by John Barnes
“He give you any trouble, Karl?”
“Well, I could’ve been facing a murder rap. I think you saved his life, sir.”
Browning laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Jesus, excuse my French, you sure know how to find enemies. Those kids looked like the Grim Reaper out on a date with the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“Sir, I am going to quote that. Often. They’re just a couple creepy loser guys that hate everyone, and for some reason my friends are the ones they pick on.”
“Glad to be of help, Mister Shoemaker.” He dusted his hands as if we’d just won a brawl with those two doo fuses. “I’m still planning to have that dining room set done for Tuesday, so make sure you’re up early then. And I do have to brag to someone; I think I’ve honestly made Rose’s couch better than new—much better than it was when it was new—and I don’t think she’ll ever realize that. Want to come in and look?”
Come to admit it, I did, and spent a while looking it over because the old fart was so pleased with himself. Finally I said, “That’s a really cool thing to do for a friend. You must be proud.”
Browning grinned. “Damn straight. Get to be an old coot like me and all your pleasures come down to a good meal, doing a friend a favor, or seeing an asshole get what’s coming to him. Or now and then, if you’re real lucky, a real good dump.” He brushed the sawdust off his clothes with the little whisk broom he kept on a hook by the vise. “And for once I’ve got a pretty full shop all next month. I wouldn’t want to turn you into an upholster—I think you can do a lot more with your life, even if you go in the army first—but if you’d like to learn a few basics, and have the time, I’ll probably be able to use some help here in the shop.”
“That would be great.”
“Yeah, it would. But there’s better places to talk about it than here. Maybe out in the waiting room, where I can fix up a little coffee for us or something?”
“Sure.”
The waiting room was this little living-room-like corner he’d fixed up right by the front counter. People didn’t bring furniture in through there; couches and chairs and stuff came and went through the big roll-up door on the alley. It was the place where fussy people like the Henshaws sat and had coffee with Browning and looked at the fabric samples, debating endlessly whether they wanted burgundy cowhide or nubbly raw silk on Grandma’s Sacred Shield-back Chairs. I guess Browning tried to set it up to be comfortable, but the router, bench sander, and drill press were on all the time, so it was always dusty.
He threw a handful of Maxwell House into the basket, filled the pot, put the percolator on the hot plate, and said, “Now, of course, while we wait for the coffee to make, I have to think of something to say.” But then he didn’t say anything, and neither did I; there just wasn’t much to talk about. Sure, I’d be willing to come in for a couple hours after school most days and do whatever work there was; that was about it.
While we waited, I was watching his hands. You’d think they’d be like old claws, considering all the stuff he did with them, and all the chemicals and calluses, tools and pulling, that would have gone into shaping them, but I realized his habit of using Corn Huskers on them all the time, wearing his rubber gloves, and not whacking himself with the old hammer had stood him in pretty good stead. And his arms, chest, and back were better than half the guys at the school; his face might be able to hold a three-day rain, but he could also probably hold up 120 pounds with one hand if he needed to. I wondered what it would be like to have been alive as long as old Browning, and decided I would be just as happy waiting that long to find out.
The coffee started to perk, and pouring that and getting it doctored right took up some time, too.
We’d each finished about half the cup when Browning said, “Karl, I saw you moving like you were going to kill that boy when he said those things about your mother.”
“Well,” I said, “she’s my mom. And he’s an asshole. Mom has a lot of problems, I’m not saying she doesn’t, she’s a mess, but she’s my mom.” I kept telling myself to calm down, but I was still so angry, at Harris and Tierden of course, and at Browning for having stopped me, and most of all at Mom, for having put me in this kind of horrible position where this dirty-minded old prejudiced sack of shit was trying to find a nice way to say Some of us noticed your mom is a crazy drunk slut.
I pushed my coffee cup away and stood up. Then he really hit me with a hard shot; he said, “Karl, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to hurt you about your mother, I’d never do that to a man, never, never, never, goddammit. What I was trying to say was things aren’t your fault and they aren’t her fault, either.”
