Drowning in Joy
Terry Tierney

Most guys come out of jail looking a little pale, but Rich flashes a tan like he just stepped off a Caribbean cruise. He saunters into My Mother’s Place with Debby on his arm, heading to the bar stool between Artie and me while Debby splits off to the kitchen to prepare for her shift waiting tables. Her quick glance tells me she hasn’t told Rich about our short tryst when he was locked up in Auburn.
Rich stands 5' 6", built like a small tank with a wide frame and arms like iron pipes. He has hardly any neck. His shoulder muscles wrap around the base of his head like a thick weld. His red hair is shorter now and his moustache trimmed, his Yosemite Sam appearance lost on the floor of the prison barbershop. He flashes a warm, toothy smile and focusses his steel blue eyes. “Great to see you, Curt,” he says to me.
I wave to Mike the bartender for another glass and fill it from my pitcher of Genesee Ale. “Welcome home.”
Artie and I catch him up on the news of the past week, every subject but Debby, and I wonder if he’ll tell us why they threw him in jail. I order another pitcher.
Around eight, Freddy enters the bar and circulates between tables with a handful of betting slips, balancing a cigar stub between his lips. In his old leather jacket and brown knit cap, he resembles a boulder, but he rolls softly. Everyone gives him space. He passes the bar and hands Artie a slip listing the NFL games and odds for the week. Artie winks and Freddy shakes his head, fishing a pencil stub out of his pocket before he moves on.
“Need to ask you a favor,” Rich whispers, leaning toward me. “Well, two favors.”
“You always say football bets are for losers.”
“Nah, I was hoping you’d lend me fifty bucks. I’m starting back at my construction job, but it’s a week until payday.”
“Sure.” An ace carpenter Rich is good for the money, and I’m feeling guilty about Debby.
Artie looks up, his radar pinging at the mention of money in case some might fall his way. “Crowley Dairy’s shutting down for the holidays,” he says to Rich. “Curt will be short of cash.”
I shake my head at Artie’s fatherly intervention and Rich smiles. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him starve.”
Artie goes back to plotting his football bet and Rich casts his attention toward the corner of the bar near the pinball machine. His voice returns to a whisper. “Is that the Mexican that sells pot?”
“Eduardo. He’s a nice guy.”
“You buy from him?”
“Sometimes. Is that your second favor?”
“Yeah, can you get me some weed? Maybe we split a bag.” He flashes a tight grin. “But you’ll have to front it.”
I nod. Another twenty bucks, but I’ll have smoke for the holidays. I cross the bar and wait for Eduardo to finish his Royal Flush pinball game. He earns two extra balls and gives me a high five. When he last ball drops he turns to me.
“Having trouble with my car,” I say.
“I’ll check it out.” He heads out the back door near the kitchen.
I wait a few minutes and follow him into the alley, trading him a rolled up twenty for the Baggie.
“You want to try it?” he asks.
“Not tonight. I trust you.”
Back at the bar I shove the ounce into Rich’s jacket. “Split it later.”
Artie pretends not to notice. “Eduardo has a nice family. Cute wife and two kids.”
Rich snorts. “Wetbacks breed like rabbits.”
I push my change to the back of the bar and chug my last swallow of beer, not wanting to hear another of Rich’s racist rants.
He shakes his head. “Wetback boss in Ithaca got me sent up.”
“We were wondering,” Artie says, filling our glasses as I sit down.
“Sucker had it in for me because I earn white man wages. Everything’s my fault. Should have known the cement was too wet. Should have known the frame was out of square. I used too many nails. Shit, I was a carpenter when he was chasing bulls down in Mexico.” Rich glances at Artie and me. “Then one Friday, payday, he’s avoiding me. I ask another foreman what’s up and he tells me Jose’s about to fire me. That’s why he’s avoiding me. Little coward.”
He pauses for a sip of beer. “Later I see him walking up the ramp to the first floor just as I’m heading down with a twelve-foot two by four. He looks away like I knew he would and I swing sharply to the left to avoid a stack of plywood. The two by four smacks him in the side of the head and he flies off the ramp into a pool of mud.” Rich erupts with laughter. “Funniest thing I ever saw. Rubbing his head and trying to stand up. Falling on his ass in the mud.”
