the Bar Studs)

by Levinson, Len

  “I used to be married to a vet.”

  “Yeah, sure. And your husband ran off with a Doberman pinscher, right?”

  She tried to scratch her chin, but was so drunk her finger collapsed on contact. “How come you never believe anybody, Jake?”

  “Because you bums’re so fulla hooch you don’t even know what the truth is.”

  “I remember all the important things, like the bastard I was married to and how to tell a boy cat from a girl cat, which is more than you can do.”

  “I’m sober enough to run a business, which you couldn’t,” Jake retorted.

  She looked around and grimaced sarcastically. “You call this a business?”

  “Well, it ain’t a whorehouse.”

  She winced, and he knew he’d hit her in a soft spot. “You didn’t have to say that,” she croaked.

  “Tough shit.”

  She sucked in one cheek and studied him coldly down her long thin nose. “You’re really rotten, Jake. Jesus.”

  He felt a little guilty but he hated to take any crap from bums. Putting his hands in his pockets, he walked away from her and leaned against the cash register, resting one foot on the sink underneath the bar. He looked back at the kitten and saw it sleeping peacefully. Maybe after a while he’d give the floozie a freebie and she’d tell him whether it was a boy or a girl, not that it mattered. Its name would stay Khrushchev no matter what.

  “Hey, Jake!” It was a bum in a mangled Army officers’ cap.

  “Whataya want?”

  “Gimme a double shot of rotgut!”

  “You gotta buck?”

  “Yeah, I gotta buck!”

  “Lemme see.”

  The bum waved the bill in the air, so Jake took down the bottle of whiskey and poured the drink. He took the bill but before he could ring it up a bum staggered from his table to the bar and asked for wine. After filling his glass Jake dashed to the next bum who called him, this one shaking so badly from the DTs he looked like a vibrating machine. As Jake poured him a shot of gin, he heard an awful gagging sound behind him. He turned around and was horrified to see his kitten standing on trembling legs, with his back arched and mouth straining open. The kitten coughed twice and then toppled over onto its side, knocking two bottles to the floor.

  “Hey, whatsa matter with you?” Jake raced toward the kitten, which began convulsing. “Hey!” Jake stroked the kitten’s stomach and looked at its face. Maybe it was having a heart attack! “You want some water?” Jake bent over and lifted the saucer of water, holding it near the kitten’s nose. The kitten’s eyes were closed tightly, it choked and quivered, and a thick white substance dripped from its lips.

  “Looks like a blockage, Jake,” said the floozie who’d been married to a vet.

  “What the. fuck’s a blockage?”

  “Its digestive system is clogged. It’s only a kitten, and you’re giving it too much dry food, you jackass.”

  “What’m I gonna do?” Jake looked with mounting horror at the weird contortions of his kitten.

  “You’ll have to find a vet.”

  “Where?”

  “This time of night there’s the ASPCA and the Metropolitan Animal Hospital. Animal Hospital’s closest.”

  Jake thought the kitten might die any minute. “Would-ja help me?” he asked the floozie.

  She hooded her eyes and became haughty. “I’ll help the cat.” Unsteadily she got to her feet, hanging onto the bar with both hands.

  “You know where this Animal Hospital is?”

  “I could find it in my sleep.” She raised her glass and gulped down the rest of her gin. “It’s uptown on the East Side.”

  “Everybody out!” shouted Jake. “Let’s go—I gotta take my sick cat to the hospital! Out!”

  The bums who were conscious gulped their drinks quickly and headed for the door. Some awakened others and helped them out. Jake took care of the rest, dragging them through the door or marching them out, depending on the severity of their stupors.

  “Let’s go, you fuckin’ dirty bums!”

  Jake locked the back door, closed out the register, and jammed the .38 in his belt. He put on his mackinaw and big apple hat, lifted his choking kitten, and carried it out from behind the bar. “C’mon,” he told the floozie.

  “I’ll hold the cat,” she said as he was closing the front grates.

