The Jig of the Union Loller

by Michael Burnham

  “You’ve got to get a girlfriend,” he shouted. “I know a fat pig who would love to sleep at your place two or three times a week. Might even help you dress in the morning. I’m going to bring her in one of these days, and I want you to take her home and bang her.”

  “Cue,” Hal said, his head flipping back like a cannon recoiling from a shot. “Cue.”

  “What does that mean?” Claude said.

  “He’s trying to say ‘fuck you,’ but it isn’t coming out right. Ah, let’s leave the poor bugger alone.”

  They walked to the corner of the bar and sat down.

  “You serious about bringing him your fat friend?”

  “I am,” Malcolm said. “But he’ll never sleep with her. Accurate assessment of where she rates on the dating scale. Inaccurate assessment of where he rates on same.”

  “Come again?” Claude said.

  “I’ll give you an example. One time I talked him into going up near the colleges to drink. We walk in, and right away I pick out a prospect. She’s not much to look at, but seems friendly and is only talking with other women, so I go over and strike up a conversation. When she gets up to go to the bathroom, I wander over to Hal at the bar and ask if he sees anyone he’s interested in. He points to this blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, half his age, with about ten guys hanging all over her, and says she’s the one. He was serious. I just laughed. Hasn’t been laid in years, but won’t settle for anyone but the most beautiful woman in the place.”

  “Nine years is a long time,” Claude said. “How fat is your friend?”

  “Fat,” Malcolm said. “Smelly too. But if I were Hal, I’d be grateful.”

  Claude swigged his beer and considered ordering more shots, but a glance at Hal dissuaded him. Perhaps later, he thought. Walt leaned his elbows on the bar as he tugged the beef jerky.

  “How about you,” Malcolm said. “Are you married?”

  “Yup,” Claude said.

  “You like it?”

  “Nine years is a long time,” Claude said. “How fat is your friend?”

  Walt and Malcolm laughed, and Claude said he was only kidding.

  “I wish I’d stayed a bachelor longer and played around a little more. But then I might not have my daughter, Jamie, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything.”

  “How old is she?” Walt said.

  “Just turned seventeen. Bright, pretty, good sense of humor, just a sweet kid. Landed a five-pound bass when she was nine. Now she’s a senior in high school. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Some kid named Peter. He better watch his peter, and not get any ideas about getting into my daughter’s shorts. If I find out he’s tried anything I’ll kill him.”

  “Aw, come on now Claude,” Malcolm said, “you must remember what it’s like to be his age.”

  “I remember. He can knock up the entire sophomore class for all I care, as long as he doesn’t touch my daughter. Obviously you don’t have a daughter, or you’d know what I mean.”

  “It’s good for her to have a boyfriend,” Malcolm said. “Think about it from her perspective. If she learns the ropes now, it’ll help her when she’s a young woman trying to catch a man for real. The pussy’s a powerful tool if you know how to use it, and seventeen’s about the right age to begin experimenting. Just make sure she’s on the pill and knows where the condom machine is.”

  Malcolm could see Claude didn’t appreciate the conversation’s current direction.

  “Is she going to college?” he said.

  “No,” Claude said.

  “Why not?”

  “I did fine without college, and so did my dad. I think I can get her into the company after she graduates, maybe as a clerk, maybe even in customer service.”

  “Plus she can always go to school later,” Malcolm said.

  “For what? To learn housewifing? She doesn’t need college for that.”

  “You said she was bright. Don’t you think her career prospects are better with college than without?”

  “No,” Claude said. “I know guys who went to college and didn’t amount to anything. And I know guys who made millions with just a high school diploma. Plus nobody learns anything at college anyway. All they do is drink and sleep around. Of all the people I know who went to college, none of them is doing what they learned at school.”

  “That’s true,” Walt said. “My nephew majored in politics, and now he’s a grunt in human resources. And my niece majored in social work, and now she’s an accountant.”

