by Bill Noel
“You talking about me?” Al said as he leaned against the back of a chair at the next table.
I moved over and waved for him to join us.
“Hell yes,” Bob said. “Chris was saying you looked like you just stepped out of a coffin. I told him to stop making fun of you.” He shook his head. “You know how cruel some white customers can be—especially those young whippersnappers like Chris.”
Al flopped down on the seat, wiped sweat off his forehead with a bar towel, and stared at Bob. “Don’t know about customers, but cruel’s talking too kindly about a white bar owner.”
I smiled and kept my mouth shut, something Bob couldn’t find it in his DNA to do. “That’s no way to talk to your good buddy and person who singlehandedly will save this decrepit old bar and its more than decrepit former owner.”
Al looked at the brass plate and at me. “Chris,” he said and pointed an arthritis ravaged finger at Bob and at himself, “if there’s only one thing this old, shriveled up, bar man can teach you, it’s that friends, not the fair-weather kind who are with you when things are going well, and dump you like chewed gum when things go sour, but true friends will stick with you no matter what. They’ll stand behind you and keep you from falling; they’ll go to the ends of the earth to help you in your time of need. They’ll do anything for you, yes they will.”
Bob interrupted, “Get to the point, old man. The boy’s burger is getting cold while he’s waiting with bated breath for whatever you’re trying to say.”
Al continued to look at me and waved his hand at Bob like he would shew a fly. “I’m nearly there, Chris. The point is that cranky curmudgeon over there is the best friend this old man’s ever had. Lord knows why; I sure don’t. But anyway, he is.”
In a move uncharacteristic for Bob, he reached across the table and touched Al’s hand. Tom T. Hall’s “Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine” flowed from the jukebox. And I felt like I was infringing on one of the most poignant moments in Bob’s long life. Neither man spoke until the mood was broken when three boisterous middle-aged men entered the bar.
Al looked their way and said, “Done shirking my greeting duties. Good luck, Chris, with putting up with the tub of lard.”
Bob watched Al head to the door. “And that’s my friendly greeter.”
I turned back to my cooling cheeseburger and Bob returned to his no-telling-what-number beer, when I heard a chair hitting the floor and Lawrence scream, “Oh shit!”
Bob moved quicker than I had ever seen him move. He was out of the booth, slammed two chairs out of his way, and was standing beside the prone shape of Al on the floor. One of the three men who had entered was bent down and checking for a pulse. He calmly looked up and told Lawrence he was a doctor and to call 911.
I grabbed a handful of bar towels and the doctor put them under Al’s head. “Is he alive?” I asked.
The doctor ignored me and started CPR. My friend’s eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see signs of life. Bob stood back and muttered a plethora of profanities. I felt helpless. Had Charleston lost a true hero, and had I lost another friend?
24
The doctor ordered us to step back and give Al air as he continued to press on his chest. Bob had given the doc a dirty look and I was afraid he was going to ignore the order and move closer, but instead he nodded and plopped down on a nearby chair. The two men who had accompanied the doctor had gone out front to make sure the ambulance found us, and Lawrence had turned on the overhead lights giving the doctor a better view of Al. It was the first time that I’d seen the inside of the bar with the lights on. It had always looked tired and rundown; now it looked exhausted and on its last legs. Lawrence had moved behind the bar and bowed his head. I didn’t know if Lawrence was praying, but I was.
It only took a few minutes for the ambulance to rush the three blocks from the hospital, but it seemed like an eternity. Two paramedics walked in the room. They appeared confident, listened to what the doctor who had been administering CPR said, and focused their attention to Al. The doctor stepped aside and one of the paramedics took over the CPR. The other paramedic leaned over Al’s head, but his body blocked my view, so I couldn’t see what he was doing. Regardless, I felt Al was in good hands; all irrelevant if he was no longer with us.
It was then that I glanced over at Bob at the table beside me. His head was resting on the table and his breath was coming in gasps.
I scooted my chair over to his table. “Bob, are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, and I moved around to see his face. Sweat was rolling down his face, his arms were shaking, and in the harsh fluorescent light he looked whiter than a bar of soap, and his skin looked as waxy.
I yelled to the doctor who was standing beside the paramedic administering CPR. He glanced over, took a quick look down at Al, and rushed to Bob’s table. Bob had opened his eyes and mumbled, “I need air ... air.” He tried to raise his head, but it fell back to the table. I moved back from the table and the doc took my place. He leaned close to Bob and asked if my friend could hear him. Bob said yes, and the doc asked him what he was feeling.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and felt helpless. I was surprised to see Lawrence at my side offering me a glass of water. His hands trembled as he handed the glass to me and he never took his eyes off Al, still unmoving on the floor.
I don’t know who called them, but a second set of paramedics burst through the door. One of them pushed a gurney and stopped at Al and the second one came over to Bob, conferred with the doc, and leaned down to talk to Bob. I wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, but it looked like Bob was responding to the questions; a good sign, I assumed. I walked across the room to be closer to Al and heard one of the paramedics say they needed to get him to the hospital stat.
