by Chris Fink
How’s it going, Jerry? Timothy asks. A stupid question. Clearly, things are not going well for Jerry. He’s drunk, disheveled, unwashed. He looks like he could be a Brady Street bum except for the coat, which looks expensive, one-of-a-kind. It’s suede, Timothy sees now, and lighter than tan, more the color of a palomino horse. He stands out at the Foundation because of the coat, and for his age. Jerry looks to be in his fifties, and this is a twenty-something crowd.
How’s it going? Jerry says, echoing Timothy’s question. Well, let’s see. The wife’s gone, the house is lost, and the dog is dead.
Geez, Timothy says. Sounds like I should be buying you a drink.
No, this one’s on me. So is the next one. And that should about do it.
He reaches into the pocket of his palomino coat and pulls out a fistful of coins and drops them onto the table. Then he reaches back into his pocket and fishes around some more. He empties the last of the coins onto the same pile, some coins spilling onto the floor. Jerry doesn’t bend to pick up the coins but instead calls for the waitress.
Timothy notices a group of five or six young hipsters on the corner couches at the back of the bar seem to have an interest in this table. Maybe not hipsters. What would Reka call them? Industrials? Industrialists? Timothy doesn’t know how long they’ve been watching his table, but they don’t seem shy about staring. Reka notices too.
That rivethead’s giving you stink eye, she says.
Rivethead. Timothy thinks of Rosie the Riveter. Growing up in Wisconsin, he’s always associated her with Milwaukee.
The waitress arrives. Except for her apron, she’s dressed like she could be one of the industrialists—were they all rivetheads?—at the back of the room. Timothy notices her patent-leather high heels are thick as blocks, like combat boots. Skull crushers.
Another double vodka for me, Jerry says. Rail’s good. And whatever these two lovebirds are having.
The waitress sighs. She’s been serving Jerry for a while, it seems.
We’re vodka sweet, Timothy says. From the rail. Then to Jerry. All those coins, it looks like you were on Marshall Street this morning.
Come again? Jerry says.
I saw a man drop a jar of change out of his car window on Marshall Street earlier and a herd of bums dived after the coins. Looks like you got a few.
Shit, I saw that too, Jerry says. Where do you think this loot came from?
No kidding?
Shit yeah. I was watching from the window.
Odds or evens? Timothy asks.
1537. Big brown Vic full of bums.
Well that makes us neighbors, Timothy says. I’m 1535. Rooms for Men. Timothy feels better now. This isn’t some stranger, it’s his neighbor. So, did you join the fray? Timothy says.
Naw, Jerry says. Sold my electric toothbrush to my housemate for a bagful. Jerry shoves the coins into a tight pile. You that way? he asks, cocking his pinky.
What do you think? Timothy says. He’s grown to like this ambiguity. Timothy tells the story, which Reka hadn’t heard, about the orange Caprice and how he thought for a moment the man had dropped a bomb, but how it was just a jar of coins. Timothy admits he felt an urge to run out to the street and join the mob sifting through the shards and coins. It was free money, after all.
It’s been a strange day, Jerry says. Waitress ever gets her skinny ass back here we’ll drink to strange days on Marshall Street. Timothy notices how the chairs at their table are arranged so that Reka’s chair is closer to Jerry’s. Someone just walking by might imagine that Reka and Jerry were a couple and Timothy was, what, their young friend? A little brother?
The waitress comes back with the drinks, and Jerry takes a long time counting twelve dollars from the pile of coins on the table. Jerry’s suede coat is out of place in a way that Timothy can’t quite name. It looks like maybe it could be a cowboy coat. But it could also be some kind of vintage number, so maybe it was trendy? These vintage stores practically outnumbered the bars on Brady Street.
Jerry smiles at the waitress in a hungry way that Timothy recognizes from somewhere. Gust, his brother-in-law back in Blue River. That’s who Jerry reminded him of. Hungry not for the woman but for what she’s doling out.
The waitress furrows her brow. She looks disgusted, like Jerry just spilled something on her.
Hey, it spends, shit, Jerry says as she walks away.
What a cunt, Reka says.
Timothy flinches, but Jerry does not. She’s just young, Jerry says, taking a big drink before he says, Cheers.
