Twilight of the Drifter

by Shelly Frome

  “I know, I know. Just cool it down, will you?”

  “Oh, sure thing, why not?”

  They were up in Billy’s railroad flat overlooking the back alley adjacent to his Blues Joint and Café. Aside from his uncle’s incessant badgering, it was eerily quiet on this rainy Monday night. This was due not only to the weather but a number of other factors including location (over a block west of the main action on Beale Street), a dearth of tourists or any business at this hour and day of the week, plus the simple fact that Billy was only open on weekends. To Josh’s mind, all this coupled with the vacant buildings on all sides made the spare bedroom down the hall perfect for Alice to sleep it off. At least for the time being if only Billy would let up.

  “Cool down, he said. “Why the hell not?” Billy repeated even louder. Oh la-di-da whoop-ti-doo.

  Getting nowhere, Josh turned away from the protruding grizzled face, plopped down at the dinette table and nursed a third cup of coffee. At last, Billy threw up his hands, returned to the kitchen counter and willy-nilly began fooling around with concoctions to jazz up his Jack Daniels Specials, ostensibly for the holiday season.

  “Well?” said Billy, rasping even louder. With his open leather vest flopping over his pajama top, black jeans and scruffy moccasins, he looked every bit his mother’s wastrel, older brother, but here he was acting sanctimonious to boot. “What has gotten into you for crissake? You can’t go around doing stuff like this. It makes absolutely no sense and is flat-out lame.”

  It wasn’t that Josh was thrown by any of this. It was only the way his uncle was carrying on and wouldn’t let go.

  Mumbling to himself, Billy began grabbing bottles out of the fridge and slamming them on the counter--Dr. Pepper, Coca-Cola, 7-up, Guiness Stout and sweet and sour mix. Lining them up along with clunking little bottles of Angostura bitters, Curacao and other liqueurs, measuring cups and mixing glasses and another fifth of Jack Daniels.

  Getting his second wind, Billy shouted, “I want an answer! You gonna communicate or what? That’s your stock in trade, ain’t it? Quotes and references and playing with all them goddamn words.”

  Egged on by the continuing lack of response, Billy pitched his voice even higher. “You know, I could’ve told your mom I ain’t seen hide nor hair, but after this stunt I’d say you deserve anything she’s got to offer. ‘Course I didn’t mention about little Boxcar Bess. That would’ve done it, gone down real good. But do I get any credit? This is what I get. After pulling out what little hair I got left, beating the bushes for a driver to finish your run, you bust back in here and-- ”

  “Bingo,” said Josh, walking over to him to try and keep the noise level down. “There’s still the money you owe me and the way things are going, I’m going to need it.”

  “Going? That’s exactly what I’m asking till I’m blue in the face. Where the hell you going with this?”

  At the moment, tired as he can be, Josh had no answer except the same-old same-old, “I don’t know exactly. We’ll see.”

  Billy stopped in mid-motion and squinted, as if not only not hearing correctly but not trusting his eyesight as well.

  In the next bit of relative quiet, there was a far off moan and a whimper. Josh left the kitchen, scuffed down the hallway, opened the door a crack, peered in and spotted Alice tossing and turning. Entering as quietly as he could, he pulled up the wool blanket, patted her softly on the shoulder, stepped back and waited till she was still again.

  Leaving the door slightly ajar, he went back to Billy and stood over him, perhaps taking advantage of the great difference in height but mostly to come to some arrangement before sinking down on the deep leather sofa.

  “About the money,” Josh said as off-handedly as possible.

  Billy gave it a moment’s thought and resumed his mixing frenzy which now included shots of liqueur, dashes of bitters, Dr. Pepper and Coke. Holding up the highball glass filled to the brim, he took a few sips and grimaced. “Nasty. Think I’ll name it after you. Call it ‘Gonzo’.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “He’s waiting. The guy who left me high and dry, preaching about an honest wage like some Okie from the Dust Bowl. Sportin’ a scruffy beard and togs like some hippie saint, throwin’ cockamamie scruples in my face. ”

  Billy spun around and began tapping a mixing spoon on the counter hard as he could. “I do what I have to, and you got some helluva nerve!”

