"Hello, Mr. Jones," said Mr. Donaldson from behind his paper-strewn desk. "I'm very pleased to meet you. You come to me highly recommended."
Shelly giggled and nudged Joe's arm with her elbow.
"Have a seat," said Harry, motioning for Joe to sit in one of the chairs. "Here, I'll take those," he said, indicating the mound of paper swelling from the seat. Joe lifted the pile of sheets and handed them over the desk to Mr. Donaldson, who then dropped them haphazardly on the floor. "Paperwork," he nipped glibly, settling back in his black vinyl swivel chair. "The curse of a successful business. The curse of any business, for that matter."
Joe nodded and chuckled, pretending to enjoy the joke. Behind the forced laugh, though, he felt like leaving and going home. He was nervous and uneasy, didn't want to continue with the interview. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable and disoriented and wondered what he was doing in that office. Something moved in the back of his mind, something that had been festering for a very long time.
Shifting restlessly in the hard plastic chair, he examined Mr. Donaldson. The owner of Donaldson Trucking was in his late forties or early fifties, with a salt-and-pepper crewcut and bronze skin that was starting to show wrinkles. He had a strong, square face, with bright green eyes and prominent cheekbones. He wore a white shirt and navy blue tie and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows; he had a broad, muscular chest, thick arms, and just the trace of a spare-tire gut. Overall, he appeared to be a pleasant but formidable man, supremely confident, easily capable of building the trucking empire that he had spawned.
"So, Mr. Jones, I hear you're interested in working for me." Donaldson tilted his chair back, thoughtfully appraising the applicant before him.
"Yeah," shrugged Joe. "I was thinkin' about it. Shelly here..." He turned to point at his girlfriend, but she was gone, had surreptitiously slipped from the office and closed the door. "Uh, Shelly mentioned you had a job open," he said, awkwardly turning back to face Donaldson.
"Mm-hm," nodded the interviewer. "We do. There's a position open right now for an assistant foreman. Would you be interested?"
Joe's eyes widened and he sat a little straighter. "Assistant foreman?" he repeated incredulously. "I thought it was, uh, somethin', uh..."
"Something lower, Joe?" Donaldson smiled amusedly and leaned forward over the desk. "Look," he said conspiratorily. "I need an assistant foreman. I need one now. I don't especially care whether you're qualified or not, son. If I like you, you've got the job."
"I don't get it," frowned Joe, still baffled by the offer. "Why aintcha' promotin' somebody that's already here? I mean, they been workin' here a lot longer than I have...or will be, or whatever."
"Don't talk yourself out of a job, son," smirked Donaldson. "I have my reasons, count on it. One of them's Shelly. I trust her, and I'd like to help her out. Another reason is the union. They're threatening to strike, and I don't want to give them a leg up by hiring another union boy. Plus, I'm too damn understaffed right now. I'm real short-handed, and I'm in trouble because of it. I need people, good people, to get this place in the black again. This is a chance, Joe, a real once-in-a-lifetime chance. No other sane businessman is gonna' hire some boy off the street like you for a job like this, no way. You're real lucky, son."
"Yeah, but I won't know what I'm doin'," stammered Joe. "I don't got no experience."
"I'll give you experience, see? You're gonna' have on-the-job training, night and day, from me and everyone else. This won't be a bed of roses, but by the time we're done with you, you'll be the best damn assistant foreman who ever worked here. If you work hard, you'll go places with me." Donaldson smiled at Joe. "Well, what do you say?"
"Could I think about it?" asked Joe, feeling confused. "I mean, I don't...I'm not, uh, sure. Could I call ya' tomorrow and let ya' know?"
"Nope," said Donaldson flatly, wagging his head. "One way or another, I've gotta' know right now. Way I see it, you don't need any time to think about this one. You're already getting more breaks than I've had in my whole damn life. Besides, I've got lots of other people on my list. I've got plenty of unemployed relatives, and a bunch of guys more qualified than you. I'm giving you first dibs as a favor to Shelly, understand? She's been with me for a long time, and she's almost as responsible for this company's success as I am. Make up your mind, 'cause the chance won't roll around twice."
