Boys

by Scott Semegran

  "Arthur, you doing OK now?" Sarah said, pushing the short white hairs from his moist forehead to the side. He smiled and nodded. Sarah turned to us, smiled, and said we should go.

  As she left the room with Alfonso not far behind her, I knelt down as if to tie my shoe, pinched one of the protruding $100 bills from the shoe box, shoved it inside my shoe, pulled the strings of my shoe as if securing it, stood up, and looked over at Arthur, who was laying down on his bed, his belly protruding upward, his breathing deep and easy. I thought of putting the $100 bill back in the box but I didn't for some reason. I just followed Alfonso and Sarah out of the house.

  We crossed the lawns together back to Sarah's house. As we walked, Sarah put her arms around our waists, pulling us close to her with sincerity and gratitude.

  "Boys, I'm glad you were here to help. I never would have been able to pick that man up by myself. I'm sure he weighs a ton!"

  "You're welcome," Alfonso said.

  "Glad to help," I said.

  We followed her back into her house and returned to our places at her breakfast table. She poured us some rum and offered us some pie that she had in her fridge. Who were we to turn down pie and rum?

  SALUD!

  "Since Arthur didn't finish his story, I'll be glad to tell you the rest of his story if you're interested." We nodded as she placed slices of pie in front of us. "Very good. After Arthur jumped out of the plane, he and his troop landed at the outskirts of a massive battle, ground troops pummeling each other, his calling to kill Nazis in front of him. He killed dozens of them as he ran on foot straight into carnage, some he shot with his handgun, some he stabbed with his big knife, and as many soldiers around him both friend and foe fell to the ground, he witnessed a Nazi officer in the distance standing at the top of a hill. With Arthur's senses heightened with adrenaline and fear and uncertainty, his vision locked onto the officer with laser focus as the battle between foot soldiers raged around him. A path cleared in front of him toward the hill and he ran as fast as he could toward the Nazi officer, his eyes locked on him as he sliced and shot his way through the battle field."

  "Whoa! He sounds like a super hero!" Alfonso said, his mouth full of pie, crumbs raining down on his shirt as he spoke.

  "He had been trained to kill and deprived of any enjoyment for months. He was primed to kill and he wanted that officer. He told me he wasn't sure why it was so clear to him that he was to kill the officer but he acted on his instinct, running as fast as he could toward him. As he got closer, more and more soldiers attempted to impede his way but they weren't successful; he killed them all. He rounded the base of the hill, moving behind where the officer stood at its peak. He ran up the back of the hill with the dexterity of a monkey climbing a tree for a fruit, his traction firm, his stride long. When he reached the top, he grabbed the officer from behind, his arm around his neck, his knife in the other hand ready to slit his throat. The Nazi soldiers there to protect him were caught off-guard and didn't notice their commanding officer was captured until he screamed for help--in German, of course. When they turned around, they saw Arthur there with their commanding officer in his grasp and dozens of other American soldiers behind him, who had followed him up the hill when they noticed his attack. The Germans scattered in every direction and Arthur, unaffected by the screams of the Nazi officer, killed him on the spot by slitting his throat."

  "Man! That's crazy!" I said. "That's like something straight out of a Rambo movie."

  "When the officer fell to the ground, a sword he had in his belt fell to the wayside. Something red sparkled and glistened as it hit the ground. Arthur picked up the sword and quickly slid it in his pant leg, keeping it for later. The battle ended soon after. The Germans surrendered and either retreated or were captured and it would be a good twenty four hours before Arthur would get some rest and sleep back at the camp."

  "That is one crazy story," Alfonso said.

  "What did he do with the sword?" I said.

  "Back at his camp and after a good night's sleep, Arthur remembered he had the sword and examined it. The sword had an intricately engraved handle and a very large, red jewel in the pommel at the base of the grip. It looked like something of great monetary value so he pried the jewel from its golden bezel and hid the jewel with the rest of his belongings. The sword was eventually confiscated and when asked about the empty pommel, he shrugged. But rather than be questioned more about it, he was commended for his brave and successful attack. More rum?" she said, raising the bottle to us.

