There was only one worker in the office who Joe liked, a woman named Clara. Clara was always nice to him and Crank, and liked to joke around with them when they came in. Once, she had even gone to Tap's and had a beer with them on her lunch hour. Naturally, today, she was the whole way across the room, processing another long line of people. Instead of Clara, Crank and Joe were lined up in front of Mr. Nelson, a wormy guy with glasses and a condescending manner. Mr. Nelson was not one of Joe and Crank's favorite people.
"Next," said Mr. Nelson from behind the counter.
Snapping out of his reverie, Joe moved quickly up to the window. "Yeah, right," he said, laughing. "That's me."
Nelson said nothing for a moment. He stared out at Joe from behind his thick glasses and kept his lips sealed like a clam. "Name, please," he muttered finally, reaching for a stack of forms and a pencil.
"Joe, man. Joe Jones. Hey, pal, look. Me an' my friend here got a problem. Y'see..."
"Sir," interrupted Mr. Nelson, "if you would wait here for a moment, I need to check something."
"But it's about our checks...," stammered Joe, but the scrawny guy was already weaving back through the office. Joe saw him looking through a file cabinet, bending over a drawer and ruffling through papers with his fingers. Then, Mr. Nelson snatched a manila folder from the drawer; opening it, he read for a moment and glanced up at Joe. As Joe watched, the man flipped the file shut, closed the drawer and headed back to the window.
"Joe Jones, is it?" asked Mr. Nelson when he returned.
"Yeah," replied Joe, "it is. You know who I am, man."
Mr. Nelson tilted his glasses down on his nose and started reading from the folder he'd brought. "Mr. Jones, your unemployment compensation, begun April 15 of last year, expires this year on May 24." Nelson looked up and Joe thought that he was smirking a little. "In other words, Mr. Jones, no more government checks. Your unemployment has run out, and you have been cut off. I'm sorry," he said, but Joe could see that he wasn' t.
"What th' hell, man?" said Joe. "I thought I had an extension! You gotta' be kiddin'!"
"I'm afraid I am not, Mr. Jones. According to your file," Mr. Nelson glanced down at the open folder on the counter, "you did receive an extension as of November the twelfth last year. This was the result of additional funds allocated in Washington, which of course were distributed by the state legislature here in Pennsylvania and..."
Joe reached a hand across the counter, through the space under the window, and slapped the folder that Mr. Nelson was reading from. Nelson jumped and jerked his head up like a rabbit. "Look, man, I don't want a fuckin' history lesson. Just tell me what happened to my money, all right?"
With a huff, Nelson snatched the folder away from Joe's hand. Angrily, he stared out through his glasses at Joe and spoke with a terse, threatening tone. "Mr. Jones," he said, "I suggest that you control yourself, or you will have many more problems than you already do. You asked about the discontinuing of your compensation, and I am trying to give you information regarding that subject. If you wish to get the facts, you will kindly be quiet and let me do my job."
For an instant, Joe stared at the little man; then, he stepped back and stood with his arms folded. "Okay, I'm listenin'."
Nelson cleared his throat, then started reading once again from the file. "Very well, Mr. Jones. It says here that your extension, granted November the twelfth of last year, expired May 24, yesterday. Unless another extension is granted to you, or you receive some other form of extended benefit, you will no longer receive unemployment compensation from the United States government."
Joe shook his head in disbelief. "Aw, c'mon, man. This is ridiculous. I didn't even know about this shit."
"Sir," said Mr. Nelson, "you were informed of the duration of your extension. At the time of the extension of your benefits, you were mailed a notice listing both the issuance and termination dates of those benefits. Also, when you came here, to this office, you were again informed of all the facts. You were told, several times, how long your checks would last. It isn't our fault that you didn't bother to pay attention."
Crank, who until now had just stood behind Joe and listened, stepped up beside his friend and spoke quietly. "So, you're sayin' that Joey here is cut off, right? No more money, just like that."
"Exactly," said Nelson, shaking his head. "No more money. Unless, of course, there are additional extensions for some reason in the future."