I may have been fooling myself, but I took that as a good sign—he’s alive. But, he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were closed as they were loading him on the stretcher and wheeled him out the door. I turned back to Bob and watched the EMT take his blood pressure and continued to ask him questions. Bob was becoming more animated.
He jerked his head back and looked over to where Al had been. “Where’s Al? Is he okay?”
The paramedic told him Al was on the way to the hospital, he was in good hands, and Bob needed to stay calm for them to figure out what was wrong with him. Bob mumbled a profanity. I smiled and thought he was getting back to normal. Bob became more agitated when the paramedic said they were going to take him to the hospital. Bob insisted there was nothing wrong and he was just upset about his friend.
“That may be, sir, but we’ve got to check you out. Keep taking deep breaths and we’ll wheel another gurney in and give you a ride to the hospital.”
I expected an expletive-filled explosion, but instead Bob lowered his head to the table and closed his eyes. Maybe his condition was worse than I had thought. Bob’s gurney arrived, and the two paramedics maneuvered it around to get Bob’s large body situated on it and to wheel him out. Lawrence and I moved three tables out of the way so they could get Bob to the ambulance.
I watched the ambulance as its siren stopped traffic as it made a U-turn and headed to the hospital. I wanted to rush to the ER but from experience with some of my friends who had made similar trips, knew it would have been fruitless. It would be a while before anything was known, or at least before the medical staff told me anything. The doc and his two friends were sitting at one of the tables and Lawrence was wandering through the room with a lost look on his face.
I thanked the good Samaritan for everything he had done. He gave me a sad smile and said, “All I wanted was a cheeseburger.”
Lawrence heard him, hurried to the table, and asked what everyone wanted. He now had a purpose, something he could do. I didn’t know if the men worried about how Lawrence would fix their food in his current state of mind or were no longer hungry, but two of them said they didn’t need anything and the doc said they had a meeting to get to. Before they left,
I asked the doctor how he thought Al and Bob were.
He nodded toward the table where Bob had been. “I think he had a panic attack. His vitals were normal—normal for an overweight diabetic. He’ll probably be okay. The other gentleman is another story. Don’t take this as gospel. I didn’t have enough time or information to know for sure, but he was barely holding on when he left. Sorry.”
Lawrence moved beside me and heard the prognostication. “Oh Lord, please help Al. He’s such a dear sweet man. God, he’s lived your wishes. Please help him.”
I seconded that and realized I should contact someone from Al’s family and Bob’s wife, Betty. I also realized Tanesa, an ER doctor at the hospital, was the only member of Al’s family that I knew. She had given me her cell number a couple of years ago; I was glad, since I doubted Lawrence, in his state of shock, would have been able to find it.
I was afraid Tanesa wasn’t going to answer and had almost hung up when she answered. She was off work for a couple of days but said she’d head to the hospital and would be there in fifteen minutes.
I wasn’t as lucky with Bob’s wife. After six rings, I got Bob’s cheerful, warm, friendly voice mail message that said: What? If you haven’t figured it out, we’re not here. Leave a message and we might call you back. I left a message for her to call me and kicked myself I didn’t have her cell number.
Lawrence asked if I needed anything. I was tempted to say a liter or two of wine, but instead said I was fine. The part-time chef and I were the only two left in Al’s and Lawrence stood behind the bar and stared at the door like he was expecting Al to walk through it. I moved to Bob’s table and looked at the brass nameplate. I hadn’t done anything but felt exhausted. My legs were weak as I plopped down in the booth. The jukebox was silent, and I missed the bickering between Bob and Al about the musical selections—Motown versus country. Al asking Bob if he liked any music created since Kennedy was president; Bob responding by asking Al if he liked any singers who had skin lighter than his. I smiled thinking how Al had salted the jukebox with songs only Bob would like and the harassment he had endured from most of his African-American customers.
I also remembered the countless words of wisdom that flowed from the bar owner; wisdom he hadn’t gotten from formal schooling, for he had little, but from his many years of living in a world that many of us couldn’t endure and the sacrifices he had made for the nine children he and his wife had adopted before her death several years ago.
And I thought about what Al had said only a little while earlier about friends and how the true ones would do anything for you. Bob and Al, each from a different world, were perfect examples of that. I hoped I could be that good of a friend to my friends. I was never big on symbolism, but as I sat and listened to silence coming from Al’s jukebox, I prayed that wasn’t telling me Al would never be punching in another song—Motown or country.
I turned my head, so Lawrence couldn’t see the tears streaming down my cheek.
25
Tanesa was waiting for me as I entered the hospital. She forced a smile and motioned for me to follow her to an empty row of seats off the side of the packed lobby.
“Is your dad—”
She squeezed my arm. “He’s alive.” She hesitated, and then continued, “Probably a heart attack, but with his declining health it could be complicated with any number of things. His vitals are sucking wind.”
I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry.
Al’s daughter stared at the double doors that led to the bowels of the hospital. She gave a slight nod and mumbled, “There’s always hope.” She looked up at me. “Chris, if that doctor hadn’t been in the bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She grinned. “Dad always said he’d take luck any day over something going right just because people tried to do their best. It was pure luck that man was there.”
I asked if she’d seen him. She said briefly but was moved out of the medical team’s way. She knew she was too close to the patient to be much help.
