by Tom Reilly
“I know. Sorry, Dez. This thing didn’t want to start this morning. I think it wanted to sleep a bit longer,” Timothy said.
“You talking about you or the car?” Dez said.
“Both, probably. I had to get a jump-start this morning. I’ll get a new battery at Sears tomorrow. That’s if you decide to pay me for today.”
“You oughta get rid of that junk heap.” Dez pointed his thumb at the Fairlane. “Besides, you look like a stiff driving that thing. A young man oughta have a young car.”
“There it is.” Timothy felt like one GI talking to another.
“Get yourself somethin’ reliable and cheap to drive, like one of those new Jap cars. You know, the Japs are gettin’ their shit together. Cheap cars that don’t suck down too much gas. That’s pretty important these days the way the ragheads are screwin’ the world with their oil,” Dez said.
“Those cars cost more money than I have, Dez.”
“You could afford it if you got a real job that paid you some decent money,” said Dez.
“Are you going to give me a raise?”
“You kiddin’? I’m not the problem, you know.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Tired of this conversation with Dez, Timothy pushed back.
“You’ve got a head full of dreams and tuition bills to prove it, but you’re working for chump change at that hospital. That’s a loser combination. It don’t make sense.”
“It does when I think about the future. I need an education to do what I want to do,” Timothy said.
“See, that’s the problem.” Dez jabbed his crooked index finger in Timothy’s chest. “You got your head soaring in the clouds and your feet stuck in the mud.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Take some time off school, get a real job, and save some money. You can buy a new car, take care of your mother, and go back to school once you save enough money. Besides, all learnin’ don’t just happen in classrooms,” Dez said.
“So you’re telling me to give up on my dreams and get some dead-end job I have to drink my way through?” Timothy challenged Dez for a better option.
“No, just can the dreams for a while. Get some traction,” Dez said.
“What kind of job could I get? No one wants to hire a Vietnam vet these days. They think we’re all damaged goods.”
“Get a government job. They gotta hire you, right?” Dez said.
“I just left three years with the government, and that’s enough.”
“I can work you fifty hours a week and pay you more than those nuns pay you at the hospital. What are they payin’ now—minimum wage?”
“A little more than that. I get a buck seventy-five an hour. More when I work the night shifts. Thing is, the work at the hospital fits into my plans for the future.”
“What plans? Bein’ poor?” Dez laughed.
Timothy let it pass.
“Why do you wanna work with a bunch of nuts anyway?” Dez asked.
“I like psychology,” Timothy said.
“I like beer but couldn’t figure out a way to make a living drinking it.” Dez laughed through three days of stubble as he knocked the ash off his cigarette.
“What I lack in pay I make up for with the experience it offers.” Timothy got defensive.
“Yeah, that kind of experience is overrated. See, that’s how those birds con you into working for them. I’ll pay you two bucks an hour—hard money, no tax. That’s more than you make now.”
“I’ll think about it,” Timothy said, tired of the banter.
“Yeah, do. Don’t be a chump. That’s the point. You’re workin’ for jack shit and drivin’ a piece of shit. That clunker ain’t taking you nowhere, and neither are those dreams,” Dez said.
“I told you. I’ll think about it.”
“Like I said, those nuns will screw you every time,” Dez argued his point. “And they call my people cheap. I’ll keep you busy through the holidays, and when spring comes, you can go to fifty hours. I’ll work you here and at the other place too. But you gotta have a decent ride to get there. None of this late shit. I gotta business to run. I ain’t no charity, you know. And those nuns ain’t either. They’re tryin’ to make some cheddar, just like me.”
“All right, thanks, Dez.”
“Yeah, no problem. Now, get to work back there and help that simpleton unload the Christmas trees.” Dez pointed to the tree lot behind the shop.
“C’mon, Dez. You’re pretty tough on Kenny,” Timothy said.
“Whatta ya talkin’ about? Who else would hire a retard and pay him what I give him? He’s lucky to have this job. It’s damn near charity. Besides, he’s got that creepy side, too. The ol’ lady thinks he’s a pervert.”