Rich slaps my back. “Was he hurt?” I ask. I spy Artie’s blank expression over Rich’s shoulder.
“Nah, he’s screaming mad, fires me on the spot. But it was worth it. Then a cop shows up at my door with a warrant for assault. Just like him to send a cop to do his dirty work.”
“Sounds like an accident,” I reply.
“That’s what my lawyer said but the judge didn’t agree.”
I shake my head.
“But when I saw my lawyer this morning, all he did was stare at Debby.” Rich grins. “So the guy’s not stupid.”
“Was it an accident?” I ask.
“He should have watched out.” Rich shrugs his shoulders. “Never should have crossed me in the first place.”
Freddy steps up behind me, dropping a meaty hand on my shoulder. Turning to face him, I almost bump the unlit stub of his cigar, catching the peat moss aroma. “Can I see you a minute?” he says in his raspy voice.
I slide off my stool and Artie pushes his betting slip and two bucks toward Freddy who shoves the money in one jacket pocket and the slip in another. Eyes follow us to the front door, Freddy’s status rubbing off on me like I’m a chauffeur for a movie star.
Outside we duck under the awning of the hardware store next door as fat snowflakes carpet the sidewalk. Freddy lights his cigar with a silver lighter, takes one puff and gives up. “Sorry about the dairy,” he says. “Heard about the shutdown.”
“Only a few weeks.”
“Sure.” He waves his hand like he’s clearing smoke. “I can use some help.”
“Football’s almost over.” When Freddy was sick in October I picked up football bets and paid off winners. He threw me a nice tip. “Horses?”
“Nah, the horse game is dying. Betting’s legal in New Jersey.” He shrugs. “Don’t want you to sell cars either. I’d hire you for construction. But I have other ideas.”
I nod slowly, not sure what I’m getting into.
Freddy catches my eye. “Big guy like you and smart, there’s things you can do. Maybe you stand next to me when I talk to people.”
I stare back at him, pondering what to say. I can use the cash.
“You wouldn’t have to do anything, just stand there.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll help you out.”
“You won’t regret it.” He coughs and slaps my arm. I turn to head back to Mother’s but he stops me. “Friendly advice. Stay away from Rich.”
“He just got out of jail.”
“He didn’t go to jail.”
“He said he assaulted a guy in Ithaca.”
“Maybe he did, but he didn’t go to jail. He busted seven people in Ithaca, all Mexicans. Maybe you read the paper, five for marijuana and two illegals. Went to trial this week. Guy’s a narc.”
I lean back against the widow of the hardware, recalling the news article. “Hard to believe.”
“Believe it.” Freddy flicks his lighter and his stub smolders. “If he asks about pot or anything else, play dumb.”
“I just bought an ounce for him.”
Freddy shakes his head. “Don’t do it again.”
“He could have me on a felony.”
“Maybe, but he’s probably after Eduardo. Word is he’s a mean shit but he protects his friends.”
I watch Freddy’s cigar go out, feeling a chill.
He clears his throat and stares at the butt like a misbehaving child. “I don’t think the DA will bother with an ounce.”
“Less than an ounce if I split it with him.” I shrug. “But I gave him the whole bag.”
“Might be entrapment anyway.” Freddy drops his lighter into his pocket, the one with the betting slips. “But I can’t help you. Rich is a fed. Glad I’m not in that business.”
He slaps my arm again and we head back inside.
I take my stool between Rich and Artie, ears ringing from my conversation.
“What did the boss want?” Artie asks with a wink.
“Offered me a construction job on some apartments he’s building in Endwell.”
“They look good from the highway,” Rich says. “Union job but I’m not a union man.”
“Freddy is,” Artie says. “You quitting Crowley?”
“Only working for Freddy during the shutdown. I want to keep learning computers at the dairy.”
Debby drops her empty tray on the bar and we all turn to watch her. She steps behind Rich and rubs his thick shoulders, swinging her head back and forth, waving her auburn hair, her fingers barely making a dent. Good time for me to leave.
I take a long way home, walking past the closed storefronts draped in tinsel, and across the Court Street Bridge. I stop to stare at the gray Chenango River reflecting streetlights and windows in wavy patterns, a liquid city with shapes joining and separating like dreams or worse. I turn up my collar to the chill and stuff my hands in my jacket.
