Exile on Kalamazoo Street

by Michael Loyd Gray

  “Well,” I finally said. “You know … the usual. A little of this, a little of that.”

  He smirked, but it was a good smirk, a friendly smirk, an accepting smirk. The official tribal smirk. The drunk tribe’s version of the greeter at Walmart.

  And I couldn’t possibly tell him, in the first encounter with the tribe, that I taught English at one of the local colleges, and had even published several novels. Guys like Bennie didn’t do much reading unless it was a sports magazine while they waited to have their cars serviced at Jiffy Lube. What I did for a living would take some time to get used to because tribe members were suspicious of work that didn’t involve hands and sweat and elbow grease. It’s not that I wouldn’t have been welcome that day, but I would have been kept at a distance, like a foreigner wandering into the wrong place to ask directions.

  An independent bookkeeper, for example, someone who did taxes, would be welcome into the tribe because that person often did the taxes for guys like Bennie. And an independent bookkeeper ran a small business, which was also a good attribute as far as the tribe was concerned. Bookkeepers weren’t high up on any corporate food chains. A bookkeeper didn’t have to have an MBA and tend to be an Armani-wearing jerk-off in a Porsche.

  I guessed that at first I must have looked like a potential bookkeeper to Bennie and the tribe. Or an insurance agent, which again was not too bad as far as the tribe was concerned, as long as the agent showed up without a tie, or at least loosened his tie and kept his expensive jacket off and didn’t look too corporate. If an insurance agent bought them drinks and told them raunchy jokes, they’d squeal with delight and slap him on the back and say, “That Jim Lonnergan. He’s okay for a corporate fuck.”

  “A toast to ‘hardly working,’ ” I said when more drinks arrived. I saluted Bennie again, who returned it enthusiastically. For a tribe, saying “hardly working” was sort of like Nazis shouting, Deutschland über alles. Minus the Holocaust, swastikas, World War II etc.

  “Bears or Lions,” Bennie said quickly—a crucial pop quiz. Sports were usually the cornerstone for the tribe.

  “Bears,” I said quietly because I didn’t yet know whether Louie’s was a Bears bar or a Lions bar or a little of both. There were banners for both teams on the walls. In Kalamazoo it was often a mix, with some joints leaning toward Detroit instead of Chicago and vice versa.

  “Good man,” Bennie said. “Da Bears.”

  “Absolutely. Da Bears.”

  “What’s your take on Cutler?” Bennie said.

  “A crybaby, but a great arm.”

  “There’s that,” Bennie said. “But he’s still a pussy. Fuck Jay Cutler.”

  I nodded. “As long as he beats the Lions, he’s a good pussy. He’s our pussy.”

  That was nice and safe. No controversy. Bennie raised his glass in salute.

  “Fuck the Lions,” he said, “and fuck the damn Packers, too.”

  “I’m hearing you on the cheese heads, man,” I said.

  “Fuck the cheese heads,” he said.

  “Absolutely. Fuck them. Their cheese, too.”

  “And fuck their women, too,” Bennie said.

  “I’ll help you all I can,” I said.

  “And fuck the horses they rode in on,” he said, raising his glass again.

  “Can’t help you with that one,” I said.

  He grinned. “You’re okay, Bryce.”

  “Bryce like in ice,” I said, again perplexed as to why I said it.

  But I was clearly in like Flynn. I knew it was best not to get into an argument over a player or a team the first time with a new tribe. That can go south quickly and turn ugly. Then you’re a marked man. An outcast. Just go with the flow at first. Be a jovial fellow. Plenty of time to bitch and moan about sports and women and politics once the tribe is used to seeing your face and hearing your voice. And after you have bought tribe members many more drinks. Drinks are as good as gold to the tribe.

  On that day, my first day there at Louie’s, my first powwow in the tribe’s encampment, Bennie was sort of the tribe’s point man, their scout. And as we got drunker, my allegiance to the Bears and hiding my job as a professor and novelist for a while helped me grease the wheels and gradually become accepted. Only after a number of visits to Louie’s would I reveal what I actually did for a living, that I had an actual expensive education and knew the ten-cent words and could spell them, too. But by that time I had bought a great many Crown Royals for Bennie and others, and made a great many silly comments about women and football and baseball and politics. And so in the end, I became sort of the token education wing of the tribe.

