by Jones, Brent
“Nope.” Brennan flailed his arm, waving over their server to order another.
“Think you’ll ever go back to the newspaper?” he asked between chews, his lips coated in sauce.
“Yeah, right. Issat supposed to be a joke?”
“No, I just figured, I don’t know . . . maybe you’ve thought about what you might like to do next.” It was too soon and Rocco regretted saying it.
Brennan stared at his pile of nachos and twisted his wedding band, thinking back to leaving his job two months before. “No idea what I’ll do next. Live off the insurance for a while, I guess, until I figger it all out. We had some savings, too.”
Rosie’s earnings had been more than enough to maintain their standard of living after he quit. She was a rising talent in personal finance and she thrived on proving herself on the job. Long hours, stressful meetings, networking events, an uncanny inability to say no, and a client list comprised of uppity business types and well-to-do socialites.
“But the lasss thing I wanna do,” Brennan continued, unaware he had started slurring, “isss edit that daily rag again. No one even reads it.” He rubbed his temples. “Christ, I put in years there, ne’er even got to cover a goddamn city councccil meeting.”
Rosie had learned over the years to depend upon Brennan’s failing career such that he could look after the house and their daughter during her late nights and extended absences. He had never minded, but as he sat there touching his face—his graying stubble, his dry skin—he wondered if he should have fought harder to build a career he could have been proud of.
“Guess it’s time furrr meeta start over,” he said, nibbling on a single chip. “Better at thirty-two den sixty-two, I guess. At leassst I got to spend more time wif Abby these lasss two months.”
“You wanna do roofing with me?” asked Franky. “I know the boss is always looking for—”
“Not a chaaance.”
“What’s wrong with—”
Rocco interrupted, gesturing toward a large television screen on the wall, the Cavaliers and Raptors playing in Toronto. “How ’bout we just watch the game for a little bit?”
Brennan pushed his plate of nachos away, its edge clanging against his newest empty beer glass. “Worksh for me.”
“Hey, that’s somewhere we haven’t been in a while,” said Franky. “Canada. Shit, it’s just a short drive to the border from home.”
“You craving moos meat or something?” asked Brennan with a smirk. He wasn’t in the mood to tell jokes, but he was even less in the mood for heavy conversations about the future.
“Some maple syrup maybe?” asked Rocco, a boyish grin on his face.
“You guys, c’mon,” said Franky. “You know they got the best strip clubs up there. Canadian chicks don’t hold nothing back.”
“Which clubs are you talking about?” asked Rocco. “The ones in the Falls?”
“The ones in Falls, yeah, but they got nothin’ on the ones in Montréal. French chicks are fucking nuts.”
Brennan couldn’t resist. “You think implants arrre covered under sssocialized medicine?” All three men laughed, and for the briefest of moments, Brennan felt like he was among friends again.
After retiring to their room, Rocco called home to Harlem. “Hi, Crystal. . . . Yes, I know I wasn’t there. . . . His game was at two, yeah, I know. . . . I talked to him about that. . . . Well, I’m gonna be on the road for a few weeks. . . . Harlem knows that, Crystal, I wouldn’t just leave without telling him. . . . Can you put him on for me? . . . Don’t start, Crystal . . .”
Rocco strode out to the hallway to find some privacy. It gave Brennan a chance to let Fender out again—who peed as though it was the first time in days—and Franky just enough time to catch the tail end of America’s Funniest Home Videos. The television was a square, wood-paneled heap that looked as though it had been picked up at a garage sale. A man got hit in the groin by a golf ball and Franky bellowed with laughter, slapped his knee.
“Everything ulll right?” Brennan asked when Rocco returned.
“Yeah, fine.” Rocco tossed his phone on the dresser. “So,” he began, shutting off the television.
“Hey,” Franky said, “what’s the—”
Rocco held up his hand. “How should we spend our day tomorrow?”
“What’s’err to do in dis town?” Brennan asked. “Either of ya look it up?”
“Football and cheese mostly,” Rocco said. “Motorcycles, too.”
“What about the Bronze Fonz?” Franky cackled as he said it, as though he had been holding back the good news all day.
