Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  After he finished the seemingly endless counting and clocked out Casey got in his faded green and white two-tone Chevy 1500 pick-up and headed for home. The irony of the similarity between the truck he loved and the truck he hated was not lost on him. At least his pick-up had a cassette player. He reached in the glove box and came up with Jimmy Cliff.

  “That’ll work,” he said and put the tape into the dashboard. One verse into “The Harder They Come,” and he had completely forgotten about vending machines, Mary, and Jennifer. For the moment, Casey was content with his life and the rhythmic routine that guided it.

  Just before the Wilmington River, Casey turned right and drove through one of the quietest parts of town. There were only a handful of houses on his street that were built after 1940, and most were a couple of decades older than that. That didn’t mean they were the Revolutionary War-era buildings that permeated Savannah and gave it the old river-town charm that brought tourists from around the world. The houses were just old. Not antique—old.

  A few blocks down, Casey eased the old truck into the dirt parking lot of The Sunset Tavern. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but in Thunderbolt, the weekend started early. Casey was a regular at the Sunset. He came in about three nights every week, and on Friday he stopped for a beer to toast the beginning of 61 hours away from the monotonous world of the vending business.

  The Sunset Tavern was a dark, low-key watering hole that relied on local business. Tourists occupied most of the other drinking establishments in the Savannah area, especially those that cluttered Bull and River streets and the myriad squares designed into the city’s planning by its founder, James Oglethorpe. The out-of-towners who ventured to Thunderbolt were usually just stopping for gas on their way to or from Tybee Island, and the Sunset Tavern was not on the list of places to see.

  The name of the tavern was a misnomer as the building faced east not west. Anyone looking to catch a view of the sunset while having a drink on the back patio would be sorely disappointed, because the thick cluster of pine trees surrounding three quarters of the tavern cast shadows over the whole place as early as five p.m. in the summer—even earlier after daylight savings time ended. The view of the river from the front of the tavern was forever obscured five years earlier when a seven-floor apartment complex was built at the water’s edge for wealthy snowbirds to have a place to keep their boats. There were only two permanent residents, and the rest of the apartments remained sixty percent vacant even during the busiest holiday seasons.

  Casey opened the front door, the squeaking hinges announcing his arrival. The air was still fresh despite the distinct smell of once-lacquered wood that mixed with the used Naugahyde scent from the stools and chairs that populated the room. The open windows would be shut at dusk to keep out the legions of hungry mosquitoes that were as much a part of the landscape in Savannah as the giant oaks and Spanish moss. But for now, the incoming breeze made the Sunset Tavern feel more like an old friend’s living room than a bar.

  “Hi Casey,” Maude called out from behind the bar when she saw him walk in. Maude was the owner of the Sunset, along with her husband, Geoff. She was drying some wine glasses she had just washed and was placing them on the shelf behind her. Because Happy Hour didn’t start for another thirty minutes, Maude seconded as the lone bartender until the regular staff showed up for the evening festivities.

  “Hey, Maude,” Casey replied. He walked up to the bar and took a seat on the stool next to Jas Fillmore. “Howdy, Jas,” Casey said as he put his hand on the old man’s shoulder and, with the other hand, grabbed the beer Maude had placed in front of him. “Anything big happen in the world today?”

  Jas was the local fountain of knowledge when it came to television news. He retired a long time ago, though no one was really sure when. And ever since his wife passed away, not long after he retired by some accounts, he always came to the Sunset Tavern as soon as the door was unlocked. Whether it was open for business or not, if someone was inside and could pour him a drink, Jas was there, glued to whatever cable news show was on TV. Casey wondered how Jas survived before the advent of the 24-hour news channel.

  “Brett Favre retired again. There was a mudslide in India killed 134 people. Some poor bastard in Iowa got his legs chopped off in one of them wheat farmin’ tractors. That’s about all the big news. Kinda slow today.”