  That was three years ago.

  Chapter 2: Not the Actual Beginning

  Interminable night shape-shifted into reluctant morning as the pale, smooth bedroom ceiling stared back at me. Covers up to my chin, I contemplated for a time whether the ceiling was merely off-white or actually beige. Or a shade between the two I could not name. Soon a fly meandered along the ceiling until it stopped so long that staying in bed to watch it didn’t sound like a plan. I sat up with all the grace of two dry and rusty gears attempting to mesh and I rubbed my eyes. I was well into exile in my house, on my street—Kalamazoo Street. Exile on Kalamazoo Street. That would make a good title for a book, I realized. Like the Rolling Stones, rock and roll exiles who holed up in Keith Richards’ basement in the south of France to create something new, something raw and primal—Exile on Main Street—I was holed up in my house to create something and feeling a bit raw and primal, too. I resolved to listen to Exile on Main Street again, though so far I had avoided the electric universe of TV, DVD players, and the Internet in order to focus on the world right in front of me, through sober eyes.

  After I was dressed, someone knocked loudly on the front door—the doorbell was broken and I had no plans to fix it. Through a crack in the yellowed curtain covering the door’s small window, I saw a tall, thin man with close-cropped brown hair. His face was so narrow, so pinched, that I fleetingly recalled one of those aliens-posing-as-humans stories from a tabloid in a magazine rack at Walgreens. The man cleared his throat and looked down the street for a moment. He wore a handsome dark suit and blue tie and a very crisp-looking white shirt—a tan trench coat under one arm, despite the cold. I didn’t recognize him at first. After a moment of indecision spicing a fear of the unknown, I realized it was Rev. Mortensen, the head Holy Roller at the church my sister Janis attended. I had gone there a few times with her the previous year when her marriage was on the rocks, and she needed someone to listen to her. But I couldn’t imagine why he was at my door. I barely knew the man, had met him maybe twice with Janis at church—which was Presbyterian, I think. Even then the meetings had been brief and mercifully superficial. Behind me, Black Kitty sat on the stairs as Rev. Mortensen knocked again.

  “He’s a persistent cuss,” I said to the cat. “Do we let this salesman in, boy? He’s a salesman, I can assure you. He sells the ultimate product.”

  Black Kitty didn’t seem impressed, and I waited to see if the reverend would knock a third time. He did, which was impressive as well as disappointing. I realized I had to answer because if I didn’t, he might alert Janis about it, and she would worry for no reason. I had learned to save worrying for all the really good reasons. I opened the curtain, remembered to smile, and motioned toward the side door.

  “Use the side door, Rev. Mortensen,” I said, realizing I had forgotten his first name. I was not especially enjoying the ominous Swedish sound of Rev. Mortensen.

  I was slow to get to the side door—delaying my arrival because the good reverend was not just in the neighborhood. No coincidence, to be sure. And he likely was selling something I wasn’t interested in buying. For Janis’s sake, I knew I had to be polite. Or at least attempt politeness. I suspected the good reverend might be flummoxed by the news that I had exiled myself in my house for the winter in order to stop drinking.

  Exile meant being an easy target. It was like shooting f
ish in a barrel. One lonely fish in a small barrel. And now people were discovering the barrel. Soon Jehovah’s Witnesses and Buddhist monks would arrive, too. And a good old-fashioned Bible-thumping Baptist preacher, just for good measure. Maybe some nihilists. And why not some anarchists?

  I opened the side door, and the reverend’s hand shot out so quickly I couldn’t be sure he hadn’t stood there with it out before I arrived. Though merely Presbyterian, he was strident enough, I expected, to be a Mormon or Scientologist, should he ever decide to truly go off the deep end.

  “Rev. Mortensen,” I said in a friendly tone, to set up the lie, “an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Mr. Carter,” he said with a lovely smile and a honeyed voice. He thrust his hand closer and I accepted it without hope I could avoid it. The grip was firm, but pleasant, warm, lingering. He likely moved a lot of goods with that practiced handshake. Salesman of the month. Salesman of the year.

