“I like the dead,” Hank said, nursing the glass of beer on the bar in front of him, staring at the bubbles piled on top of each other like eggs.
“They don’t talk back.”
Jack nodded and looked around the bar. He grabbed a package of cigarettes from under the bar and offered one to Hank. Hank shook his head. Jack flipped a cigarette into his mouth, tossed the cigarette package into a small nook beside the cash register and pulled out his lighter, which he twirled in his fingers before lighting his cigarette.
Hank watched with marvel. “That’s quite a trick.” Jack shrugged his shoulders modestly.
Hank sipped at his beer. “Don’t smoke. Made me dizzy when I tried it as a kid so I never took it up.” He laughed. “Didn’t want to stunt my growth. Don’t regret it. Can’t see what good it does you and then there’s all the money you spend. Figured it’s cheaper to marry and divorce, pay alimony and child support, send the kids to college than to smoke for thirty years. Once had an interview with Philip Morris down in the States. Five-figure position. Membership at the golf course. They have their own golf course. You should see the clubhouse. There’s a lot of money in weeds. In the end I had to turn them down. They insisted that I smoke their brand. I tried to tell them that I didn’t smoke anyone’s brand. Those were the days when nine out of ten doctors recommended 19 one of their brands and so they couldn’t understand why I wasn’t fond of good old St. Nic. I had my principles, and like I say, smoking made me dizzy. And if that don’t convince you, think about the loss of time.
We’re only allotted so much grace. I could feel the grains of time slipping through the mouth of the hourglass and I didn’t want no weed in that mouth. Take Olaf Stapledon, for example.”
Jack took a dry cloth, his cigarette hanging from his lips, lifted Hank’s beer and dried the bar. Then he replaced the bottle on a coaster. “What was that first name?” Jack asked, a faint wisp of a smile on his face.
“Olaf.”
“Olaf?” Jack considered. “What kind of name is that? Danish? Dutch?” Hank shrugged.
Jack shook his head, took his cigarette from between his lips and laid it in an ashtray. He smiled. “Okay, who the hell was Olaf?” Hank smiled and leaned over the bar like a fisherman who has felt a tug on the end of his line. “He was an English writer and communist sympathizer in the thirties and forties. No one remembers him now.
Wrote quite a few bestsellers, which no one reads anymore. Supported causes, which no one remembers. Just wasted his time as far as I can see.”
“Well,” Jack said, his eyebrows furrowed like parenthesis, “you remembered him.”
“Ah, that don’t count.” Hank straightened up, raising a finger for em-phasis, “I’m a collector. Pointless hobby I admit, but it keeps my mind out of the traffic. I’m like a stamp collector, collecting stamps that he never intends to use on letters. Funny that no one collects the letters. But, back to our Danish subject. You see, our friend Olaf has been reduced to information. Useless information for most folks. He’s not an important figure in history, or literature, or anything. I suppose he was important to his kids, but they didn’t amount to much. One became a lawyer but that’s about where they topped off. You see where I’m heading? How many people will be remembered from the twentieth century? Einstein, Freud, Picasso, Gandhi, Hitler? A handful in a population of billions.
Getting the lay of the land yet? Olaf in his time was considered brilliant, dedicated, even charismatic. Today he’d be doing the circuit of talk shows. They might make a made-for-television movie about him. It would all lead to a familiar end. Anonymity. This century will be known for its gadgets-the telephone, the automobile, the computer, the electric guitar, the A-bomb, the paper clip. We won’t be remembered for our insights, our great minds. We are the literate dark ages. Have you got the 20 picture, Jack? We’re just replaceable parts in the machine called Modern Living.”
“Well,” Jack muttered, “that’s pretty depressing. What’s the point of striving for something if you’re going to take it to the grave with you?”
“Vanity, Jack. We’re filled with our own sense of self-importance. Each of us thinks that we’re the center of the universe when we’re no more important than the plant that produced that cigarette you’re smoking or the drink I’m enjoying. It’s that vanity that keeps the machine working smoothly.”
Jack straightened up, and taking a deep breath, declared, “I like to think I’m of some use. People need someone to listen to them.”