Maybe Rich is after Eduardo, a dealer and a Mexican, even if he grew up in Scranton and doesn’t even speak Spanish. I see the faces of Eduardo and his family, standing like human shields between me and jail. If I warn him, Rich might turn his attention to me, especially if he finds out about my one night stand with Debby. If he knows what Freddy told me, he might bust me to protect himself. I spit into the water, my wad disappearing in the slush. I wonder who else he threatens.
The current swirls under the streetlights, peaceful for now, but Rich looms like an ice jam upriver, ready to burst any minute and flood our dreary town.
I spend the next few days at home studying computer manuals and preparing for the dairy inventory. They won’t pay me for helping but maybe I’ll learn something. Saturday night I decide I should make an appearance at Mother’s where I find Rich talking and Artie drinking his beer. Artie listens to anyone with a full pitcher.
“The joint serves ground beef every meal,” Rich says, nodding at me when I sit down. “Meatballs, breakfast sausage, sloppy Joes, Salisbury steak, anything but a real hamburger. All tastes the same. But I draw the line at tacos and burritos. I’ve eaten enough of that Mexican shit.”
“Not much Mexican food around here,” Artie says. Mike shows up with a fresh glass and I ask for a pitcher of Genesee Ale.
“Just wait, the Mexicans are coming,” Rich replies. “What about you, Curt? You like beaner food?”
“I stick to the four basic food groups--canned, frozen, take out and beer. And coffee.”
“You eat yoghurt. Saw it in your fridge along with the beer cans.”
Artie purses his lips and shifts his tobacco plug to his other cheek. “Yoghurt sounds disgusting.”
My pitcher appears and I pour myself a glass, refilling Artie and Rich. Artie hops off to the bathroom, wending between tables on his crutch and one leg like a slalom skier.
“Been wanting to talk to you,” Rich says in a low, serious tone.
Here it comes, the Debby talk. I sip my beer and look up.
He continues, “You think that spic that sells pot would sell me a pound or two?”
“Never asked if he sold quanity.”
“Would you try for me?”
I shrug my shoulders, heart pounding, remembering Freddy’s warning. I search his eyes. If he was trying to get even with me for Debby, I’d expect to see some anger. He wants to bust Edwardo. “You don’t need me.”
“You’re right, I can buy it myself. Got an advance from my boss. I can pay you back, too.”
“No worry.”
“Can you talk to him, though? Set it up.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to him.”
He slaps my shoulder. “You’re a great friend.”
Artie returns, followed by Debby. She plants a juicy kiss on Rich’s cheek, carefully avoiding his moustache. She wears tight blue slacks and a ruffled white blouse. Brass loop ear rings hang below her curly auburn hair and her makeup is fresh. She smells like a spring garden. I glance away.
“I’m going dancing at Pearl’s,” Rich announces proudly.
“What about me?” Debby replies with a cute pout. “I’m going, too.”
“Of course you are. You’re my woman.” Rich returns her kiss and they hug, caressing one another’s back. Their cloying exchange makes me burp.
Soon enough they leave and Artie I and return to our beer.
“Mike washed the windows,” Artie says.
I swing my eyes toward the sidewalk where the dim streetlights shine brighter than usual. A silhouette crosses my view and pulls open the door. Eduardo heads back to the pinball machine. I wait a few minutes until he’s alone.
“How’s your car running?” Eduardo asks, shaking my hand.
“Good for now. How’s the family?”
He shows me a new snapshot of his wife and two girls taken at the mall photo booth with its faded khaki curtains.
“The older girl’s almost ready for school,” I say.
“That’s Maria. Our baby’s Janet, and my wife Linda. Now you know everything about me.” He shoves the billfold back into his jeans and scans the room.
“I know you sell car parts. Got a friend who wants to buy a car.”
“Sounds like he should talk to Freddy,” Eduardo smiles. Freddy sells two or three cars a year from his used car lot on Chenango Street.
“Freddy doesn’t have the car he wants.”
Eduardo nods. “Who we talking about?”
“Rich.”
“I’ve seen him. Not very friendly. He’s a friend of yours?”
“He talks about you a lot.”
“Talks about me?”
“Yeah, and he has other friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Might be time to sell your parts someplace else.”