“You mean she can’t help that she’s crazy? Thanks a lot.”
“No—goddammit, Karl, don’t goddam walk out on me. Goddammit. What I was trying to say is it don’t matter whose fault it is or what went wrong, I see you struggling, trying to take care of your mother—”
“Then leave me alone, and let me do it,” I said. Before he could say another word I was out the door and running like a crazy bastard.
I guess I was halfway home by the time the brain cells started firing again and I realized that if I arrived home right now, I’d probably be finding Mom getting drunk or high with Wonderful Bill, in the afterglow, and I really did not want to do that. So I stopped and looked at my watch. Due at Philbin’s in an hour; no special reason to be anywhere else. I had Huckleberry Finn in my back pocket, so I had a source of amusement. I wasn’t hungry yet, but no doubt I would be before my shift started.
I was a little tired of Philbin’s but then I was a little tired of a lot of places, such as my house, Lightsburg, Ohio, the United States, and Earth. I turned around and trotted back toward downtown.
As I came in the door, Philbin was arguing with a short, blonde woman who looked like she was trying to be Mom a couple years ago. She wore a crotch-high miniskirt, though the older super super ladies had pretty much given those up in favor of the gypsy-hippie rainbow bag-skirts; those white plastic boots that had gone out a few years before; and a ton of what looked like Christmas ornaments, Ping-Pong balls, and sewing machine parts dangling from each ear.
Philbin waved at me over her shoulder, checking to see if I needed anything; I pointed at the coffeepot, he nodded, and I went around the counter, poured myself a cup, and carried it over to the corner booth, stretching my legs out. The Naugahyde was so shot, and the springs underneath so more shot, that I always wondered if maybe some of the dinner crowd had fallen inside the benches and been trapped and mummified; if so, I seemed to have an unusually bony one under me. I’d’ve moved if I hadn’t already known I had the best bench there.
The lady at the counter was trying to talk Philbin into stocking herbal stuff “instead of all these chemicals.” He was gently trying to explain that other customers wanted chemicals, but he’d be happy to try stocking some herbals if there was anything she especially wanted. Unfortunately she didn’t seem to be much more specific than “herbal,” probably because she just bought any old thing with “herbal” on the label. After she left I’d point that out to Philbin, he’d order a few herbal remedies, and we’d see if people were gullible enough to buy that crap.
Not that I could put it that way to Philbin. He prided himself on only stocking things that worked. Which might be the other problem she was having with him.
But as I got more into the story, I tuned out the world, and much as I hated to admit it, there I was drifting down the river with Huck and Jim and not having too bad a time at all.
The lady who had been talking to Philbin sat down across from me in the booth and said, “Hi, you’re Karl Shoemaker.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, displaying the wit that had made me legend.
“I’m Rose Lee Nielsen, Marti’s mother. I just thought I’d get a good look at you and introduce myself—Marti talks about you quite a bit.”
“She’s a really cool girl,” I said, because you never say anything less than 100 p
ercent positive to someone’s parents, that’s a rule.
“You’re very kind,” Mrs. Nielsen said, in that voice adults have that means thank you for lying, so nice of you to spare me the truth. I felt like arguing and saying no, I meant it, Marti was really cool, I liked her, but my past experience with arguing with super super ladies told me to fasten it and hope the subject would change.
Which, of course, it did. “I also wanted to tell you what an amazing lady your mother is. She’s just the best thing about having moved to this town.”
I let myself look at her just that much more closely, maybe really seeing her for the first time. Mrs. Nielsen was like a lot of the super super ladies—really everyone except Jolene. She looked keyed up, tense, like a tiny dog that is always watching out and ready to yip, afraid someone will step on it. “I’m glad you’re friends,” I said, not sure what it might be a bad idea to say.
