“All right, then,” Malcolm said. “Let’s wrap this up. Tell me about your medical history. The longer you’ve had something, the better. I started setting up my headaches a year before I actually stopped working, but had a history of headaches even before then. Do you have any health conditions? Have you ever had a work injury? Have you ever been medically retrogressed?”
Claude recalled the flea incident. For a moment, he wrestled with himself about whether to reveal it.
“I did have a work injury once,” he said at last. “And I did get retrogressed because of it.”
“What happened?”
Again Claude paused. He took a drag from his cigarette. He sipped his beer and stared at a high part of the wall.
“I was reading a meter,” he said, “and I was attacked by fleas. Pretty bad. Had to go to the hospital. After it happened, my father thought it was a good idea to get me out of meter reading, so he arranged a transfer to the stores department.”
“Why?” Malcolm asked.
“He just didn’t want me to go back to reading meters.”
“I know, but why? Were you afraid to go back?”
“Hell, no. I wasn’t afraid. He saw what I looked like after the attack, and didn’t want me to ever have to go through something like that again. He was a union president looking out for an employee, but he was also a father looking out for a son.”
“Are you sure you weren’t afraid?” Malcolm said. “Because if you were, that’s pretty powerful stuff. Flea-o-phobia, or whatever. There have to be insects in the stockroom. Maybe a couple bug freakouts could buy you a ticket to the psychologist’s couch. A story like that is gold.”
Claude looked to the floor. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, think about it. In the meantime, mind if I look this over?”
He picked up the union contract, and Claude nodded that he could take it. Malcolm left two dollars on the bar and rose from his stool.
“Where you going?” Claude said.
“I’m meeting a friend for lunch. She took half a vacation day, and after we eat we’re going to Boston to see a show.”
“Oh,” Claude said. “I didn’t know. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Sorry, tomorrow’s golf. I’m playing 18 in Newport, then going out for drinks. How about Wednesday morning? I’ll meet you here at eleven, and we’ll get good and drunk.”
Malcolm turned to the others. “Walt, Hal, Greg, I’ll see you all Wednesday. Give my best to Bots when he comes in.”
He waved, and left. Claude puffed his cigarette and thought about what to do. He’d planned to drink all day with Malcolm. Instead, his companions looked to be Hal, Greg, and an impending storm called Bots.
What the hell, he thought. “Walt, if you please, shots for myself, yourself, and our two friends here.”
Three o’clock came earlier than Claude expected. Greg, like Claude, was a big Beatles fan, and the two debated with Bots about the top bands of the sixties. Although Bots seemed too young for that time, he said the era’s best music came from the Velvet Underground, Frank Zappa, and Van Morrison, and flush the rest. Hal remained coherent enough to participate, though his fervor for Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett limited his role in the conversation.
Claude wanted to be home at the usual time, but couldn’t be early, or some nosy neighbor would squeal to Joan. He timed his departure from the tavern perfectly, but on the drive home realized Jamie would smell the booze on his breath. He decided to crawl onto the couch to simulate a nap; if anyone asked, he’d say he worked hard and was tired. When Jamie was late returning home, however, Claude went to the fridge, removed two beers, and poured them down the sink. He took the empty cans to the family room, set them near his recliner, and turned on the television. Everything looked normal.
#
That evening warm air of pleasant September days met air from the Canadian cold, and hard rain fell. As Claude dressed for a dreary Tuesday morning, he looked the part of a man wishing to return to bed instead of heading into the wet world.
He drove south, past Rhode Island Electric, and an hour later arrived at Point Judith. Though he was hungry, he sat in the parked truck a moment before venturing into the rain. He saw a smattering of boats held in by the weather, and a row of empty docks vacated by the others.