“He’s a stubborn man,” I said. “If anyone can make it, your dad can.”
She tilted her head in my direction. “Stubborn, you’re not kidding, but with everything else going wrong with his aging body, stubbornness may not be enough.” She snapped her fingers. “His—your—friend Bob Howard’s in much better condition. There’s nothing wrong with his heart.” She hesitated and smiled. “Other than dad saying that he doesn’t have one. Anyway, it was a panic attack. They’re hanging on to him for another hour or so then kicking him out. He’ll be fine.”
I told her I was thankful for that, and I felt sorry for whoever was back there having to deal with him. She looked back at the double doors and chuckled. “Yeah, he told the poor nurse who was trying to take his blood pressure to ‘take that damned squeezy thing off my arm and get the hell back to saving his good friend’s life.’”
I smiled. “I’m surprised they haven’t thrown him out.”
“Folks back there are used to insults, abuse, and malcontents who frequent the ER. Bob’ll fit right in. Has anyone called his wife?”
I told her I couldn’t reach her and didn’t have her cell phone number. She said she’d go back and see if Bob had called her or wanted me to. I suspected Tanesa wanted to see if there was anything new to report on Al.
She was gone longer than I had hoped, when I heard him before I saw him.
“I’ll break his scrawny neck if he bothers Betty. Push faster!”
The doors to the treatment area swung open and out came a wheelchair being pushed by Tanesa and stuffed with the ample rear end of Bob. He glared at me. “Does Betty know I’m here?”
I returned his glare. “Not that I know of. What are you doing out here?”
“Hospitals are for sick people. I’m as healthy as a horse.”
Substitute jackass, I thought. “So, they kicked you out?”
Before Bob responded, Tanesa said, “They wanted to keep him a couple more hours, but your friend here told them that unless they let him walk, roll, out of here in the next ten minutes he was going to call the cops and report he’d been kidnapped.”
Bob uttered a profanity and repeated, “Hospitals are for sick people.” He started to stand, but slowly lowered himself back in the wheelchair, took a deep breath, and said, “Now are you going to take me to my car or not?”
“Not,” I said. “If I take you anywhere other than the psych ward, it’ll be to your house. Take it or leave it.”
Bob looked over his shoulder at Tanesa who was standing behind him and said, “See the insolence I have to put up with.” He turned to me. “What in the hell are you waiting for? Get your car so sweetie pie here can wheel me to the door.”
Sweetie pie, Tanesa, should have smacked him, but instead ruffled his already disarranged hair and kissed him on the cheek. Ten minutes later, I had helped Bob in the front seat and started to close the door. He held up his cell phone and said, “Tanesa, you promise, swear, and whatever else is holy to you, that you’ll call me the second you hear anything?”
She said she’d call both of us and I headed to Bob’s house. He closed his eyes and I thought he was asleep, but instead he said, “I’ve always been overweight, even when I was in grade school.”
Where had that come from, I wondered, and nodded.
He stared straight ahead, and said, “Kids made fun of me but not nearly as much fun as they made of Jacob.”
“Jacob?” I said.
“Jacob Bishop, only negro in my class. You may have noticed I’m an irreverent, loud, some might say, smart ass.”
He could say that again, but I didn’t say anything and waited to see where he was going with the story.
“The shit I say doesn’t compare to what some of the kids said about, and to, Jacob. Cruel, damned cruel.”
“Kids can be cruel, especially to someone who’s different from them.”
“Don’t get all damned sociological or psychological on me. It’s my story.”
What’s not to love about Bob?
“Anyway, I figured Jacob needed a friend and what better person to be that friend than chubby Bobby; yes, I was called Bobby way back then. I started palling around with him.” Bob closed his eyes and nodded. “That was decades before that politically correct crap reared its damned ugly head. Jacob called me Fatso Bobby, and I called him Nigg—umm, Negro Jacob. We became best buds and the damned bullies had a harder time picking on Jacob or me. Bullies lose their bulliness when there is more than one person to pick on. I was the only kid in the school who knew Jacob was a great kid. He was funny, kind, and smart as a whip, whatever the hell that means. We spent hours together, having fun, and still insulted each other every chance we got. It was our way of saying we liked each other without getting all gooey about it.” Bob’s eyes closed again.
“What happened to Jacob?”
“Hell if I know. We went to different high schools and lost contact.” He shook his head, “Oh God, please let Al be okay.”
His story had begun to make sense. If anyone who didn’t know him watched how he and Al had traded insults and talked about each other, it would have been hard to understand how they had been friends. I was wondering if I should ask him more about his childhood friend as we pulled in front of his impressive house.
He looked at me. “If Betty’s here, keep your damned mouth shut. I’ll do the talking. I don’t want to worry her.”
I agreed, as if I had a choice, but needn’t have worried. Betty wasn’t home. Bob settled in an oversized, leather recliner in the family room and asked me to get him a beer. I asked if he should have one, and he repeated, for the third time as I recall, that he was not sick. I returned with his beer and a bottled water for me.
Bob had his eyes shut but opened them when he heard me returning, and said, “Think we did well at Brian’s fundraiser.”