  “But the fact still remains I am dead broke and you owe me.”

  With his hands flailing around, Billy said, “No way. No matter what’s fried your brain, no way you get paid for a job you didn’t finish.”

  For a time, neither one of them spoke another word. Rain-spatters picked up intensity outside the kitchen window. Alice moaned and murmured, the sounds she made gradually tailing off. Then the ringing cut into the stillness.

  Billy brushed past Josh to the coffee table by the leather couch, snatched up the cordless phone and gave Josh one of his patented looks. “You’re in luck, Sis,” said Billy, slapping the receiver in Josh’s hand and returning to his station by the sink.

  Josh, in turn, slipped outside to the overhand above the back alley where the wind gusted in tandem with the rain. The only good thing was the fact that he was positioned right across from Alice’s bedroom window. Opting for some white lies, noting the lateness of the hour, he did his best to make it short.

  Yes, he knew Tracy but had no part in the theft of her car. Yes, he was fine, had simply come by Billy’s to collect his wages for some work he’d done. Granted, he could’ve kept heading north to Dayton but, like he said, he had this unfinished business to attend to.

  When his mother asked what he was doing at the shelter in the first place and what did that have to do with his fruitless hunt for a newspaper job, Josh deflected. The second he heard Alice groaning again through the crack in her window, he unwittingly said, “You know how you’re always fussing about kids who’ve lost their way.”

  “What do you mean ‘fussing?’ And what does that have to do with you? Josh, I simply don’t understand?”

  And why would she? Her charitable work justified the lavish social events she coordinated without ever having to come in contact with “those poor unfortunate girls.” That needy segment of society also had nothing to do with Tracy’s work with homeless men and Josh heretofore had had no contact with any aspect of Social Services. Before he could come up with something remotely more convincing, his mother threw in another curve. Megan, his ex, assumed he’d surely come to his senses by now and was open to a reconciliation. Given his untenable circumstances, how could he refuse?

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I can’t reconcile myself to myself let alone Megan or anybody else. So I’ll have to get back to you soon as I come to terms.”

  “Come to terms with what? What were you doing in Paducah? Not to mention what you’ve done this whole aimless year? Tossing it all away, flitting here and there for no discernible reason.”

  Her hand over the receiver produced a muffled, “Ted, I can’t get a coherent word out him.”

  Almost immediately, his mother’s strident tone was replaced by his dad’s barely contained frustrations. In rapid-fire succession, he wanted to know what was going on, and where did Josh get off trucking for his loser uncle when he would hardly ever get behind the wheel of a rig for his own father? How does he square this or was he making all the wrong choices just for spite?

  But Josh heard little or none of this. He realized they’d been saving it up, jumping at the first good opportunity. He also knew he was much too old to keep this up, to be so laidback and deferential, an easy target and sounding board for anyone who was so inclined.

  Presently, the litany of charges against him were nullified as Alice’s cry broke through the static and slanting rain. Josh stepped back inside, thrust the phone in Billy’s hand and hurried down the hallway. He entered the bedroom, flicked on the lights and closed the door. There he found Alice sitting bolt upright, shudd
ering. Her face pinched, her eyes red and bleary, half-remembering where she was and half-wondering whether Josh was friend or foe.

  “It’s okay, Alice.”

  “I didn’t blow the whistle.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Supposed to blow the whistle . . . at the rebel yell . . . but I . . . I . . .” She closed her eyes and cupped her hands over her ears. The shuddering grew worse.

  “Hey,” Josh said, “look it’s me. You’re in Memphis, snug in bed, perfectly safe.”

  It took a few beats before her wary edginess snapped back in play. “Right. Safe and sound with the tooth fairy teddy bear.”

  Josh nodded and stood aside.

  “Oh, man,”said Alice, “this is so weird.” After scanning every corner of the bedroom, she said, “Okay, we’re back live.”

  “That’s right. How’s your head?”

  She pressed a few spots and said, “Still aches, I guess, but that’s not the freakin’ problem.”

  “I know. Seems you’re still spooked.”

  “Uh-duh—brilliant. Okay, buddy, time’s up. What is your angle? Come on, come on, let’s have it, man.”

