by Nathan Roden
“We met at my office on a Friday afternoon. She says, ’Look, Jack. We don’t have to do anything official right now. Let’s try this for a month and if it looks like a good fit, then we can talk shop’. I said that sounded good to me. She says, ‘Okay, Jack. I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning.’ I said, ‘Excuse me? Saturday morning?’ She was already standing up. She says ‘The address on your card?’ I nodded and shook her hand.”
“Nine o’clock sharp she roars up in that...you’ve seen her car, right? Or whatever that thing is?”
Babe laughed. “Oh yeah. The Batmobile.”
MG’s vehicle was a black custom Cadillac Escalade with body modifications that did indeed make the SUV look like something a super hero would drive. And true to MG’s personality, the engine was heavily modified and would, as she put it, “haul major ass.”
Jack continued.
“I stood there in the driveway with my hands on my hips and demanded to know what the hell we were doing. I had just met this woman and she was pushing all my buttons. She got out of her vehicle, walked over to me, and put a hand on my shoulder.
“She said, ‘Jack, what is your job title?’ I said, ‘Special Agent in Charge of the Boston Field Office of the FBI.’ She said, ‘that’s right, Jack. You are the leader, and the example. The makeover of your office starts with you, Sugar—and we’re going to do something about that, right now. Now, get in the car.”
Babe was sitting on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed.
“No, she didn’t,” Babe shouted.
“Oh, it gets better,” Jack said.
“She drives into New Southie and parks in front of this place called ‘Esteban’s’. I said, ‘So I’m going to learn flamenco guitar and get a Zorro outfit? This is your plan?’ She ignored me and we walked inside. This ‘Esteban’, who is six-feet tall and weighs about ninety pounds—of which thirty five is hair—comes squealing across the room. ‘EEEEEEMMMMMMGGGGEEEEE Sweetie!’ I’m freaking out at this point. What have I gotten myself into? I’m about to be worked over by the second coming of Little Richard?
“MG introduced us and this fellow turns, points one hip at me with his hand on the other, and looks me up and down, twice. I kid you not. Then he offers up a limp wrist and says, ‘Hello there, Jack.’ I swear he made my name sound…nasty. Then he turns to MG and says ‘There’s good bones there, honey. I can fix this.’ Yeah! I mean—what the fuck?”
Babe was rocking back and forth with one leg tucked underneath him. This was the most fun he had had in a long time.
“So, ‘Esteban’ tells us to have a seat while he gets set up. I said, ‘MG, what is happening here?’ She said, ‘Relax, Jack. He’s just going to style your hair. He’s not going to grab your package. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to grab your package. Shit, Jack you’re the fucking FBI, don’t you carry a Taser or a stun gun or something? Hell, I have a Taser. Do you want to borrow it? I didn’t realize I was going to have to protect you. Shit, I’m going to have to have a raise if I have to protect you from homosexuals.”
Mr. Pendleton had given up on napping and was currently licking Babe’s face, which was easy because Babe was doubled over laughing with tears streaming down his face.
“Stop! Stop. Wait a….wait…Jack. I can’t fucking breathe.”
Babe was trying to talk at the same time that he was laughing and every time he opened his mouth, Mr. Pendleton stuck his tongue in it. When Jack could stop laughing long enough to see, he pulled the puppy away.
Babe climbed slowly to his feet and wiped his eyes.
“Wait, wait, wait. I’m getting some more beers, Jack. Don’t lose our place.”
Babe returned with two beers and sat back down.
“So Esteban says he’s ready. I got up and looked at MG, who was flipping pages in some idiotic magazine like she had every intention of staying right there. I kicked her chair and gave her my ‘raised- eyebrow-you-had-better-get-your-ass-UP’ look, and she followed me into the back like I was a little boy, which I didn’t give a shit about because Esteban gave me the fucking creeps. But, I’ll be damned, twenty minutes later the sideburns were gone and I had the best looking haircut I’ve had in my life. And now I go see Esteban once a month.”
“Hell of a day, huh?” Babe asked.