  "Yes, please," I said. She poured some more for the three of us.

  "On the way back to the United States, Arthur befriended a fellow soldier and, upon learning that the soldier was Jewish, confided in him the secret he had been keeping. His new friend promised that his family could help auction the Nazi jewel and that Arthur would make more money than he could ever imagine, with a cut going to his new friend of course. When they returned to the United States, he followed his friend to New York, where he introduced Arthur to his family, all of which were in the jewelry business. They enthusiastically helped Arthur auction the jewel and in return, paid him tens of thousands of dollars for the Nazi ruby, and he came back to Texas and opened a car dealership selling Ford trucks and automobiles here in Austin soon after. He became very, very successful."

  "That is one crazy story," Alfonso said. I agreed with him. It was a very crazy story and far more interesting than any story we had heard from any of the shitheads down at the P.W., whose stories mostly consisted of who got fucked up on what and where they got fucked up and how hung over they were while telling you how fucked up they were. Just stupid. But this--this story, Arthur's story, as well as Sarah's own story--was way more interesting than anything me or Alfonso had experienced around Austin. What Sarah and Arthur experienced in their lives was nothing short of epic. The only thing epic about me and Alfonso was how broke we were.

  "Well, I guess it is kind of crazy," Sarah said. "But that's life. That was part of his life. It only seems crazy because you can't imagine it but it happened to him. So, rather than being crazy, it's actually just the truth."

  "Does Arthur have any family?" I said, sipping my rum.

  "He did have a wife but she passed away ten years ago. Cancer. And he had three kids but one died in a car wreck. The other two live on the west and east coast respectively. They do not come to visit him. He used to visit them quite often but he's traveled less as his health has deteriorated."

  "I see. He must be lonely."

  "Shoot, Arthur and I have a hoot with some of the other neighbors we have. We've formed our own little family, the old folks we are, abandoned by our children or families or whatever. We take care of each other."

  "Sounds nice," I said, feeling a little envious, a little jealous. "It's nice having support and friendship."

  "Yes, it is. Oh my!" she said, looking at a wall clock, realizing the amount of time that had flown by. "I don't want to keep you boys from work."

  "You're not keeping us," Alfonso said. "We'd rather be here, actually."

  "Well, if you boys don't mind giving me your phone number, I'll call you next time we have another get-together with Arthur and the neighbors. The other neighbors have wonderful stories, too, to tell. I'm certain you'd enjoy yourself."

  "That would be great," Alfonso said.

  "Yes, I'd like that too," I said. She slid a pad of paper and a pen across the table to me and I wrote down my phone number. I pushed the pad of paper back toward her, placed the pen on it. "I'd like that very much."

  Goodbye, Puss Face

  One of the frustrating things for me and Alfonso about working at the P.W. was that we were required to look and dress like a million bucks even though we didn't have a million bucks. In fact, we didn't even have a million cents to our name, for that matter. The management wanted us to wear pressed and starched shirts, nice silk ties, pressed slacks, nice dress shoes, and so on and so forth. They really impressed upon us that it was important
to present ourselves in a very professional manner to our customers, which was fine and all, except that was very hard to do when you didn't have any fucking money! I mean--seriously. I basically had two dress shirts, two silk ties, two pairs of slacks, and one pair of shoes to cycle through for what usually amounted to working six days a week, sometimes all seven days. It doesn't take a genius to figure out the wear and tear those clothes took in a short amount of time. To top that off, imagine the amount of food and beverage and bodily fluid shrapnel the average food service worker needs to dodge to try to keep their uniform clean or at least reasonably free of marinara sauce spots or salad dressing splatters or hot oil stains or parmesan flecks. It was practically impossible to do--really.