  “You’ll probably drop him.” Jake held the kitten with his left arm, and closed up with his right. “The car’s this way.” He turned left and walked up the Bowery. “We gotta move fast.”

  The floozie struggled to keep up with him. She wheezed like a horse and swayed from side to side. “How’d I get mixed up in this?” she asked, dazed by her effort.

  In the lot Jake opened the passenger door of his Buick, the floozie collapsed inside, and he lay the kitten on her lap. Then he ran around to the driver’s side, started up the engine, and backed out of the lot. Turning on his lights, he drove as fast as he could up the Bowery, running red lights whenever he thought he could get away with it.

  “Where’s this joint we’re goin’ to?” he asked as they sped along.

  “On Sixty-Fourth Street near York Avenue.”

  “You sure?”

  She looked exasperated. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Her boozy breath was so repulsive he had to roll down his window a few inches. In her lap the kitten’s spasms were becoming more vigorous.

  “How bad off you think he is?”

  “I’ve seen them worse.”

  “You think he’ll die?”

  “He might.”

  Jake pressed down on the accelerator. On Third Avenue, darkened storefronts, bright delicatessens, and expensive bars zoomed by his window. The Buick screeched into a right turn on Twenty-Third Street and headed east.

  The Metropolitan Animal Hospital was an old five-story building made of gray stone blocks and located on a street lined with expensive high-rise apartment buildings. Both sides of the street were crowded with parked cars, and in front of the hospital the special section for doctors was filled too. Just beyond was a driveway and a sign that read EMERGENCY ROOM. Without hesitation Jake steered into the driveway.

  “They won’t let you park here,” the floozie said.

  “Fuck ’em.”

  Jake jammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop before a white concrete platform. He turned off his lights and ignition and burst out of the car. Running around its front, he opened the floozie’s door, grabbed the kitten, and dashed up the platform’s stairs.

  “Follow me!” he ordered the floozie.

  Atop the platform, he stiff-armed through the door, and ahead on his right was a desk and a middle-aged blonde nurse.

  “My cat’s dyin’!” He laid Khrushchev on her desk and pointed his thumb at the floozie, who was staggering through the door. “She thinks it’s a blockage! Call the doctors!”

  With distaste the nurse looked at them both, and pulled a pad of forms to her gargantuan bosom. “Your name please?”

  “Call the doctors!”

  “I’ll have to get some information from you first,” the nurse said coolly. “Your name please?”

  “Jake Griffin, and my cat’s dying, for chrissakes!”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Griffin?”

  Jake blurted out his address, and answered several more questions.

  “And how do you plan to pay us?” the nurse asked finally.”

  “Cash.” Jake took his roll out of his pocket. “I got two hundred clams here.”

  She lifted the phone on her desk, spoke into it, and after several seconds a young nurse walked through a door, picked up the kitten and the form, and strolled off. Anxiously Jake watched his kitten disappear behind the door when it closed.

  “Now what?” he asked the nurse at the desk.

  “Have a seat.” The nurse pointed to white Fiberglas chairs in a small waiting area.

  Jake and the floozie walked to the chairs, took off their coats, and sat down. She wo
re a dirty pink blouse and a man’s blue slacks far too big for her, and she had a bitter smell about her. Jake looked from her to the walls, on which hung framed color drawings of various breeds of dogs and cats. None of the cats looked like Khrushchev.

  “What’re they doin’ to my cat now?”

  “A doctor’ll examine it and treat it.”

  “Will they operate?”

  “No, they got something like a stomach pump that they’ll use.”

  Jake looked at her sad bleary eyes and sloppy red mouth, and thought she might have been pretty once. “Thanks for helpin’ me out.”

  “You got a cigarette?”

  “Yeah.” He took out his packet of Luckies, held it out to her, she took one and poked it through her lips, and he lit it with his old Zippo. “Were you an animal nurse?”

  “No, but I worked in my husband’s office.”

  “Maybe you can get a job here.”

  She wrinkled her face. “Get serious. They don’t hire drunks to work in hospitals, not even animal hospitals.”

