"Oh, come on!" flouted Rocky. "You're always tellin' me Burger World sucks so bad! All you do when you get home from work is bitch about it! If you get in Donaldson, it'd be great. The work's hard, but everyone's cool, an' it pays great. Plus, you'd be workin' with me."
"Oh, great," Joe crabbed gruffly. "I can hardly wait."
"What's your problem, Joey boy?" pinched Rocky, sounding irritated. "You pissed at me or somethin'?"
"Nah," dismissed Joe. "I ain't pissed. I guess I'm ,just tired from work, and I'm kinda' drunk."
"Hey, I can dig it. I get like that myself, man. Drunk, I mean." Rocky finished one of his beers and clunked the empty bottle onto the floor. "Hey, Joey. You ever think about Crank?"
"Yeah, I do," admitted Joe. "Not a lot, but every once in a while. I wish he was here right now."
"Me, too. That dude sure knew how ta' party, huh? 'Member the time we were at Wanda's, an' he started strippin'?"
"Hell, yes," chuckled Joe. "He was so blitzed that night, he didn't even know his name. Outta' the clear blue sky, he got up on a table an' started dancin' an' rippin' his clothes off! Everybody kept crackin' up an' tellin' 'im ta' put 'em back on, but he just kept goin'!"
"Yeah, that was fuckin' hilarious!" Rocky roared and jolted, knocking over his beer bottle on the floor in the process.
For a moment, they both laughed at the anecdote they'd shared, the single instant they'd called up from their common memories of Crank. Inevitably, the laughter died down, though, fell away from them like leaves from an autumn maple. Death overshadowed their humor, and they couldn't laugh and gibber about him for long before they remembered his terrible fate.
"Damn it," sighed Joe when his last chuckle had abated. "I sure as hell hope the cops nail Benny. I hope they just blow that motherfucker away."
Rocky let his head sag back against the wall and glared at the ceiling. "I'd like ta' get my hands on him, that's for sure. I'd show 'im what it feels like ta' get beat on. I think I'd kill that asshole, if I ever got hold a' him."
"Cops're useless, man," muttered Joe. "By the time they get around ta' helpin' ya', you're already dead. Even then, they don't do shit."
"I'd kick his fuckin' head in," rumbled Rocky, starting to sound drowsy. "I'd rip his damn nuts off an' stuff 'em down his throat."
As Rocky continued to threaten the absent Benny, his voice growing lower and slower with each word, Joe looked up and around the room. The party seemed to be dying out, gradually losing momentum after its earlier crescendo. Five guys sat around a card table, playing poker; they were the source of most of the remaining party ruckus. On the frayed, rickety sofa, a trucker was sprawled unconscious, his arm dangling down, holding a beer that was trickling out on the floor. Joe could hear the voices of other people in the kitchen, laughing and yapping and belching, celebrating still and carrying on, but less wildly than they had at the height of the night. Otherwise, the place seemed much emptier than it had been before. Joe figured that there had been about twice as many people to begin with, and he supposed that many had gone to seek other parties or bars.
Joe looked over at Rocky, saw that the big guy was finally falling asleep. Slowly, his eyelids closed, pulled down over vacant, drunken eyes. Joe started to feel sleepy himself, and yawned. It had been a long day, and a longer night, and he was beginning to feel the effects of his exertions.
Slouching against the wall, he gently drifted off. His mind, though fuzzy and tranquilized, swam with thoughts and images. He thought of Shelly, thought of making love in her apartment; he thought of Burger World, and of Mr. Stevens and Mr. Gurney and Mike; he thought about Brownstown, and Crank, and Ancient Times in grimy netherworld streets. Soon, the visions blurred together, past and present, forming one shapeless, seamless image, one rippling river dream. Docile, sated, drunken, spent, he dreamed: Crank was talking to Shelly, in Joe's old apartment; Joe was chased out by old Mrs. Rufus and her Louisville Slugger; he fled into the street, and rode away in a white Volkswagen with Benny; he returned home, and there were flames everywhere, and Crank and Shelly and Rocky were dead, naked on the floor with fountains of fire leaping around them...
At last, he snapped awake, jerking his head from the shoulder that it had rested upon. It took him a minute to realize where he was and that he'd been dreaming. Then, still dazed, still stunned by the vivid visions, he fumbled to his feet and shuffled to the kitchen for another drink.