“Oh, that’s not all of it. We left Esteban’s and drove to this boutique men’s store. My wallet started hemorrhaging money before we got in the door of this place. And of course everyone there knows MG. I’m thinking, ‘who the hell is this woman?’ A man and a woman start zipping all around me like horseflies. They measured every damned inch of me. MG gets of those wardrobe carts, like the ones they have at hotels, and she’s loading it up with both hands. I walked over to this cart and I’m doing what I always do when I shop for clothes. I’m looking for price tags. And you know what she does? She slapped my hands. I kept looking for price tags and she kept slapping me.
She got right in my face, clenched her teeth, and says, ‘Jack, darling, cut it the fuck out.’ I said, ‘MG, this is my money we’re spending and I need to know what things cost.’ She said, ‘Jack, you are a single professional. You spend a hundred dollars a year on haircuts. You might spend a thousand dollars every three years on your wardrobe. Look at your damn shoes, Jack. Jimmy Carter is not the President anymore.’
“Then she poked me in the stomach and said, ‘and you’re not going to go broke living on Ho-Hos and Hot Pockets are you?”
Babe bolted upright at this last statement and grabbed a handful of his hair with each hand.
“Nooooooo! She did not go there,” he shouted.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he apologized quietly to Mr. Pendleton, who still winced at the “N-O” word.
“The hell she didn’t go there,” Jack said.
“And then she dropped her shoulders and said, ‘I’m sorry, Jack. This is just the way I am. I get results. I always get results. But I know I’m too intense. I can’t help it. Shit, I was engaged for two years, until Labor Day weekend. He broke it off and do you know what he said? I love you MG. You’re incredible MG. But I’m exhausted. You’re a wonderful person but it’s like there’s not enough oxygen and I can’t breathe! We can go now, Jack. It’s better that we end this now. I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Wow,” Babe said.
“I felt absolutely awful, like I had just run over a kitten. I took both of her hands and said ‘I’m the one that’s sorry, MG. Everything you said is true, right down to the Hot Pockets. I guess I’ve just been the Emperor wearing cheap clothes for so long that I have a hard time taking direction. Okay? Can I try on some clothes now?’ She sighed and smiled, and said ‘Just don’t let those god awful shoes touch these suits, please.”
“And all this time I thought you were born Mister GQ. That was all MG?” asked Babe.
“All MG. And you know what? Everybody in the office came by and complimented my hair and the clothes; and the shoes. Can you believe there are thousand dollar fucking…?”
Jack sighed and then laughed.
“Once MG gets under your skin it’s like she’s always watching you. I got compliments on my shoes. And within a few weeks, everyone started dressing a little sharper and half the office was getting their hair cut by Esteban. And I’m eating a lot more salads. She’s something special, Babe.”
Babe stood up and started pacing in front of his chair, holding his right side and breathing heavily.
“Jesus, Jack. The next time you start to unload a story like that you’re going to have to warn me. I haven’t laughed that hard in years. I may have a hernia.”
“I have a few more. Maybe next time,” Jack said.
Babe eased back into his chair. “I’m meeting Jordan at Momma’s for Monday Night football. Pats and Steelers. Can you make it?”
“Well— sure. Yes. Yes I can. Jordan and I have been together for a long time. I can hardly believe I’m going to lose him to Washington but it happens a lot in our business.”
“Yeah. I
’m going to miss him, too. The guest bedroom is made up whenever you get ready.”
“It damn well better be, since you’ve turned my brain into lime Jell-o. Hey, half time’s over. What does it take to get a fresh beer in this establishment?”
“Coming right up, Special Agent Englemann, sir!”
Fourteen
The Monday Night football crowd at Momma’s Sofa began arriving early, around five thirty. During the Exodus the kitchen was open for one hour; from six o'clock until seven on the first Monday evening of the Schroeder’s vacation. This fact, along with the popularity of the Sports Bar at Momma’s, ensured a maximum crowd. Throw in the Patriots/Steelers rivalry and Momma’s Sofa was one hot ticket.
