Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  There were about fifty young people there. They looked shiny and breakable. Sammy guessed that about half of them were younger than he was. It was noisy with laughter and the band was tuning up. Evan leaned toward Sammy.

  “I have to check on some things with a few people,” he said. He put his hand on Sammy’s back. “Get yourself a soda and relax. I’ll find you later and introduce you to some of the others.”

  Sammy went over to a folding table that had been set up with coolers filled with canned soda and fished out a 7-Up. Everybody seemed to know everybody else. He wished he was back at the halfway house.

  He saw an exit door across the room and went outside for a smoke. It was cool and damp. From where he stood, down in a stairwell on the side of the building, he could see the illuminated church sign in the front yard. The title of the next morning’s sermon was spelled out in black plastic letters—“THE HARVEST IS PLENTIFUL, BUT THE LABORERS ARE FEW.”

  Under the sign, something moved. Sammy squinted to get a better look and saw a boy rolling over on top of a girl, their mouths pushed against each other, their hands grasping and groping for something hard to hang on to.

  Sammy went back inside as the band was starting up.

  Evan spotted him and came over. “I was looking for you. You havin’ a good time? You meet anybody?”

  Sammy shrugged. “Not so far.”

  Evan looked a bit confused. It had not occurred to him that someone might not have fun at a “youth jam”.

  The band was playing a song titled “Get Back to the Bible”.

  Evan started bobbing his head in time. “This rocks, doesn’t it? It’s by the band Petra. You heard of them?”

  Sammy shook his head.

  Evan was undeterred. “They’re a Christian rock band. People think Christians can’t rock. But they’re wrong.”

  Sammy listened for a bit. The band consisted of two acoustic guitar players—one girl and one boy—another girl on a tambourine, and another boy on a pair of bongos. Sammy wouldn’t have used the word “rock” to describe what he was hearing, but thought that maybe the group was just getting warmed up.

  The next song was “Spirit in The Sky” which Sammy actually knew and liked. Especially the fuzzy guitar hook. He was optimistic. But the two acoustics could not reproduce the hook, and Sammy quickly concluded that what people said about Christians and rock was probably right.

  Evan, however, was enjoying himself. “I love this song.”

  Across the room, Zack—the kid who had come with Evan to the halfway house—was eating pizza with a pretty girl that Sammy assumed was his girlfriend. Evan saw them, too.

  “Hey, let’s go say hi to Zack,” he said. He started over toward the couple and Sammy followed.

  “You remember Sam, don’t you Zack?” Evan asked. “From over at New Hope?”

  Zack glanced at Sammy then at Evan then back at Sammy.

  “We didn’t actually meet,” he said. “How you doin’?”

  Sammy nodded. “I’m okay.”

  Zack’s girlfriend stared at Sammy, which Zack noticed and didn’t like.

  Evan put his hands on Zack’s and Sammy’s shoulders.

  “I’m going to leave you two, so I can go mingle. Sammy, help yourself to some pizza. I’ll check back later.”

  Zack watched Evan leave, then turned back to Sammy.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said, managing an anxious smile. “Hope you’re having a good time.”

  He took his girlfriend’s elbow and led her away.

  Sammy felt still and quiet and cold. He could hear his heartbeat in his left ear. He went outside and sat on the curb by the church van and smoked while he waited for Evan to come out and drive him back to the halfway house.

  Evan was disturbed by Sammy’s silence on the way back to New Hope.

  “Seems like maybe you didn’t have all that much fun, Sam. I’m sorry if that’s the case. I hope nobody said anything to offend you. They’re all good kids. They all love the Lord. Sam, I’d love for you to know Jesus, too. As your personal Lord and Savior. It would make all the difference in your life.”

  Sammy looked out the window. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Neither of them said anything for several miles. Finally, Evan spoke up.

  “So, Sam. What happened to your finger? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “My mom chopped it off with a car door,” Sammy shrugged.

  Evan didn’t ask any more questions.

  *

  Sammy woke up the next morning as Ron was getting ready for church. He sat up in bed and reached for his cigarettes on the night stand.

