by Sarah Title
But apparently gawky and gangly was cool now. Thoughts like this made Liam feel very old, and he wasn’t even thirty. They also made him misremember how hellish his high school life was, being a gawky, gangly kid with glasses who was into music and books and feelings. Seeing that kid dressed as Young Liam made him think that, yeah, it was cool back then. He had no problems, no worries. No desk schedules to fight with, no bills due, no town council meetings to deal with.
Nostalgia, man.
It made Liam feel a little bad for Hal Jr. Just the fact that he went by Hal Jr. meant there was no escaping his father’s legacy. But what could the guy do? That was his name. Liam would really feel bad for the guy if he wasn’t trying to cut the library’s budget.
No, not cut it. Adjust it, was how Hal Jr. described it. Because the roof had sprung a leak during the very snowy winter, and so thousands of dollars were spent replacing said roof in the spring. Which was now done, and Liam had submitted a very detailed and specific list of all the materials that were damaged in the leak—the specific books, the exact model of public printer, and the very expensive microfilm machine. The insurance company cut the check and Liam placed the order and they had a shiny, almost-new microfilm machine and a new printer that also scanned, and the holes in the collection were filled with shiny new books.
Fixing the damage wrought by the leak, Liam was prepared to argue, didn’t actually cost the town anything beyond Liam’s time to assess the damage and order replacements. And the insurance money did exactly that—replaced things that were lost. So Hal Jr.’s argument that the library had already bought a bunch of new stuff this year and so did not need the line item earmarked for new books was . . . flawed.
The problem was, Hal Jr. knew it was flawed. He just didn’t care. He wanted the money for his pet projects, mostly the Halikarnassus High School football team, which killed Liam because of the stereotypes. Couldn’t he want the money for the theater club? Or girls’ sports, for the love of Pete? But no. Football.
Liam liked football. And he enjoyed going to the HHS games, even though the team was absolutely terrible. Putting in lights on the football field was not going to fix that. But try telling that to Hal Jr.
Which was what Liam was at the town council meeting to do.
Man, he missed Peggy.
The gavel banged for order, the flag was pledged to, and Liam sat, using all of his active listening skills to not fall asleep while reports were given about the status of public works projects and yet another proposal to name the community center after Derek Jeter, which was a badly concealed attempt to get Derek Jeter to come to Halikarnassus.
“And now it looks like we have the library here to ask for a budget increase?”
That wasn’t at all what Liam was asking for, as Hal knew, but he stood and approached the podium, bracing himself for what was coming.
“All right, Big, what’ve you got for us?”
Ha ha ha, yes, great, every time. Big as in Big Bird, because Liam’s last name was Byrd and he had to smile because Hal was trying to cut the library’s budget midyear and Liam couldn’t make an enemy of him by not finding his jokes funny.
He did not go to library school for this.
“Yes, hi,” Liam said into the mic.
“Hold on, before you start.” Hal leaned forward like he was ready to dig into a long, hilarious comment.
“Now you wait a minute, Hal, he has the right to speak,” said Councilman Maguire on Hal’s left.
“I’m going to let him—”
“Let’s follow the protocol, shall we?”
“Your father always followed the protocol.”
Great. Just what Liam needed. That kind of comment always got Hal to shut up, but it also got him crabby and pouting, and that made him vote like a petulant child instead of the forward-thinking, open-minded mayor he claimed to be.
“Go on, son,” said Councilwoman Hopson to Liam.
Liam took a deep breath. “As you know,” he started, which was maybe too challenging but he did it anyway because they did know what he was about to say—that they had budgeted this bunch of money for the library and it was approved and the money to replace the roof came from the town’s improvement fund while the money to replace the damaged materials came from insurance and so, while expensive, the roof actually didn’t spend any of the library’s budget and was fully covered by these other funds so he was really just calling to keep the library budget intact. Which he said in a rush into the mic, looking at all of the council members but Hal, whose fuzzy logic was the whole reason he had to stand up and say this dumb stuff in the first place.
“Gentlemen?” asked Councilwoman Hopson. “Comments?”
“First of all, I want to say what a great job you’ve done with the library, Liam. You’ve really opened it up and made it fun. At first a lot of us were concerned that you were undoing all of Mrs. Pratt’s hard work, but it looks like that was just a strong foundation that you built on. I understand that kids and teens are using the library now, which makes it less quiet”—some grumbles from the council—“but also keeps them off the streets, which I’m sure Chief Savage appreciates.”
A bewildered nod from the police chief, who knew as well as everyone on the dais that if kids were going to get in trouble, there was much more fun trouble to be had in neighboring towns. Halikarnassus was too boring even for trouble.
All rumors about Joanna Green notwithstanding.
“So this is what I need you to help me understand, Big. If you bought all these new books a few months ago, why do you need more new books?”
The dumbness of Hal’s statement was so powerful that it radiated stupidity and struck Liam momentarily mute. “Uh,” he started. Then he recovered. “New books are constantly being published, and the library’s collection needs to—”
“Yes, but you already bought new books.”
