“Get your own beer. We are busy, hon,” she said just before she vanished behind the kitchen’s swinging door.
“I’ll grab you one,” Abraham said.
He moved out of his stool, slipped over to the store side and back into the freezer, and cracked open a case. He pulled out a dark bottle wrapped in the keg-barrel label. The logo read The Beer for What Ales You.
“That’s a new one.”
Luther alternated slogans back and forth. Some weren’t bad, but others were just horrible. His favorite was Beer Happens. He made his way back to the diner.
Mandi was sitting in his stool, fully engaged in a friendly chat with the officer whom he’d been sitting next to. As she took his order, she would touch the man’s shoulder and laugh at his comments. Abraham felt ashamed. At the moment, he looked like a slob compared to the neatly dressed man in uniform. He was out of shape and probably couldn’t run a quarter mile to save his life. He remembered when he’d been fit as a fiddle and sharp as a tack in his dress. Now, he felt more out of place. He set the beer down hard on the counter.
“Oh, there it is,” Herb said.
Mandi turned, gave Abraham an uninterested glance, and hopped out of his seat. As she continued her conversation with the officer, he eased back into his stool, huddled over his food, and slowly started eating.
Herb nudged him with his fist full of beer. “I need a little help. Will you do it?”
Absentmindedly, he said, “Huh? Oh.”
He took the bottle in his hand. The beer bottle wasn’t a twist-off. It required a bottle opener.
“Don’t you have any paint-can openers? They work great, you know,” Abraham said, thinking of the trick Luther had taught him.
The old man gave out cheap paint-can keys because they were perfect bottle openers and super cheap to buy in bulk.
“I got to see you do it,” Herb said with a grin.
“Okay.”
Abraham had hands like a gorilla’s. They were strong as a vise, too—the one gift he had that he’d never had to work at. Using the power of his thumb, he pushed the cap right off the top of the bottle. The black cap, with its war-helm insignia, fell onto the bar.
Herb clapped his hands and cackled gleefully. He took the bottle from Abraham and took a long drink. “Ah, man, that’s good. So tell me—have you listened to any good books lately?”
“Some.” He had plenty of time to listen to lots of things in the truck. He tried to mix it up between audiobooks, radio, and satellite. But he preferred the quiet most of all. “You?”
“I like that Game of Thrones. I can’t see it so well on the TV, but we listen on the road to Richmond. Man, that’s good.”
“It’s awful,” Martha said as she passed by with a coffee pot in hand. “They do the most horrible things to each other in those stories.”
Herb grinned. “That’s the fun part.”
Martha rolled her eyes as she filled up a soldier’s coffee.
“I still listen to a little bit of everything, that included,” Abraham said. “I just have trouble sticking with the same story, so I jump around a lot. I like biographies about real people because you get a finished story. Some stories I don’t like starting if there isn’t a finish. But I figure I’ll get around to finishing all of them one day. I’ve got nothing else going on.”
“Huh. Well, what about sports? Do you listen to any games?”
“No.”
6
This was the part of the conversation where Abraham would squirm. Herb tended to rehash the same topics, and baseball always came up. The elder wasn’t preoccupied with the past. He was mostly only concerned about what he was interested in at the moment, which tended to be the same topics: money, beer, books, and sports.
Since the accident, Abraham had walked away from the game of baseball completely. Agents, managers, and reporters hounded him after the accident. He had a contract, a big one, that wouldn’t be fulfilled. Maybe he could have played again, but he didn’t care, and when the baseball business didn’t leave him alone, he became bitter toward it. It amplified his sorrow. His life spiraled down further from there.
He was an ace pitcher, a strike-out king. When he was on the mound, he felt like a demigod. He’d struck out every batter he ever faced. He held that white leather ball in his hand like a lethal weapon. He humiliated batters time and time again. He would wind up that lanky arm of his and unleash the baseball off the tip of his finger as if it were shot out of a pistol. Batters went down, one after the other, pounding their bats on the ground to the roar of the crowd.