Cheers, says Timothy.
What were we drinking to? Reka says.
What would you say if I told you I was hunting for bottom? Jerry says.
If we weren’t in a dead-end dive bar in Milwaukee, I’d say you were hunting for pussy, Reka says.
Timothy flinches again. Jerry laughs. Not that bottom, he says. That’s kid’s stuff. To the other bottom. He holds his drink up to toast.
Amen to the bottom then, Reka says. Tits up.
Jerry gulps half the double, then explains how his wife had left him earlier that year for a younger man, what Jerry called a boy toy. They had to sell the house. The dog was a problem too. He was a rescue number, large, boisterous, and troublesome. Sparky. Wife’s new man wanted no part of the dog, and Jerry, well, Jerry was in a boardinghouse now on a week-to-week and couldn’t keep a dog. They decided to euthanize it. Euthanize him. Sparky.
I can’t believe you had to kill your dog, Reka says. That’s so sad.
As if to outdo himself, Jerry says, too loudly, Then I lost my job. I was a broker. Isn’t that funny. Now I’m broker than I was.
Timothy notices the rivetheads still watching from the corner couches. A couple of them wear dark stocking caps, and their facial piercings glint in the dull bar light.
Now you’re staring, Reka whispers, and Timothy turns to face the table.
This is the last of my money, Jerry says. He’s talking directly to Reka now. The very last. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll have a headache and no money and no job and my roommate will still be a huge Samoan dude with tits bigger than my wife’s. And that will be the bottom of the jar for Old Fat Baby.
After neither of them responds, Jerry says, Right?
I’ve got some bad news for you, Mister Baby, Reka says.
Timothy feels oddly like he’s interrupting these two. That will be the bottom, he says stupidly, but Jerry ignores him, as does Reka.
You two getting hitched? Jerry asks brightly. Timothy and Reka look at one another. He says, You might as well get it all over with. Get married, have a kid, get a divorce.
Ha, Reka says. You are one jaded individual.
But Timothy is offended. This is too much. All of it. Let’s go, he says, standing up. As he does, he sees eyes on him from the corner of the bar.
Hey, whoa there, Texaco, I’m just fucking with you. Don’t be so touchy. Happy couple. Let me buy you another toddy. Things will probably work out great for you guys. I can tell they will. You’re quite a bit older than this one, aren’t you? he says to Reka.
Wow, Jerry, Reka says. I can see why your wife left you. She offers this comment like her last one, with a flirtatious glint in her eye. At least it seems so to Timothy.
OK, I deserved that, Jerry says. But let me buy you another drink.
Jerry finishes his double.
He buys another round with the coins, and the same waitress waits impatiently for Jerry to pay up. Once he’s paid, a small pile remains, and Jerry brushes these last few coins from the table with one cupped hand into the other, carefully, the way one clears bread crumbs from a table. Then he reaches for the waitress, catches her waist, and drops the coins into the pocket of her apron.
Don’t touch me, she says, jerking back. You’ll be out of here. Then she cuts Reka with a look as if to say, Control your animal.
Sorry lady, Jerry says. No offense. Just trying to tip good.
The waitress remains affronted. Just control yourself,
she says.
Hey, sorry . . .
Then Reka interrupts. No, he’s not sorry. Listen, bitch. No one forced you to be a barmaid. Why don’t you go do what barmaids do.
Cowed, the woman walks back to the bar, her skull crushers crushing the carpet. Now it seems like everyone in the Foundation is watching them. Even the barrel riders stare down evilly from their precarious positions.
Wow, Timothy says. You put her in her place. She wouldn’t have taken that kind of treatment from a man.
There was something about Reka. Some mysterious authority. When she gave an order, you knew you had better obey. Timothy remembered certain of his high school teachers claiming that authority, while others did not. But it was impossible to say for sure what separated the two groups. It had nothing to do with gender, he was sure of that. It had to do with a certain latent cruelty you knew you didn’t want to see unleashed. Sitting at the table, it was easy to see. Of the three of them, Reka was the one you had better not fuck with.