Rocco looked confused. “The what?”
“Like from, uh—” Brennan pointed at the television, racking his brain, “—wuzzat, uh . . . Happy Days, right?”
Franky nodded.
Rocco looked back and forth at his friends, feeling like he had been left out of an inside joke. “What the hell are happy days?”
“It wuzza show baaack in the seventies err eighties or something, and this waaan guy . . .” Brennan did his best two thumbs up, but his arms were on different levels, “Fonzie, he was supposed to be reeeal cool. Wore a ledder jacket an’ rode a motorcycle.”
“Yeah, ’cause the show was set here,” said Franky. “And there’s supposed to be a bronze statue of him somewhere downtown.”
“After we leave Wisconsin,” said Rocco, “I’m not gonna see another brother ’til we’re on the West Coast. And you two wanna go take pictures with some seventies sitcom honky?”
“Why not?” asked Franky. “We can’t just eat cheese and jerk off to motorcycles all day.” He looked to Brennan for support.
Rocco could only keep a straight face for so long. A thin smile spread across his lips and he broke into laughter. The other two followed suit. After the uncomfortable ride in, it felt good to relax a little, even if it took a few beers to make it happen, and even if it only lasted for the moment.
“Anyway, boysss, should we cull it a night?”
Franky glanced at the clock next to the bed, which to his surprise, seemed to work. “It’s like ten, Brennan. Are you serious?”
“Well, isss eleven back home, but I haven’t been sleepin’ so good, that’s all. So if it’s all right wif you guys, I’m just gonna turn in ferda night.”
“Yeah, Bee, I was thinking the same thing. We all need a bit of shuteye. Right, Franky?”
Franky grunted a little, gave his head a shallow nod.
“Then we can all get an early start tomorrow.”
Brennan stared at the ceiling after climbing in bed, stroking Fender at his side, grateful that the alcohol had taken the edge off his burning chest—a gaping bullet hole near his heart.
They would want you to enjoy yourself, he thought to himself over and over again. And he would try, implausible as it seemed. He promised himself that much over dinner. But he doubted anything could satiate his desire to return home, once more in the presence of those he loved most.
He tossed and turned, unable to find comfort, the rough sheets crunching beneath his restless body. The pillowcase felt like sandpaper on his cheeks, and as hours passed, his intoxication began to wear off. He became aware of the stuffy hotel room air and the occasional flash of headlights through the curtains. He listened to Franky snore, which was loud enough to compete with the bathroom fan, and he watched the outline of Rocco’s chest rise and fall in the shadows.
He rolled over and put the pillow over his head, holding Fender close.
Chapter 8
The three men strolled along a paved walkway through downtown Milwaukee. A wide river flowed next to them, sparkling in the sunlight. They passed cafes serving assorted breakfast pastries and freshly brewed coffee, patio bars just opening for the day, and a bandstand itching to be filled with the sounds of live music.
An elderly gentlemen walked by, cradling a fresh loaf of bread beneath his arm. He tipped his hat, smiled, said, “G’morning, gentlemen.”
“Mornin’, sir,” Roc
co said. He grinned at the man, gave him a subtle nod. After the man was out of earshot, Rocco turned to his friends. “How ’bout that Midwestern hospitality, boys? People sure are friendly out here.”
They moved from one downtown block to the next over a span of two miles, and Brennan wasn’t able to find the same warmth Rocco did. Milwaukee was quaint and clean—at least compared to Buffalo—but they could have been just about anywhere. Subtle niceties and manicured shrubbery aside, he spotted a Dunkin’ Donuts along the riverfront, a Chase Bank, and a Walgreens. “It’s a lot like any other city, isn’t it?” he asked.
Rocco scrunched his forehead, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, and looked back at Brennan. “You don’t think it’s nice here?”
Brennan shrugged, dragged his feet. “It’s nothing special, dude, honestly.” He recalled his promise to himself to enjoy their travels, but it got harder with every step.
Rocco went to say something, stopped himself, and smiled. “If you say so, Bee.”
Franky took sudden notice of the river. He pointed to it, mouth agape. “What’s this river called, anyway?”