  “Funny thing, that’s what everybody wants to know.”

  Scrambling out of bed, Alice said, “What do you mean ‘everybody’? Who got to you? Who you been talking to? What did you tell them?”

  “Well, since I’ve been only trying to help a battered shivering kid from catching pneumonia, the real question is, who got to you?”

  “Bingo. Once I start remembering, it’ll be too late to run fast enough or far enough. I mean, Jesus, you brought me right back, you know that? It’s waiting for me, been waiting for me right over the line and probably not waiting at all. And you, with your Huckleberry brain, brought me here. Why didn’t I stop you? How dumb can I get?”

  “Okay, that’s enough. It’s late, we’re overloading the circuit and, next thing you know, Billy’ll come busting in and we’ll never hear the end of it. So, get some more sleep and we’ll talk it over. Who knows, maybe even work something out.”

  “What do you mean we? You better chuck your little tales and harmonicas and head back to your engagement ring and stupid white picket fence. I’m on the edge, I am warning you, man!”

  “Gotcha,” Josh said, easing back toward the door. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  As if there was any choice. As if he could ignore the tears running down her sliver of a face and the shuddering that just wouldn’t stop. As if he didn’t know if he quit on her now he was truly lost.

  9.

  Early the next morning, on a gray overcast Tuesday, Josh made his deal with his uncle. Trying to explain that it was not about him, and he had no idea how far it went was pointless. At the same time, Billy as much as gave up on getting a sensible explanation. He needed a driver who wouldn’t call attention to himself to finish the run, and Josh certainly still fit the bill. Without another word, Josh followed Billy down the fire escape, across the alleyway around to the bar entrance and went inside, leaving Alice to continue to sleep it off in peace.

  By the time Billy finished scrounging around his dingy office at the rear of the place, these were the terms. Josh would make it back to the dingy warehouse and help load up the rig. No questions asked this time about avoiding excise taxes, money laundering and the like. What Josh didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He would finish the run over the state line to liquor stores on the outskirts of Holly Springs and other spots in the northeast hill country plus the rest of the drops west of Oxford. He would do so in the next couple of days because the way things were going with the downturn in the economy there was still a little time for liquor stores to stock up for Christmas and New Years. As an aside, Billy did admit that, unlike Josh, guys he had in mind to finish the job were under scrutiny, and Josh could get it done with no hassle or delay.

  Josh then spent a good fifteen minutes scuffing around the empty bar mulling this all over. Something about the incident with Scooter and the stolen car and the fact that he had not only gone along with it but actually encouraged Scooter, told him he had already compromised his so-called principles. And, in a sense, Billy was right. What Josh didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Josh wasn’t intentionally breaking the law. He was simply a driver down on his luck who needed some cash to tide him over. Especially if he was going to wait things out and see to whatever was needed to get Alice squared away. Besides, he and Billy had no contract and there was no way to wheedle, coax or force his uncle into paying up what he already owed him.

  Back to the dingy office as the two of them laid it on the line.

  For Billy’s part, he opened the old safe and gave Josh a small advance. The balance, including all overdue wages, wouldn’t be paid until the completion of the whole job on Thursday morning. Billy would also let Alice stick around as long as she stayed put and, each time Josh returned from his deliveries, she was Josh’s lookout. The second the last payment was made, Josh and Alice would split, ridding Billy not only of both of them but any more grief from his sister and hard-nose brother-in-law. Overall, a welcome relief and as good as any Christmas present Billy could imagine.

  That done, Billy left to make arrangements and run a few errands. But no sooner had Billy rushed out about to head up Beale Street, when he ran into Dewey. As much as Josh could make out through the smudged plate glass window, Billy was adding something to the mix, something Dewey clearly didn’t appreciate.