Lewis and Leo Schroeder finished lining up the kitchen staff at about six thirty and moved to the bar area. The lively staff of the bar greeted them with high fives and hugs, anticipating another stellar evening. The Schroeders were able to assemble a top notch staff, having become one of the most sought out places of employment for the college student-heavy area. They currently had over three hundred applications on file and there was very little turnover. Lewis and Leo, having been made co-owners by their parents, set a high standard of excellent service as well as an electric party atmosphere. The staff was treated like family and everyone had a good time.
The crowd present at Momma’s became gradually quieter after Lewis arrived. This was part of the pregame ritual that Lewis and Leo had choreographed in the second year of the bar’s existence. Lewis stood up on a bench behind the bar where he was steadied by his co-workers. He slowly lifted a large Styrofoam half-moon that was impaled with a hundred or so drinking straws flying triangular banners sporting the same words that the crowd began to scream in a swell of volume,
“Theeeeee STEELERS SUCK!” A loud cheer followed.
Lewis invented this ritual during his first year of bar-tending at his parent’s new sports bar. He worked tirelessly to concoct a unique drink recipe which he named the Boston Harbor Iced Tea—a thumb of the nose at the Long Island Iced Tea. He served it with a bannered straw that taunted the hated New York Yankees. He made the banners with the phrase “Theeeeee Yankees suck!” which was a phrase that Bostonians had adopted in response to the phrase “Theeeee Yankees win!”, a phrase popularized by the Yankees’ home game announcer.
Lewis reserved the little flags and the pregame ceremony for baseball games with the Yankees and Patriot football games against the Steelers or the New York Jets. The banner flags were only placed in the glass of a Boston Harbor Iced Tea regardless of the amount of begging done by the customers.
When Lewis caught sight of Babe, Jordan, and Jack, he returned to the bar and dragged Leo over to their table. They exchanged hugs and back slaps.
“Jesus, guys, we had about given up on you,” Lewis said. “It was like we had lost a comfortable old pair of shoes. Where have you been?”
Babe felt guilty. In spite of the boys’ ages they had always given off the vibes of their old country heritage. They were extremely mature and respectful as youths and Babe always felt that if the next generation was led by such as these, the human race just might be okay after all.
“It looks like you two are the victims of your own success,” Jack said, “This place is packed. What are you going to do now? Move again?”
“We’ve already talked to Papa about that,” Leo said. “He says, ‘No, this is it. We’re not going to turn into a franchise. The country doesn’t need any more of those.’ And he is right about that.”
“I’m afraid we’re losing Jordan. He’s moving to Washington,” Babe said.
“Oh, no. When is this happening, Mr. Jordan?” Lewis asked.
“Early next year,” Jordan said.
Jack said, “I’ve been telling him for years to pay his damned income taxes and stop threatening to whip the President, and now look at him. They’re going to throw him under the prison.”
Lewis and Leo laughed. Lewis said, “Don’t you worry, Mr. Jordan. We’ll get Momma to send you a hamburger with a saw in it.”
“Mr. Jordan, don’t you leave town before letting us know. We’ll throw a party,” Leo said.
“Damn right, we will. Now you’re talking, Leo,” Lewis said.
“You’re on. Thanks, boys. I’m going to miss you all. You are family,” Jordan said.
Babe looked up as the front door opened. Millie and Bradley walked in. Millie wore a pink tinted Patriots jersey, and her hair was piled casually on the top of her head. She pulled Bradley behind her like she was dragging a toddler to a dental checkup. Bradley seemed to be offended by the surroundings—he looked around the room like he was trying to locate the source of a bad smell. He was dressed in his ever present professor outfit complete with a black and gold checked sweater vest. This earned him a few boos and hisses. He was totally oblivious to the fact that he was sporting the colors of the rival team from Pittsburgh. Millie looked around, bouncing on her toes until she spotted Babe waving.
“Hi, Babe. Hi, Jordan. You two know Bradley. Hello, Mr. Englemann. It’s been a long time, sir,” Millie said, extending her hand to Jack.