“Well, not all of those books were new.”
“You’re saying you bought old books?”
“We bought new copies of older books, yes, to replace the titles that were damaged in the roof leak.”
“So you wasted your money on old books?”
“No, we used our insurance money to replace the important volumes that were destroyed.”
“But you could have used it to buy new books.”
“The terms of the settlement—”
“I remember the terms, and you didn’t have to buy exact copies of what was lost because, as you pointed out, some were out of print or not worth replacing. So why did you replace them?”
“In those cases, I replaced them with newer editions or similar books that had updated information—”
“But not new books.”
“Some new books, yes.”
“So you’ve already had your fair share of new books, don’t you think? There are other places that can use that money.”
Liam looked at the other members of the council, who were all studiously taking notes instead of meeting his eye. He knew what was happening. Some of those guys supported the library, but they were all dazzled by Hal’s vision of a new revenue-generating football stadium, and they were convinced the only way to pay for the lights was to take away the library’s money.
“Let me try an analogy,” Liam started. “Let’s say you have a football team. And that football team needs equipment and uniforms to be competitive. So the town approves the funds to buy some.”
“Great. Smart town.” Some laughs from the audience.
“Now let’s say it’s six months later, and Nike comes up with this new kind of shoulder pad that is less bulky but just as strong as the other kind of shoulder pad.”
“Bob, do you know anything about this shoulder pad?” Hal asked Coach Simonetti, who liked to come to council meetings to show support for Hal’s lighting project, even though his time could be better spent actually trying to make his team, you know, good.
“No,” Liam interrupted Hal’s interruption. “I just made it up. It’s fo
r the analogy.”
“Well, it sounds like a great idea. Maybe you could work on it and use your millions to buy however many books you want for the library.”
Liam gritted his teeth, but continued. “These shoulder pads are great, but you already have shoulder pads for your team. But you would still want to get these new ones, right? Because they’re so great?”
“Hell yes, Big, I would want to get them.”
“But you already have shoulder pads.”
“Are you saying our kids don’t deserve the best?”
“No, I’m saying they do, and so you should get the new shoulder pads.”
“Great. Go out and invent them and I’ll be your first customer.”
More laughs from the audience.
“Well, as I mentioned, that was just an analogy. So now imagine the shoulder pads were books.”
“I can’t imagine books would do a very good job of keeping our boys safe.”
“Ha ha.” Then Liam looked at Hal and realized he wasn’t joking. Oh boy. “No, the shoulder pads were just a metaphor for the books. We have other books that are great, but we also need the new books, not only so we can stay competitive, but so we can continue to provide great service to the community.”
“Yes, but new shoulder pads would protect our children. New books won’t actually do anything for kids, would they?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Liam suddenly felt the crush of the silent shock and disapproval of the entire council and everyone in the audience.
I guess I said that out loud, he thought. Oops.
He looked at Hal’s face, a mixture of cold fury and righteous victory. For a dumb guy, he had a very complicated face.
“I think that’s enough from our esteemed librarian,” he said. “We’ll take it into consideration. I don’t think we need to vote on it tonight. What do you say, fellas?”
The other members of the council gave Liam disgusted looks and nodded. Well, there went all of the support for the library.
Shaking with fury at himself and at Hal, Liam sat down and listened, numb, as the council went through the rest of the agenda.
He’d really screwed that up.
He needed Peggy.
Also, he needed a drink.
* * *
Joanna’s Doc Martens squished in the damp grass as she crossed the baseball field. She couldn’t believe she was wearing them, but as soon as she dug them out of her closet and put them on, it was like her feet were reunited with an old friend. Because all of her friends were inanimate objects. Except for Trina, who was human, and who was meeting her at Chet’s to check out whatever band was passing through town. Besides, Trina would laugh her ass off to see she still had them.
She emerged from the six-foot patch of woods and onto the gravel lot of Chet’s. She was reaching for the iron door handle—God, even that twisty iron handle brought back memories—when her phone beeped.
Sick kids. No beer for me. :(((
Great. Joanna did literally nothing all day, but every time Trina wasn’t shuttling kids or furniture around, Joanna was taking Granny to the doctor. She was starting to think that Trina was avoiding her.
Joanna had a choice. She could either go into Chet’s alone, drink at the bar alone, watch the band alone, or she could just go home. Alone.
Don’t chicken out.These guys are supposed to be great.
This whole night out at Chet’s had been Trina’s idea. She thought it would be fun to visit their old stomping grounds, and this time with an actual, legal ID. And Trina was convinced the band would be worth the five-dollar cover. Which, frankly, wasn’t saying much.