“Listening to people who have nothing to say.” Hank smiled knowingly, but realizing that Jack might take offense to his remarks, back-tracked. “But I suppose comfort is not to be underestimated. Someone has to hold the hands of the beloved during their last hours on this sphere. Bartenders and priests-we couldn’t do without them.” The door of the bar opened and a couple stepped into the room and took a seat at a table near the cigarette machine. Jack excused himself as he went to serve his new customers. After he had taken their order and delivered their drinks he returned to the bar.
“I suppose this Olaf is dead,” Jack suggested.
Hank nodded. “In 1950. September sixth.” Gesturing with his head to the new couple seated at the table in the corner, Hank added, “Take that young couple that you just served.”
“What about them?”
“What does life hold in store for them?”
Jack shrugged. “Don’t know much about them. I’ve seen him in here a couple of times with his buddies. I think they’re in some kind of softball league. Come for a few beers after the game. I don’t think I’ve seen the girl in here before. Not much to look at but she seems nice enough. They look like they’re courting.”
“He’s got his hand on her knee,” Hank said.
Jack stared across the room.
“How can you see that from over here? The bar’s too dark. And your back is to them.”
“I’m looking at them through the mirror behind you.” Hank sipped at his beer. “He’ll be trying to slip into her panties later in the evening. The vulgar groping of the lower classes.”
Jack looked behind him into the mirror and smiled.
“I guess we were all young once,” Jack said, shaking his head. A new customer stepped into the room and took a stool by the bar. Jack moved down the bar and took his order, reaching under the bar into a cooler for a beer.
Hank raised his own beer to his mouth and stared into the mirror. He saw the young man’s hand slide up the girl’s skirt. She playfully rapped his hand and smiled. Not here, he could read on her lips. The door of the bar opened again and in stepped Mary. She looked around, spotted Hank, and crossed over to the bar and took a stool beside him.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” she asked, giving Hank a kiss on the cheek. “Boring Jack with your stories?”
“Do you know who John Andrew Kenney was?” Hank asked before Mary had a chance to catch her breath. “In 1944 he was chosen by the Harmon foundation as one of the United State’s most prominent Negroes.”
Mary laughed. “You are the most remarkable man I have ever met. I suppose he died in 1950.”
Hank smiled. “You got it, sister. Tell me now, why did they give an award to the most prominent Negro? Why would you give an award to any prominent member of any ethnic background? Doesn’t it reek of an inferiority complex? Were any awards given to the most prominent Eng-lishman of 1940? The upper classes never award themselves. They don’t have to. They’re in charge.”
Mary shook with laughter as she gestured to Jack to bring her the usual.
“Do you know what this big lug told me this morning? That the world ended in 1950, that we’re-what did you call it? — the flotsam of time’s demise. Isn’t that the craziest idea you ever heard?” Jack shook his head and looked at Mary’s dress, smiling with approval.
“That’s a lovely dress,” he said.
Mary blushed and turned to Hank.
“How come you didn’t notice?” she asked.
Hank leaned over and whispered in Mary’s ear. “I was concentrating on what was underneath it.”
A Young Couple
“Why did you ask me out for a drink, Joe?” the girl asked as she sipped at her Coke. This place is so dark.
“I like you, Helen,” Joe said, his teeth flashing in a neon smile. Why do you think I asked you out, honey? “Everyday I come into your office, I see you sitting behind that desk, typing away. You look so efficient. Professional. I’ve always admired that in a woman.” This shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll probably be able to get back to my place in time to catch the ninth inning.
Helen blushed. He’s so sure of himself. “I’m taking courses. I’d like to better myself. I think that’s important. Please take your hand off my knee, Joe.”
“What courses are you taking?” Joe asked. A couple more drinks and I’ll have her panties off.
“Bookkeeping,” Helen said, gripping Joe’s wrist, attempting to push his hand away. Why does he have to be like this?
“Just let me feel what you’ve got up there.” Joe chuckled good-naturedly. “What we need is a little music.” Joe got up from the table and stepped over to the jukebox. He dropped a few coins in the slot and returned to his chair, putting his arm around Helen’s shoulder.
“Please,” Helen cried in a low voice. “I thought you would be a gentleman.”
Elvis Presley’s “In the Ghetto” began to play.
“It’s dark in here,” he assured her, his fingers grazing the shoulder strap of Helen’s dress.
“Later,” Helen whispered in desperation. “That man over there is watching us.”