Jack stood slowly, buttoning his jacket as he did so—a move that Bradley acknowledged with a flare of the nostrils and narrowing of the eyes.
“Very nice to see you again, Millicent.’ He offered his hand to Bradley.
“Pleased to meet you. Jack Englemann.”
“Bradley Weyner.”
Jordan kicked Babe underneath the table.
“You two are welcome to bring in a couple of chairs if you like. The boys keep extras in the back,” Jack said.
“No, thank you,“ Bradley said, too quickly to be tactful, “I have reserved a booth.”
“Nice to meet you, Bradley.” Jack said. “Enjoy the game.”
“Gentlemen,” Bradley said, nodding.
Millie looked deflated as Bradley dragged her away.
“I told Babe about makeover day with MG,” Jack said to Jordan.
Jordan laughed.
“You finally gave that one up? You made me promise on my mother to never tell that story.”
Jack took a long swallow of Samuel Adams.
“Well, you know what? What the hell is so precious about us anyway, Jordan? Twenty years from now nobody will give a flying purple dick about the Boston SAC being afraid of a ninety nine pound hairdresser.”
“You’re absolutely right, Jack. Nothing is that fucking precious. So, tell him about Mary Alice,” Jordan said.
Jack slammed the bottle down.
“Goddammit, Jordan. Do you never forget anything? That’s it. I’ve had quite enough of you. I’m having you transferred to Washington.”
He pulled the bottle to his lips and winked at Babe.
Jordan leaned forward and put his elbows on the table.
“Come on, Jack. Please? I want to hear it again, myself.” He looked at Babe. “This one is right up there with Esteban.”
Jack began.
“Well, you know, I grew up in rural eastern Ohio—nothing around but these little farming towns. All the kids went to these little tiny schools through junior high and then there was a collective high school. Most kids rode the busses. So, right after the start of my freshman year, I saw these posters around the school advertising a hayride on the Saturday before Halloween. The hay wagon would leave the school grounds a little before dark, ride around for an hour or so and then the school busses would take everybody home around eight o’clock. Sounded like fun to me. Remember, I was just a country boy.
“Over the next couple of weeks some kids kept telling me that this girl, Mary Alice Briggman, wanted me to ask her to be my date on the hayride. I didn’t know anything about dating, and I didn’t know if I needed a date to go on the hayride or not. Like most country bumpkin farm boys I was too backward to ask anybody. But I sure wanted to go on that hayride. So I asked Mary Alice to go with me. And she said ‘yes’.”
“So, we’re sitting next to each other on this
flatbed trailer covered with hay being pulled around by a John Deere. It was getting dark. Mary Alice leaned over and whispered in my ear ‘Do you like me, Jack?’ I said, ‘Sure, I like you, Mary Alice.’ She says’ Will you kiss me?’ So I kissed her. It was really nice. She laid her head down on my shoulder. I thought to myself, ‘Hey, this is easier than I thought.’ The next thing I know she’s sliding her hand under the blanket, right on my crotch.”
Jordan threw back his head and howled. This garnered a few looks from the rest of the crowd.
“Keep going, keep going. Sorry, Jack.” Jordan said.
He punched Babe on the arm.
“This is good shit.”
Jack leaned in a little more, knowing that Jordan had blown some of their cover.
“So Mary Alice is…you know. I’m sitting there—probably looking like I had shit my pants. I was too scared to jump, or scream, or do anything that might make her stop. We didn’t say a word for the rest of the hayride. And of course we rode the same bus home. She sat beside me, put her coat across my lap, and did the same thing until we got to her house. She got up and said ‘Good night, Jack’, and I couldn’t even talk. I just stared at her.”
“Stop,stop,stop, Jack. Wait. I gotta pee. Wait,” Jordan said, scrambling to his feet and heading for the men’s room.
“Damn, Jack. You should write a book or something. A memoir, maybe,” Babe said.
Jordan slid back in at the table with another round of beers.
“What I should do is start telling stories on this damn gorilla,” Jack said.
“Don’t forget, I know where all the bodies are buried, Time-Out Jack,” Jordan said with a wink.
