Getting Higher

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Joe liked Crank's place, because it reminded him of his old room in Mrs. Rufus's building. Now that he needed a place to stay, Joe thought he would like to live there, with Crank, at least for a little while. Besides, they were both good friends, they got along well with one another, and they both liked to party as much as possible. As long as Crank agreed to let him stay, things would be just fine, and Joe would have some time to look for another cheap room somewhere in town.

  Joe sat down on the rocking chair, which tilted on one side because of the missing rocker. Absent-mindedly, he started scratching the mud spots from his jeans.

  "Hey, Joey," Crank yelled from the bathroom. "How'd you like the little fling last night?"

  "It was okay, man," answered Joe. "I mean, I don't really remember a whole lot, but what I remember was okay."

  "Yeah, we had a good time, all right," continued Crank, his loud voice muffled by the door. "You really got blown away, man! Jirnbo had to pick you up and carry you home, just to get you outta' here."

  Joe heard the toilet flush and Crank zip his pants up. "Oh yeah? So he's the one. I was wondering how the hell I got there."

  The water ran for a minute, then Crank opened the bathroom door and stepped out. For a minute, he stood in the doorway, stretched his chubby body, and yawned. He was short, only about five feet, eight inches tall, and had a pillowy beer belly extending all around his lumpy middle. He had tomato-red hair which he never combed, and which he cut himself in a short, sloppy thatch, along with a red mustache and goatee. Today, he wore his usual outfit, plaid polyester trousers from the Salvation Army and a ripped, stained, white T-shirt that displayed his fat rolls prominently.

  "So, Joey, what brings you this way, huh? You in trouble or something?"

  Joe laughed. "Who, me? You know me better than that."

  Crank walked to the refrigerator, swung the door open, and yanked out a cold can of beer. "Breakfast," he explained as he pulled the tab and took a swig. "So, what is it then? You look pretty messed-up."

  "Ah, it's nothin', just my landlady. My ex-landlady, actually."

  "Oh-ho! ," chuckled Crank, instantly seizing on the truth. "You got your ass evicted, huh?" Crank broke into low, snorting laughter, holding his side and waving his beer in the air. "I knew it, I knew it! Ha ha ha! You dumb shit!"

  Crank was soon doubled over with laughter, shaking his beer wildly at Joe. When he was close enough, Joe reached out and snatched the beer away, then sat back in the rocking chair and sipped it, watching Crank's antics as if he were watching a football game on TV.

  "I--I always w--wondered," snuffled Crank, trying to force words through his heaving laughter, "h--how long that b--bitch'd put up with you!"

  "Yeah, she got me this time, man. Came bangin' on the door this morning when I was all wasted. I told her to go to Hell." Joe took another drink of beer. "Then she chased me out with a baseball bat."

  "A...a baseball bat? She chased you with a baseball bat?!?" Crank roared, howling and sputtering so hard that he was close to tears. Joe just sat there, patiently waiting for him to finish, enjoying the can of beer as he watched.

  "You dipshit!" After a few minutes, Crank's hooting finally began to die down, eventually trickling off into a few feeble chuckles. As he started to calm down, he suddenly realized that Joe was drinking his beer; frowning, he grabbed for the can, but Joe pulled it away.

  "Hey, gimme' that! That was my breakfast! ," rattled Crank, flailing for the can again.

  Joe smacked his lips, took another swig, and handed the can to his friend. "Don't worry, there's plenty to go around."

  Crank took a long drink, draining the rest of the beer. "So," he sighed when he was done, wiping his mouth on his hairy arm, "you want to stay here a while, right?"

  "Yeah," said Joe, "how'd you know?"

  Crank smiled. "Because, Joey, I know you. I know how you operate, bud. Am I right?"

  "I guess, man. I just need a place to stay for a little while, just a couple of days. Until I get a little cash and find some new hole to rent. I figure it would be all right. I mean, I'd be cool and everything."

  "Yeah, I bet you would." Crank paused for a minute, staring seriously at Joe, apparently deep in thought. "Okay," he said finally, "you're in. But only for a week or two, got it? And you gotta' pay your share of food and booze. I ain't takin' in no freeloader."

  "Man, have I ever been known to freeload? You got no problems with me, believe it. I figure we can party pretty good together."

  "Yeah, I guess we could have a little get-together now and then. We got us a two-man party committee, now. Look out!"