  But we tried our best to look clean and pressed and put-together in an elegant way on very little wages. We concocted a system where we would rotate our clothes with the ones we wore the day before by hanging the next shirts and pants in the bathroom and hope the steam from the hot showers would at least permeate our clothes in such a way to loosen the food particles and relax any wrinkles and combat the body odor and make for a smoother ironing job. We had a make-shift pressing station that consisted of an ironing board--one I bought from a nearby thrift shop--that stood in the corner of my bedroom and a $10 iron purchased at the grocery store that was coated with rust and mineral deposits from the hard water that flowed through its steam holes. It wasn't the best solution but it was all we had.

  Almost every day before every shift, we went through the same dance routine of attempting to look like a million bucks with clothes that may or may not have been washed in a week or so, pushing our greasy hair into a style that looked somewhat elegant, and dealing with facial hair that may not be shaved for lack of a decent razor or a can of shave cream with actual shave cream in it. Sometimes, we had to share the small bathroom together, fighting for space in front of the mirror like two teenage sisters, elbowing each other while combing our hair or straightening our ties.

  "Fuck off!" I said, my elbow to Alfonso's ribs in retaliation for his elbow in mine.

  "Don't be a bitch!" he said.

  "You're the bitch!"

  "YOU'RE the bitch!"

  Then a short truce.

  "We should try to start your car," I said, combing my hair back in place.

  "It won't start," he said, annoyed.

  "We should at least try."

  "Why? It won't start."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just know!"

  "You're such an optimist," I said, sarcastically.

  "Fuck off."

  Mr. Whiskers enjoyed this type of interaction between me and Alfonso. He'd jump up on my bed and peer into the bathroom, his tail slithering back and forth like some vertically-inclined, insane snake, pacing back and forth at the end of the bed, meowing occasionally. When we were done primping, I scratched Mr. Whisker's head after getting out of the bathroom then gathered all the things I needed for work: my apron, a pen, a pad of paper, some coins, a pack of cigarettes, and a cheap plastic lighter.

  "You ready?" I said. Alfonso was still in the bathroom, primping.

  "Beauty is hard work," he said. We both laughed out loud.

  "I think we should try to start your car really quick."

  "Fine," he said. "But if it doesn't start then you owe me $50."

  "$50?!" To me, $50 might as well have been $1,000. It was absurd.

  "That's right. $50," he said, combing the last loose strands of hair in place on the top of his fat head.

  "Jesus! You suck. Goodbye, Mr. Whiskers," I said, patting his back then leaving my bedroom.

  "Goodbye, Puss Face," Alfonso said, patting my cat after coming out of the bathroom. He followed me out the door of my apartment.

  ***

  We stood next to Alfonso's dead car and stared. It was covered in more bird shit and more June bug carcasses and more dried leaves and cedar pollen than before, its tires totally deflated, literally looking like a relic from another time, maybe 1983, maybe 1982 depending on when it was manufactured, covered in dust and shame. In all the years that Honda tested this model of car for safety and durability and comfort and stamina, I'm absolutely certain they never imagined the state it would be in now, some 10 years or so later, stranded in my apartment complex parking lot, looking like Godzilla just shit it out after devouring a pile of cars in an unsuspecting parking garage somewhere in Japan. I'm sure it was a nice car when it was brand new. I'm sure someone was proud to own it at some point in its young life. That certainly wasn't the case while we stared at it.

  "Piece of shit," Alfonso said.

  "Mmm hmm," I said.

  "She's still a goddamn, dirty whore."

  "Now, now, no need to talk that way. I'm sure she was your sweetheart back in the day."

  "I guess."

  "Maybe you'd be happier if she started."

  "She won't start," he said, his head drooping.