Joe looked up and took his hand off Helen.
“Where?”
“By the bar,” Helen replied.
“His back is to us,” Joe said with a smirk.
“In the mirror,” Helen whimpered. “He’s watching us in the mirror.”
“The pervert,” Joe said with a laugh. “I should go up and give him a piece of my mind.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Helen pleaded.
“You’re sure? I could box his ears for you.” The guy is a giant.
“He’s awfully big.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Joe laughed, taking a second look at the fellow at the bar. She goes for the tough guy look. Joe jerked his neck and straightened out his shoulders in a bravado posture.
Helen squeezed Joe’s arm. “Please don’t. I appreciate the gesture but I don’t want anyone to get hurt on my account.” He’d kill you.
Joe turned and looked at Helen. There was a pleading look in her eyes.
This is too easy.
“You’re all right.” He smiled and took Helen’s chin between two fingers and playfully squeezed it. “A lot of girls would love to see their man defend them but you’re not interested in showmanship. You really don’t like to see people get hurt. And I would have hurt him. Don’t you think for a moment I wouldn’t have cut that fellow down an inch or two.
I’ve got quite a temper. And I can take care of myself.” Helen smiled. “Yes, I believe you can. But he is awfully big.” Look at the size of his head.
Joe’s smile left his face momentarily. She had repeated that particular observation. Shit! I think she wants me to take him on.
“You think I couldn’t take him, don’t you? Sure he’s big. I’ve been in a few donnybrooks in my time. I played professional hockey for a while. I didn’t tell you that, did I?”
Helen shook her head.
“Semi-professional,” Joe added. “But I figure I’ve got a little left in the tank if they’d give me a chance. Sales is just a temporary thing, to hold me over until the big money starts to roll in. I’m waiting for the phone call. I heard they’re putting a new team in Vegas. I’ll have to quit smoking, though.”
Helen smiled. He’s lying through his teeth. That’s kind of sweet.
“I could tell the first time you stepped into our office to see Mr. Brennan that you had a certain swagger. That’s why he bought all that ink from you. We could run the presses for months on the ink Mr. Brennan bought. But he trusts a man with confidence. He told me that.”
“Ya.” Joe shook his head with a smile and leaned back in his chair, basking in the adulation of the woman beside him. “That was a pretty good sale. Did he really say that about me?” Helen nodded. Oh God, I have to pee.
Joe smiled. “Old man Brennan really ate up my story. I’ve always had the gift. Things have been going real well for me. I’m not sure I’d want to play again even if they called me. Do I need the aggravation? And if I get a few more commissions like the one off Brennan, I don’t know if I could take the pay cut.”
“Your story?” Helen finished her drink. Do I put my hand up and ask permission to leave?
Joe gestured to the bartender for another round.
“That’s what sales is all about,” Joe explained. “You don’t sell products-you sell a story. You’ve got to let people think that they’re buying a bit of you. It’s all about selling yourself and a story is the best way to sell yourself. Okay, you don’t always tell the complete story. You exaggerate, maybe even lie, but as long as you’re entertaining, the customer is happy.”
Jack stepped up to the table. Joe looked up.
“Another beer for myself and a glass of white wine for the lady.”
“I shouldn’t,” Helen protested.
“Ah, you only live once,” Joe said with a wink at Helen. Then he turned back to the bartender. “And tell cupid up at the bar to keep his eyes to himself.”
When Jack returned to the bar, Helen turned to Joe.
“You promised you wouldn’t make a scene,” she pleaded.
“Ah, that wasn’t a scene.” Joe moved closer to Helen. He put his arm around her. “You’ve got to make sure that people understand the boundaries. You weren’t fooling when you said that thing about later, were you?”
Helen smiled. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” Joe ignored Helen’s request. “I don’t like to be told one thing now and another later.”
Helen patted Joe’s hand. “I really have to go to the ladies’ room.” Joe got to his feet and let Helen pass in front of him. He tapped her on the bum as she left and watched her move across the room. The door of the bar opened and Mary stepped inside. She looked around and spotted Joe sitting alone. She smiled. Joe nodded. Mary turned and walked over to the bar.
I know her, Joe thought to himself. Mary climbed onto a stool beside the giant. What an ass. Recognition flashed across Joe’s face into a smile. One night in here after a ball game. She got real hammered. We danced. She could hardly keep her hands off me.