Reka and Jerry drink their drinks efficiently, one matching the other. Timothy still has half of his drink left when Reka gets up to use the bathroom. Listen, we really do have to get going, she says to Jerry. It was nice to meet you, truly. She reaches across the table to shake his hand. Then she looks at Timothy. Meet me on the way out, OK, Lucky?
OK, Timothy says.
When Reka walks away, Timothy turns to Jerry. He wants to say something comforting but doesn’t know what to say. We’re pulling for you, he says finally. I think you’re a good guy. I think tomorrow things will start to look up for you.
Thanks, Jerry says. This is my last night to party. I guess no more dough means no more drinks for Old Fat Baby.
That’s a good place to start, Timothy says.
He gets up to leave and Jerry says, You’ve got your hands full with that one.
I know I do, Timothy says. He walks to the bar to nurse his vodka sweet and wait for Reka.
No sooner has he gone than Timothy sees two from the group of rivetheads approach Jerry. It’s as if the group has dispatched the two as scouts. So, they weren’t interested in Timothy after all. They were waiting for him to get out of the way. The others stay on the corner couches but keep vigilant.
At Jerry’s table, all three seem to be laughing, just having fun. Or maybe they’re taunting Jerry and he’s laughing at his own expense. It’s hard to tell, and maybe it doesn’t matter. The rivetheads don’t really seem old enough to be in the bar, but they’re dressed for it, the black hoodies and death-metal T-shirts and all that hardware in their faces. Either they’re too young or Timothy’s too old.
Timothy watches one of the young men in the corner whisper to his girlfriend—he seems to be the head riveter and she’s the only girl, Rosie—and she too approaches Jerry’s table.
He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can guess. The picture is becoming clear. Rosie touches him on the sleeve of his suede coat, and Jerry laughs and nods. He struggles to remove it, nearly falling down. Then he holds the coat up in one hand. It shines golden in the dusky bar light.
Reka walks out of the bathroom and meets Timothy at the bar. OK, Lucky, she says. Take me home or lose me forever.
Just let me finish my drink, he says. Then he nods toward Jerry. Our friend’s being fleeced.
They watch as the young girl Rosie puts the coat on. The other two seem to distract Jerry, showing him their tattoos or something, as she walks back to her boyfriend.
Jerry doesn’t appear to need much distracting. He’s already forgotten about the coat.
They watch Rosie take the coat off and fold it elegantly over her arm.
Well, there goes his precious coat, Timothy says. That will be the bottom. I don’t really want to be around for the end of this, do you?
You have to do something, Reka says. He looks at her as if she might be joking, but she’s serious. You can’t let them, she says, not pleading so much as demanding.
What do you care? Timothy says. He’s punishing her now, for her earlier flirtation and all the unwanted news about her sporting ways.
What do you mean, what do I care? It’s the right thing. I thought you were the Good Samaritan boy. Go do some good.
There isn’t time to argue. Rosie’s heading toward them with the coat, angling toward the door. Her boyfriend approaches Jerry to taunt him with the others while she escapes with the prize.
Timothy wonders what they want with the coat. It’s not their style.
Do something, Reka urges again.
Reka was right. It wasn’t fair. Jerry wasn’t just a drunk. He was a good guy in a bad spot. And he had been generous to them. She wants him to do something. Something may be the wrong thing, or it may be the right thing. It doesn’t matter. It only matters that if Timothy does anything it’s going to end badly. Doesn’t Reka know this? With all her worldliness doesn’t she know this basic thing?
Timothy steps in front of the girl. You shouldn’t take the man’s coat, he says.
What are you talking about? Rosie says. She wears black eyeliner, and her full lips are colored purple.
That’s Jerry, Timothy says. He’s good people. He’s having a rough stretch. You really should give him his coat back.
Mind your own business you fucking hick, Rosie says, and she tries to walk past.
How did she know? They had been talking about him too. Timothy grabs her wrist. Give the coat to me, he says. I’ll give it back to Jerry and nobody will know any different. Her boyfriend, Head Riveter, looks up and sees Timothy confronting his Rosie. He leaves Jerry and comes to her rescue.
What’s going on bro, Riveter says. He’s a head shorter than Timothy but broad in the shoulders and across the chest. Timothy is more afraid of him when he sees how he’s built, but he tries not to show it.
