His throat itched maddeningly for a drink, even something as mild as beer. But he worked hard to stave off the urge. He knew he’d give in soon enough anyway, but it would do what was left of his life no good whatsoever if he always proved such a push-over for his vices. It was no easy task, however. Since his retirement time had piled up endlessly, constantly nagging at him for some lack of responsibility, for no action; all his thoughts added up worthless amid his inability to make some difference.
He didn’t want to end up a noted drunk, but Time passed much faster now. He remembered his grandfather once saying that a person’s age signified how fast they were moving. Of course he’d rather his epithet read something besides ‘Drunk,’ but sometimes the alternatives seemed even worse. Joining the throng, becoming a disciple to the Television God. He could just see himself comfortably drugged in the tedious, broad-audience sitcoms. He could imagine himself all drippy-sweet in that clumsy, unassuming way. Or if that didn’t prove enough there was always plenty enough violence to go around, or how about a spin on the money-wheel or the 700 Club? Anything to keep the sheep munching away safely in their pins. One could forget the real things in life; the escalations of economic and social tensions; the candid nonchalance of the rich; and the agonies of the poor. All these could be put on a back burner while the networks plied their trade to soften both body and mind, giving the sheep false comforts to cling to instead of substance. Meanwhile, Time passed by in its smoky, disappearing trail, a thief pausing at an interesting window before continuing along. And the droves contented themselves with antiseptic living and the promise of week-ends. No, Ebenezer thought, I’ll take the booze any day. It seemed safer somehow.
In the midst of this contemplation he suddenly laughed at himself. Thinkin too damn much again! he reprimanded. His mind always rolled along recklessly, and there weren’t many people left to talk to. Many of his old friends were gone for the most part. Either dead or too tired to care. Granted, there was still Thomas Henders, but the incessant noise of the man’s live-in grandchildren, and the vile looks Ebenezer often caught out of the corner of his eyes from Hender’s wife, Greta, served to spoil the increasingly infrequent visits. But what the hell, he reasoned. You’re just another old fart with a head full of shit nobody much cares to hear. Even so, the stories clamored inside him like restless, stomping poltergeists. Only at the Ripcord could he sometimes drum up an audience (however slim), one that usually turned out either bombed or otherwise so entangled in the lethal grip of alcoholism that its sole concern centered on getting to the bottom of another bottle. But he understood; he knew how things worked.
Anyway, another course of thought. What about the kid? Jesus…what was that name? Bobby? Billy? The name was unclear but the image was better now. A little bit had come back, and maybe that was because the kid had been different, even interested in the story, if Ebenezer’s thin recollection did him any justice. As the sun played upon the old man’s silvered hair, he did his best to conjure the face. Not much there. But the nature he remembered: quiet, attentive. He felt it would come. Given time.
Ebenezer wrinkled his face and breathed in, clearing his stuffy nasal passages. The year-round demented weather rained hell upon his sinuses but he could not imagine living anywhere else. New Orleans brimmed with activity, contained a blossoming myriad of possibilities inherent in each waking moment. Even if at his age, most were only seen from a distance, tasted second-hand. Again, the fly on the wall.
So, as he did most days when he sat, he theorized upon the lives he observed. He’d take a simple, indiscrete glance and then go about fashioning a life to fit this initial feeling. Many times he wondered how close he’d come; many more times, though, how far off the mark he’d struck.
Why, the girl over there. Ebenezer leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. A pretty thing, with the bag of peanuts on her lap, attempting to coax the bandit squirrels into her confidence. She had long auburn hair and he liked that; the sun did it beauty, blending it with the background into breathtaking flashes of brilliance. Her face was small and far away, but even from the distance Ebenezer could tell a fierce light burned in her eyes. And this strange, inner light, this unquantifiable quality (though oftentimes missed by the multitude) was often marked by animals. Perhaps they had no egos to cloud their inner vision? Ebenezer patted his hands together and smiled. No, it would not take her long to win over the little thieves.
He stood up and stretched broadly, glad to feel the protestations in his back and shoulders. What a wonderful day, he thought in good hope, as he began ambling in the general direction of Audubon Zoo.