  “I disagree,” Malcolm said. “College isn’t about what you learn, it’s about how you learn.”

  “How do you know?” Claude said. “You’ve been with the railroads since eighteen.”

  “I have a degree,” Malcolm said. “I went nights, over seven years. I think college is like an obstacle course. The professor’s job is to give you hurdles to climb over—papers to write about topics you’ve never heard of, problems to solve, projects to research. The subject doesn’t matter. It only matters that you get over the present hurdle so you can take on the next. The people who make it, number one, have the self-discipline to hunker down and do their assignments, and number two, learn how to get information, make sense of it, and present it intelligently. You’re learning how to learn, really, and once you do that you can succeed in any career.”

  “Why’d you drive trains if you had a degree?”

  “The money. Hey, I didn’t get a degree so I could win a Nobel Prize. I got a degree so people who aren’t any smarter than I am couldn’t look down their noses at me.”

  “Well, college is a long way away,” Claude said, “and Jamie likes it at home. I suppose she’ll move out when she’s ready to get married, but she’s got plenty of time before then.”

  Two men in dusty blue jeans entered the tavern and sat on the stools nearest the door. Walt went down and took their orders.

  “Seen them before?” Claude said.

  “Once or twice,” Malcolm said.

  Claude lost his desire to wait for a shot, and called for a Wild Turkey. Malcolm insisted on paying, and ordered an Alabama Slammer for himself. Walt brought the shots, refilled their empty beer mugs, and emptied the two ash trays at that end of the bar. Claude gulped his drink. Malcolm drank slowly until his was gone.

  “Tell me more about your jig,” Claude said. “I may have a disability in my future, too.”

  “Not tonight,” Malcolm said. “For something like that, you want a clear head. Bring me a copy of your union contract Monday, and we can go through it. Just because something worked for me doesn’t mean it will work for you. All situations are different.”

  “I think headaches will work fine,” Claude said.

  “Maybe, but it has to be believable.”

  Walt stepped on a small footstool, retrieved a remote control, stepped back down, and turned on the television. As he flipped through the channels, he came to the classic sports network. A graphic in the corner of the screen read “Television’s Greatest Fights Marathon,” and an announcer in the center of a boxing ring introduced two opponents.

  “Hey, this is the Hagler-Hearns fight,” one of the men at the door end of the bar said.

  Walt looked to Malcolm and Claude for their approval.

  “Fine with me,” Claude said. “It’s a great fight.”

  The match started, and after the second round the two men near the door joined Claude, Malcolm, and Hal. The five men, plus Walt, became immersed in rating the best boxers and best matchups, and as they watched fight after fight drained beer after beer. Occasionally, newcomers entered the bar, but neither joined nor bothered Malcolm’s gang. Around 11:30, after watching Boom Boom Mancini’s first title fight, Malcolm said good night and paid the remainder of his tab. Claude left with him. They grabbed a snack, and then shook hands and agreed to meet Monday. Claude staggered to his truck, and was fortunate to encounter a largely empty highway on his drive home.

  Chapter 27


  At home, television projected changing shades of light on the wall behind the couch. Claude peeked through the family room door, heard Joan breathing a steady rhythm, and saw her lying with her back to the screen. He tiptoed to the bedroom, undressed, and went to sleep.

  Claude pretended the next two days were just an ordinary September weekend. He raked a small layer of leaves from the back lawn, and repaired to the family room to watch baseball. After Jamie left with Betty Saturday night, he plugged in a video while Joan baked a pie from apples she and Connie had picked that afternoon. Sunday, Claude planted himself in front of the television for twelve hours of professional football.

  On Monday, Claude rose with the alarm, showered, and dressed in his work clothes. He forgot where he put the union contract, and nearly blew his charade by searching for it past the time he normally left for work. But he did find it, eventually, and was sure Joan and Jamie hadn’t noticed his tardiness.