  *****

  Chapter Four

  It was still raining when Joe and Crank decided to walk to Tap's, a bar that was down the street from Crank's place. It was around two o'clock when they left, and Joe had finally dried off from his earlier trip in the rain. Now, both he and Crank were soaked again, the clothing pasted to their bodies like wet paper.

  Joe had pulled his hair back and tied it in a ponytail that ended midway between his shoulder blades; after only a few steps in the pouring rain, the hair was dripping wet, slapping Joe's back when he walked. Though he'd managed to scrape some of the mud from his pants and T-shirt, they were both still speckled brown. His sneakers, which both had a hole above the big toe, were caked with more mud and dirt and were darkened from stepping in puddles along the sidewalk.

  Crank, though his sopping T-shirt clung to every roll and ripple of fat, did not look nearly as shabby or grimy as Joe. His hair didn't even look wet; there was something about him that always made him seem dry, even in the middle of a downpour. Water just rolled off him, as if he were a huge, red-haired duck.

  Crank's shoes, a pair of old combat boots, were scuffed and muddy, but had no holes or tears like Joe's leaky sneakers. He always wore combat boots, heavy black standard issue he picked up at the Army Surplus store. Nobody knew exactly why he wore the boots; he was never in the army, so they could not have had any sentimental value. About ten years ago, he had tried to join the National Guard, but completely failed basic training and was shipped home. Probably, he just thought the boots made him look taller, and they were cheap.

  The streets were still slick and dark as Joe and Crank neared Tap's. The rain still came down steadily, drenching everything in sight, filling the air with a sibilant wet whisper. Looking up, Joe saw the dense dirty clouds parked overhead, dumping their cargoes on him and his friend. There were always gray clouds over Brownstown; it was an old, crumbling steel town locked in a valley in Western Pennsylvania. The weather was usually bad, even in spring and summer; warm weather came late and left early, cold weather came early and left late. It rained and snowed a lot, and even the pleasant days were mostly cloudy.

  Tap's Bar was located three blocks from Crank's place, along the same street, Piedmont Avenue. Piedmont was a long, straight street that cut across the northern section of Brownstown, an area composed mostly of old grocery stores, run-down apartment houses, and bars. It was a narrow street, bounded on one side by the brick and board buildings of the North Side and on the other by the Stonybank River.

  The Stonybank itself had once been a rushing, wide river, full of fish, gliding boats and barges into town. Now, it was a dead brown trickle, creeping miserably along through slanting cement walls, polluted by the sick red spouts of drainpipes. For too many years, it had served as the sewer for Brownstown's steel mills.

  Across the Stonybank, Joe glimpsed the old Global Steel plant. In 1895, Global had built its first mill there, in the center of a tiny coal town, and a thriving industrial city had sprung up around it. Now, the process was reversed; Global had shut the plant down, and Brownstown seemed to be shrivelling in on itself. Like the river into which it had dumped its waste, the mill was now dead. Many people felt that Brownstown was the next to go.

  None of this concerned Joe and Crank, though. They had their parties, they drank a lot of booze, they smoked some pot. Neither of them worked, and neith
er of them wanted to work anymore. Joe had been a bagger at a supermarket for a while, about two years ago, then had been laid off and hadn't found another job since. A year ago, Crank had been a janitor in a bank; he was fired from that job, and had also failed to find more work. Both men were getting unemployment compensation from the government, and as long as their checks came in, they managed to scrape by. Also, they earned some extra cash by working as delivery boys for a couple of local pushers. Somehow, they always scrabbled together enough money to buy food and booze each week, and aside from that, they couldn't care less about anything else.

  They spent most of their days hanging out at Tap's or Big Man, another bar across the river. They drank, played pool, and talked with their friends; most days passed the same way, dragging slowly through the smoky sad bars. On Thursdays, Joe and Crank went to the unemployment office to sign up for their checks. On Mondays and Wednesdays, they did business with their pushers, and were paid by them on Saturdays. Other than that, everything was changeless from one day to the next.

  After walking for a few minutes, the two friends reached Tap's. They went in and were welcomed by the familiar stink of beer and cigarettes.

  "Yo, Ralphy," bellowed Crank as he and Joe walked up to the bar. "Put up two drafts, all right?"