Chapter 13
Thursday evening, just after nine. Friday off, like a warm sigh in comfortable sheets. As Billy closed the door to his apartment he felt the oppressive stillness snuggle close against him. The lack of light didn’t help; he’d been meaning to change the damn bulb above the combination kitchen/dining room, but the urge had never metastasized to action. Now, the shadows advancing quickly into the hallway colored his mood to the same darkened shades. Staying home was not an option.
Elizabeth had gone to visit friends in Baton Rouge. She’d not seen them since coming home and when Tonya called Elizabeth had taken up their surprise invitation. Billy doubted her friends knew the truth because Elizabeth would never tell them; she would not abide the sympathy that would cloud the occasion. She’d be gone through the week-end. So much for Saturday or Sunday. He also knew the friends she was going to see, but had shied away from her invitation behind the shield of a false schedule.
What he’d told her had been a lie. Completely. Billy didn’t have to work tomorrow and he was bored as hell today. Regardless…he couldn’t question himself well. He was twisted around, baseless, his motives as mysterious as ancient Drudic ceremonies he’d read about in a history course. He’d finally satisfied her by assuring a late lunch or dinner on Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week.
She’d seemed cheerful.
Billy sat down in front of the empty television screen. Only then did he see the remote resting, tauntingly, on top of the Wal-Mart Magnavox. He made no move to retrieve it, immersed instead in the enigma of Elizabeth and himself. Why hadn’t he wanted to go? Jesus, he thought, where has everybody gone? In retrospect, it was probably Tom Snelling who’d been the last of the lot to cease coming around. But that had been long before Elizabeth, had absolutely nothing to do with her at all. Only with him. It seemed his friends and contacts had begun draining away slowly without him being fully aware of it. Until now, now when it was solid, a fact. His friends had been as raindrops, the memory of some grown to the magnitude of storm clouds while the majority of others passed away in thin showers, left to swirl down city drains. The metaphor nursed uneasiness.
He kicked his leg up on the footrest and fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet. Used to be there were important numbers in there: girls, friends whose familiarity had not been left to rot. But now all that was past tense; all his fingers found were a tattered milieu of sales rep’s and contractor’s business cards. Only that and…he paused. Cynthia’s picture peered from behind the dirty plastic. Happy days, bright moments; he’d always loved her in that black mini-skirt, those sexy red pumps. The picture; her smile; the haughty way her hands rested on her hips. Christ. He remembered how passionate and reckless their lovemaking had been as his mindless dick hardened. Quickly, he slipped the laminator back into its slot, and put the wallet away.
There was a lot in there all right. A lot of nothing.
However, there were also a few twenties. Rent was due in two weeks, but he’d already checked the duty register and knew the hours’d be sufficient. “Shit,” he whispered for no particular reason. He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. Only one night’s worth of piled dishes festered in the sink, and he’d even emptied the waste basket before leaving yesterday morning. It was cause for passive surprise.
Pulling the refrigerator door open proved his hunch correct. R
ight in front, amid sprawling emptiness and the drifting tangles of disjointed smells sat the Budweiser. Only a slim 10-ouncer but hell, in a pinch something was better than nothing. Billy grabbed it and punched out the tab. Staring out his kitchen window, he could just make out the sharp, sliver-tipped moon, surrounded by a celestial murk of muddied depths. Without thinking, he cocked his wrist to peer at his watch once more, finding it only ten minutes further along.
He paused a moment, seemed to make a determination, and chugged down the remainder of the beer. Then he walked hurriedly to the hall closet and pulled out his lightest sweater. Moments later (as he shut the door behind him), he caught himself wondering if the old man would be back at the Ripcord.
Chapter 14
The familiar sign blinked with the resolve of a rising tide, even though there were scarcely enough working lights to give pattern to the display; the storm had certainly done its damage. The canopy beneath, though, was calm, no snapping of fabric tonight. It hung, fray-edged and limp from the iron struts, only ruffling itself occasionally in the faint breeze which laced in between the buildings’ corridors.