*****
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morning, Joe awakened in Rocky's apartment. Bleary and muddled, he felt a boulder in his gut and a throbbing headache mashing the tissue in his skull. Groaning, clutching his temples, he rolled over on his blanket on the floor and looked through the open doorway of Rocky's bedroom. Through bloodshot eyes, he saw his pal, snoring loudly as a cyclone with his head at the foot of his bed.
Joe thought back, remembering the party. He and Rocky had stayed until 2:30 in the morning, Rocky unconscious in a corner and Joe drinking whiskey with some truckers. When he had finally decided that it was too late to stay any longer, Joe had left, gathering up Rocky and an extra beer on the way out. He had to work the next day, this day, and had wanted to make sure that he woke up in time for his shift. It was Saturday, so Rocky didn't have to worry about rising early; he never worked weekends at Donaldson's. Joe, however, worked six days a week, from noon to seven o'clock. If he wanted to keep his lob, he had to make it to work on time, so he had to take the initiative to drive Rocky and his car back across town.
The thought of work spurred him, kicking Joe to sudden consciousness. Quickly, he sat up and gaped around the apartment to see what time it was. There was a clock above the stove in the kitchen area, and Joe strained to see it. Daylight glowed through the curtains on the window, so the apartment was fairly bright, but he still couldn't quite read the numbers on the clock; it was too far away and too small for Joe to analyze from his blanket. Finally, he stumbled to his feet and limped toward the stove for a closer view.
"Holy shit!" he shouted at last, as the clock came into focus. "It's fuckin' one o'clock!" He was late for work, an hour late and still counting. His shift had begun at noon.
Galvanized, he raced through the apartment then, trying to get ready as fast as he could. His job was on the line, now; Burger World's penalty for extreme tardiness was immediate dismissal. Once before, Joe had seen somebody fired that way, for being late. That guy had only been twenty minutes late, though, and Joe was over an hour late already.
He flew into Rocky's bedroom and scooped his jumbled uniform from the floor. Puffing and panicky, he tore off his jeans and T-shirt and started thrusting the crumpled Burger World clothes onto his body. Pants, shirt, ugly orange cap, all went on in a matter of seconds. On the bed, Rocky moaned softly and muttered something under his breath.
Joe dashed to the bathroom and urinated. He rinsed his face at the sink, the cold water helping him to wake a little more. Gazing into the mirror, he noticed the day's growth of stubble on his chin and jaw and grabbed his razor; then, remembering how late it was, he dropped the razor with a clink into the sink. Spitting from the bathroom like a cannonball, he threw himself on the couch and rammed his feet into his dingy brown work shoes. Then, he was out the door.
*****
Frantically, Joe raced to Burger World, panting and gasping and driving himself onward. His head still thundered from the hangover, and his eyes were sore and burning. Halfway to the restaurant, he got a horrible cramp in his right side and had to clutch the painful stitch and grit his teeth to keep going.
It was sunny and warm outside, a pleasant day, and many people walked along the sidewalks, going about their business. Some of them stared curiously at Joe as he whipped by in his garish outfit, but Joe was too involved in his desperate race to notice or care.
He finally reached the restaurant and plunged through the doors, stumbling breathlessly inside. Hastily, sputtering, he ran across the dining room, through the door marked 'Employees Only' and into t
he kitchen. Feverishly gaping, expecting trouble, he saw Mike flipping burgers at the grill.
"Where the hell you been?" glared Mike, clearly peeved at the lateness of Joe's arrival.
"Uh, sorry, man," puffed Joe, still out of breath. Charging through another door, he headed for the back room to get his timecard and punch in on the clock. What he saw there, however, made his heart sink abruptly.
Standing beside the clock, glowering angrily at Joe, was Mr. Gurney. He was a man of medium build, with broad shoulders and thinning brown hair. He wore a blue, button-down shirt and a tie with green and yellow stripes; Gurney always seemed incapable of picking out clothing that matched. He had a fierce look in his eyes, fiercer than normal, the look of an enraged tyrant. His arms were folded tightly against his chest, and his legs were planted stiffly to the floor like tree trunks.