  “How’d it go last night?” Ron asked.

  “It sucked,” Sammy grunted.

  “Sucked how?” Ron was concerned and curious.

  “It sucked by sucking,” snapped Sammy. He pulled on his jeans and went outside for a smoke. Ron came out a few minutes later to wait for his grandmother to come take him to church. He stood next to Sammy.

  “You want to come with me? I can get my grandma to wait a few minutes if you want to go get dressed.”

  Sammy lit a new cigarette with the tip of the one still in his mouth.

  “No, man. I don’t want to go with you. This religion thing is bullshit. All hypocrites. They don’t give a shit about anybody.”

  Ron smiled. “Am I a hypocrite, man?”

  Sammy scuffed his foot in the dirt.

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t believe in all that spirit in the sky shit. Maybe you need Jesus. I don’t.”

  He turned and went back inside.

  *

  The manager of the night shift didn’t like Sammy and Sammy knew it. The manager never said so in so many words, it was more of an attitude thing. It was the way he smiled and greeted everyone else as they arrived at work, but not Sammy. It was the way he stated his instructions in the form of a question to everyone else—Would you please restock napkins out front? How about some more catsup up here, please?—but not Sammy. With Sammy, it was: There’s a spill by the walk-in. Go mop it up. You left the lid open on the dumpster again. You need to keep it closed.

  Sammy just wanted to stay out of trouble and keep his probation officer happy, so he kept his mouth shut. But he hated the shift manager more every time he laid eyes on him and often entertained himself by imagining ways to hurt him.

  On the Monday after the “youth jam”, Sammy was sweeping up under the grill when he overheard two of the other employees talking about their plans for the week.

  “I have to go to my stupid brother’s band concert,” said Jason, a thick kid with greasy hair and frightening acne, who was frying burger patties. “My parents are making me go.”

  He rolled his eyes and wobbled his legs as if he could barely stand up under the pressure of family obligations. Jason was directing his humor at Heather, a beefy girl with red hair and freckles, who was standing at the deep fat fryer cooking a batch of fries.

  “I’m going to a skate party with my church youth group” she chirped.

  Sammy snorted contemptuously.

  “Make sure you invite plenty of juvenile delinquents,” he said bitterly. “They need Jesus, you know. Boy, oh boy, do they ever need the Lord.”

  He punctuated his sarcasm with another snort and kept sweeping.

  “What’s your problem?” demanded Jason. He took a step toward Sammy. Sammy stopped sweeping.

  “I don’t have a problem,” he said, his eyes fixed steady on his co-worker.

  “Then maybe you should stop making wise ass remarks about somebody’s religion,” said Jason. He took another step in Sammy’s direction.

  Sammy dropped his broom and stepped forward.

  “The only reason you’re defending her pathetic religion is you’re hoping to get yourself a piece of somebody’
s fat ass,” he leaned in so his nose was just inches from Jason’s.

  Jason shoved Sammy backward—a move Sammy had anticipated. He grabbed a spatula from the grill and slapped it hard and fast against Jason’s cheek, leaving a bright red welt. Heather screamed and Jason charged forward, hunched over like a linebacker bearing down on a quarterback. Sammy thrust his knee up into Jason’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. He fell over gasping and moaning. The shift manager heard Heather’s scream and came running in from the front where he’d been assembling Happy Meals. He saw Sammy standing over the writhing and wheezing Jason. He grabbed Sammy’s shirt and pulled him close.

  “You miserable son-of-a-bitch. I knew this would happen sooner or later. You guys can’t be trusted. Get your sorry loser ass out of here.”