  Casey laughed and took another pull on his beer bottle, and Jas asked Maude for another Scotch. The Sunset Tavern was always dead this time of day, but that made for the perfect atmosphere for relaxing after the work week was finished. Casey got up and went to the jukebox. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and dialed in 8713 and went back to his stool. As soon as he sat down, the soothing sounds of Ray Charles’ “Georgia on My Mind” came dripping from the speakers around the tavern. Casey knew Jas didn’t mind the added noise, not only because he liked the song, but because he’d seen the same news stories repeated over and over for the past three hours. Jas only kept focused on the television in case some late breaking news was announced.

  Casey closed his eyes and just listened to the song. Ray’s words always made Casey homesick, even when he was home. His father, whom he loved and admired more than anyone else, never cared for the song. He felt it was too commercially cheesy—Casey’s words, not his dad’s—and too many people, the state government more than anyone, had ruined the song for him through overuse and exploitation, no matter how good it was. Casey smiled at the thought of his father getting so worked up whenever the song rudely made its way, uninvited, onto the radio waves coming into his Oldsmobile.

  Casey shifted on the bar stool and finished his beer.

  “Want another one, sweetie?” Maude asked.

  Casey looked at his watch and then examined the empty bottle in front of him. “No thanks, Maude. I better head home. I’ll be back later tonight, though,” Casey promised her. He put some money down on the bar and was just getting ready to leave when Jas spoke up.

  “Some pirates captured another ship,” he announced. Casey looked at the television, and sure enough, the headline in the corner announced that a ship had been hijacked. The picture of the ship showed that it wasn’t an American ship, though, which made Casey wonder why it had even made headlines in the States.

  “Maude, could you turn it up a little, please?”

  Maude picked up the remote control from behind the bar and raised the volume on the set.

  “...only just hearing about it today. While hijackings are not uncommon, as we have seen around the coast of Somalia in recent years, vessels being captured in the Baltic Sea around Denmark or Sweden is almost unheard of,” the man on the TV pontificated.

  “Interesting,” Casey mused. He checked his watch again. I should get a nap in before tonight, he thought.

  He turned back towards the door and waved to Maude. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see you in a few hours. Mr. Jas, you going to the Sand Gnats on Sunday?” he asked the old man, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the breaking news report.

  “Like always.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then. Bye now.” Casey walked back out into the sunlight and squinted while he got into his truck. He was home in less than two minutes. After checking the mailbox to ensure no bills had arrived while he was gone, he went into the house where the long day in the delivery truck and the cool beer at Maude’s caught up with him like a punch in the face. He paused at the entrance to his spare bedroom. An aura of pain and suffering surrounded the Bowflex home gym in the corner of the room. Casey imagined it must have been the same menacing feeling that surrounded the iron maiden of the Middle Ages or the electric chair in 1950s America.

  I should work out, he thought. He was saved, however, from an hour of certain agony in the name of health and vanity by the sweet call of slumber coming from the other room. Casey chose pleasure over pain and collapsed on his bed. He was asleep before he could even think about removing his shoes.

  Chapter 3

  The Su
nset Tavern was a different place. It never ceased to amaze Casey how a mere five hours could change his oasis of post-vending relaxation into a loud, raucous frat party. Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the Friday night crowd was definitely a more diverse sampling of Savannah demographics than the Happy Hour clientele.

  The Sunset Tavern’s close proximity to Savannah State University ensured there was always a healthy gathering of college coeds. Groups from Armstrong Atlantic and the Savannah College of Art and Design, or SCAD to insiders and locals, helped represent the cross-town college population. But the Sunset was not a “meat market” in the sense that the renowned retro-themed Hip Huggers was. There was not a large contingent of Army Rangers from nearby Fort Stewart or desperate women trying to snag one of the clean-cut boys in green.

  What set Friday night at the Sunset Tavern apart from other lively drinking establishments in the area was the fact that, despite the college kids, the locals were always in attendance. From lawyers, of which there seemed to be more and more, to shrimpers, of which there seemed to be less and less, to the average citizen, like Casey, content with a dead-end, yet necessary, 9-to-5 job, the Sunset was a popular gathering place for those with a lasting stake in the Savannah tapestry.