Your gal Rosie here was just going to give my friend his coat back, Timothy says.
Rosie’s pouting now, and she starts to slide the coat off her arm. Timothy reaches to take it, but Riveter stops him.
Yo bitch, the man says. Hop off.
Timothy says to Reka in disbelief, Riveter just called me bitch. Look, he says to the two thieves. You’re out of line. Just give the coat back and I’ll buy you a beer. I’ll buy you both a beer.
Riveter gets up in Timothy’s face. Dude gave us the coat, dog, he says. Dude don’t even want it. Then he says to Rosie, Let’s go, man.
Timothy looks at Reka, who seems content to be the observer. It’s clear what she wants. He’s a schoolteacher. He’s the adult in the room. He should say something stern and practical and put an end to this nonsense immediately.
Timothy tries one more time. He catches Rosie’s wrist. Listen, he says, trying not to tremble. Jerry is a friend of ours. His wife just left him and he doesn’t have a dime. You shouldn’t kick a man when he’s down.
But then Riveter is in Timothy’s face again. From the corner of the room, Timothy sees the other industrialists watching, waiting to pounce. The only one who doesn’t know what’s going on is Jerry. He has his arms out like he’s trying to balance on one spot.
Let’s just get out of here, Ray, the girl says.
That’s the right call, Timothy says.
Step back outta my road, Riveter says. Then he reaches for Timothy’s face and tugs at the soul patch growing under his lip. Check it, man. Dog’s got a little prison pussy, he says.
Timothy’s mind reels. In front of him there’s an antagonist calling him names, and the man has just grabbed his face. Timothy looks to Reka for help, but she stands dispassionately to the side. Why won’t she do something? These two would listen to her. Timothy looks around the room, but everyone seems to have chosen this moment to mind their own business. Only the hobbits watch, spinning on their barrels. The downstream hobbit has lost his balance. In the next moment, he’ll be in deep water.
Doesn’t Riveter know what happens when you touch a man’s face? Why does he take Timothy for a pushover? He somehow came to the conclusion that
Timothy was harmless, but it was the wrong conclusion. In Blue River this would be settled already.
In the right hand Timothy holds the rest of his drink. His left hand is empty. On the bar, on the edge of the bowling lane, he finds an empty beer can. Pabst. They’re drinking this stuff again. Everything is still. His left hand holding the beer can arrives squarely on Riveter’s nose. The can crumples and the man crumples with it. Blood spurts from his nose. He’s on his knees, holding his bloody face. The beer can is on the floor crushed flat like the waitress had taken her big heel to it.
Rosie shrieks and unfolds the coat. She throws it at Timothy and runs toward the door.
Timothy wheels to face the onslaught of the other rivetheads, but they’re all streaming by him for some reason, out the door, running.
The bartender, Garth, has made it around the bar now, just as Riveter stands up from the floor, his face a bloody mess. Timothy expects Riveter to stand and fight, but he too lurches for the door.
And just like that it’s over.
Timothy stands, holding the coat. He walks over to hand it to Jerry.
Jerry seems dazed. How did you get my coat? he says. He had missed the whole scene.
Those guys tried to steal it, Timothy says. I got it back for you.
No shit? he says. That old thing. He nods at the coat. I said they could have it.
Garth has decided someone should pay for the mess he has to clean up later. He puts his hand on Timothy’s shoulder. You’re out of here pal, he says in his hoarse voice. There’s no fighting in this place. I don’t care who started it.
He started it, the waitress says, pointing at Timothy.
A couple of other bystanders nod. Timothy is the guilty party. It doesn’t matter. They’re leaving anyway. He grabs Reka’s hand, but she pulls away and walks out ahead of him.
On the sidewalk outside, Riveter has regained his bravado, but he’s like a dog on an invisible leash, barking but held back.
Bitch coldcocked me, he says. I’d tear his shit up, but my paroley’d have my balls.
The threat seems to be over, but out of the darkness Rosie walks up and spits in his face. She’s accurate, and the hot heavy glob of mucus clings to his eye. He wipes it away, but it lingers there like a wet kiss. Now Timothy expects Reka to come to his rescue, but she’s way out in front of him, already getting in the truck.