  Behind the bar, a small figure turned and stared at the two men. It was a man, a strange-looking man with a large head and a small, blocky body. He had black hair and a full beard and huge, dark eyebrows that knotted together as he stared. He had a large forehead and inky, recessed eyes. He was out of proportion, with a heavy upper torso and a tapered lower body and legs.

  Actually, Ralphy was a dwarf, a little under four feet tall. He walked along a platform behind the bar, which raised him a foot above the floor and enabled him to serve customers at eye level. It also helped him to make the most of his intimidating features and savage temper.

  "What the hell, you shitheads?" snarled Ralphy. "I told you I wasn't keeping your tabs no more. I never know if you fuckers are gonna' pay me or not." A disgusted sneer split Ralphy's beard and his bushy brows squirmed closer together.

  "Aw, c'mon man, give us a break. We're cash today, man, don't worry." Joe smiled and tried to be charming. "Ralphy, would we ever steer you wrong?"

  "Yeah, you would. You already have, and I don't forget that shit. You bastards have been on tab in here for the past three months, and I haven't seen a fucking penny of it yet. I probably never will. You're both fulla' shit."

  Crank leaned forward, folding his arms on the bar, and smiled confidentially. "Aw, Ralphy, don't get all hot 'n' bothered. We're buddies, ain't we? We party together all the time. Remember last week, when I had you over my place?"

  The short man nodded. He had been to Crank's before, even though he hated the porky redhead. The two did not get along well, mainly because Crank teased Ralphy about his height, constantly harassing him and making a big deal about Ralphy being the only man in Brownstown shorter than him. Every time Crank saw him, he had to make some idiotic wisecrack about his size; Ralphy, who had taken that kind of abuse all his life, did not appreciate it at all.

  "Well," continued Crank, "whenever you come over to my place, you always enjoy yourself, don't you? I give you stuff to drink and smoke, and I never complain, do I?"

  Slowly, suspiciously, Ralphy shook his head. His eyebrows were so close together, they looked like a single velcro stip, a hairy caterpillar crawling above his eyes.

  "So, I guess that means you're my friend. Friends always share, Ralphy, right? When one needs somethin', the other'll help him out. Sure, that's how it is, with lots of shit. Remember when I introduced you to Wanda?" Crank winked.

  Suddenly, Ralphy seemed to coil up, his entire body quickly tensing like an animal ready to spring. His big head bowed slightly and he glared intensely at Crank. "You introduced...me...to Wanda." Ralphy's voice was flat, barely subdued. "Crank," he mumbled, scowling furiously, "you introduced me...to Wanda? Crank, rny...friend...do you know...what Wanda...had? What she...gave...me?" Ralphy gritted his teeth with rage; he clenched like a horrible, hairy fist, bones and veins bulging as if they were going to erupt.

  Crank started to say something, then stopped. He hesitated uncertainly, frozen in the middle of his patented spiel. He leaned back, lifted his arms from the bar, and shrugged. "Well, friend, I'm real sorry about that. I didn't…know about that, y'know. It really wasn't my fault, buddy." He tried to smile endearingly. "Ah, no hard feelings, right?"

  "Wrong." Suddenly, Ralphy whipped around, snatched something from beneath the bar, and smashed it on the surface in front of Crank. He moved so fast and the object made such a loud crack that both Crank and Joe leaped off their stools.

  "You bums want drinks," grated Ralphy, "I wanna' see cash up front. Now. No more damn tabs. I don't give shit-one whether we're friends or not."

  Joe and Crank just teetered for a moment and stared at the thing on the bar. Joe felt like vomiting violently.

  It was a baseball bat.

  "Damn. I don't believe it." Joe's voice was a shocked whisper.

  Crank shook his head silently; before long, though, realizing he had to defuse the bartender bomb, he spoke. "Say, Ralphy," he cooed smoothly, "no problem, man. We said we're cash today, didn't we? All ya' gotta' do is ask us, old buddy."

  Ralphy still seethed. "I repeat, you bums want booze, cash up front. Or get the fuck out." He smacked the bat on the bar f or emphasis.

  Crank slowly reached into a pocket of his polyester slacks and took out a crinkled bill. "Okay, Ralphy, here's a fiver. We'll take two drafts, then as many as this'll buy. No problem, right pal?"