Rocco turned his head in slow motion and put emphasis on each word. “The Milwaukee River.”
Brennan could almost see the light bulb flicker on next to Franky’s head—the one their bedside lamp sorely lacked back at the Motel 6. “So that’s why they call this the Milwaukee RiverWalk, then?”
Rocco shook his head. “Are you kidding—”
“There it is!” Franky led his friends across Wells Street to the Bronze Fonz.
“So this is it, huh?” Rocco sized up the statue and wondered what all the fuss had been about. “This beautiful trail we’ve got here, and all you’re interested in—”
“Snap a pic of me and Fonzie, will ya?” Franky handed Brennan his phone.
Brennan took the phone in his hand with considerable effort, as though he were grasping a bowling ball. Franky was ecstatic—the way a small child might react to meeting Mickey Mouse—and Brennan instantly wished he were there with Abby instead. Of course, Abby would have no idea who this mass of metal was supposed to be. For that matter, if the statue was built to scale, Henry Winkler could have doubled as a munchkin on The Wizard of Oz.
Franky tossed up his thumbs, stuck out his tongue—the way Gene Simmons might—and grinned ear to ear while Brennan tapped the screen without discernment, taking a half dozen blurry photos. He handed the phone back to Franky and stared straight through him to the west side of the river, where a father, a mother, and two girls—too young to be in school—sat on a bench, eating bagels. Tourists, no doubt—the father hauled an enormous camera around his neck, the mother had a bag at her feet too large for a casual outing, and the children sported cheap plastic sunglasses with the price tags still attached.
Brennan lifted his head toward the sky, the warmth of the morning sun brilliant behind him, the westward sky before him vast and vacant, a soft breeze flowing past his face. He breathed hard and felt his eyes burn, grow moist.
Rocco put a hand on Brennan’s shoulder, startling him back to earth. “The Harley-Davidson Museum opens up soon, I think. You guys wanna head down there next?”
Brennan shook his head and looked back to the family on the bench. “Nah, I’m good.”
“What?” Franky stood there, blinking in disbelief. “Are you serious, Brennan?”
“It’s, uh . . . wait. What time is it?”
Rocco peeked at his watch. “Just past eleven.”
“Time for lunch then.”
Rocco clicked his tongue, hesitating for a moment. “You’re hungry already, Bee? We just had breakfast.”
Brennan couldn’t pull his eyes off the family on the bench. “Yeah, I’m hungry. Let’s go find something to eat.”
Franky sulked, wrapping his arms around his large torso. “Maybe we could check out the museum later?”
Brennan was slow to respond. “Maybe.”
Franky had always wanted a motorcycle of his own. He turned to his friends and asked, “Which one of us do you think will own a Harley first?”
“My money’s on Bee,” Rocco said.
“Why’s that?” Franky’s voice was shrill with offense. “Brennan doesn’t give a shit about bikes.”
“He doesn’t, but if he changes his mind, he’s got the money for one.”
“Lucky me,” Brennan muttered, fighting the urge to go back and ask the family on the bench if he could join them for the day.
“You, on the other hand,” Rocco looked at Franky, “are just reckless enough to get a motorcycle and wreck it the same day.”
“Kinda like that time Richie bought a bike from Fonzie, and . . .” Franky droned on, and Brennan and Rocco tuned him out.
They arrived at an establishment called Glasgeländer. The sign outdoors boasted four hundred years of tradition and history, which Brennan took to mean it was older than dust. “I wonder what history tastes like,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Franky pointed to a sandwich board near the front door and sounded it out with his finger. “Hundreds of Eera—”
“European,” Rocco corrected.
“—European beers on tap.”
“Sounds good,” Brennan said. “Let’s stop here.”
Franky was first through the door. He spotted replica tables and benches from centuries long gone, exposed brick walls adorned with battle armor, dark wood trim, and narrow windows. “Kinda spooky in here, isn’t it?”
The daily special at Glasgeländer was something called schweineflügel. Franky, feeling brave in a new city, placed an order for the table only to discover they were pork shanks, otherwise known as pig wings. He and Rocco ate most of them, while Brennan downed a pint of German beer without tasting it. It went to work at once, diluting the tension he felt all through his body. The second pint helped him relax, and the third almost made him want to go out and continue exploring.