“She just impresses me so much,” Mrs. Nielsen said. “She has no fear at all. She doesn’t let anything get in her way. No one can tell her what to do, no one can tell her what’s true and what’s not, she just sees things the way she sees them and acts like she acts. That’s so amazing to someone like me, because—I don’t know if Marti has told you, but I’ve been living so much in a man’s shadow all my life, really, I got married when I was just a girl, and to see someone who doesn’t let anyone put her down or tell her anything, that’s just amazing to me.”
“I’m always glad when Mom makes another friend,” I said, hoping that it would get me out of this.
“Of course you say that,” she said, smiling like a real person for the first time, instead of flashing her teeth like a phony. “You don’t know me, you have to wonder what I’m up to till you do know me, and of course you’re concerned with protecting your mother. That’s so lovely.” She stood up and stuck out her hand, so I staggered up off that loose and lumpy bench and shook it. “I know we’re going to be friends, too,” she said. “Marti seems to think the world of you.”
She turned, waved, and left. I sat back down wondering what that had been all about, but also knowing that where super super ladies were involved, it wasn’t necessarily a good idea to ask.
“Why do I feel like she’s trying to sell me a set of encyclopedias?” Philbin said, after a minute.
I laughed and put the book down, and him and me got busy around the place. It was being a very Philip K. Dick kind of night: the world might not make a lot of sense but at least there was work.
It’s funny how after you do something, even once, there gets to be a “normal” way for it to be, so anyway, up until the second movie let out, it was a very normal night at Philbin’s. For a long while there was nobody and I just laid out setups and read some more of Huckleberry Finn.
The first postmovie crowd cleared out, and I bused the last tables and loaded the dishwasher. Philbin was pretty pleased. “We did a little side business, too,” he said, “a few idiots that can’t go somewhere when stores are open came by and bought aspirin and things. I guess we’ll do this as long as the Ox can stay open, and God bless Todd and Mary, I hope that’s a long time.”
I hurried and mopped the floor up quick, so that the disinfectant smell would be out of the air before the second crowd stuck their heads in and smelled burgers and pie.
The second crowd actually pretty much filled up the tables and the counter. I ran around without a sec to breathe, Philbin seemed to grow three more arms to cook with, and Mrs. P, who was pretty much done with the pies, had to fill in and help both of us. It was at least as crazy as the early shift in combining season.
So I didn’t notice Paul and Marti sitting at the very back table till I got there. That wouldn’t have been much of a surprise, since I knew they had a date, and there wasn’t anyplace else to go in town anyway, but they were there with Bonny, Cheryl, and Squid, all the Madmen except Darla and Danny.
I tried not to let my mouth hang open, and just play it cool. “And what’re you kids gonna have? I betcha got them munchies from all that mary-jew-wanna you smoke. Don’t try to fool me, I read Newsweek, and I know all about you youths. And don’t try to get away with no rio-tin’ or no protestin’, neither.”
“Well, I think we can elect him mayor,” Paul said, “if he’ll stop being such a intellectual egghead.”
“A vote wasted on me is a vote you didn’t waste on somebody else,” I agreed. “Actually I gotta run, so let’s get the order.”
“Cheeseburger, fries, Coke, and apple pie after,” Marti said. “God, I feel so Middle American I could just puke.”
“Don’t do that, Karl has to mop,” Bonny said. “Uh, same for me.”
Turned out it was all-round. I couldn’t resist saying, “Hey, maybe I can get Philbin to call that the Madman Special.”
They all laughed at that, much more than I expected. I shot off to tend three more tables, hung up the orders, and started delivering food.
Note to Philbin, I told myself, ketchup on every table for the night crowd, that’s the third one I’ve had to go get.
I wondered about everyone being seen out in public, together, like that. At the Denny’s in Maumee, thirty miles away, sure. But we’d always been so careful; now it was going to be obvious that they were a clique. So somebody had decided something. Probably Paul had.