But the away teams hated him. They hated him with a passion. The signs in the stands read Jenkins the Jerk and Abraham Stinkin. He laughed at all of them. He didn’t laugh after the accident. Plenty of flowers and fan mail came, even from the folks who despised him. But after that day, he realized life wasn’t the mound, and some things in life, no matter how good you were, you just couldn’t control.
He finished up his meal while Herb rambled on. He wiped his fingers on his napkin and pushed back the empty plate and the basket of fries. The sky outside was darkening.
“I need to get going. Let me go grab my delivery ticket and gas up.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll sign off on it. Looks like the girls are pretty busy,” Herb said. “It’s good seeing you.”
Outside, under the gas station’s canopy, he grabbed the gas-pump nozzle and fed it into the beer truck’s tank. The digital meter converting gallons to dollars moved slowly. It was always slow at Woody’s Grill but slower now as a few soldiers were also filling up their vehicles. His truck had a forty-gallon tank, so it would take a while.
Halfway through pumping, a man in a deep authoritative voice said, “Nice truck.”
He turned to see the officer he’d sat beside in the grill. The man stood almost as tall as him.
“How are you doing, Colonel?”
The polished officer made an easy smile. “You know your insignias.”
“I’m a military brat. My dad was an Air Force pilot in ’Nam. I wasn’t born then, but he flew F-4 Phantoms during the war.”
“I see. A napalm warrior, huh?”
“He used to say he set the world on fire. I was pretty young, and he was pretty old by the time I came around. I never knew what that meant until I saw Platoon.”
The colonel chuckled. He brushed his finger across his moustache and said, “Look, I’m a big baseball fan. A big Buckos fan, as a matter of fact. I thought it was you back when I first locked eyes on you but wasn’t sure until you peeled that cap off that beer bottle like it was the skin of a banana. Man, that was something.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m really a big fan. I don’t want an autograph or anything. I just wanted to shake your hand and express my regards.”
“Well sure, Colonel”—he looked at the man’s name tag—“Dexter.” He offered his hand. “And, I’d be happy to give an autograph, anything for you and your men.”
“That’s a mighty generous offer.” The colonel shook with a strong grip. “It’s Colonel Drew Dexter. But a handshake will do just fine.”
“You mean you don’t want a selfie with me?” he joked.
He dug in his pocket. “I’m not big on social media, but what the heck? How about one for me to show my family. My wife will get a kick out of it. Private Griffith, get your tail over here.”
A young woman in uniform wearing a soft cap ran over to the colonel and saluted.
He returned the salute and handed her his phone. “Take a few good ones of me and my friend here.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
The men stood shoulder to shoulder and smiled.
She silently snapped the photos. “It’s done, Colonel.”
“Thank you.” Colonel Dexter took back his camera and said, “Dismissed, Private Griffith.” He turned to Abraham. “Technology is something, isn’t it? It’s 2019, and our precious worlds live under our fingertips.” He sli
d the phone into his shirt pocket. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem. So are you part of that group that was working in the Big Walker Tunnel?”
“I can’t say whether we are or aren’t.”
“No problem. I understand. I just hope the East River Mountain Tunnel is free of interruptions.” Abraham checked the darkening sky. “Looks like it’s going to be rain all the way either way.”
“We came from the north. The East River Tunnel is smooth sailing. Anyway, my best to you, Mr. Jenkins. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”
“You too, Colonel. Say, would you like a couple of cases to share with your troops?”
The colonel’s eyes got big. “We don’t say no to beer.” He patted the doors on the truck. “Especially this brew. You sure it’s no trouble?”
“I get a few liberties on the job. Plus, the owner’s a vet too. He’ll understand.” He unloaded two cases of the bottles and handed them over to the colonel. “Enjoy.”
Taking the beer to his Humvee, the colonel said, “Will do.”
The gas nozzle clicked. He racked the hose and finished paying with his gas card. The pump spat out a receipt. He took it and put it inside the truck. He made his rounds at the truck, checking the tires and making sure the slat doors were all closed except one left open for the dolly. He reached back in the truck, grabbed his clipboard, and headed inside.