Maybe I could work a fishing boat once in a while, he thought. Maybe Ken Hale could use an extra hand. Claude knew commercial fishing bore no resemblance to sport fishing. He’d have to rise before dawn. He’d suffer through a period of discomfort as his arms adjusted to pulling heavy nets and carrying big carcasses. He’s need to learn to clean fish well, and distinguish at a glance between fish bound for the market and fish bound for the chum barrel. It was a hard life, and wouldn’t make him rich, but as a once-in-a-while thing it might suffice.
He pulled the slicker hood over his head and stepped into the muddy parking lot. Before turning toward town, he walked along the pier, hoping to encounter someone to chat with, about nothing in particular, but found no one. With his hands deep in his pockets, he trudged the single street of businesses, noting each establishment as he passed, until he arrived at a small restaurant with an “Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner” sign in the window. As he stepped inside, he didn’t see anyone, so he stood near the door and dripped. Before long a woman his own age in an apron appeared through a door and said good morning. Claude hung his yellow slicker on a peg and selected a stool at the counter.
“Nasty out there,” he said to the woman.
“Coffee?” she said.
“Please. Does this weather keep most of the fishermen in?”
She poured the coffee, and set a menu before him. Claude wondered if she heard his question. As he opened his mouth to re-ask it, she disappeared through the kitchen door. A few minutes later she returned with a pad of paper and a pen.
“Ready?” she said.
“Two eggs, sunny side up, with sausage, baked beans, and white toast.”
She scribbled down the order, picked up the menu, and left.
Claude sipped his coffee and thought about work. Of course he’d tell Schulke he wished to stay, but Thursday still seemed the distant future. He wondered what Frank and Scotty were saying about him. He asked himself if the guys would treat him differently now that he had a DML, if he’d crossed a line from which he couldn’t return. Some people thought once you had a DML, the end was inevitable, and hastened to distance themselves from you. Warren felt that after his DML. Frank wouldn’t do it, probably, but would Scotty? Darezzo? The linemen?
It’ll pass, Claude thought. The more he thought about Rhode Island Electric, the more discomfort he felt in his gut.
The waitress returned with the breakfast, topped off Claude’s coffee, and set the bill upside down near the utensils.
A gust of wind whistled through a cracked window pane. Claude’s reflection turned to headaches. He rarely had them. What causes headaches? Bad eyesight, he supposed, brain tumors, stress, head injuries. Claude’s eyesight was fine. Brain tumors and head injuries struck him as hard to fake. Stress might succeed, he thought, but working in a stores department wasn’t like driving a train, where hundreds of lives could be lost if the conductor became incapacitated at the wrong moment. A headache could cause him to drop something from the crane, except he never drove the crane. If stricken while goofing off in the nest he could accidentally writhe off the platform and fall to his death, but that would likely get everyone laughing instead of feeling sorry for him, since he couldn’t very well argue he belonged on disability because he might fall while goofing off. He figured he could lose an arm in the trash compactor, and decided maybe that would do. Maybe that would do.
When finished eating, he nursed his coffee. He hoped the woman would come to refill his mug, so he could take another shot at conversation with her, but she didn’t. At last he left money to cover the check and the tip, zipped himself into his slicker, and left.
A mile do
wn the road, where the harbor reached the ocean, the land turned from mud and marsh to a long stretch of wide, sandy beach. Claude parked his truck, marched through the soft sand, and walked in the firm sand along the water’s edge. Wave remnants stopped a few inches short of his boots before retreating to the sea, though on occasion a surprise wave continued past, dampening the cuffs of his jeans. Seagull cries rose above the wind, rain, and crashing surf. Claude interrupted his walk frequently to toss rocks into the water, strain to see Block Island, or scan the horizon for ships.
An hour later, his pants soaked, Claude returned to the truck. After peeling off his jeans and spreading them over the passenger seat, he changed into shorts and a pair of sweatpants pulled from a gym bag he kept behind the seat. For the next thirty minutes, he leaned on the steering wheel and watched the surf pound the beach. He knew of a bar not far up the road, but vetoed his own suggestion, since he didn’t want to knock down four or five beers and then contend with rain traffic on Route 1. He wanted to be home on time. He wondered if the Dub opened at eleven; after all these years, he should know, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d try a new bar. Then again, maybe Walt, Hal, Greg, and Bots weren’t so bad after all.