Finally the last plate had landed on the last table, and since Philbin’s was pay-at-the-counter, and we were full with nobody waiting, Philbin closed the grill and hung out the CLOSED sign, hollering to everyone to stay as long as they liked, he just didn’t want any more coming in.
It looked like it would be calm for a minute or two, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and the stack of remaining tabs to put out on people’s tables as I went back to the Madman table. I couldn’t sit down, in case anyone needed anything, but at least I could say hi.
“So these two are so hot they need three chaperones?” I asked. Marti stuck her tongue out; from the way Bonny and Cheryl rolled their eyes, I could tell it was an exceptionally dumb joke, even for me. Confirming that, Squid laughed.
“It was just kind of an idea we came up with after you and Cheryl left, at Denny’s, last night,” Bonny said. “Marti said everyone really knows who the therapy kids are anyway. I mean we know who’s in the other groups, you know? And we all get teased sometimes, and Gratz practically announces it in class every other day. So Marti said, why not just be friends in public? So here we are.”
Squid nodded slowly. “We figured, since you’re gonna be stuck working here Saturdays, that we’d be kind of . . . you know, the Saturday movie gang. We know you don’t drink no more, and we ain’t gonna road drink any time you’re out with us, so now and then maybe you’d want to, you know, come along with us after you get off work? Or you’n’me can always go up to Toledo and stand around on a street corner with our purses, even if the rest of the group don’t want to come.”
“Hey, Mister Social Chairman, there are matters needing your attention,” Philbin said. “Mister Social Butterfly, to the cash register please.”
I turned and saw three tables waiting in line at the register, and scooted to take care of that. By the time I looked back the Madmen had all gone; they left an okay tip, for high school students.
The Philbins and me cleaned the place as much as it needed—on Sunday evening the regular cleaning people would come in and do the heavy stuff—and Philbin declared it good enough, and we locked up. “Your friends,” he observed, “are exactly the kind of business I was hoping to get. And this place really was full. We did two normal breakfast shifts’ worth of business in forty minutes. I think you have a job here for a while, Karl, and I sure hope people keep going to see old movies once the novelty wears off. Kind of thing that gives me back a little faith in poor old Lightsburg.”
“You get faith easier than I do,” I said.
“Yeah, well, it’s more fun than getting a cold”—he glanced to see that Mrs. P wasn’t standing too close—“but not as much fun as getting laid.”
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Going out the door I thought, well, if I can catch one stupid cat, and get over being a sissy about what Darla wants me to do, I can find out about getting laid. Who knows, I might even get faith.
I turned the corner and Paul was standing there. “Oh, shit,” I said.
“I didn’t go out with the rest of them,” he said. “I wanted to talk.”
“Walk with me,” I said, and took a step.
After a block he said, “When we had that fight I was really hurt.”
“I’m sorry I called you a faggot. I know you’re not.”
“But I am.” He kicked a pop can, a neat little side shot right into a storm drain. “I mean, I . . . well, like, I love the way Marti’s eyes shine when she’s with me, and how excited she looks. Whenever I’ve gone out with Cheryl I like the way she glows and it’s like I can picture her getting dressed for a party, her in her evening gown, me in my tux, in our perfect big house up by the marina in Per rysburg, and helping her get her makeup just right . . . and it’s great, I love being out with girls. It’s just at the end of the evening I want to drop them off with a peck on the cheek, and go find a nice man who’s hung like a horse. You know how that is?”
“No, actually.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I know you don’t. Wanting one, I mean, not being one. You know what I mean.”
We walked maybe half a block more, and finally I said, “You’re not—um, you don’t want me like—”
He sighed. “I do, but it doesn’t matter. You’re straight as an arrow, Karl, I know that, and I love you and you being a straight guy is part of you. If that makes any sense.” I thought he might be crying and I tried not to notice. “That isn’t what I stayed to talk about.”
Another damp, rain-smelling block, both of us hunching a little against the chill. I was just glad we weren’t fighting. I wondered what he had to say.