  He drove off in the direction of Rhode Island Electric, but doubled back and headed north toward Massachusetts. In Upton, a good tackle shop stood just a few hundred yards from an excellent breakfast nook. The ride helped him kill time, and helped ensure he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. He ate, fiddled with rods and reels, walked around a pond, and hopped into the truck to meet Malcolm.

  Although Claude arrived early, Walt let him in as he set up the bar. Claude learned that Walt owned the Victory Tavern and worked eleven to close six days a week, shutting the place down on Sundays. No others were allowed to tend bar. If at any point during the week Walt didn’t feel like working, he sent the patrons home and locked the door.

  Hal came next, wearing the same plaid pants but a new-looking cream-colored dress shirt. He already smelled of whiskey. Claude excused himself to the bathroom, and was pleased to find Hal and Walt engaged in conversation when he returned. A third man, whom Walt introduced as Greg—another regular, Claude determined—entered and joined the smalltalk with Hal and Walt.

  Malcolm arrived at 11:15, exchanged pleasantries, and walked to his corner of the bar. He met Claude with a broad smile and a firm handshake. Claude called for a beer for Malcolm, but Malcolm asked for ginger ale instead. When he asked if Claude remembered the contract, Claude drew the pamphlet from his pocket and dropped it on the bar. To Claude’s surprise, Malcolm didn’t touch it.

  “You know,” Malcolm said, “before you go the disability route, there are questions to ask. Work is very important in our culture. It provides income, of course, but it also brings structure, and can give us a sense of belonging, a feeling we’re important. If you aren’t going to work, you need to be sure you can handle it.”

  “Of course I handle it,” Claude said.

  “Right,” Malcolm said, “and that’s what everyone says when they buy lottery tickets. ‘I can handle $50 million.’ The truth is, most can’t. There are a lot of demands placed on you when you win that kind of dough. You have to have good communication skills and good relationship skills, and you have to know how to handle money. If you don’t, it will bite you in the ass in a hurry.”

  He slipped the watch from his wrist, adjusted the minute hand, and put it back on.

  “See,” he said, “when most people dream of winning the lottery, they aren’t dreaming about money. They’re dreaming about power. The power to tell the boss to shove it. The power to influence people by rewarding them with the new wealth—or by withholding it. The power to do what they want when they want. What they don’t realize is power carries responsibility.”

  “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Dreaming about freedom is a lot like dreaming about power. Although it’s easy to get sucked in by the fantasy, you have to be realistic. You have to envision what it’s really going to be like, how it will affect your wife, your family, your friends, and most of all, how it will affect you. You can’t just hope you can suddenly handle all that free time, you have to know you can. Like I said, most people’s knee-jerk reaction is ‘oh yeah, I can handle it.’ But most people are wrong. It’s tougher than you think.”

  He sipped his ginger ale. “Maybe you’re different. Anyway, let me tell you a little about the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

  “The what?”

  “The law that protects you if you become disabled.”

  Claude slumped on his stool and groaned. “Hey, I don’t want to become a lawyer, I just want to get paid for not working.”

  Malcolm shot a look over to Walt. Walt turned his head slightly and raised his eyebrows.

  “Even so,” Malcolm said slowly, “you’ll need to know a little about how the law works. Think of the law as something in your tackle box. The better you know how to use what’s in your tackle box, the more likely you are to get that big fish. Now, the law was passed by Congress to protect people who are really disabled, but you know, being disabled isn’t always a black and white thing. In recent years, the courts have expanded its scope significantly...”

  As Malcolm spoke, Claude put down his cigarette, finished his beer, motioned for another one, crossed his legs, and uncrossed his legs. He looked at Malcolm between actions but not during.

  “All right,” Claude said at last, “let’s skip the history lesson. What do I need to do to beat the system?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Malcolm said.

  “Ok,” Claude said. “Shoot.”