Helen stepped back into the room and walked across the room toward Joe. She noticed he was watching the blonde at the bar. Once seated, she took a sip of her drink. He can’t take his eyes off her. It’s Mary.
“I work with her,” Helen said. I hope she doesn’t see me.
“Oh, ya?” Joe turned back to his date. “How come I didn’t see her in the office?”
“Maybe you show up at the wrong time. She spends a lot of time in Mr. Brennan’s office.”
Joe laughed. “I’ll bet she does.”
“No,” Helen protested. “It’s not like that.”
“Baby, you are so naive. I like that in my women.”
The Jazz Singer
“I wish you could be a little more respectful.” Mary cleared the break-fast dishes off the table. “You hardly said a word to him this morning before he left. I can’t keep friends if you’re not going to be at least a little accommodating. Hank probably thinks you’re a real snob. That’s not the way I raised you.”
Terry did not respond and continued to fill his mouth with corn flakes.
“I like Hank,” Mary continued, lighting up a cigarette.
“I thought you’d quit.” Terry’s words came out muffled.
Mary looked at the cigarette in despair. “I forgot.”
“You forget a lot of things,” Terry muttered.
Mary ignored her son’s remark, tightening her housecoat. She filled the sink with hot water and dish detergent and began to do the dishes.
“Someday I’m going to get an automatic dishwasher.”
“Why is he always talking about dead people?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night he came out here to get a snack and I had to listen to all this shit about Al Jolson. Some dead guy who sang in the twenties. Like he expects me to go out and buy all this guy’s CDs. Who the hell is Al Jolson?”
“Before your time,” Mary said.
“And before your time too, Mom,” Terry said with a laugh.
“Thank you for that.”
“Jolson made this movie, The Jazz Singer. It was one of the first sound pictures.”
“You see,” Mary said, cleaning out the sink and placing the washcloth to one side. She dried her hands, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and tapped its ashes into the sink. “You can learn something new every day.”
“He sang this song ‘Mammy’ for me,” Terry said, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with that guy?”
Mary shook with laughter. “He actually sang that song?”
“On one knee,” Terry added, puzzled that this gesture would bring such happiness to his mother. “I think he’s a pedophile.”
“Oh,” Mary sighed wiping the tears from her eyes, “I needed that.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I think he’s a pedophile.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t even spell the word.”
“Why would he go down on his knees in front of me?” Terry hated it when his mother didn’t take him seriously.
“That was part of his act, Jolson’s act,” Mary explained, a cloud of smoke slipping between her teeth. “Like Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.” Terry was puzzled. He was sure his mom had gone off the deep end.
“Who the hell is Michael Jackson?”
Mary turned away, thinking about the night before. It had been a long time since she had been with a man. She’d been nervous. She wondered if it showed. She hoped she could make it up to Hank in the future although she had noticed he didn’t seem disappointed. And then there had been the terrible dream she had had about lawn bowling. She was watching the American national championship in Los Angeles when one of the competitors, Edward McGee, mistaking her head for a ball, had thrown her across the lawn, with the effect that she had lacerations on her chin and a chipped tooth. She’d woken up laughing and then had been scared out of her mind when she saw Hank’s face above hers staring down at her.
“Do you think that you could turn on the radio the next time you have a guest over?” Terry suggested.
“You were listening to us?”
“Not by choice. Holy cow, who wants to listen to his mother and her lover talking about the lumber industry? Who cares that there was an increase in the production of species formerly little used or neglected?” Mary was silent for a moment, wondering if Terry had heard everything that had been said last evening.
“Hank asked about your father,” Mary said.
Terry turned and looked at his mother. “What did you tell him?” Mary shrugged. She finished the cup of coffee on the table. The coffee was cold. She dropped her cigarette in the cup.
“I told him the truth.”
Terry pushed his cereal bowl into the middle of the table.
“Why do you have to talk about Dad?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Does that guy ever stop talking?”
Mary shook her head.
“Tell him to stop asking me so many questions.”
“Okay.” Mary smiled. “I’ll tell him.”
“I never thought I’d see my mother dating a giant.” Mary broke out laughing. She stepped up behind her son, hugged him, and laughed some more.