Mandi was still working the tables. A skinny young man wearing a Woody’s Grill T-shirt stood behind the register. He had jet-black hair that hung in his eyes. Abraham wondered if he was one of Mandi’s kids.
He moved over to Herb, who was staring up at the television over the bar. “Time to hit the road. See you next week.”
“You leaving already? It’s gonna rain. A lot. I can feel it in my joints. The more rain, the more it hurts. I think it’s the Indian in me,” Herb said. “I’m one quarter Chippewa. One of a kind. Heh heh.” With his tongue stuck out of his mouth, he signed the delivery receipt. “I can’t read it, but I trust you.”
Abraham gave Herb his copy then flagged down Martha, delivering orders behind the counter, and waved goodbye.
She caught his eye and waved. “See you next month. Be careful out there. Storm’s coming.”
He fetched his dolly, which Mandi had left in the cooler, and headed out. He glanced inside the diner. Mandi was on the far side of the room with her back to him, serving drinks to the soldiers. She never turned his way. I guess I’ll see her next month.
Back at the beer truck, he loaded up his dolly and secured it inside the compartment. He closed the door and made one last walk around his vehicle. Coming around the front from the passenger side, he almost ran right into Mandi. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She tapped one foot, a storm brewing in her eyes.
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
“What did I do?”
“You could have at least walked up and said goodbye. Would that have killed you?”
“I think you were doing just fine entertaining the troops. Don’t act like you were missing me.” He tried to walk around her, but she stepped in his way.
She pointed in his face. “Ah ha! You do like me. I made you jealous, didn’t I?”
Looking away from her penetrating stare, he said, “No.”
“You’re lying. You can’t even look me in the eye. Just admit it—you like me. I know it because you never leave without two slices of Mom’s homemade pecan pie.”
He decided to flip the tables on her. “So you’re an actress now. How can I trust someone that puts on a show like that? Look, I don’t have time for games, Mandi. I’ve got to go. I’ve got work to do.” He tried to move by her, but she shuffled in front of him. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Will you get out of my way?”
“No. Not until you admit the truth. You like me.”
“Don’t make me do this.”
“Do what, admit the truth? I know you are hurting, but let me help you unhurt,” she said as she grabbed his waist and hooked her fingers in his belt loops. “I can help you move on.”
“Mandi, you don’t know me that well.” He put his hands on her waist, lifted her up again, and set her aside.
“Hey!” she yelled, furious. Her cheeks turned as red as roses. Her stare filled with daggers that could kill him. Her fists balled up at her sides. She started to shake her head. Her hands opened up. Then the flames went out in her eyes, and tears started to form. “You know, Abraham, go ahead, let the road be your mistress.” Her shoulders sagged as she walked away. “See you next month… or not. I don’t care.”
7
Abraham hit the road feeling as empty as he’d felt in months. Mandi liked to dig her nails into him, and he would usually shrug it off, but this time, somehow, she got them in deep. He felt as though he didn’t want to feel at all. As he was driving in the steady traffic north on I-77, he looked over at his son’s backpack. It gave him comfort, as if his son were still sitting in the seat.
“I think I might have blown it this time.”
Overhead, heavy clouds had built up, which came in from the ocean, to the east. The rain was barely spitting. No doubt a storm was coming. He didn’t like driving in the rain. A single headlight in his sideview mirror caught his eye. Two seconds later, a babe on a jet bike zoomed by him, wearing only a red-white-and-blue helmet, cowboy boots, and a bikini. Her auburn hair was flowing out from underneath her helmet.
Abraham would have chuckled. He’d seen plenty of wild things on the road, but this view was a first. He figured she was leaving the lake and trying to beat the rain, not that it was any of his business. Three seconds later, another rider on a crotch rocket soared by. The man, with more muscle than motorcycle, must have been moving over one hundred miles per hour. The fool didn’t even have a shirt on, just biker boots, jeans, and a black helmet.
“Idiot.”