Growing up, Joanna and Trina had seen every Fall Out Boy-emo-punk band to come through town. There were a surprising number of them. Halikarnassus was a convenient stopping point between Brooklyn and Buffalo, and Chet’s was uncool enough to be very cool. It was sort of a rite of passage for bands from the New York suburbs. You might get a fancy record deal and open a stadium show for the actual Fall Out Boy, but nothing compared to the unpretentious good time of pitchers and bad PAs at Chet’s.
Chet had never looked too closely at Joanna and Trina’s IDs back then, but looking back, Joanna did find it suspicious that he never served them at the bar. Oh, sure, the visiting rock dudes would buy them beer. And then when he finally let Delicious Lies play, drinking was the last thing on her mind. She was drunk on rock and roll, man.
Standing under the lights outside of Chet’s now, she had a decision to make. She could go in, listen to some rock music, drink a beer, and walk home. It wasn’t like she’d never been to a bar alone before. And she was there for the music. Sure, she was wearing fifteen-year-old shoes as a nostalgic joke for a person who wasn’t even there, but it wouldn’t be the dumbest she’d ever looked at Chet’s. It wasn’t as bad as the Halloween show when she tried to play a gig dressed as a sexy chicken. She didn’t think Rosetta would ever forgive her for those prematurely molting feathers.
Just as she was reaching for the door, it opened with force, jamming into her fingers.
“Ouch!” She backed off the concrete step into the gravel, shaking off the pain.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” Chet, the man himself, let the door slam closed behind him and shook a cigarette out of his pack. “You okay?”
The man hadn’t changed a bit. His hair was still gray and slicked back, his face was still tanned and wrinkled. His rough hands still bore the tattoo of a wedding band, and he still flipped that Zippo with the American flag on it.
“Yeah, Chet, I’m fine.” She watched him suck the smoke in, blow it out over his shoulder, away from her.
He looked at her, like he was trying to place her. He shook his cigarette in her general direction. “I know . . . holy shit, Jo Jo?”
And again with the Jo Jo. Usually kids she didn’t like at school called her that. But even when a guy she liked and respected and admired called her “Jo Jo,” she still couldn’t stand it.
“I know that scowl,” Chet said, his smile splitting the crags of his face. “Joanna Green, what the hell are you doing here?”
Before she could answer, she was enveloped in a smoky hug. She grunted as her feet left the ground, and when Chet put her down, he held her at arm’s length. “Look at you, girl. All growed up.”
“Old enough for a beer now.”
He raised his hands up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go on in and spend some money. You owe me, kid.”
She laughed and ducked under his arm through the open door.
Chet’s was exactly as she remembered it: dark and divey. She had never found another bar quite like it, where hipsters with beards mingled with men who wore their beards without irony. Where you could walk in with as many pretensions as you want, but nobody was going to pay them any attention, so you might as well leave them at the door. Where there was only Bob Seger on the jukebox, and if you wanted to listen to something different, you better just stick around until the band started.
It was pretty crowded for a weeknight, but Joanna found a place at the far end of the bar. The bartender made his way over and when he got to her, his craggy face split into a grin. “Jo Jo?”
Gus was a legend, as much a part of Chet’s as the cheap beer and the plywood floor. He knew everything about music, could go toe-to-toe with any music head on everything from Mozart to Mingus. But all he really cared about was the soulful tone of Bob Seger, and since he had been at the bar longer than most of the patrons had been alive, they let the jukebox be Gus’s. That was how you knew Gus liked you, if he started talking about the time Bob Seger had come through town and played a set, unannounced. Gus still had his whiskey glass in a place of honor above the bar. But he was also a great bartender, heavy-handed with the booze early in the night, knowing just when and how to cut someone off. He could break up a fight with his army voice, and he could soothe the most heartbroken girl better than whiskey. He did not make margaritas.
Gus ha
d always told her and Trina that he never forgot a face, and, given the dozen or so years Joanna had put on hers, he wasn’t kidding.
Although he did forget that she hated that nickname.
Or maybe he didn’t forget. Maybe he just remembered that he was the only one who could get away with it.
Well, him and Chet.
Man, she was getting soft in her old age.
“I heard you were back in town! Wonderin’ when you’d make it in to see your old friends. Or you too big for us little folks now?”
Coming from most people, Joanna would have considered that a dig. She knew the word was around town that Joanna was no longer with Bunny Slippers. She knew that the good people of Halikarnassus saw her as a failure. She preferred to think that she’d given up fame and fortune for artistic integrity.
But Gus was incapable of passive aggression, and insincerity was not something he practiced. This could result in stony silence or a lifelong bond—regardless, Gus didn’t bullshit you.
And he didn’t make margaritas.
She waved off his proud papa grin—obviously Gus hadn’t heard the good news. “Just came in for a beer and some music.”
“That’s my girl. How’s Peggy?”
Geez. Small towns. Peggy, as far as Joanna knew, had never even been to Chet’s.
As far as Joanna knew. Granny seemed to have some hidden depths.
Joanna gave Gus a thumbs-up. “She’s doing great.”
“Great. She’s a tough old broad, your grandmother.”