  He wrenched Sammy toward the back door, but Sammy had decided he wasn’t going without a fight. He took hold of the manager’s wrist and twisted until the manager released his grip on his shirt. They struggled in a dance of wills. Sammy holding the manager’s one arm high with both his hands as the manager slugged Sammy in the gut with his free hand. They crashed against the grill, spilling burger patties onto the floor. They then spun around, slipping on burgers, until the manager was backed up against the deep fat fryer. Sammy gripped the manager’s arm at the elbow. Seeing the manager’s eyes widen, Sammy smiled, then shoved the manager’s hand into the deep fat fryer. Deep into the boiling grease. It popped and sizzled the same way it did when a basket of frozen fries was lowered down into it. The manager kicked frantically, screaming hysterically. Jason and Heather shouted for Sammy to stop, pulling at him from behind. Sammy noticed that a foam of spit had formed at the corners of the manager’s mouth. This made Sammy happy. He let go.

  He pulled himself free of Heather and Jason and walked outside, lit a cigarette and waited for the police.

  29

  Rocky

  He remembers Delbert is driving. And next to his uncle, in the front seat, is his grandmother Rose. LaVerne rests against the door in the back seat, his head against the window. His head is hot and damp. The window is cool.

  His grandmother turns and speaks to him. How you doin’, child? She smiles gentle, and her chalky brown skin crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Now, the doctor may have to give you a little shot, but then you’ll feel better. So you just be still. We’ll be to Cleveland in a bit. She turns back around and looks out the window. Look, LaVerne, the kids are out at recess.

  They are driving past the school. LaVerne sees William and John, the twins from down the road, playing on the monkey bars. Helen and Esther, who live in town, are jumping rope with the new girl, Maybelle. His best friend, Junebug, is tossing a baseball high up into the air then catching it. He stops to watch the car go by. He sees LaVerne and waves.

  LaVerne leans back on the seat and closes his eyes. He hears Helen, Esther, and Maybelle singing, “Hey, boy! Hey, boy! What did you take? A sweet potato pie and a birthday cake. Hey, boy! Hey, boy! Where you gonna go? You can’t drive a car, an’ you run too slow. Hey, boy! Hey, boy! What you mama gonna say, when the sheriff lock you up an’ take you away?”

  *

  LaVerne Williams has his reasons for feeling ambivalent about baseball. He has often felt, that maybe if he hadn’t blown out his shoulder and then been let go by the Athletics, if things had been different that way, then maybe Raymond wouldn’t have died.

  That long throw from deep center changed everything. And skulking around on the dark edge of his understanding is a sense that everything went to hell on that warm Florida evening that smelled like cut grass and popcorn and pine tar and leather.

  LaVerne shows little apparent interest in baseball in general, and even less in the Kansas City Royals. You never hear him ask his customers “How ‘bout them Royals?” The radio on top of the filing cabinet in his office is never tuned to Royals’ broadcasts during business hours. And he’s only ever been to a handful of Royals games.

  This appearance of apathy is due, in part, to the fact that the restaurant’s other employees really couldn’t care less about the Kansas City Royals, which tends to inhibit casual workplace conversation about the team. A.B. lacks interest in sports in general. Leon is more of a NASCAR kind of guy, and Vicki is more than a little intimidated by LaVerne, and therefore shy about discussing with him any personal interests she might have, sports or otherwise.

  Another factor is that, for the last 20 some years, since 1985 when the team won the World Series, the Royals have been, in LaVerne’s words, crap.

  But the real reason is the feeling he gets every April on opening day, when the players take the field, when he feels like their lives are all ignorant hope, beautiful and young, and his is all that it is.

  The pangs of longing and melancholy slowly dissipate over the course of the summer and into the fall. By the end of October he’s not so much gloomy as he is just his normal cranky self.

  But, even though—as far as most people can tell—he doesn’t appear to care about the Kansas City Royals, Pug Hale, Ferguson Glen, and Bob Dunleavy are aware that LaVerne knows the name, age, hometown, college and/or minor league experience, position, batting average, slugging percentage, runs scored, and fielding percentage of every player on the Royals’ roster at any given point in a season.

  On a Saturday afternoon in October, LaVerne and Ferguson sat out in the restaurant’s empty dining room and drank coffee listening to the radio broadcast of the last couple of innings of the next-to-the-last game of what was arguably the worst season in Royals history. A.B. and Leon were in the kitchen cleaning up.