Joe froze in his tracks, realizing that his luck had again taken a nasty turn. Why did it have to be Gurney? If Mr. Stevens had been on duty, Joe would at least have had a chance; Mr. Stevens, though demanding at times, was a fair man, more likely to give an employee a mere warning instead of a pink-slip. Gurney, though, had a quick temper, and enjoyed exerting his power and firing people.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," Gurney purred snidely. "Or should I say 'good afternoon'? Or 'goodnight,' perhaps?"
"Uh, hi," was all that Joe could think to say.
"So, Mr. Jones, how are you today? Did you sleep well?" Gurney liked to beat around the bush, to play games when he had caught somebody breaking the rules. He liked to toy with his prey, to slowly work his way up to the final punishment.
"Not really," mumbled Joe, trying to think of some way to get off the hook.
"Well, we've been waiting for you, Joe," sneered Gurney. "We've been waiting for you since noon. We've been waiting right through the lunch rush, in fact, with only one cook in the kitchen. That's pretty funny, isn't it, Joe?" In his right hand, Mr. Gurney held a timecard, presumably Joe's. As he spoke, he absently fondled it, turning it over in his grasp. "Since noon, Joe. How long ago was that, do you know?"
"Uh, no, uh..."
"Hey, Mike!" called Mr. Gurney through the doorway into the kitchen. "How long's it been since noon? Joe here forgot how to tell time."
Mike slowly turned around, his eyes cool and resentful. He hated Gurney a great deal, had often griped about the guy during his shifts in the kitchen with Joe. He had worked for the sinister manager for three years, and had put up with too much of his abuse as a result. "I don't know," he said, evenly.
"Come on now, Mike," hassled Gurney. "Just look over here at the clock. See? The little hand is on the 'one' and the big hand is on the 'six.' What time is that?"
"One-thirty," said Mike, smacking a burger onto the grill.
"And what time was Joe supposed to start?"
"Noon," answered Mike, stiff and emotionless.
"So, how late does that make Mr. Jones? It's easy, Mike!"
Mike hesitated. "An hour and a half," he droned at last.
"Very good!" crowed Gurney. "Thank you, Mike!" Grinning like a bandit, Mr. Gurney waved the timecard in Joe's face. "There you have it, Joe. You're an hour and a half late. You know what that means, I bet."
"Cool it, man," muttered Joe. "I got a reason for bein' late."
Gurney beamed, pulling his lips back in exaggerated delight. "Oh, good. Let's hear it, Mr. Jones. It better be good."
"My friend died," Joe said slowly. "He got killed by some asshole, an' the cops hauled me in for questioning. We were best friends, man, an' now he's dead." Joe thought of Crank's smashed body, of Benny's leering face, of the misery that he'd known; it wasn't too hard to pretend that it all had happened only yesterday. "Is that good enough? Is that a good excuse, man? My friend was murdered, and the cops thought I did it? Maybe you'd like me to get down on my knees an' beg? Is that what ya' want me ta' do?"
Gurney just watched and said nothing, his features unreadable.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Gurney," Joe continued sarcastically. "What now? You gonna' fire me? You gonna' fire me 'cause my friend got killed?" His fists clenched and his voice shook wrathfully, full of grief and force and fury.
When Joe finished, the kitchen fell silent. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling of the fryer and the popping of burgers on the grill. Grimly, Joe stood and scowled at his persecutor. Mike watched, cool and detached, from his place at the grill. Gurney seemed stunned; he stood by the clock with a blank expression on his face, Joe's timecard held limply at his side. All the gleeful venom had apparently drained from him, leaching away like the air from a tire.
Silently then, Gurney turned and slipped the timecard back into its slot alongside the clock. Without saying a word, he marched past Joe and through a door toward the dining room. The door flapped back and forth behind him.
Joe stepped confidently to the clock, plucked his card from its slot and punched in. Replacing the card, he turned and walked to the grill. His hands shook a little as he picked up a spatula, but he felt a rush of relief because the confrontation was over.
"Way to go, man," said Mike, patting Joe on the back. "You told him off."
"Yeah, great." Numbly, Joe flipped a burger.
"You told that cocksucker off," smiled Mike. "I've been wantin' to do that since the day I met that asshole. Way to go."
"Yeah," said Joe. "Thanks a lot."
*****
That night, Joe trudged weakly home, exhausted from both his work and his ordeal with Mr. Gurney. That evening, Burger World had been so busy, he'd had to stay overtime, and by the time he made it back to the apartment, it was nine-thirty.