At 10:45 Claude started the truck and headed north. Although he wasn’t hungry, he stopped for lunch at a busy restaurant, mostly to kill time, since he wanted to keep his time at the Victory Tavern to an hour or two. He arrived after one, and was pleased.
“What did you swim here?” Bots said.
“No, no,” Claude said, shaking rain from his bangs and stomping sand off his boot soles. “Down to Point Judith to check out the fishing boats.”
When he ordered a beer, Walt smiled and reminded him the beer wasn’t free because it wasn’t before noon. As Claude settled onto a stool next to Greg, he noticed how small the place felt with the front door closed. He still heard the rain.
“Shot for you?” Walt said.
“Save it for tomorrow,” Claude said. “Today I’m just going to sip a few beers and go home.”
#
Before retiring to bed that night, Claude made sure to tell Joan and Jamie he planned to go drinking after work Wednesday. He said one of the linemen was turning 30, and a bunch of guys were going to celebrate, though he still expected to be home before seven.
He groaned at the morning alarm, and realized in the shower how convincing his moans had been with his half-asleep wife. I am a good actor, he thought. Later he realized pretending to go to work was pretty much the same as actually going to work, in terms of groaning and resisting anyway, but nonetheless gave himself high marks for serving his decision-making leave without Joan or Jamie knowing about it.
For the third morning in a row, Claude drove a distance to eat breakfast. Although it remained cloudy and cool, sometime during the night the rain had stopped. At nine, Claude pulled into a mall just as it was opening. He found a large bank of televisions in a department store, reset four of them to different channels, and watched. A manager hinted that extended tube-watching was frowned upon, so Claude said he was just waiting for his wife to pick out some curtains and the right color ironing board cover, and wouldn’t be long. He stayed another hour, and wandered the mall for an hour after that.
Good, he thought as he walked to his truck. It’s eleven now. It takes a half an hour to drive to town. I won’t be first.
After parking near the State House, he noticed how barren the streets seemed. Outside the cafes, large folded umbrellas dripped water on the empty tables and chairs. A few business people scurried around the puddles, but most waited at the taxi stand for the next available cab. No one sat on the park benches or reclined on the wet lawns.
As he turned the corner onto the narrow street leading to the Victory Tavern, he saw the same homeless man sleeping in the same spot on the sidewalk, and paused to look at him. The man wore a hoodless, knee-length wool coat over his fatigues, and, over that, a rain poncho made by punching three holes in a garbage bag. He slept on his side, with his knees tucked up into the bottom of the bag. He wore dirty mittens but no hat, and Claude could see cakes of mud in the man’s hair and beard. Claude considered tucking a $5 bill in the man’s coat, but decided against it and proceeded toward the tavern.
“Are you looking for me?” a voice from a side alley said as Claude passed.
Claude stopped, and with a puzzled expression turned back and walked into the alley. There he saw a girl, Jamie’s age or a little older, with damp, shoulder-length auburn hair. She huddled inside an oversized maroon blazer, the sleeves hanging limp as she held the coat closed from within. She wore a black mini-skirt and black tights, and pressed her skinny legs together all the way down, thighs, knees, and ankles.
“Are you looking for me?” she repeated.
“I don’t think so,” Claude said. “Should I be?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “I’m supposed to meet someone here, and thought you might be him.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I am.”
Claude supposed hi should walk away, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes on the tiny girl.
“You look cold,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well,” she said, “I think I should be meeting someone else, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
She stepped toward Claude and let the blazer fall open. Beneath it she wore a bikini top and nothing else. She touched her body to Claude’s and turned her head so it rested on his breastbone, and held his hip with her hand.
“You need to pay for the rest of the morning, though,” she said. “That’s what the other guy wanted. My boss will think I’m cheating if I come away with any less.”
