The Pit. Tara Borin

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      Desire Paths

      In the long absence of light, a husky’s howls drive us from our singular

      cells to trace paths pressed in snow: they bisect the frozen river, vacant lots, the barren school field—

      all roads lead to the Pit.

      Cold air smokes as we pull open the door. Hard to heat a room so big in weeks of forty below—

      we keep our toques on, learn to flirt in our parkas, dance in our winter boots.

      Held in perpetual Christmas lights’ glow, curtains drawn against the street, we pull hands from pockets to lay bare our secrets like dark gems.

      They glint among small change, crumpled General Store receipts, bits of loose tobacco—

      we palm them across the bar, leave them at the bottle-lined altar in exchange for an ounce of forgetting swirled golden in a glass.

      Here is where we find the shortest distance to each other:

      bar top, schnapps sticky, plywood dance floor that feels like it could give at any moment, the house band a jukebox onstage.

      Last-call crush, we open our arms, make love to the room, tip the bartender and stumble into the street, faces turned up like children to catch whirling stars on our tongues.

      Church Key

      Found rattling about in the kitchen drawer of a rented house, the handle worn where folded fingers grip, engraved Maprosa darkened with tarnish. I take it for my own, take it to my Friday night shift. Bustling up and down the length of the bar I pop the tops off bottles lined up in a row then turn to mix a rye and ginger all with the key tucked neatly in my hand: my secret to speed. Between beers I turn it over and over, the flat of it gently slapping my palm. I am never without it. I wonder what epiphanies it unlocked before me. It opens the door to relief, sanctuary from the daily assault. Sanctuary from lonely social housing apartments. Sanctuary from the past that haunts you, the things you can’t control, the things done to you and done to you. I’ll guide you through the darkness into the amber light, to a congregation of familiars. My church key always fits, snicks inside whatever lock you’re bound by—it will always let you in.

      List of Duties in a Subarctic Dive Bar

      If the temperature outside is twenty-five below or colder leave all the faucets running and flush the toilets hourly.

      R. has a two-drink limit. A. likes a coaster. Remember, Mrs. O. takes a chilled pilsner glass with her bottle of Blue. Never keep her waiting.

      If someone reveals residential school horrors, listen with your whole body.

      If a customer becomes unresponsive and overdose is suspected,

      call the nursing station, then administer the naloxone kept behind the bar. Be sure to write everything down in the incident book. This is your therapy.

      At the end of each shift, pour a kettle of boiling water into the ice well drain. It keeps down the bioslime.

      Wrap your cash in the blue vinyl bag and feed it to the Snake.

      You are entitled to one staff drink. Choose wisely.