The last thing Abraham wanted was to have to pull over to scrape the two fools up off the road. It had happened before, and it was an ugly scene—wreckage and broken bodies all over the highway. It brought back memories that haunted him day in and day out. Now, his belly started to sour, and his head ached. The aggravation was probably activating his ulcer. With the combination of too many jalapeños and cheese and a juicy hamburger with almost as much grease as meat, things weren’t gonna go well. His tummy gurgled in a loud, bad way.
“Oh no. Here we go.”
His forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He fanned himself with his cap and turned the air conditioner up another level. The spitting rain came down harder on the windshield. He turned on the truck’s wipers.
“I really need to cut back on the jalapeños.”
For some reason, he reached up and pulled his sun visor down. While driving on a brief straight stretch of road, he took a long glance at the picture of his family, Jenny and Jake. Jenny was a tall athlete of a woman with pretty eyes and short sandy-blond hair that covered her ears. She always had a warm smile on her face. Jake, at eight years old, had more of his mother in him than his father. He was a handsome kid, lean as a string bean, but with big hands and feet like his dad. Both of them had ball caps on that day in the picture. It was the day he’d signed a huge contract with the Pirates. Not long after that, all their lives had turned inside out.
“I miss you, baby,” he said as he kissed his two fingers and touched the picture. “Both of you, more than you’ll ever know.” His eyes watered. “I’m sorry.”
His belly moaned. He reached over into Jake’s backpack and fetched a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He shook up the milky pink elixir, twisted off the cap, and drank. It was one of the few drugs he took, now that he’d cleaned himself up, and he felt guilty even for taking that. He’d lost faith in a lot of medicines that took hold of him. They were as bad as the depression itself. But with help from his friends at the mission, like Mike, Dave, and Luther, he was able to live with the pain and loss on his own. His heart ached because he missed his wife and son so much.
He put t
he bottle back in the backpack. “Thanks, son.” He looked closely at the picture of his wife. “I love you, love. Sorry about Mandi. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He knew in his heart that Jenny would understand. She had patience and a strong temperament and was as understanding as they came. But if he stepped too far from the line, she would let him know it. His head got swollen often, but she kept him grounded. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him: his best friend. No person could replace her.
A possum crept onto the highway and darted out from the berm on the right. Abraham jerked the wheel hard left. The truck wheels screeched and bumped over something.
“Geez! Stupid varmint!”
He pulled the truck back into the right lane and checked his mirrors. No other cars were around, coming or going. That was odd because this stretch of interstate stayed continuously busy, especially during vacation season.
With his belly gurgling like the crashing waters of a waterfall, now bloated and gassy, he unbuckled his belt. “Good Lord, this feels awful. No more jalapeños. I swear it. I swear that milk is curdling in my stomach. Go, Pepto, go. Work that magic.”
He was about two miles away from the East River Mountain Tunnel. The storm clouds shaded the mountainous hills to black. Sheets of rain were coming down from the sky, and lightning streaked and flashed in the purple sky above the tunnel.
With almost two hours of driving left, Abraham said to himself, “Looks like it’s going to be a long drive.”
He rounded the last upward twist of the interstate that led him right to the tunnel. The subtle yellow glow of the tunnel mouth waited to swallow him whole. The rain came down harder, splattering loudly on his rooftop. A bolt of lightning that looked like it had been cast from heaven itself lit up the dark sky with white fire, striking the mountaintop. A thunderous boom followed, shaking the truck cabin.
“Whoa!” he cried out.
The beer truck engine sputtered. The dashboard lights flickered on and off. Still, the truck chugged along with the diesel turbo engine, renewing its laborious fury. With sheets of rain coming down, he plowed his way through into the tunnel, where he was alone—no head- or taillights in front of him or behind. It wasn’t the oddest thing in the world to see, but normally, unless in the wee hours after midnight, plenty of company would be ripping through the tunnel. At 1,650 meters, the tunnel was just over a mile long, taking about one minute to pass through. The tires hummed through the tunnel, making a unique sound all their own. The lights inside the tunnel flickered on and off like the wink of fireflies.
The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1 Page 4