  Soon enough, Dewey entered, grumbling under his breath. Josh backed off, not because of Dewey’s gimpy leg or crotchety tone, but really out of respect. With his crinkled cinnamon skin, milky-white eye that always looked half bloodshot and his snow-white stubble, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to say he was cut from the same cloth as the old silversmith back in Tucson. The one who told him you have to rub up against something hard to see what it’s made of. What’s more, Dewey came replete with a backstory. Not like Uncle’s Billy’s pack of lies but something unspoken. Possibly stemming from the time he was held at the infamous Parchman Farm, the prison plantation down in Clarksdale, Mississippi during the days of the Civil Rights movement. Plus he was one of a dying breed. True, in recent years his country deep blues had given way to soul blues and he was doing more cooking and sweeping than wailing in the attached Blues Hall. Relegated more or less to his bourbon-laced ribs, fried catfish, gumbo and red beans and rice and, along with Ella the blowsy barmaid, helping Billy keep his head above water.

  Still and all, for Josh, Dewey’s story tugged at him. Along with the wanderlust, it was part of the undercurrents Josh was channeling from the past. Though he could never put his finger on it, when in Dewey’s presence, those undercurrents and Dewey’s long-suffering look had a resonance Josh could never shake.

  “What is it, boy?”said Dewey, after giving Josh’s disheveled appearance a lingering look. “You take off once you figure Billy out. Now you back. As what? Some pretend bad-ass hitched to somethin’ the cat dragged in? Have mercy.”

  “More to this than meets the eye, Dewey.”

  Dewey raised a crinkled eyebrow and shook his head. A gesture that meant what it always meant: Boy, some great gettin’-up mornin’ you gonna open your eyes and know where you at.

  “I mean it,” Josh said, “The kid’s in some kind of trouble across the line...”

  “And you figure Ella and me gonna keep an eye out while you go off doin’ what you said you ain’t never gonna do?”

  “Look, I’ll work it out, okay?”

  “‘Cause you ready to pay your dues now. ‘Cause this how you figure on doin’ it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Shuffling over to the scratched-up mahogany bar, Dewey took his time and came up with one more observation. “Know what? Never should’ve teached you that little bit of back-up harp and how to bear down on the blue notes. That beard gettin’ more scruffy and doin’ fool things don’t change a thing. You hear me now? ‘Cause you still a—what’s that word again?”


  “Dilettante.”

  “Yeah. ‘Cause no sightseer dilettante ain’t never gonna cross that line.”

  Crossing the line. They’d been through this so many times, it had become shorthand. Though Dewey never let on exactly what had befallen him and made him so weary and down on most everything, it was readily apparent he’d gone over the edge in his time and earned the right. Or, in Dewey’s way of putting it, “Once you been there, the only way to bear what’s like to break inside you, what cuts you to the bone, is to holler it out. It’s from the inside out, not the outside in.”

  “So,” Dewey went on just a little further, “Touchin’ on this and that includin’ Billy’s liquor tricks is one thing. But you’d best think twice about gettin’ deep in Benton County and too close to the backwoods folks you know diddly about. ‘Cause the way you goin’, they might think you playin’ them for a fool. They might not appreciate you takin’ a peek, tryin’ it on for size.”

  Pouring himself a little gin and juice from behind the bar, Dewey said, “You at least bright enough to know for sure Ella and me ain’t gonna babysit while you blind-fool push it till somethin’ spills over and we gotta pick up the pieces.”

  “Only plan on taking a few soundings, Dewey. I hear you. You got it.”

  “Uh-huh. Well I sure hopes you got it.”

  With that, Dewey moved off out of the bar area toward the kitchen pantry having said all he had to say about this latest development.

  . . .

  Famished, back up in the railroad flat, Josh scrambled some eggs and had some bacon, toast and coffee to go with it. Then he scoured around for the worn book bag he’d left in his haste to avoid being implicated in Billy’s schemes. He finally located it stuffed behind an old record cabinet along with a pair of cell phones from some promotional deal that still had a month to go plus his dusty journals. The first he’d titled Vegas: Raising the Stakes as he investigated levels of risk at the gaming tables for a possible magazine piece. Riffling through the other set of jottings under the heading On The Road: Part Two, he came across the notes taken about more dicey forms of risk taking. The first of these were from the ramblings of a weather-beaten woman hanging out at a freight yard in Fresno. It was she who told him about the FTRA (freight train riders of America) with their red and black bandannas who would stomp all over a big pussycat like him and rob him blind. There were jottings and sayings from others as well who’d tramped around and lived to tell about it.