The night was stiff as a bad back, the streets back here oddly quiet, the only company a pair of homosexuals tight-assing their way along. So far Billy had only been offered the wares of a single drug dealer. The burn-out hadn’t had the salesman’s sense for any sort of close, just bad breath reeking out among the tombstones of twisted and yellowed bone he had left for teeth. Billy hadn’t missed a step. Most times that was enough. Most times. Others, you could still be fucked.
Life was like that.
He walked up, grabbed the sculpted brass knob which jutted from the thick wood, and peeled the door back to the sidewalk. Instantly, a tired, lilting chorus from the Wurlitzer drifted out to his ears. He stepped inside.
The barmaid was different this time; a little younger; tough-looking in a brutal, masculine way. She was a shade over five feet tall, pushing the scale close to three hundred pounds. What remained of an angry scar crisscrossed from her brow to cheek. But her eyes sparkled girlishly in her hardened face.
There was the same brief lull in conversation while the regular stool-huggers gazed passively in his direction, like dogs now, pricking their ears for a proffered biscuit treat. And then in seeing no potential in Billy (or at least none worth the time nor effort to coax), they settled back to the subjects of their interest. That being usually an ounce to a mug’s worth.
Billy walked across the worn, gritty planks to an empty spot at the corner of the bar. As she watched him come over, the girl threw her dripping towel into an ice-filled stainless steel sink and sauntered over. Billy wondered how long it had taken her to perfect that walk. He wanted to congratulate her, but knew how callous and false it would seem. Her seemingly defiant courage did give him hope though.
From up close it was plain to see her smile was genuine.
Billy fished in his back pocket, never losing eye contact. “Believe I’ll have a Coors…draft if you got it.”
She shook her head loosely, holding on to the close congeniality. “No Coors, baby, just Bud and Miller Lite on tap.”
“Miller Lite then,” he declared, lying three dollars on the coated, veneer countertop.
“You got it,” and she turned away.
With one foot on the bar-runner, Billy gently surveyed the gloomy room. Stark, wooden struts stood at set intervals and some of the tired, drunken faces were hidden behind them. But in no face did he see the animation that had been inherent in Ebenezer’s.
He heard the mug set down, turned a curious eye to the barmaid. The three dollars he’d laid down were already old news. “Yes?” she asked expectantly to his questioning look. A silent understanding of personality wandered in her eyes, defiant and aloof, but readily perceived. This evident depth perception caught him momentarily off guard, and he attempted to hide his tilted balance by downing a large swallow of the beer. Immediately he coughed into his hand and pushed the glass away.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said when he could manage.
As a cloud of distance pushed between them, Billy stabbed at the truth of his search. “Look,” he said, hands out, placating. “I’m not a cop. He hasn’t done anything as far as I know, and if he has I don’t care. It’s just that I was in here several nights back and there was this guy telling stories…said his name was Ebenezer.” He paused. “I was just wondering if he’d be in tonight.” He finished with a smile.
Her darkness had already passed away, replaced with a warming smile. “Our Ebenezer,” she said as if speaking of her own grandfather.
“Yes,” Billy acknowledged. He took another sip to seem less anxious, then smiled again as a compliment. “But like I said, I was with him the other night and he told this fantastic story…I just wanted to know if he’d be here tonight. There was a different woman behind the bar…” and he snapped his fingers, grasping for her name.
“Maggie,” the girl prompted.
“Exactly,” he replied. “Acted like he was a regular.”
The girl threw back her hair as if scoffing at this fledgling’s audacity. “Everybody here knows Ebenezer Holgren. He’s always tellin stories and drinkin the house dry. Most everybody,” and she swung her hand around to include the house of drunks, “has heard those creepy stories he’s so full of.” She paused to brush a lank strand of hair from her eye. “I’ve had a hard time sleepin a coupla times after one of his drunk nights, I’ll tell ya. Makes ya wonder why he never wrote books or anything like that, ya know? You need a warm body next to ya after a night listenin to him,” and she almost imperceptibly winked before finishing. “Know what I mean?” and she continued staring hard into Billy’s eyes, alert for any smirk or derogatory look. Billy saw in her a person who had to constantly fight an inner battle to keep any self-esteem she could muster afloat. He wasn’t interested in her miniscule push of offered libido, but he hoped his face didn’t echo his thoughts. The last thing on his mind was offense to this person who was, at the very least, genuine. And he didn’t want to contribute to any ragged edges; from her almost pleading appeal Billy could tell she’d had her share of disappointments.