  "All you can do is try. She might surprise you!" I patted him on the shoulder. He looked down at me, a look on his face I could only describe as "certain defeat," and he nodded. He fumbled in his pockets for his keys, found them, unlocked the door, and opened it. Leaves and empty aluminum cans fell to the ground. He sat inside--his left foot pushing the trash on the floor board away from the gas and brake pedals onto the ground as well--and he put the key in the ignition. I'd not known Alfonso to pray but he closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath that I can only imagine to be a prayer of some kind--maybe a Catholic one that was lodged in the outer places of his memory where the dreams and mental images of his childhood resided--as he gripped the steering wheel with his left hand and tightly pinched the key with his right. Then, unceremoniously, he turned the key in the ignition. His car made a noise that sounded like an old lady coughing up phlegm, and then it roughly started. A look appeared on his face that reminded me of those people you see in lottery commercials--the ones that supposedly won big with a scratcher or whatever--and he jumped out of his piece of shit car, his arms extended to the sky like he was the champion of the whole fucking world.

  "It started!" he said, yelling toward the sky, his voice echoing through the trees around my apartment complex, and grackles escaping the noise. We gave each other high-fives. He turned to look at his ride, still surprised, really surprised. "Kinda rough but she's running."

  "Yep." I was happy for him. It really was like he won the lottery or something.

  "I can't believe it. This whole time..."

  There are times when you are so far down in the dumps, so far down a pit of despair from bad luck and bad circumstance and bad choices that it just seems like you never, ever catch a break, and when it finally comes, even just a little break, it feels monumental. It feels like the best thing that has ever happened to you. It feels like winning the lottery, even if it's only your piece of shit car barely starting and running after sitting for what seemed like months. Alfonso's car starting felt like that--like he won something, like it was his time. It felt like we were heading in a new direction, like good things were about to happen. Do you know that feeling? I bet you do.

  "Too bad the tires are flat as fuck," I said, laughing. "We need to figure out how to air them up."

  "No doubt," Alfonso said, rubbing his hands together.

  "And maybe invest in a few things to tune it up, spark plugs and filters and whatever."

  "Yeah." He leaned into his car and cut the ignition. The car burped back to sleep. "I need to make a plan to fix it up."

  "I'll help you, buddy." I patted him on the back and he closed the door to his car. We found my Civic, jumped in, and went to work.

  ***

  There was a strange energy in the air at the P.W. when we walked inside. The wait staff huddled around the podium even though Paula the A.M. was not there. They all mumbled about her whereabouts but nothing concrete was said. I looked at Alfonso and he looked at me. We shrugged and hung in the background, finding a spot against the wall to lean on, hangin
g out. As I looked at the throng of impatient servers, I saw Laura Ann peering at us. I tilted my head up as if to say, 'Wazzup?' She tilted her head back at me as if to say, 'Huh?' She broke through the others and stood next to me. She nudged me with her elbow.

  "No one knows what's going on," she said, whispering.

  "I see," I said, mock whispering.

  "It would be nice to know what are assignments are."

  "Yeah."

  "I could use the money."

  "Me too."

  "Do you ever consider what it would be like working somewhere else?" she said, extending her leg forward and drawing figure eights and stars with the toe of her shoe.

  "At another restaurant?" I said, curious.

  "Yeah."

  "I think if I had to leave here that I wouldn't go to another restaurant. I'd probably look to find something new."

  "Like car salesman?!" Alfonso said. I looked at him, giving him a burning stare. "You can make fat cash as a car salesman."

  "I'm not a car salesman," I said. "That's not a part of my personality."

  "I hear they are hiring at the lake for next season. I know this chick who worked at Señor Toad's. She told me she made a lot of money last summer working out there."

  "Yeah? How many guys did she have to blow?" Alfonso said, sarcastically.

  "She didn't have to blow anybody!" she said, punching him in the gut. That caught him off guard. Pretty funny, if you'd asked me. I couldn't stop giggling.

  "Just asking. Shit," he said, rubbing his stomach. I looked at him and motioned with my eyes for him go away. He rolled his eyes, annoyed, and straightened his shirt. "I see I'm not wanted here." He walked away.