  “Then stop boozin’.”

  “Mind your own business, you lousy bastard.”

  They looked away from each other. A few minutes later a black man in the blue uniform of a private police agency approached Jake and asked: “Is that your green Buick outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gotta move it.”

  Jake went outside and drove around for twenty minutes, finally finding a parking spot five blocks away. On his way back to the hospital he thought his brother Larry would probably be angry because he closed the bar early. When he returned to the waiting room the floozie was asleep, leaning her cheek against the wall and snoring. Jake sat a few chairs away, disgusted by her messy appearance.

  She opened an eye. “What’re you looking at, you lousy bastard?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to figger out.”

  “Birdbrain.” She closed the eye.

  Jake was tempted to bash her, but thought of how she’d helped him with the kitten and restrained himself. He lit a cigarette and smoked it nervously to a tiny butt. After snuffing out the butt in a tall metal ashtray, he worried for a long time about Khrushchev.

  “Jake Griffin!” It was the nurse at the desk.

  “That’s me.”

  “Would you come here, please?”

  Fearfully, with his cap in both hands, Jake approached the desk. “Yeah?”

  She looked down at her papers. “You can take your pet home after you pay the fee.” With a pencil she totaled figures.

  Jake’s face brightened. “You mean he’s all better?”

  “Evidently. Fifty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents, please.”

  Suddenly relieved, Jake reached into his pocket for the money and paid her. He thought those animal doctors must really know what they’re doing.

  The nurse took the money, made change, told Jake to return to his chair, and picked up her telephone. Jake sat and ran his thumbs along the rim of his hat. He’d be careful with the kitten from now on. After several minutes a young dumpy nurse carried sleeping Khrushchev into the waiting room.

  “Mr. Griffin?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Jake shot to his feet.

  “Here’s your pet.”

  Jake held out his arms and the nurse eased the kitten onto him. “Thanks a lot,” Jake said, noting that Khrushchev looked all right now.

  The nurse smiled angelically. “He’s under sedation and might sleep another twelve hours. From now on only give him canned food, like tuna fish, and plenty of liquid. If you have any more trouble, just bring him back, but I think everything’ll be all right.”

  Jake looked into the kitten’s face. “He looks great!”

  The nurse left and Jake was heading for the door when he remembered the floozie. She was sleeping against the wall and her mouth was hanging open. He walked to her and kicked her worn men’s brogans. “Let’s go!”

  “Ouch!” She moved her foot but didn’t open her eyes.

  “Let’s go or I’ll leave you here. Maybe they can take the blockage out of your head.”

  She opened her eyes, saw Jake, and groaned. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “The cat’s okay and I’m leavin’. If you wanna ride downtown, get movin’.”

  With considerable pushing and straining she got to her feet and followed him out of the emergency room. On the sidewalk they walked side by side to the car, she looking down at her shuffling feet, he peering into the kitten’s face.

  “Where should I drop you off?” he muttered.

  “Anywhere downtown. If you give me thirty-five cents I’ll take the subway.”

  “Where you stayin’?”

  “I don’t have a place right now. Oh, Jesus, do I need a drink.”

  He glanced at her walking with her arms hugging her breast and her stained teeth chattering. She looked pathetic in her baggy pants and dirty parka, reminding him of the kitten when he first saw it. “Thanks again for helpin’ me with my cat. Can I give you a few bucks?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll give it to you when we get to the car. Would-ja like to come out to my joint for the night, since you don’t have no place to stay?”

  She stopped short and screwed up her face. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Are you trying to screw me, you sick bastard?”

  “What!” Jake turned up his nose. “I wouldn’t screw you if you was the last broad on earth, you old bag! You did me a favor and I thought I’d put you up for the night, that’s all! Screw you? Are you kiddin’? You stink like a fish, for chrissakes!”

  She clamped her hands on her hips and leaned forward unsteadily. “You can’t talk to me that way, you ugly pig!”