He attempted to blush, hoping he could pull it off. Then he tried for an end-around. “I know, I know. The one he told the other night spooked me pretty good.” He stopped, finding her fixed stare disconcerting. When she finally spoke it was with the words of one person of good faith to another.
“He’s fascinating, isn’t he?” she whispered in awe.
Billy bowed his head and whirled a napkin in circles on the counter with his forefinger. “He’s surely got a power,” he answered. After a moments delay and no reply, he led on. “Well, have you seen him?”
“Today?” she asked, hiding behind her game. Billy remained non-pulsed.
“No, tonight,” he replied, showing no sign of agitation. He drained off the mug and slid the glass back. He pulled a five out of his pocket and placed it in her hand. The bribe was unmistakable. “Another,” he said for cover.
She started away silently, but turned by the ice machine. As she pulled on the tap she said, “Not tonight, but that don’t mean he’s not comin. He usually shows. Why don’t ya stick around,” and she waddled over, trying hard to move suggestively in her cushioned way. He saw this, appreciating her resilience and if not for anything else, for the thought, the animal urge, that went with it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think I’ll hang around for a while.”
Chapter 15
Ebenezer Holgren didn’t feel especially well. His eyes were swollen with congestion brewing high in his nasal passages, and when he breathed out it was thick and ragged, like a train whistle fighting through fog. The antihistamine he’d taken forty minutes before now seemed intent on draining what little energy he had left, but nonetheless he was still somehow restless, a sick old horse kicking vainly against the stable door, the smell of a mare in its nostrils. Try as he might, he simply could not get comfortable in the well-
worn recliner.
“Ahh, the hell with it,” he murmured, working the lever so the footrest dropped away. The muted TV played on, serving a private, sadistic joy he got in placing his own comment and dialogue to the thin characters and dull plots that passed before him as entertainment. Usually. Tonight it wasn’t working; tonight was a brick wall. He could feel his joints tightening, knew if he didn’t get up now they’d scream bloody-murder tomorrow. Tired or not he needed to stand up and ‘walk it off’. After all, that’s what the sports guys said, right? How the hell could they be wrong?
He shoved himself away from the chair, adjusting to the disorienting change of altitude by placing his right hand on the wall close by. Goddamn antihistamine; he’d never been good with drugs, even the light stuff. Alcohol, okay, he could handle it, most of the time. Mustn’t forget the other times though…
He checked his watch, wrinkling his stopped-up nose at 9:30. They’d probably suspect he wasn’t coming in tonight. Goddamn cold! He ran a sleeve across his nose, already hearing the clear, sweet voice of his long-dead mother admonishing him for unhealthy behaviors and the prices one should expect if they were pursued. He accepted the haunting advice with bowed head for what must have been the millionth time, pausing in a respectful, almost religious contemplation, affording his mother’s memory the moment it wished before passing away again so he could move on with his intentions.
He snapped his back right and left several short bursts, falling back upon his heels until his thighs bumped the end table. He grunted loudly, turned to grab the threadbare coat from its hook by the door. The long, beggar’s coat, he called it. Wearing it brought instant anonymity when that was what he desired, even if the subsequent, occasional insulting remark it freely elicited had to be endured in furtive silence. He shook himself into its gentle folds and then kicked his way through several piles of discarded newspaper fanned along his path, his swollen eyes catching upon the dirty plates sitting at random spots around the room. Luckily, he was a pretty thorough eater. However, the air was by no means sweet apple dumplings. The many famous faces which peered out from the eclectic blend of posters pressed light accusation his way, disbelieving his persistence as a slob in front of them. He drowned out their ghostly admonitions with a resounding blow into a handkerchief he pulled from one deep pocket.
Not Far From Golgotha Page 5