"This sucks," hissed Joe. "This really sucks, man! I don't believe this!"
"Believe it," said Mr. Nelson, closing the file. "There's nothing you can do about it, I'm afraid. In fact, there never was. You only had so long to begin with, you see?"
"Fuck," whispered Joe. "Sonnuva' bitch."
"What about my money?" asked Crank. "I haven't gotten my check this week, either."
"Just a moment, please," said Nelson. Picking up the file, he walked back behind the counter to the filing cabinet from which he'd taken it. He found the correct drawer, then replaced the folder in its slot. "Your name?" he asked, looking out at Crank.
"Schaffer, man. Crank Schaffer." Crank watched as Nelson opened another drawer. For a moment, Nelson shuffled through papers and folders; then, he found the file that he was searching for and returned to the counter.
"Here it is, here it is." Mr. Nelson opened Crank's file and skimmed through it quickly. "Well," he mumbled, scanning the pages before him, "according to this, you should still be receiving compensation. Your payments began a little later than Mr. Jones's. You received a similar extension, but it started later and lasts longer than his. In fact," Nelson leaned closer to the pages, as if the file were sucking his frail body downward, "you were already mailed a check this week. You should have received it Tuesday."
"Well, I didn't," said Crank. "What happened to the damn thing?"
Nelson shrugged his skinny shoulders. "I really couldn't say, Schaffer. There could have been problems at the post office, I suppose. Perhaps it was delayed or lost in the mail. These things can happen, you know. Have you changed your address recently?"
"Sure," answered Crank. "I just moved this week. My place burned out, y'know?"
Nelson nodded, looking vaguely disgusted.
"Still," continued Crank, "I checked my old building. My mail should'a still been there, right? My check, too."
"Yes," said Mr. Nelson. "Unless something else happened." The scrawny man suddenly looked impatient; he glanced over Crank's shoulder at the long line of people still waiting for service at his window and licked his lips restlessly. "Look, you leave your name and new address, and we'll look into this. I can't guarantee anything, but we'll at least call the post office."
"Come on," said Crank, sharply. "I want my damn money. By the time you assholes get around to looking for it, I'll be fuckin' dead! I want my check, pal!"
"Mr. Schaffer, I suggest that you leave. I am extremely busy today and do not have any further time to spend on you. You have held me up long enough." Nelson slapped the folder shut, turned around, and walked back to file it away.
Suddenly, Crank exploded. "You fucker!!" he yelled, leaping at the counter. "You damn mother fucker! I want my money!!" He thrust an arm under the window, grabbing futilely at Nelson's distant form. Then, he pulled a fist back to shatter the window itself.
Joe moved quickly, snagging Crank's arm and yanking him backward. Before the burly redhead could smash the glass, Joe jerked him away; Crank struggled to free himself, to complete his outburst of rage.
"Let me go!!" he shouted, his eyes wild. "Get your damn hands offa' me, Joey!"
"No way," barked Joe. "You cool it, first! What the fuck, man? You wanna' get us arrested?"
Crank kept thrashing for a minute, lunging forward with his eyes on Nelson. Nelson wasn't even looking; he was still at the filing cabinet, rifling through a drawer. Finally, the redhead let up, slumping in Joe's grip. He stopped flailing around, but his face was still twisted and crimson.
Joe began leading him aw
ay, one hand clamped on his shoulder. "C'mon, Crank," he said, "It ain't worth it, man."
Crank panted, his body tense and sweaty, but he let Joe maneuver him away. Slowly, one step at a time, the two men moved toward the door.
Behind them, everyone in the office, except Mr. Nelson, was watching. Ever since Crank had started yelling, all eyes had been glued on him and Joe; now, at least, everyone would have something to talk about while they waited in line.
Joe and Crank cut out through the doors, onto the sidewalk outside. It was clouding up heavily and looked as if it would rain.
Crank glared at the office, looking like he was ready to charge back in. "Fuck!" he screamed. "Fuck!!"
Joe kept his hand on his friend's shoulder. "C'mon," he said, turning him away once more. "Let's go eat. It ain't worth it, man."