Eduardo stares at me, disbelieving. He cracks a smile and I hold my blank expression, finally turning away.
Back at the bar Artie says, “What was that all about?”
“Doing a favor for a friend.”
A few minutes later, Eduardo pushes open the front door and exits into the blowing snow.
Later in the week a suit from Poughkeepsie appears at the dairy. I’m supposed to show him how to enter shipping data into the computer and run my nightly jobs. I feel like a celebrity for about five minutes until I realize I’m training him to do my job. My boss says they’re only shutting down the Binghamton plant and shifting the work to Poughkeepsie for four weeks. I don’t trust bosses any more than I trust the law.
After work I head to Mother’s where Artie coaxes me into buying a pitcher. The bar has a festive air with tiny Christmas lights strung above the dusty bottles behind the bar, and Mike sprayed snowflakes on the outside windows. He even taped a pine branch above the cash register. Eduardo misses his 8:00 round.
Rich arrives late, spinning on to the stool next to me. He glances toward the pinball machine and says to me in a measured tone, “I see the trainer but no monkey.”
“Good to see you, too, Rich.”
He looks across my chest at Artie, his foul mood drawing attention, drinkers pausing to watch. “Some guys think they do the right thing, but they fuck it up.”
Artie catches my eye.
Leaning back, Rich slaps sixty bucks on the bar. “Think they know what’s happening, like they have it all figured out. Right, Curt?”
I catch his glare and send it back. “What if I do?”
“You should have known better.” He stands and zips his jacket. “Good thing for you I never hurt my friends.” He pushes his way across the bar and shoves open the door, sending a cold draft across the room.
Mike appears in front of me and slides the twenties my way. He scans the bar. “Show’s over.” He grabs his bar rag and wipes the varnished wood until the gawkers return to their glasses.
“You did the right thing, talking to Eduardo,” Artie whispers.
“Did I?”
“He told me to thank you. Don’t know why.”
“Of course not,” I grin. Artie doesn’t miss much.
He spits into a paper napkin. “Don’t think Rich is coming back either.”
“What about Debby?”
“Moving up. Someone saw her eating dinner at Morey’s with Rich’s lawyer, Jensen.”
“Has a mansion next door to Freddy.”
“That’s him.”
I slide one of the twenties back across the bar and wave for another pitcher.
“Season of joy,” Artie croons at my gesture.
“Yeah, I’m drowning in joy.”
Rich stands 5' 6", built like a small tank with a wide frame and arms like iron pipes. He has hardly any neck. His shoulder muscles wrap around the base of his head like a thick weld. His red hair is shorter now and his moustache trimmed, his Yosemite Sam appearance lost on the floor of the prison barbershop. He flashes a warm, toothy smile and focusses his steel blue eyes. “Great to see you, Curt,” he says to me.
I wave to Mike the bartender for another glass and fill it from my pitcher of Genesee Ale. “Welcome home.”
Artie and I catch him up on the news of the past week, every subject but Debby, and I wonder if he’ll tell us why they threw him in jail. I order another pitcher.
Around eight, Freddy enters the bar and circulates between tables with a handful of betting slips, balancing a cigar stub between his lips. In his old leather jacket and brown knit cap, he resembles a boulder, but he rolls softly. Everyone gives him space. He passes the bar and hands Artie a slip listing the NFL games and odds for the week. Artie winks and Freddy shakes his head, fishing a pencil stub out of his pocket before he moves on.
“Need to ask you a favor,” Rich whispers, leaning toward me. “Well, two favors.”
“You always say football bets are for losers.”
“Nah, I was hoping you’d lend me fifty bucks. I’m starting back at my construction job, but it’s a week until payday.”
“Sure.” An ace carpenter Rich is good for the money, and I’m feeling guilty about Debby.
Artie looks up, his radar pinging at the mention of money in case some might fall his way. “Crowley Dairy’s shutting down for the holidays,” he says to Rich. “Curt will be short of cash.”
I shake my head at Artie’s fatherly intervention and Rich smiles. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him starve.”
Artie goes back to plotting his football bet and Rich casts his attention toward the corner of the bar near the pinball machine. His voice returns to a whisper. “Is that the Mexican that sells pot?”
“Eduardo. He’s a nice guy.”
“You buy from him?”
“Sometimes. Is that your second favor?”