“She thinks everyone is a pervert,” said Timothy. “Maybe it’s because she’s lived with one all these years.” Timothy liked giving it back to Dez and knew Dez didn’t mind an occasional good jab. Dark humor fit him like stink on a dead fish.
Dez showed some teeth, and they weren’t a pretty sight. He had a mouthful of chewers with the right amount of vacancies to make his words whistle.
“All I know is he sweats as much as me in the summer and huddles around the fire barrel in the winter when he gets cold.” Timothy’s nature was to defend the underdog.
“Right, you’re always stickin’ up for that schlep. Get on back there, and do what I pay you to do. We gotta be ready for the Thanksgiving rush. The suckers always show up that day,” Dez said.
“I think it’s going to be a good year for us. The weather people say it will be fair by the end of the week. That should help bring out the crowds,” Timothy said.
“Hope so. Gotta good deal on trees, so I bought a couple of extra trailers this year. Three different kinds. I’m gonna hire an extra schlub to help you two. Now, get on back there with the mole head. That trailer won’t unload itself.”
“Alright, I’m going.” Timothy walked away shaking his head, wondering how someone became that cynical about life. I hope I miss that train when it stops for passengers.
CHAPTER TWO
TIMOTHY WALKED TO the tree lot behind the shop. His wounded leg didn’t like the cold weather, so he walked with a slight hitch. His limp seemed out of place for his six-foot, muscular body. In spite of his war experiences, he maintained a boyish quality—cropped, sandy-colored hair and light-blue eyes. But that look of innocence was a façade. He brought home with him a new norm and discovered there was nothing normal about it—another paradox of war.
As he got closer to the barrel, Timothy smelled the smoke and heard the wood crackling in the fire. The breeze made it feel colder than mid-thirties. Kenny stood at the barrel warming his hands.
“Hey, Kenny,” Timothy said.
“About time you showed up, GI Joe,” Kenny said. He launched a cheek-full of tobacco juice at Timothy. Timothy narrowly dodged the wad attack.
“Watch it, Kenny,” Timothy said.
“Almost got ya that time. Pretty good dodge for a gimp.” Kenny laughed. “If you woulda dodged like that in Nam, you wouldn’t have that screw in your leg.”
“Yeah, lucky for me your aim sucks,” Timothy said.
Kenny grinned, showing off the rack of brown and yellow stubs God put in his mouth. Kenny owned the kind of teeth that shouldn’t be aired out in public. Like Dez, Kenny didn’t make a habit of standing too close to the razor. Spit-and-dodge was everyday play for Kenny. He spit, Timothy dodged. They insulted each other and got to work.
“Why you late?” Kenny asked.
“Car trouble again.”
“That’s why I walk everywhere. No car problems. My body always works. Besides, I can’t get a license—they don’t let tards drive,” Kenny said.
“Don’t call yourself that, Kenny.”
Timothy didn’t like name-calling, but Dez and Kenny were serial insult slingers. Their target list was comprehensive: Italians, blacks, queers, Irish, Jews, Poles, Arabs, Asians, and the handicapped.
“Why not? Dez calls me that. He says all Polacks are simple,” Kenny said.
Timothy shook his head. “He says a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean they’re all right.”
“I don’t care if that ol’ kike calls me names as long as he pays me hard money. I know how to count what he owes me. I wrote it down and keep it in my wallet,” Kenny said.
With that, Kenny opened his wallet and showed Timothy the scrap of paper that kept Dez honest. “See? I told ya,” Kenny said.
“You got it all figured out, Kenny,” Timothy said.
“Damn straight. You watch Archie last night?” Kenny referred to All in the Family, one of his favorite television shows.
“No, I took Cheryl to the show last night,” Timothy said.
Cheryl was Timothy’s girlfriend, and she was the best part of his life.
“Ya missed a good one. Meathead was really giving Archie shit. Kinda like me and Dez. Sometimes I get ideas on what to say to Dez from the meathead. Pisses ’im off, too, when it’s a good one. Wanna smoke?” Kenny said.
Kenny offered Timothy a Parodi cigar, which Timothy considered the worst three-and-a-half-inch stench on the planet.