Crank clenched his fists, gritted his teeth.
"Fuck," he repeated. "Fuck it all."
At Tap's Bar, Joe and Crank sat at a table and ate sandwiches. They had managed to borrow two bucks from their friend Jack, and had used the money to buy lunch.
To say the least, they were not in very good moods. Crank didn't say a word; once again, he had slammed the door shut, darting away behind his cold, silent wall to hide in some corner of his mind. Joe wasn't saying much, either; he was angry and disappointed about losing his unemployment checks, and uneasy about Crank. Neither man enjoyed his meal much, but they ate because they were hungry. Also, they didn't have enough money for food anymore, and they couldn't just throw it away.
Crank's sandwich was ham and cheese, a thin pile of cold cuts between two slices of white bread. Joe's was salami on rye. As the two men ate, they examined their food silently, watching as the meat and bread dwindled away. In the dusty dim bar, they chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed.
Finishing his sandwich, Joe drank from his glass of water and looked over at Crank. "Man," he muttered finally, setting his glass back down on the table. "Things're really fucked up, y'know?"
Crank glanced up and nodded once, his eyes gray and slatey and distant.
"I dunno'," continued Joe. "I mean, things were pretty cool there for a while. Y'know what I mean? I partied, I made a little cash, I just kind'a blew it off. It's like, I really didn't give a shit, y'know?"
Crank nodded, still chewing his sandwich.
"Now, man," Joe went on, "now, it's like, things're happenin'. Too much shit at once, too much shit. Before, things just kind'a rolled along, an' everything was cool. Now, I dunno'. I mean, I don't mind livin' in an alley or eatin' garbage, y'know? I lived worse'n that before, so'd you. It's just, it's just...I dunno', man." Joe drank some more water.
Crank said nothing; he just sat there, eating the last bit of his sandwich and staring into space. Joe noticed that he wasn't paying attention, so he decided to stop talking. Instead, he leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, then put his head down on them and closed his eyes.
"I dunno', man," he mumbled. "I dunno'."
Crank swallowed his last bite of food, took a drink of water. "Fuck it all," he whispered, softly, finally.
That night, Joe woke to the sound of sirens. He was sleeping in the alley, of course; he and Crank had gone back there around midnight, after Tap's had closed, and settled in for the rest of the dark Brownstown night. It had been raining a little, so they huddled together beneath a small overhang and piled newspapers on top of themselves. When Joe woke, it was still raining, but Crank was no longer beside him.
Slowly, Joe came around, puzzling over his friend's absence, prodded by the shrill screech of sirens. He wondered what they were doing there, outside his home in the middle of the night.
After a while, he tossed aside the pile of newspaper and started crawling on his hands and knees toward the street. Moving cautiously, he kept his eyes peeled, trying to size up the situation and avoid discovery by whoever was out there. A flashing light skimmed across the wall, strobing along the bricks above his head; he watched it flash across the building and got nervous. It had to be the cops.
He wondered if they were after him, if they were trying to find him and Crank in the alley. Had they found out that the guys were sleeping there and come to arrest them and take them away? What kind of trouble were they in this time?
Reaching the end of the alley, Joe carefully looked around the corner. His pulse raced at what he saw: there were two police cars out on the street, and an ambulance between them. The lights on top of each vehicle were flashing, and the siren of one of them was wailing. Joe saw several men moving around the back of the ambulance; three were dressed in police uniforms, and one wore white. They were all gathered around a long object resting in the street. Looking closer, Joe decided that it was a stretcher, and he thought that someone was lying on it.
Joe crawled out of the alley and got to his feet. He hung back against the building, trying to stay out of sight and get a better view at the same time. His strategy worked: now, he could see the body on the stretcher, could make out its stomach bulging under the sheet. Maybe there had been an accident, he thought, or a fight. Slowly, he moved closer, inch by inch. What had happened?
Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind. Joe swung around, jumping away in shock; it was a cop, firmly clutching his right arm.
"Who are you?" asked the cop. He stared searchingly at Joe, then suddenly seemed to recognize him. "Wait, I know you. You're that punk from the fire."