“Yeah, can you get me some weed? Maybe we split a bag.” He flashes a tight grin. “But you’ll have to front it.”
I nod. Another twenty bucks, but I’ll have smoke for the holidays. I cross the bar and wait for Eduardo to finish his Royal Flush pinball game. He earns two extra balls and gives me a high five. When he last ball drops he turns to me.
“Having trouble with my car,” I say.
“I’ll check it out.” He heads out the back door near the kitchen.
I wait a few minutes and follow him into the alley, trading him a rolled up twenty for the Baggie.
“You want to try it?” he asks.
“Not tonight. I trust you.”
Back at the bar I shove the ounce into Rich’s jacket. “Split it later.”
Artie pretends not to notice. “Eduardo has a nice family. Cute wife and two kids.”
Rich snorts. “Wetbacks breed like rabbits.”
I push my change to the back of the bar and chug my last swallow of beer, not wanting to hear another of Rich’s racist rants.
He shakes his head. “Wetback boss in Ithaca got me sent up.”
“We were wondering,” Artie says, filling our glasses as I sit down.
“Sucker had it in for me because I earn white man wages. Everything’s my fault. Should have known the cement was too wet. Should have known the frame was out of square. I used too many nails. Shit, I was a carpenter when he was chasing bulls down in Mexico.” Rich glances at Artie and me. “Then one Friday, payday, he’s avoiding me. I ask another foreman what’s up and he tells me Jose’s about to fire me. That’s why he’s avoiding me. Little coward.”
He pauses for a sip of beer. “Later I see him walking up the ramp to the first floor just as I’m heading down with a twelve-foot two by four. He looks away like I knew he would and I swing sharply to the left to avoid a stack of plywood. The two by four smacks him in the side of the head and he flies off the ramp into a pool of mud.” Rich erupts with laughter. “Funniest thing I ever saw. Rubbing his head and trying to stand up. Falling on his ass in the mud.”
Rich slaps my back. “Was he hurt?” I ask. I spy Artie’s blank expression over Rich’s shoulder.
“Nah, he’s screaming mad, fires me on the spot. But it was worth it. Then a cop shows up at my door with a warrant for assault. Just like him to send a cop to do his dirty work.”
“Sounds like an accident,” I reply.
“That’s what my lawyer said but the judge didn’t agree.”
I shake my head.
“But when I saw my lawyer this morning, all he did was stare at Debby.” Rich grins. “So the guy’s not stupid.”
“Was it an accident?” I ask.
“He should have watched out.” Rich shrugs his shoulders. “Never should have crossed me in the first place.”
Freddy steps up behind me, dropping a meaty hand on my shoulder. Turning to face him, I almost bump the unlit stub of his cigar, catching the peat moss aroma. “Can I see you a minute?” he says in his raspy voice.
I slide off my stool and Artie pushes his betting slip and two bucks toward Freddy who shoves the money in one jacket pocket and the slip in another. Eyes follow us to the front door, Freddy’s status rubbing off on me like I’m a chauffeur for a movie star.
Outside we duck under the awning of the hardware store next door as fat snowflakes carpet the sidewalk. Freddy lights his cigar with a silver lighter, takes one puff and gives up. “Sorry about the dairy,” he says. “Heard about the shutdown.”
“Only a few weeks.”
“Sure.” He waves his hand like he’s clearing smoke. “I can use some help.”
“Football’s almost over.” When Freddy was sick in October I picked up football bets and paid off winners. He threw me a nice tip. “Horses?”
“Nah, the horse game is dying. Betting’s legal in New Jersey.” He shrugs. “Don’t want you to sell cars either. I’d hire you for construction. But I have other ideas.”
I nod slowly, not sure what I’m getting into.
Freddy catches my eye. “Big guy like you and smart, there’s things you can do. Maybe you stand next to me when I talk to people.”
I stare back at him, pondering what to say. I can use the cash.
“You wouldn’t have to do anything, just stand there.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll help you out.”
“You won’t regret it.” He coughs and slaps my arm. I turn to head back to Mother’s but he stops me. “Friendly advice. Stay away from Rich.”
“He just got out of jail.”
“He didn’t go to jail.”
“He said he assaulted a guy in Ithaca.”