  They listened without much conversation or comment on the game until it was over—Royals 7, Toronto Blue Jays 6.

  “What, exactly, was the point of that?” asked LaVerne, in disgust. “Do they think that winning the next to the last game of the year is going to prove anything? It’s too late. They already proved to everybody what they’re all about back in August when they lost 19 in a row.”

  Ferguson laughed. “Yeah, they’re nowhere near as good as the ‘67 Athletics were.”

  LaVerne snorted. He went into the kitchen and returned with the coffee pot and refilled their cups.

  “You ever hear from any of the guys you played with?” Ferguson asked.

  LaVerne took a long slurp from his coffee.

  “I used to hear from Catfish Hunter every few years or so, up until he died. Believe it or not, Reggie Jackson once in awhile, before he went to the Yankees. Blue Moon Odom mostly. We were pretty good friends. We probably still would be if we lived anywhere near each other.”

  Ferguson stirred several packets of sugar into his coffee.

  “Present company excepted, I think my favorite Athletic of all time would have to be Rocky Colavito, though I liked him even better the four years before he went to the Athletics, when he was a Tiger. You ever meet him?”

  “When I was coming up, I imagined myself having a career like Colavito’s,” said LaVerne. “Power hitter. Good fielder. Strong throwing arm. Those were what I had, too. I looked up to him. I wanted to be like him. Of course, he was a real likable guy. Popular with his team and with the fans. I was always too quiet and pissy to be popular. Anyways, he should be in the Hall of Fame. That’s just a crime that he isn’t.”

  LaVerne and Ferguson listened to the clinking of Leon loading the Hobart and the groaning grinding of A.B. running the garbage disposer.

  “I did almost meet him once,” LaVerne said. “Back in ’82 when we opened here, Colavito was the Royals batting coach. One day Amos Otis calls me and says that he told Colavito about the restaurant and how I used to play for the Athletics and that Colavito wanted to come over after the game, with Dick Howser the manager, to check us out.

  “So Raymond, A.B. and me, we get the place all lookin’ nice and make sure we got cold beer in the fridge and fresh coffee and we wait and we wait and nobody comes. So
finally we say ‘Enough of this,’ and we go home.

  “We find out the next day that he and Howser were arrested in a mix-up with the police out by the stadium. Some kid was driving drunk and crashed his car into the side of Rocky’s car and things got pretty heated up. Rocky’s son was there. Same age as Raymond. And supposedly the drunk guy was getting belligerent to the point that Rocky felt like he needed to protect his kid. The whole thing got physical and he and Howser were arrested and brung downtown. It was a pretty serious situation for those two. They weren’t just slapped on the wrist and let go with a wink and a nod. They was actually sentenced to 90 days in jail, plus fined money.

  “After the lawyers got involved, they got off with some kind of probation. And even though I don’t think they were guilty of anything, if they’d have been black they wouldn’t have got probation, I’m tellin’ you that right now.

  “So, anyway, I never did meet Rocky Colavito. But just like you, I always liked him. I always thought that I could have had a career like his.”

  A.B. poked his head in from the kitchen.

  “I’m outta here, boss” he said. “Leon already left.”

  LaVerne and Ferguson said good-bye, then sat for a few minutes in silence.

  “It’s a good thing for them they didn’t end up going to jail,” said LaVerne. “They wouldn’t have liked it much.”

  LaVerne stared across the room. A crumpled napkin Leon’s broom had missed lay on the floor in a corner. “I know. I’ve been there.”

  Ferguson looked into his coffee cup. It was empty. He stood and went into the kitchen and returned with the pot. He poured a cup for himself and one for LaVerne.

  30

  Exit 151A

  When he returned home from his honeymoon without his wife or his marriage, the first thing Ferguson did was call his father. The Right Reverend Angus Glen’s phone rang seven times before Ferguson hung up. At which point he went to the liquor cabinet, found a two-thirds-full bottle of bourbon, and poured himself a double. What the hell, he thought, it’s not like I have anything left to lose.