  “At least I ain’t a fuckin’ drunken bum like you!” He turned away from her and walked toward the car. “At least I got someplace to sleep tonight.”

  “I’d rather sleep on a park bench!”

  “That’s okay by me. A hot shower and a clean bed’d prob’ly kill you anyway.”

  “A hot shower and a clean bed?” she said dreamily.

  “At’s what I said.”

  Jake continued walking to his car, his big arms folded around the kitten, and well-dressed early morning pedestrians looked at him curiously. Behind him he could hear the clumsy footsteps of the floozie.

  * * *

  After finishing breakfast, John Houlihan poured a few ounces of an expensive cognac into a snifter and carried it and his Times into the living room, where he sat on one of the old upholstered chairs that faced the television set. On the wall behind the television set was an eight-inch painted plaster likeness of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross.

  “Who’s winning?” John asked Donald.

  “The fuckin’ Colts by three points. They kicked a cheesy field goal.”

  John sipped cognac and looked through the newspaper, while in a corner of his mind he listened to the television sportscaster and Donald’s profanities. It only took a few beers to make Donald drunk, and John suspected this was because the boy had less of his body left to absorb alcohol. Shortly before halftime the door buzzer went off.

  “That’s Manowski,” Donald said. “Let him in, willya, Pop?”

  John walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Sure enough it was Manowski, who lived in Brooklyn and had been in Donald’s company in Viet Nam. John opened the door and extended his hand.

  “Why, hello there, Henry,” John said cordially.

  “Hiya, Mr. Houlihan. Don said I could come over.” He had short blond hair, big ears, and no chin.

  “You’re always welcome here, Henry. Come in and make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Houlihan.” Manowski passed John in the vestibule and walked bowlegged like an ape down the corridor to the living room. “Whataya say, stud!” he shouted to Donald.

  “How ya doin’, big time?”

  They shook hands and slapped shoulders for several seconds
, and then Donald asked: “Wanna beer?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Manowski plopped into the chair where John had been sitting.

  “Hey, Pop—bring ’im a beer, willya?”

  John walked to the refrigerator, opened a can of beer, and brought it to Manowski.

  “Thanks,” said Manowski as he accepted the can, hefted it to his fleshy pink lips, and took three huge gulps. Then he lowered the can and said: “Aaaaaaaah.”

  “That ain’t that three-point-two PX piss water, right?” Donald asked.

  “You’re fu-kin’ A. Who’s winnin’?”

  “Colts by three points. How’re you doin’, buddy?”

  “We’re goin’ on strike in two weeks if we don’t get a raise. Fuckin’ inflation’s eatin’ us up.”

  “Ya gettin’ much pussy?”

  Manowski grinned. “A little.”

  John carried his cognac and paper to another chair in the corner. He couldn’t see the television set and didn’t feel like reading the paper any more. Although Manowski visited Donald regularly and their conversations were always similar, John was always fascinated by what they said.

  “Ya still fuckin’ that old married broad?” Donald asked.

  “Once in a while, but I get a little tired of her. I got me a little young broad now. Only nineteen years old. Boy, does she love my ass!” Manowski took another swig of beer.

  “I sure miss that Nam pussy,” Donald said wistfully.

  “Nam pussy is fine,” Manowski agreed.

  “And cheap.”

  “You’re damn straight. You know—them whores down on Lexington Avenue are askin’ fifty bucks just for one fuck!”

  “You could fuck for a whole week in Nam for that, and she’d clean, cook, and buy the food too.”

  “Them days are gone forever, buddy,” Manowski said.

  “Hey—remember them two gook whores, the twins—they blowed the whole squad for twenny bucks and four cans of C-rations?”

  “In Long Binh—yeah, I remember.”

  “Remember how mad they got when we wouldn’t pay ’em?”

  Manowski whinnied like a horse. “Schultz pointed his M-16 at them and told them he’d shoot them both in the cunt if they didn’t get goin’! Oh, holy shit, what a scene!” He covered his eyes with his hand and shook with laughter.