Their server returned to the table—a woman in her early twenties outfitted in a traditional dirndl—and delivered a fourth pint to Brennan, who was outpacing Franky and Rocco on drinks two-to-one. Her old-fashioned dress was supposed to match her surroundings, but streaks of dye in her sandy blonde hair, rose-colored lipstick, and blue eye shadow gave her a more modern look. “Are you boys going to be in town long?” she asked.
“How do you know we aren’t from around here, miss?” Rocco asked, casting a boyish grin in her direction.
“I don’t, I suppose. Just—” She eyed Franky, who wore a Buffalo Sabres hat, “—a guess. Haven’t seen you guys around here before.”
“It’s because I ordered Bud Light, isn’t it?” Franky took a swig of his beer. “My bad.”
She laughed. “No, it’s fine. But we have more beers on tap, so just let me know if you’d like to try something else.”
“Will do.”
“Miss,” Rocco said, touching her arm.
“Please, call me Marissa.”
“Marissa, we’re actually driving across the country, and we’ll be leaving Milwaukee in the morning. Figured we’d spend part of the afternoon sampling cheese in some of these shops we’ve been seeing.”
“Can’t visit Wisconsin without trying our cheese. They call us America’s Dairyland for a reason.”
Rocco recalled Franky’s joke the day before, and his eyes darted to her chest. An authentic dirndl might have left more to the imagination. He gave his head a shake. “Well, we’ll get our fill of cheese, I’m sure. You have my word on that. We spent some time taking photos down by the water, too, and—” He narrowed his eyes on Brennan, “—we’re gonna check out the Harley museum if we get a chance.”
“Too bad the Packers aren’t playing right now. You boys could head up north for a game.”
“Well, just wondering what else we should do while we’re here. Anything you’d recommend?”
Marissa watched Brennan set his glass on the table with a clunk, empty again. “Well, if you guys enjoy having a drink, there’s a booze cruise t
hat goes out on the river every night. Nice way to spend a couple of hours. I think they still do all-you-can-eat tacos and all-you-can-drink beer, too.”
Brennan and Franky both perked up—Franky at the thought of tacos, Brennan at the thought of bottomless beer.
Rocco winced, as if someone had passed gas. “Thank you, miss—uh, Marissa. We’ll check it out.”
Marissa looked at Brennan. “Can I get you another?” He nodded and she departed, first giving the three men half a curtsy, tugging at the edges of her historic garb with forced enthusiasm.
“Fuck, all-you-can-eat tacos,” Franky said. “What’re we waiting for?”
“Ahm in,” Brennan said.
“You sure it’s a good idea, Bee? You’ve, ah—” Rocco pointed at the empty glass, clicked his tongue, “—been hitting the sauce pretty hard the last couple days.”
“You my daddy now?”
“No, Bee. It’s not like that. It’s just, you gave up drinking for a reason. Smoking, too, if I remember right. I just don’t want it to be a daily thing all over again. You just ordered your fifth drink and it’s barely past noon.”
“Ahma grown man, Rocco. I kinn figger it out furr myself.” Brennan didn’t mean to be combative, but he wasn’t sure if he could survive the road trip sober. He felt lost without his family, isolated, even in the presence of his friends, and the thought of pushing farther west knotted his stomach.
“Look, I just don’t wanna see you make a mistake—”
“It’s ne’er binna a problem.”
“Isn’t that what every alcoholic says?”
“Oh, I’m an alcoholic now, am I? Haven’t had a drinkkk in damn near ssseven years, but now I’m an alcoholic.”
“It’s not like he’s sucking dick for coke, Rocco,” Franky said. “I mean, give ’im a break. He’s hurting and he’s doing the best he can. Last thing he needs is you nagging him.”
Rocco exhaled and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guess you’d know what an alcoholic looks like better than any of us.”
“What’s that supp—” It took Franky a second to interpret Rocco’s remark. “Oh, you’re talking ’bout my old man?”