  Salesman for eternity.

  “What can I do for you, Reverend?”

  “Not a thing for me, Mr. Carter. Thanks for asking. But I felt I should come by and look in on you.”

  His smile was beginning to seem permanent and etched into his granite cheeks. I was tempted to cuss or act irrationally, or even belch or fart—or both—just to see if that Mt. Rushmore smile could be altered.

  “Really?” I said. “Why is that … Reverend?”

  “Because you can’t come to me, it appears.”

  “I see,” I said, wishing I didn’t. “I guess the Lord really does move in mysterious ways.”

  “Your sister, Ms. Caldwell, advised me of your situation, Mr. Carter.”

  I nodded. “That was mighty generous of her. I must remember to thank her.”

  Amazingly, his sweet smile widened. I didn’t think it possible.

  “Oh yes, she is just the most generous woman. A treasure.”

  “Don’t I just know it,” I said, vaguely wishing it would start snowing, flakes becoming thick dandruff on his impressive blue suit. But I couldn’t be angry at Janis, my younger and only sister, a dutiful mother, freshly divorced, who believed unflinchingly in the magic the church might wield on wounded people as surely as I doubted it. Janis was an onward marching Christian soldier. But she just wanted the best for me.

  “May I come in, Mr. Carter?”

  I could think of several pithy replies, none of them useable, given the circumstances.

  “Of course, Reverend. I’d be delighted. Watch the steps up to the landing. They sometimes show no mercy.”

  In the kitchen, I hung his coat on a rack by the refrigerator and offered to make tea. I was highly motivated to take the time to make tea, a finite ritual that might shorten the actual visit and sales pitch.

  “What a lovely cat,” he called from the living room.

  “He’s a dandy, Reverend,” I called back. “Do you like cats?”

  “We have several critters at home, Mr. Carter.”

  “Excellent. And call me Bryce.” I resisted the urge to ask his first name.

  “Very well … Bryce. And the cat, Bryce?”

  “I believe he’ll let you call him ‘Black Kitty.’ ”

  “That’s his name?”

  “He seems to prefer it, Reverend.”

  I brought the tea and sat in my usual chair opposite the sofa. Black Kitty sat under the coffee table, looking up through the glass at the reverend.

  “Honey really sells tea,” he said after a sip.

  “I’ve come to rely on it, Reverend.”

  I looked across at the man in that gorgeous blue suit and sky-blue tie and shirt whiter than snow and felt decidedly underdressed in jeans and a Chicago Bears t-shirt. Black Kitty swished his bushy tail and appeared to be gauging the reverend. The reverend scanned the room between sips of tea and I waited patiently because the mark certainly can’t hurry the con.

  “A nice fireplace,” he finally said, “and a recent fire, I see.”

  “Yes. Do you have a fireplace at home, Reverend?”

  “We do. My wife and I enjoy a good fire and hot cider.”

  “There you go,” I said. “Hard to beat, a fire and cider.”

  “Indeed.”

  I could tell his sales approach depended on establishing his presence. I waited for the first pitch to see if it was a fastball or a curve. Turns out the good reverend liked them mostly right down the middle of the plate.

  “Janis tells me you have exiled yourself here all winter, Bryce.”

  “Janis is very … informative.”

  “She’s just trying to help,” he said. “Naturally she’s concerned.”

  “As apparently are you, Reverend. Enough to actually come looking for me.”

  “Well, that’s part of my job, Bryce.”

  “Tracking down people who barely attend your church?”

  “I prefer to call it helping anyone who might need it, Bryce.”

  He had a decent fastball, but I decided to swing for a triple.

  “How do you feel about that, Reverend? My exile, that is.”

  He sat his cup on a coaster on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “I’ve come by to ask you that very question, Bryce.”

  “I guess I’m certainly the guy to ask,” I said. “But what does Janis tell you about it, Reverend?”

  “Janis is very thoughtful.” He nodded gravely. “She was concerned for you, of course.”

  “Of course.” I decided to make him work for it.