Joe looked at the cop, realizing who it was. It was the same creep who had questioned him and Crank after the fire at Crank's apartment. Joe winced; he hadn't liked the cop then, and he didn't like him now, either.
"Up against the wall, pal," the policeman ordered forcefully.
Obediently, Joe turned and slapped his palms on the wall. The cop kicked his legs back, forcing him to spread them apart. Then, he frisked Joe, running his hands up and down his body, patting his pockets and pantslegs for signs of a weapon.
"All right, buddy," he said at last, ending his search. "Relax."
Stepping away from the wall, Joe turned to face the cop. "What's goin' on?" he asked, pointing to the ambulance and police cruisers.
"Don't play games," barked the cop, his face stony. "You probably did it."
"Did what?" flustered Joe, confused.
"Your friend," said the cop.
"What?"
"Your friend, boy. The fat one from the fire."
"Crank?" said Joe. "What the hell?" Joe felt funny, drowsy; everything was slow, watery, unreal--the cold air, the bleating siren, the swooping lights. It felt like a dream, like if he opened his eyes again, he would wake up back in the alley and nothing would have changed from before.
"I guess that's his name. It doesn't matter, anyhow," said the cop. "He's dead."
"What?" choked Joe.
"He's dead," said the cop.
Joe froze; his heart stopped. Everything stopped, all at once, became perfectly still at that one moment.
"He's dead," repeated the cop. "Someone beat him to death, right over there on the sidewalk. We don't know who did it, but we'll find out. Hope it ain't you."
Joe just slowly shook his head.
"He was beaten pretty bad," said the cop, matter-of-factly. "Somebody must've just pounded on him for a long time. His head's cracked wide open, like an eggshell. His guts look like ground beef or something."
"Oh God," melted Joey.
"The marks on what's left of the body indicate that some kind of weapon was used. It was a club of some sort," said the cop, "a club, like a tire iron or a two-by-four, or maybe a baseball bat."
"It's a mess," said the cop.
"A real mess," said the cop.
"Poor guy," said the cop.
"Oh God," whimpered Joe, and he cried.
*****
Part Three: Getting Better
Chapter Seventeen
There were two pigeons pecking at the grass, looking for bits of food. They wobbled from place to place, occasionally
bumping into each other, burbling and cooing in their throats as they went. When one reached an appropriate spot, it would bend down and jam its beak in the grass, then bob up and down for a second or two. Sometimes, one of the birds would find a tidbit and would lift its prize triumphantly in the air. It was usually a crumb, or a piece of trash or an insect, and the pigeon would hastily gulp it down. Then, the bird would resume its search, waddling back and forth across the sparse grass by the Stonybank River. Joe just sat and watched the birds. He watched as they bobbled around and pecked at the ground and ate. He watched as they approached him, and, sensing that he had no food, walked away from him. He watched them for a very long time as he sat on the banks of the grimy Stonybank River. He had been there for hours, just watching; he watched the brown water crawling by in the river; he watched the dead steel plant across the river; he watched the grass; he watched the birds; he watched his feet. He was sitting beneath a bridge, and he watched that, too. He watched everything, but he really saw nothing.
It was a warm but windy day in Brownstown. It seemed that spring had finally taken hold in the city; many of the trees and flowers were starting to bloom, a good sign for the middle of May in Western Pennsylvania. Taking advantage of the nice weather, many people were out on the streets, and downtown Brownstown was busy and crowded as a result. Nobody, however, saw Joe, or looked for him. In the shadows of the bridge, he was hidden like a troll from the rest of the city.
That was all that he really wanted right now: privacy. It wasn't hard to come by these days, either. His best friend, Crank, was dead; his other closest friend, Rocky, had moved away. Everyone else that he knew--all his buddies from Tap's Bar or Big Man, the gang he played pool with, the people he talked to in the unemployment office--seemed to be avoiding him. When it came right down to it, very few people really cared about Joe Jones, and even fewer would go out of their way to help him.
Getting Higher Page 10