Claude didn’t want her services, but didn’t let her go, either, didn’t release her to do her job, to find the correct man and render unto him her barely nubile offerings, this shivering fawn. He put his arm around her and held her close, to keep her warm, if only for a minute. He knew she would see his hug as an indication of interest, but didn’t care. As she nestled against him, he looked down the alley, past broken glass beneath a boarded-up window, past garbage strewn about the cobblestones, past a black bird feeding from a puddle of vomit.
“I think you’d better find the person you came to meet,” he said.
He extricated himself from the girl. She scrunched her shoulders and pulled her head down as she folded her arms inside the blazer, but lifted her eyes to look at Claude. He turned and walked toward the Victory Tavern, keeping the image of the girl inside his head.
Claude opened the great wooden door and saw Greg, Hal, and Walt. He forced a smile, and placed a hand on a Hal shoulder and a Greg shoulder as he stood between them.
“Good morning, gents,” he said. “How’s everyone today?”
Greg raised his glass, and Hal gave a thumbs up.
“I think I have a discount beer with your name on it,” Walt said.
“And I’ll take it.”
He left two stools between himself and Hal and sat down. He noticed Walt had showered, and started to comment on it, but wanted to be careful of the wording.
“You look good,” he said at last.
“Thanks,” Walt said. “Here’s your beer.”
“Thank you. Has Malcolm been around yet?”
“No, he hasn’t. But he stopped by last night and asked me to return this to you.”
Walt reached beneath the bar and produced Claude’s UUW contract.
“The rain washed out his golf match yesterday,” Walt said, “so he and his friends took a tour of the mansions instead. He said if he couldn’t play again today he’d drop by, but if it cleared up he was going to try to squeeze in a round. I doubt we’ll see him.”
Claude didn’t speak. He lifted his mug, but only took a small sip. He looked at a spot on the rail, and the rest of his vision blurred.
“You all right there, partner?” Greg said.
Claude humphed that he was, but didn’t allow Greg to draw him into any conversations.
Claude sat and drank. When he finished his beer he ordered another. Bots arrived and the banter livened up, though Claude, for the most part, remained quiet. At last, Bots sauntered over to Claude, smacked him on the back, and stated the obvious.
“You’re looking mighty blue,” he said.
Claude forced a smile, but still didn’t speak.
“We can’t have a sourpuss glooming up our bar,” Bots said. “How about I buy you a shot, and in return you tell us all what’s bugging you?”
Again, Claude resisted, but the others joined in and he relented.
“Okay,” he said. “Wild Turkey. But please, join me.”
The others did, including Walt, who filled Claude’s glass well above the shot line. They clinked their glasses together and swallowed the booze.
“There,” Greg said. “Now what’s eating you?”
“You guys go the raw end of that deal,” Claude said as he wiped his mouth. “There isn’t much to tell. I have to go back to work tomorrow, and it’s got me down a little, that’s all. I was hoping to see Malcolm and learn more about disabilities. I hope he makes it in soon.”
The four others exchanged glances.
“I don’t think he will,” Walt said. “When he was in last night, he talked a little about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Walt said. “I think a couple things you said Monday bothered him. He said he didn’t think you had the makeup to do the jig right.”
“He did? What did I say that upset him?”
“Oh, he wasn’t specific, but I remember him bristling when you called him the Guru Knox. I thought, at the time, it was a strange comment, but it was the way you said it more than the words themselves. I mean, here he is trying to teach you, and you’re making sarcastic remarks. It was like you didn’t really want to learn anything. Every time he said ‘You need to do this,’ you seemed to say ‘No I don’t’ or ‘I don’t want to.’ Or at least your body language did. From what I know of him, Malcolm’s not one to bang his head against a wall. He’s willing to put in a little effort, but he expects a little effort in return.”
All eyes were upon Claude. Although he wished to hang his head and brood silently while filling his stomach with beer, he held his head up and raised his mug and inch off the bar.
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 22
