forgot the mission. Amber had been sitting for nearly twenty minutes, and I was just focused on talking to David; but then Ginger walked in.

If Chrissy hadn't told us exactly how she planned to change Ginger's look, I'm honestly not sure I would have recognized her. She smiled when she saw me, and she'd swapped a black leather choker for the necklace idea, but other than that she looked just like Chrissy described.

From behind the bar, Chrissy flashed a smile of her own, but looked away just as quickly. I'd never seen Ginger wear heals a day in her life, but she glided with the grace of a model.

David tilted his head, watching me stare before he laughed and muttered, "Down boy."

I whipped my head back to the table, and tried to keep the blush from my cheeks. I gave a silent prayer, hoping Amber didn't see, then tried to find David's eyes again.

"I think I see why you picked this place," he laughed. He took a small sip of his drink, and his eyes wandered across the bar.

The heat in my face seemed to pool in the tips of my ears, but it was starting to recede.

"It's as close to Foxwood as we get," I laughed. I joined him, taking a drink of my own, and we got back to our conversation.

He started telling me about the houses near him, how some of the values tripled in just a few years and how much it was starting to piss him off.

I started a reply, just something stupid about housing here in Custer City, but his eyes had gone distant, and he was looking past me.

"What-," I started to ask, but the second I looked back I saw it. Amber had thrown herself across her chair and her lips were locked with Ginger's. Ginger's hands went nervously up the girl's back, and Chrissy was running out from behind the bar.

She jerked her head and dashed her finger across the bar, "Get over there!"

I stood hastily, and brushed my pants as I started towards the two. They had broken from their embrace, and Amber saw me approaching.

Ginger turned back slowly, and her warm smile returned. Her freshly straightened hair had become a mangled mess, and the lipstick Chrissy drew so deliberately on her had started to smear across her cheek.

"This is the guy," Ginger said nervously, but Amber was far too drunk to catch it.

"Hi," Amber said, her acrid breath catching me like a charging bull, "Ginger was saying you're the best."

Ginger interjected, "We were thinking about going home," she said, really taking Chrissy's advice to audible to heart, "We were hoping you'd join us."

In my mind I saw the same house I'd been waking up to for as long as I could remember. The floor was mostly covered in old clothes, and where it was visible crumbs were as common as strands of carpet. My eyes went wide. As drunk as Amber was, I knew my house would be a turnoff.

It wouldn't be the first time that the mess scared off a date, and I'm sure it wouldn't be the last, but Chrissy saw my eyes, and sideskirted past the bar. She slipped her house key into my pocket and gave me a nod. Sometimes it was nice to be on a team.

When I looked back to Amber and Ginger, Amber's tongue was pawing at Ginger, and Ginger tried her best to kiss her. I helped the two from their stools and started towards the car. I held the door for Amber, and watched as crawled her way into the back seat. Ginger chased after her, and Amber's hands started running up her shirt.

I'd gotten close to thousands of girls, thousands of times, but this was my first time with two in my backseat. My hands were shaky as I reached for the ignition, and when I adjusted the mirror, I saw the two had locked lips again. Ginger's hands crawled up Amber's back, and beneath her cami she was braless. Her nipples had hardened so much they poked against her shirt.

The engine roared to life and I started towards Chrissy's house. I hadn't been there often, but it was close to the bar and the directions were uncomplicated. I pulled into the garage and started for the house. Before the door had opened, Amber was already struggling to get her shirt past her head. I waited on the front steps, just long enough to take her hand and help her into the foyer.

She finished pulling her shirt off with a shake of her obsidian hair, then she was staring right at me. If she could tell it was me and not Ginger, she didn't seem to notice. She took a pair of hasty steps towards me, and threw her arms around my neck. I braved her sour breath as she threw herself into a kiss, and I felt her black bra against my chest. Even through the padding I could feel her pierced nipples.

I stumbled backwards as she shot a hand down my boxers. I didn't need her touch to get hard, but her cold hands sent a chill of excitement up my spine. I kept walking backwards, my hand lunging for the wall, fumbling for the light switch. Chrissy's house filled with light, and I saw Amber's dilated eyes, fixated on mine. I brought my hand back and returned the favor. I slid down her panties, and fought with a thicket of hair, until I ran my finger across her pussy. She pulled herself closer, and buried her head against my neck.