  “The key phrase is: ‘I have a disability.’ Remember how important that is. When you’re in danger of being fired, tell your boss ‘I have a disability.’ Once you’ve said that, you’ve invoked the ADA and brought the law on your side. Once you’ve said that, you just forced your employer to jump through a whole ton of hoops.”

  “I have a disability,” Claude said.

  “That’s right. Truth is, Claude, it wouldn’t hurt you to read up on the law. You don’t have to become an expert, but the more you know about the do’s and don’ts, the easier it will be to avoid doing something to mess up the whole thing. It’s your future, you know.”

  Claude nodded.

  “Tell me, what are your hobbies?”

  “Fishing.”

  “Good,” Malcolm said. “Anything else?”

  “Cribbage. Watching the tube. Playing video games.”

  “No good,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “If you’re going to spend your days watching television and playing video games, believe me, you’re better off working, because that’s no way to live. You need something to get up for in the morning. Not every day, of course, but more often than not. For me, it’s golf. If I didn’t have golf I’d go nuts. Fishing will work, if you do it right, though I wouldn’t recommend just you and a rod day in, day out. Join a sportsmen’s club with other outdoorsmen. Volunteer to help cub scouts get their merit badges in angling, or teach a class in fly-tying, or take inner-city kids on fishing trips.”

  “That sounds good,” Claude said. “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Are you involved in any community service projects right now?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s ok. What about church?”

  “Church of the NFL. Does that count?”

  “Yes and no,” Malcolm said with a smile. “What about money? What will you do when you need extra cash for Christmas presents?”

  Claude pondered the question. “I don’t know. Get a job, I guess. Maybe at a sporting goods store, or a hardware store.”

  “Remember, it has to be under the table. It also has to be something away from the public eye. You can’t have your hardware store boss see you hide when your electric company boss comes through the door. Plus, if word gets out you’re working, it’s trouble. Craft-type items are good. For example, I paint houses. Another guy I know builds and sells small sheds. Fishing is good, because it’s relaxing. If you can find a way to make some money from it, you’ll be all right. But don’t leave it to chance. You should think hard about how to earn extra cash when you need it, because somewhere down the road, you d
efinitely will need it.”

  Claude downed his beer and asked for a refill. He lit another cigarette, and Hal asked to bum one, so he slid the pack down the bar. It didn’t return immediately.

  “What’s up with that?” Claude said under his breath.

  “How about your wife?” Malcolm said. “You’ll have a lot of time together, and you’ll want to keep her on your side. What sort of things do you do together?”

  Claude ran his hand along the back of his head, and held his neck when he got there.

  “Not much,” Claude said. “We used to play cards once in a while. She can’t dance, she’s not much on outdoorsy things, though she does fiddle in her garden quite a bit. She likes bingo.” He scratched his neck. “Uggh, bingo. She’s always trying to get me to go, but there’s no way in hell I’m sitting with 300 wrinkle bags listening for B-17, O-22, G-90.”

  “What you do isn’t the issue,” Malcolm said. “All that matters is to find something to do together.”
“How important is that? You get along fine without a wife, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Malcolm said, “but I have female companionship. People need to feel close to others. Whether it’s a wife, a girlfriend, or a best buddy, good relationships are important.”

  Claude crushed his nearly unsmoked cigarette in the ash tray, and walked toward Hal to retrieve his pack.

  “How’s it going down there?” Hal said.

  “Fine, for chrissakes. I’ll be frigging disabled any minute now.”

  Claude picked up his cigarettes, and slid a fresh one through the opening. He paused to light it, and returned to his stool.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Do you still want to talk about this?” Malcolm said.

  “Sure, sure. I need to learn all from the Guru Knox.”

  Malcolm dropped his hands from the bar. “Okay, enough.”

  Claude caught the new vibe. “Hey look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just didn’t know I’d have to answer so many questions.”

  “I’m just trying to help you appreciate what lies ahead.”

  “I know, I know. Look, I’m sorry. But believe me, I’m not like the other dodos you know. When I say I can handle it, I mean it. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy at home.”