Rocky was waiting, as usual, drinking beer and watching television. When Joe plodded through the door, he glanced up and grinned.
"Hey, Joey," he greeted. "What's up?"
"Nothin', man. Nothin'." Joe slogged to the bedroom to change his clothes. He stripped off the smelly orange uniform, which was coated with grease and sweat, and pulled on his old pair of jeans.
Tossing the uniform on the floor, he walked out to the refrigerator. He got himself a beer and popped the tab, and then the phone rang.
Sipping some beer from the can, Joe went to the phone and picked up the receiver. The ringing stopped and a familiar voice piped into his ear.
"Hi, Joe!" It was Shelly; her voice was high and excited, dancing from the receiver like windchimes or bells. "Guess what?"
"Uh, what?" muttered Joe, too tired to be interested in whatever she had to say.
"I got you an interview!" shouted Shelly. "With Harry Donaldson, Joe! I got you an interview for a job!"
Siphoned and disshevelled, Joe absorbed his girlfriend's news. He knew that he should feel happy, since he might finally get a good job. At last, he had a chance to escape from Burger World, to escape from Mr. Gurney. Best of all, he might get more money, might not have to work for chickenfeed anymore. He should have been ecstatic.
He wasn't, though. He was numb; he didn't feel anything. If anything, Shelly's thrilled, strident voice was getting on his nerves.
"Oh, that's great," he told her. "That's really great."
"You bet it's great! The interview is tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, so you can still make it to work when you're done! You already know where the office is." Shelly squealed delightedly. "Oh, Joe, I'm so happy for you!"
"Yeah," he said blandly. "Me, too."
"I'm coming over right now, Joe!" she boosted. "We've gotta' celebrate! I'll see you in fifteen minutes!"
"Okay. See ya' later."
Shelly hung up, leaving silence in her wake. Listening to the vacant, open line, Joe was still unmoved.
*****
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When the bus pulled up to the entrance of Donaldson Trucking, Joe got out and walked up the wide, short road into the compound. As he strode toward the building which housed the main office, he heard the big vehicle rumble away into the distance. If Rocky had been working that day, Joe could have ridden
to Donaldson's with him; Rocky had the day off, though, because he had to fill in for someone during the weekend, so Joe had been forced to take the bus.
After a short hike, he found himself in the waiting room outside Harry Donaldson's office. Shelly wasn't at her desk, and Joe hadn't seen her since he'd entered the room; as he waited, sitting in a blue plastic chair, Joe wondered where she might be. The night before, she had promised him that she would be in the office during the interview to give him moral support.
The minutes dripped away like water droplets from a spigot. Joe looked at the receptionist's desk, Shelly's desk, which squatted to the right of Mr. Donaldson's door. He looked at the wall clock, its second hand ticking relentlessly onward. He looked at the worn, brown carpet. He gazed at his shoes. He stared at the ceiling, the white fluorescent light strips there, the dimples and kernels in the plaster. Quickly, he grew restless, noticing that it was already ten minutes after eight, ten minutes after the time when his meeting was supposed to start. He wondered if his interview had been cancelled, and why Shelly hadn't called and told him if that was the case.
Then, the door to Mr. Donaldson's office finally opened, and Shelly appeared. When she spotted Joe, her face lit up like a matchstick.
"Joe!" she smiled, striding quickly to stand in front of him. "I'm glad you could make it!"
Joe smiled in return but didn't feel the same joy and affection that Shelly displayed. "Yeah, hi," he said simply, nodding once, rising from the chair.
"Come on," said Shelly eagerly, leading him by the hand. "Mr. Donaldson's ready to see you now." They walked back through the door from which Shelly had just emerged and entered the inner office of the boss. It was a large room, but sparsely furnished; there was a desk at one end, two plastic chairs facing the desk, and a row of filing cabinets lined neatly along one wall. The only other decoration in the room was an amazing explosion of paper. There was paper everywhere, piles of paper, sheafs and stacks and bundles and folderfuls of paper. Heaps of paper spread sloppily over the desk, swaddled both of the chairs, protruded from the filing cabinets, sat like ottomans on the carpet. When he walked in, Joe nearly tripped on a pile beside the door, barely avoiding kicking it over.
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