“Maybe he did, but he didn’t go to jail. He busted seven people in Ithaca, all Mexicans. Maybe you read the paper, five for marijuana and two illegals. Went to trial this week. Guy’s a narc.”
I lean back against the widow of the hardware, recalling the news article. “Hard to believe.”
“Believe it.” Freddy flicks his lighter and his stub smolders. “If he asks about pot or anything else, play dumb.”
“I just bought an ounce for him.”
Freddy shakes his head. “Don’t do it again.”
“He could have me on a felony.”
“Maybe, but he’s probably after Eduardo. Word is he’s a mean shit but he protects his friends.”
I watch Freddy’s cigar go out, feeling a chill.
He clears his throat and stares at the butt like a misbehaving child. “I don’t think the DA will bother with an ounce.”
“Less than an ounce if I split it with him.” I shrug. “But I gave him the whole bag.”
“Might be entrapment anyway.” Freddy drops his lighter into his pocket, the one with the betting slips. “But I can’t help you. Rich is a fed. Glad I’m not in that business.”
He slaps my arm again and we head back inside.
I take my stool between Rich and Artie, ears ringing from my conversation.
“What did the boss want?” Artie asks with a wink.
“Offered me a construction job on some apartments he’s building in Endwell.”
“They look good from the highway,” Rich says. “Union job but I’m not a union man.”
“Freddy is,” Artie says. “You quitting Crowley?”
“Only working for Freddy during the shutdown. I want to keep learning computers at the dairy.”
Debby drops her empty tray on the bar and we all turn to watch her. She steps behind Rich and rubs his thick shoulders, swinging her head back and forth, waving her auburn hair, her fingers barely making a dent. Good time for me to leave.
I take a long way home, walking past the closed storefronts draped in tinsel, and across the Court Street Bridge. I stop to stare at the gray Chenango River reflecting streetlights and windows in wavy patterns, a liquid city with shapes joining and separating like dreams or worse. I turn up my collar to the chill and stuff my hands in my jacket.
Maybe Rich is after Eduardo, a dealer and a Mexican, even if he grew up in Scranton and doesn’t even speak Spanish. I see the faces of Eduardo and his family, standing like human shields between me and jail. If I warn him, Rich might turn his attention to me, especially if he finds out about my one night stand with Debby. If he knows what Freddy told me, he might bust me to protect himself. I spit into the water, my wad disappearing in the slush. I wonder who else he threatens.
The current swirls under the streetlights, peaceful for now, but Rich looms like an ice jam upriver, ready to burst any minute and flood our dreary town.
I spend the next few days at home studying computer manuals and preparing for the dairy inventory. They won’t pay me for helping but maybe I’ll learn something. Saturday night I decide I should make an appearance at Mother’s where I find Rich talking and Artie drinking his beer. Artie listens to anyone with a full pitcher.
“The joint serves ground beef every meal,” Rich says, nodding at me when I sit down. “Meatballs, breakfast sausage, sloppy Joes, Salisbury steak, anything but a real hamburger. All tastes the same. But I draw the line at tacos and burritos. I’ve eaten enough of that Mexican shit.”
“Not much Mexican food around here,” Artie says. Mike shows up with a fresh glass and I ask for a pitcher of Genesee Ale.
“Just wait, the Mexicans are coming,” Rich replies. “What about you, Curt? You like beaner food?”
“I stick to the four basic food groups--canned, frozen, take out and beer. And coffee.”
“You eat yoghurt. Saw it in your fridge along with the beer cans.”
Artie purses his lips and shifts his tobacco plug to his other cheek. “Yoghurt sounds disgusting.”
My pitcher appears and I pour myself a glass, refilling Artie and Rich. Artie hops off to the bathroom, wending between tables on his crutch and one leg like a slalom skier.
“Been wanting to talk to you,” Rich says in a low, serious tone.
Here it comes, the Debby talk. I sip my beer and look up.
He continues, “You think that spic that sells pot would sell me a pound or two?”
“Never asked if he sold quanity.”
“Would you try for me?”
I shrug my shoulders, heart pounding, remembering Freddy’s warning. I search his eyes. If he was trying to get even with me for Debby, I’d expect to see some anger. He wants to bust Edwardo. “You don’t need me.”
“You’re right, I can buy it myself. Got an advance from my boss. I can pay you back, too.”