“Not even. How can you smoke those things? It looks like they swept the floor and rolled it into a shingle.” Timothy made a face to show his disgust.
“Dez told me they’re in-ported, whatever that means. Besides, they’re cheap. I get a box of five for fifty cents. Sometimes I get ’em free if I’m sweepin’ round the register and the ol’ lady ain’t lookin’. I pocket a couple of boxes,” Kenny said.
“That’s stealing, Kenny!”
“Not if the ol’ biddy don’t catch me.” Kenny smiled.
“We better get these trees unloaded or Dez will be after both of us. A lot coming in this year. Three different kinds,” Timothy said.
“Why’s that?”
“Dez told me he got a deal on them, so he bought two extra truckloads,” Timothy said.
“I don’t know about all that, but if we got any left after Christmas, Dez ain’t gonna be happy.”
“He said he may get someone else to help us sell all these trees,” said Timothy.
“Don’t need nobody else gettin’ into our tip money.”
“You’ll appreciate the help.”
“Maybe, so long’s he don’t take my tip money. How’s your momma?” Kenny asked.
“Good. Getting back on her feet. The vein problem in her leg had her down a couple of weeks, but she’s comin’ around. Thanks for asking.”
“I like your momma. Think she’d make me some more of those cookies she made last year?”
“I’ll make sure of it. Her oatmeal raisins are the best,” Timothy said.
“Bring ’em back on Thursday and I won’t spit at ya.” Kenny smirked. Timothy knew Kenny was lying.
“Dez wants to sell the trees cheaper than all the other lots this year. He got pissed last year when the Boy Scouts cut their prices. He told me that wouldn’t happen again. I think that’s part of the reason he bought so many this year—so he could get a better deal on them,” Timothy said.
“Yeah, and he don’t like the church group selling ’em either. He says, ‘I don’t sell religion, so why should they sell trees?’ Sorta makes sense, don’t it?” said Kenny.
“If you’re Dez it does.” Timothy turned toward the trailer. “Now, let’s get to work. It’ll take all day to unload this truck.”
“Okey, soldier boy.” Kenny shot another wad of tobacco juice at Timothy’s apron, hitting him center mass.
“You’re an asshole, Kenny.”
“That’s why I stink all the time.”
They started to unload the truck.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THE OLD man opened the shop’s door, a toxic blend of cheap perfume, stale tobacco smoke, and rotting produce punched him square in the nose. He could taste the garbage in the air. Stomach acid burned his throat as it decided whether to come up all the way. On the radio, Jim Croce sang “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” The old man looked around at shelves half-stocked with canned goods and other nonperishables and spotted compost bins overflowing with brown oranges, potatoes with barnacles growing on them, and sickly string beans. A sign above the onions read, 10 cents a pound. The sign over the potatoes read, 99 cents a pound.
Highway robbery. He took a step toward the register, but his back foot stuck to the floor, and his hand hesitated on the doorknob.
The old woman working behind the counter peered over the register. She stood five-feet-nothing and would have been taller if it weren’t for the hump on her back. She had a bulldog face and washed-out hair that hadn’t seen a rinse in a while. She was reading National Enquirer and spilling cigarette ashes on the counter, blowing them onto the floor. The magazine cover story showed a picture of Richard Nixon with the caption Nixon blames space aliens for the Watergate break-in. The only other person in the store was a balding man with muttonchops and a white apron sweeping the floor. The old lady’s lips parted enough to spit a few words.
“What do ya need, old-timer?” she said with enough effort to hack up half a lung. The old man thought she sounded like a dog choking on a bone.
“Excuse me, madam. Are you the owner?” the old man said.
“Ha, ya hear that, Kenny? He called me madam.” She grinned, revealing as many gaps as teeth in her mouth. When she smiled, the mole on her upper lip moved sideways on her leathered skin. Even humor brought little light to her coffee bean eyes.
Kenny laughed.
“You must be sellin’ somethin’, old-timer,” she said.
“Not really, ma’am. I wanted to talk with the owner. Are you the owner?”
“Hear that, Kenny? Ma’am. Somebody that polite wants somethin’ from ya.” She stared piercingly at the old man. Kenny swept and grinned. The old man stood ramrod straight and returned the eye contact. He smiled through his beard like he knew something she didn’t know.