  “Is there anything I can do, my son?” he said.

  There it was—“my son.” From a man who looked to be a good five years younger than me, although admittedly in a damn fine suit. Maybe that awesome suit evened out the age thing.

  “What did you have in mind, Reverend? I’m pretty well provisioned. I’ve got cable, a phone, a laptop computer, television. And Black Kitty.”

  At the sound of his name Black Kitty jumped into my lap.

  “A dutiful friend, your Black Kitty,” he said. “But often we need more. Often we need the friendship of the Lord, the wisdom and benevolence of the Lord.”

  “Sounds good, to be sure,” I said, nodding vigorously. “I’m all about having friends. Wisdom and benevolence are handy, too.”

  He leaned back into the sofa, his hands clasped in his lap. I was really hoping he wasn’t about to pray for me, though I didn’t actually think it would hurt.

  “The Lord is our greatest friend,” he said solemnly.

  “He sure sounds like it,” I said, trying hard not to sound snarky.

  The reverend looked determined, and that solid gold smile had evaporated.

  “Janis told me you had a problem with drinking, Bryce.”

  I nodded, more to acknowledge the statement than to convey any notion of agreement or guilt. “Well, Reverend, you know what Keith Richards said, when asked if he had a drug problem? He said he didn’t have a drug problem; he had a police problem.”

  “Keith Richards?” The reverend blinked rapidly several times.

  “The Rolling Stones,” I said. “He plays guitar in the Rolling Stones. You know, a famous stoner, so to speak.”

  “Yes, yes, the Rolling Stones,” he said. “Now I know what you mean. Did you have a police problem, Bryce?”

  “Thank goodness no, I don’t. Pure luck, though, Reverend. Pure luck driving home many times under the influence, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, it’s fortunate you avoided the legal dilemma in all this, Bryce.”

  “I do feel fortunate on that, Reverend. Truly blessed.”

  He nodded, flashed some of that golden smile for a moment. He had marvelous, gleaming teeth. Perhaps Janis’ ex was even his dentist. No doubt the good reverend always remembered to floss.

  “Do you believe in God, Bryce?”

  There it was: his fastball, his best pitch, his favorite pitch.

  “Well, Reverend, that’s certainly the eternal question.” But I knew that wouldn’t throw him off the scent. />
  “Do you believe, my son?”

  After a pause that began to get uncomfortable I said, “How old are you, Reverend?”

  The look on his face suggested he wasn’t used to such questions and he hesitated.

  “I’m forty-four, Bryce.”

  “I’ll be fifty-one this summer, Reverend.”

  His eyebrows arched slightly. “You look younger.”

  “I think it’s the hair,” I said. “Does it remind you of Jesus?”

  “No, you don’t remind me of Jesus, Bryce.”

  That one was a hard fastball for a strike. It hit the catcher’s mitt with a loud pop.

  “I didn’t mean to actually suggest it, Reverend. But my point is that I’m actually older than you, and so the use of ‘son,’ or ‘my son,’ seems … out of place.”

  “An expression, Bryce. I certainly did not mean to offend.”

  “No offense taken, Reverend. Truly.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, pressing his hands together in his lap. “So, tell me, what do you believe in, Bryce?”

  So he had the ability to adjust the pitch. Good for him. Maybe he had a good curveball, too.

  “That’s a tough one, Reverend. I guess I do believe in something bigger than me, greater than me, and all that. A controlling force, for lack of a better way to express it.”

  “Good, excellent,” he said eagerly. “This is a good and promising beginning.”

  “But what that bigger thing is, Reverend, I just don’t know. Something pulls the strings, I suppose. Fate, maybe.”

  “Certainly fate is in the equation,” he said.

  “Then I’m on the right track, Reverend.”

  He picked absently at the knot of his gorgeous blue tie for a few seconds.

  “Would you consider attending church some time, Bryce?”

  “Yours, Reverend? Or just any church?”

  “Well, mine, of course. That’s not a knock on other churches, mind you.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “And why would you recruit for other churches? I do understand. But my exile makes any church a bit problematic. Are there any online churches, Reverend?”