  "That won't even cover a fourth of what you owe me. That won't even pay for last week." Ralphy hunched over and pushed his bat toward Crank's head. "I am sick of you, asshole ."

  Crank was cool; he didn't move as the shiny, hard wood slid toward his ear. When he spoke, his voice was low but firm.

  "Think twice," he said. "Maybe you oughtta' think twice, Ralphy."

  Ralphy glared and the bat twitched. His shoulders pumped as he sucked in the gritty bar air.

  "Like I told you," insisted Crank calmly, "Joey and I can pay for today. We'll pay the tab soon, but not now."

  Ralphy shook his head and remained silent, except for his noisy breathing. Then, suddenly, he jerked forward across the bar; Joe stumbled wildly out of the way, but Ralphy only grabbed the five dollars and jammed it in his sweaty shirt pocket. In a flash, he snatched the threatening bat away from Crank and hurled it on the floor behind the bar. As he drew beers from the hissing tap, the bat just lay there, resting in the dust near the wall where Joe and Crank could both see it.

  Joe just stared at the baseball bat for a long time.

  Ralphy dropped two foamy beers with a clunk on the bar, then slunk to the far end of his platform to sulk and polish glasses. He was frigidly quiet the whole time, seemingly oblivious to the two guys sitting at the bar.

  Crank nudged Joe and poked his chin toward the pool table across the room. Joe nodded; they picked up their drinks, got off the barstools, and sidled over to the table.

  "Hey! Cranky, Joey--what's happenin', man?" A guy, one of four hunkered around the table, glanced up and smiled as the two approached. He was tall and very husky, with a trim, thickly-muscled build and profound biceps. He wore a tight black T-shirt that hugged his muscles, and a pair of bell-bottom jeans. Around his waist was a wide black leather belt, cinched by a giant glinting gold buckle; the buckle was embossed with a bald eagle, its wings spread wide, and the words "Buy American". The man had a huge, red face, wavy, black hair and a thin mustache above his lip. When he smiled, his eyes squinted, his mustache lifted, and he showed a rack of enormous, flinty teeth.

  "Hey, Rocky, not much, not much at all. What's goin' down with you?" Crank walked over and pumped Rocky's arm in a handshake.

  "Oh, you know, the usual. I was just kickin' the shit outta' these boys at pool." One man was bent low over the table as Rocky ja
bbered, preparing to take a shot; at that moment, just as his cue was striking the ball, Rocky thumped him on the back with his palm. "Ain't that right, Buzz?" he chuckled, as the cue ball weaved crazily across the table's green felt. The man slumped, then whirled around to face Rocky.

  "Yeah, Rocky, that's right," he sneered. "You're kickin' the shit out of us. That's right." He stepped closer, slowly bringing the cue stick up to tap Rocky's meaty chest. "Only, you pull any more of that bullshit, and I kick your ass. Got it?"

  Rocky's grin broadened, if that was possible, and he showed more teeth. He was obviously amused, and with good reason: Buzz was about seventy years old. He had a shrivelled, prune body, sunken eyes, and only a few feathery wisps of silver hair left on his shiny head. There was a spark in his eyes, though, a flicker of strength suggesting that in younger days, he would have been more than a match for Rocky.

  "Yeah, old man, I got it," said Rocky, still smiling. He stepped back and laughed, and Buzz pulled his cue away.

  "You damn well better have got it," grumbled the old man, turning his attention back to the game, "that's all I can say."

  Rocky laughed again, jabbing Crank in the ribs with his elbow. "How 'bout that dude, huh?" he snickered. He laughed some more, but somehow, his voice seemed to hold respect. Rocky liked people who stood up to him, especially if they didn't have the stuff to take him on.

  "So, Rocky, what's the latest on Agnes?" Joe broke in as the big man's laughter began to subside.

  Rocky snorted, rubbing his eyes. "Ah, you know. She's my main squeeze, right? So what do you think I do? I squeeze her, man!" He slapped Joe on the back and laughed. "I squeeze her all the time!"

  Joe chuckled and took a sip of his beer. "Were you two at Crank's party last night? I don't remember too much, y'know?"

  "No man, we weren't. Fact is, I didn't even see the bitch last night. She had to see some dead aunt, up some funeral home in the East End. I had tickets to wrestling down at Morgan Center, had the whole night planned out, so I was pretty pissed. I finally said 'fuck it' and went myself. It was a good match, too."