“I’m one of ’em. Who wants to know?” she said.
“My name is Hoffen, and I wanted to inquire about some Christmas employment.”
“See, I knew ya wanted somethin’,” she said. “So, you want a job?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hoffen said.
“Again with the ma’am. You must be desperate. You’re as old as Christmas. What can you do around here?”
Hoffen stared at the old lady with his steel-gray eyes. He was one of those people who concealed his mileage well. With a full head of white hair and a barrel chest, he had the look of someone who had worked with his body for decades.
“I can help you sell those Christmas trees I saw out on your back lot.”
“Heck, any yutz can sell trees. Even this dimwit can do that. Ain’t that right, Kenny?” She brought up more lung laughing at her own joke.
“That’s right, Ed. Dez says so,” Kenny said. “That’s why I got a job.”
“Who’s Dez? The other owner?” Hoffen asked.
“My ol’ man. We own the place. Been owning it for ten years. Bought it when the ol’ dago died, and his family needed some quick cash to bury him and pay the bills. Got it cheap.” She smiled with pride.
“Congratulations,” Hoffen said. He didn’t mean it, but he wanted the job.
“If you wanna job, go out back and talk to Dez. He makes decisions about the help. But I’ll tell ya, we don’t hire nobody on Mondays. Bad luck. Only desperate people lookin’ for work on Mondays. Means they ain’t got a job. Ain’t that right, Kenny?”
“That’s right, Ed. Got my job on a Friday. Waited all week to come in on Friday.”
“Thank you, ma’am, and your name’s Ed?” Hoffen asked.
“Edna, but everyone calls me Ed, like Ed Sullivan.” She laughed, and it brought up more lung sap. “Your name is Huffin?”
“Hoffen.”
“First or last?”
“Just Hoffen,” he said.
“What kind of name is that? Are you a Kraut?” She scowled.
“So
mething like that,” Hoffen said.
“We don’t like krauts much around here. Kenny, take this ol’ Kraut out to Dez.”
“Okey, Ed,” Kenny said.
“Told ya. Jus’ like Ed Sullivan,” she said.
“Thanks again,” Hoffen said.
“Right, get outta here. You’re interfering with my readin’.” She went back to the Enquirer.
“You know those things will kill you,” he said.
“What, the Enquirer?” She laughed at her own joke. Kenny grunted.
“No, the cigarettes,” Hoffen said.
“Now you’re a doctor. Get outta here. I wanna finish readin’ about the aliens.” She dropped more ashes on the counter.
As Hoffen left the store with Kenny, he heard Edna go into a coughing spell that lasted a good twenty paces. The crisp air slapped the old man in the face, and he liked it. He stood there for a few moments sucking it in, trying to cleanse his lungs of the rancid air he breathed in the shop.
“Is she always like that?” Hoffen asked Kenny.
“Nah, most of the time she’s pretty nasty. You caught her on a good day.”
“Good day?” Hoffen asked, surprised.
“Yeah, she’s real bitchy to everyone, except Dez. She’s scared of him. He can be a real mean bastard, but I don’t care ’cause he leaves me be. I’ll take ya to him. C’mon this way.”
As they walked to the tree lot behind the confectionary, Hoffen extended his hand to Kenny and said, “I’m Hoffen.”
Kenny grabbed it with his fingerless derby glove and said, “Heard. I’m Kenny.”
“Nice to meet you, Kenny.”
“Yeah, you too.” Kenny nodded. “That’s why I smoke these things.”
“Pardon me?” Hoffen said.
“Parodis.” He showed Hoffen the stub he was chewing on. “Cigarettes is bad for ya. These ain’t that bad. I don’t swallow the smoke. I keep it in my mouth and blow it out. These things last longer than a cig. I only smoke five of ’em a day. If I smoked cigs, I’d go through a pack or two a day. I heard what ya said to Ed. She smokes a couple of packs a day. Might as well—don’t cost her nothin’. She owns the place. She can smoke as much as she wants. It ain’t like she’s stealin’ them or nothin’.”