“No worry.”
“Can you talk to him, though? Set it up.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to him.”
He slaps my shoulder. “You’re a great friend.”
Artie returns, followed by Debby. She plants a juicy kiss on Rich’s cheek, carefully avoiding his moustache. She wears tight blue slacks and a ruffled white blouse. Brass loop ear rings hang below her curly auburn hair and her makeup is fresh. She smells like a spring garden. I glance away.
“I’m going dancing at Pearl’s,” Rich announces proudly.
“What about me?” Debby replies with a cute pout. “I’m going, too.”
“Of course you are. You’re my woman.” Rich returns her kiss and they hug, caressing one another’s back. Their cloying exchange makes me burp.
Soon enough they leave and Artie I and return to our beer.
“Mike washed the windows,” Artie says.
I swing my eyes toward the sidewalk where the dim streetlights shine brighter than usual. A silhouette crosses my view and pulls open the door. Eduardo heads back to the pinball machine. I wait a few minutes until he’s alone.
“How’s your car running?” Eduardo asks, shaking my hand.
“Good for now. How’s the family?”
He shows me a new snapshot of his wife and two girls taken at the mall photo booth with its faded khaki curtains.
“The older girl’s almost ready for school,” I say.
“That’s Maria. Our baby’s Janet, and my wife Linda. Now you know everything about me.” He shoves the billfold back into his jeans and scans the room.
“I know you sell car parts. Got a friend who wants to buy a car.”
“Sounds like he should talk to Freddy,” Eduardo smiles. Freddy sells two or three cars a year from his used car lot on Chenango Street.
“Freddy doesn’t have the car he wants.”
Eduardo nods. “Who we talking about?”
“Rich.”
“I’ve seen him. Not very friendly. He’s a friend of yours?”
“He talks about you a lot.”
“Talks about me?”
“Yeah, and he has other friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Might be time to sell your parts someplace else.”
Eduardo stares at me, disbelieving. He cracks a smile and I hold my blank expression, finally turning away.
Back at the bar Artie says, “What was that all about?”
“Doing a favor for a friend.”
A few minutes later, Eduardo pushes open the front door and exits into the blowing snow.
Later in the week a suit from Poughkeepsie appears at the dairy. I’m supposed to show him how to enter shipping data into the computer and run my nightly jobs. I feel like a celebrity for about five minutes until I realize I’m training him to do my job. My boss says they’re only shutting down the Binghamton plant and shifting the work to Poughkeepsie for four weeks. I don’t trust bosses any more than I trust the law.
After work I head to Mother’s where Artie coaxes me into buying a pitcher. The bar has a festive air with tiny Christmas lights strung above the dusty bottles behind the bar, and Mike sprayed snowflakes on the outside windows. He even taped a pine branch above the cash register. Eduardo misses his 8:00 round.
Rich arrives late, spinning on to the stool next to me. He glances toward the pinball machine and says to me in a measured tone, “I see the trainer but no monkey.”
“Good to see you, too, Rich.”
He looks across my chest at Artie, his foul mood drawing attention, drinkers pausing to watch. “Some guys think they do the right thing, but they fuck it up.”
Artie catches my eye.
Leaning back, Rich slaps sixty bucks on the bar. “Think they know what’s happening, like they have it all figured out. Right, Curt?”
I catch his glare and send it back. “What if I do?”
“You should have known better.” He stands and zips his jacket. “Good thing for you I never hurt my friends.” He pushes his way across the bar and shoves open the door, sending a cold draft across the room.
Mike appears in front of me and slides the twenties my way. He scans the bar. “Show’s over.” He grabs his bar rag and wipes the varnished wood until the gawkers return to their glasses.
“You did the right thing, talking to Eduardo,” Artie whispers.
“Did I?”
“He told me to thank you. Don’t know why.”
“Of course not,” I grin. Artie doesn’t miss much.
He spits into a paper napkin. “Don’t think Rich is coming back either.”
“What about Debby?”
“Moving up. Someone saw her eating dinner at Morey’s with Rich’s lawyer, Jensen.”
“Has a mansion next door to Freddy.”
“That’s him.”
I slide one of the twenties back across the bar and wave for another pitcher.
“Season of joy,” Artie croons at my gesture.
“Yeah, I’m drowning in joy.”