  Casey scanned the room when he walked in and found who he was looking for. He made his way to the table where Mike and Chip were trying to con two young ladies into not-so-long lasting relationships they would both regret in the morning. That is, the shapely blondes that Casey guessed were college juniors at best, most probably sophomores with fake IDs, would be the ones with the regrets.

  As long as Casey had known Mike Tunney, he had never known him to trouble himself with consequences. Chip Walton, on the other hand, was harmless. He was utterly devoted to Mrs. Walton and their two children, Piper and Tristan. His wife let him go out as Mike’s wingman on most Friday nights, just so he could be reminded of where he would be if it weren’t for her. Chip took the weekly lesson on board, and although he loved Mike as a brother and had been his best friend since childhood, he knew exactly what he had waiting at home.

  Mike’s face lit up in mock surprise when he saw Casey. “Dude! Sit down, man!” He reached up and grabbed Casey’s hand, motioning him to an empty seat across the table.

  “Hey, Mike. Hey, Chip,” Casey said as he sat down. He noticed the place was only about three-quarters full and looked over at Chip. “Where is everybody?” he asked while he looked around in search of a waitress.

  “Todd Snider’s playing a sunset gig over on Tybee,” Chip replied. It’s only nine-thirty, so people should be rolling in here in a little while. It’ll be packed this time in two weeks when the rest of the college kids start classes.”

  “Yes, sir. If you sing it, they will come,” Mike quipped, motioning to the stage at the rear of the room where two bare-chested guys were performing a drunken rendition of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” to the delight of a table of young women. Jocks by the look of them, Maude was not the least intimidated as she tried to use reason and strong language to get the boys to put their shirts back on.

  Casey laughed and turned back to his friends. “Guess they started a little too early, huh?”

  “No. They’re just asses,” one of the blonde sisters offered.

  “Football seniors,” chimed in the other one. She eyed Casey for a reaction as she coyly sipped a hurricane through a blue-and-white straw. Casey began to feel a little uncomfortable under the young girl’s obviously flirtatious scrutiny. Luckily, Mike noticed his friend’s situation and came to the rescue.

  “Oh man, I’m sorry. Girls, this is Casey. Casey, these are the girls. Ladies, you’re gonna have to help me out here because, honestly, I can’t remember y’all’s names.”

  “I’m Trish,” said the green-eyed one who still had her gaze fixed on Casey.

  The other girl threw a venomous look at Mike, stood up and grabbed her drink. “C’mon, Trish. Let’s go sit somewhere else. I’m sure there’s some guys here who aren’t collecting social security. I bet they’ll even remember our names after ten minutes.” Trish did as she was told and followed her friend away from the table.

  “Hey, babe, don’t be like that. Stay a while. I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a drink!” Mike pleaded as the girls disappeared in a crowd of people on the other side of the room.

  Mike picked up his beer and took a drink and sighed. “Damn, Chip. We were that close to scoring some blonde cheerleader ass.” His smile faded as he took another sip and stared pensively at the center of the table. “Fuck ‘em. There’s better fish out there.”

  “That’s what she said,” Casey commented.

  Chip sprayed beer around the table as he burst out laughing mid-drink. “She did! She really said that Mike.” Casey smiled, happy that at least Chip got his play on words by twisting a phrase he often heard from the college crowd.

  “She said, ‘Fuck ‘em. We’ll go find someone else.’ That was a good one, Casey.” Chip started to catch his breath. Mike showed no signs of even hearing Chip or Casey.

  “Dude, how many joints did he have already?” Casey asked Chip, as if they were doctors concerned about their comatose patient.

  “I don’t know. Four maybe? He wasn’t bad when we got here, but he had three tall gin and tonics before he started on the beer. I think all that ain’t mixin’ right in his head,” Chip diagnosed.

  Casey shrugged his shoulders and looked around the tavern. The lone waitress was busy taking orders from the Buffett Brothers and the table full of their adoring fans. He stood up and pushed his chair in to keep it from getting swiped. “I’m going to the bar to get a drink. Barbara looks like she’s got her hands full.”

  “Yeah, it’s just her on the floor tonight. Sam called in sick,” Chip explained.

  “Y’all need anything?” Casey asked before he headed to the bar.

  “I’ll take one,” Mike said, weakly raising his bottle to offer proof of its lack of contents. He was still staring blankly at nothing, trying to come to grips with the gremlins that seemed to be re-wiring his brain, affecting his cognitive abilities.

  “I’m good, thanks,” replied Chip. Part of his bargain with his wife meant he would have no more than two drinks the whole night, so he made sure he nursed his beer. The one time Chip came home at twelve-thirty, after having three beers over a six-hour period, his wife let him have it. How did she know? Chip asked himself that night. He never found out how she kept track of his alcohol indiscretions that night, but he never wanted to test her again, and so he continued to follow the rules they agreed upon.

  Casey went to the same spot at the bar where Jas sat to watch the news every afternoon. While Steve the Bartender, that was how he wanted people to refer to him, went to the cooler for two Rolling Rocks, Casey glanced up at the television. The volume was muted so it would not take away from the performances of the karaoke heroes on the stage. A third-rate version of a fifth-rate bootleg of “The Dance” added an awful, if not comical soundtrack to the silent news reports.

  Casey watched a picture of the same ship Jas told him had been hijacked. He focused on the scrolling text beneath the images to try and decipher the story behind the file footage of what the captions said was the MV Baltic Venture. He read that the ship was on its way from Finland to Algeria with a shipment of lumber.

  “Seven-fifty,” Steve the Bartender said as he set the bottles in front of Casey and removed the caps.

  Casey laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar without looking away from the news. “Warships to find missing ship and rescue hostages, Russian officials say – AP,” the next part of the ticker informed. Casey stopped watching as footage of Tiger Woods sinking a bunker shot and giving a fist pump indicated that the world of sports would be covered for the next ten minutes. He pocketed his change sans a one-dollar tip, grabbed the beer bottles, and rejoined his friends.

  “Thanks, man,” Mike said as Casey put the green bottle in front of him. He had come out of his stoned, catato
nic state for the moment and was working on the bowl of peanuts on the table.

  “Welcome back,” Casey said and sat down. “You need to lay off that shit, man. You’re getting too old to be sneakin’ roaches from your ash tray every break you get.”

  “Man, there’s lots of dudes still smoke weed when they’re like, seventy. And I’m only thirty-two. You should try it sometime. You’re not in the Navy anymore, so you don’t have to worry about a piss test.”

  “Whatever, Mike.” Casey hated when he got on his soap box and started lecturing his friend about his bad habits. Especially when Casey knew he had his own issues to deal with. Mike was his friend, after all, not his kid. But he thought Mike would be better off without the pot. “Anyway, how’d the crew do this week?”

  Mike was glad his friend dropped it, even though he barely listened anymore when Casey started lecturing him. “Not bad. Wassaw’s kickin’ ass this year, but I bet we’ll find more turtles next week when I’m out there. Jody’s lazy. She’ll spend all night on one nester and have the whole group gathered around to watch instead of sending some people down the beach to find more. We missed seven nests so far this season, all on her weeks.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, but we still have almost twice as many as Sapelo and St. Simons, combined. You should come out with me this week, Casey.”

  Casey thought he could use a week on the island, away from vending machines, but responsibility got the better of him. “Can’t, man. Thanks for the invite, though.”

  “Shit. Those fat-asses could get by with one week and no Ding Dongs. Just call in sick.”

  “I can’t, man, I told you. I gotta keep clocking time so I can get a week off at Christmas. My mom’s been hounding me because I only live an hour away, and I never come to visit them. I’m going to surprise her by showing up at her doorstep with a suitcase on Christmas Eve. After a week, she’ll probably want me to go back to Savannah and not come back until next Christmas.”