Joe paused and thought, trying to sort it all out. He knew that he should take the job, that he'd be crazy to reject Donaldson's offer. It was a great opportunity, a chance for more money and a better life. If he worked hard, and made a good impression on the boss, he could probably move up through the company; it would be a good job, and his girlfriend was a friend of the boss. He knew, without a doubt, that Harry Donaldson was right, that he would never have a chance like this again in his entire life. Yes, he had to take it, had to jump on the offer without hesitation. He had to say 'yes.' His whole future depended on that one word...yes yes yes yes YES!
"Well?" asked Mr. Donaldson expectantly.
"No," said Joe.
"What?" frowned Harry Donaldson. "Are you kidding me? Do you realize what you just said?"
"Yes," said Joe.
"You don't want it?" fumbled Donaldson, grimacing puzzledly. "You really don't want the job?"
"Nope," answered Joe.
"You dumb bastard. You dumb fucking bastard."
"Thanks anyhow," said Joe, rising from his chair. "I appreciate the offer, man," he nodded, reaching over to shake hands with Mr. Donaldson.
Bewildered and offended by the refusal of his generosity, Harry just glared and wouldn't take Joe's proffered hand. "You blew it, son," he muttered, scratching his cheek. "You must be a damn idiot."
Joe smiled slightly and shook his head, then shrugged and left the room. Relieved, he walked into the outer office and closed the door behind him.
"Well?" asked Shelly excitedly, jumping up from behind her desk. "Did you get it?"
"Nope," he said simply, shrugging again. "I didn't."
"What?" she jolted, stunned and disbelieving. "You mean Harry turned you down?"
"No," corrected Joe. "He didn't turn me down. I turned him down."
"You what?" Wincing, Shelly fell backward a step, appeared to be mortally wounded. "He offered it to you, and you said no? I don't understand! I thought you wanted a good job. I thought you wanted to get out of that crummy restaurant."
"I am getting out of there," he told her. "I don't want any job."
"Oh my God," she blurted, gripping her forehead with shaking fingertips. "What's wrong with you?" Shelly was becoming frantic, started to emphasize certain words as she spoke. "I tried to help you. God, I love you." Suddenly then, she ran to him and threw her arms around him. Shivering, sobbing, she hugged him tightly, pressing her body against his borrowed plaid shirt.
Joe looked down at the woman who had clamped herself to him, and he wanted to get away from her. He had heard that word again-- 'love'-- and had sensed the feeling and force and responsibility behind it. At that moment, he knew what Shelly wanted, and what he could never give. She wanted him, and she wanted much more; she wanted a ring on her finger and a house and kids and a loving husband with money and a good job. He could never give her those things, he realized, he could never provide her with those prizes and still be happy himself. He could never give himself, he knew, to anyone or anything...except himself. It was just the way that he was.
He liked Shelly. He liked the feel of her warm, supple body against his. He liked to be around her, and talk to her and have sex with her. Pushing her away was one of the hardest things that he had ever done, and when they were separated, he suddenly felt empty. He wanted to take her back, to hug her and comfort her.
But his mind was made up.
"Shelly," he said, holding her shoulders. "I don't love you." Then he let go and walked out of the room without hesitation.
Rubbing the slight stubble on his face, he left the building and stepped out into the rain. It wa
s pouring, gushing down from the sky in a mutinous torrent. The air was cold and full of water, and thunder rumbled overhead. Joe took his shirt off and threw it on the glistening pavement. As the cool rain soaked him, he walked off through the trucking compound, hiking from the premises without looking back once. He didn't care about the shirt, he didn't care about anything, and he knew what he had to do next.
Behind him, at her desk, Shelly wept bitterly.
*****
It felt as if something had finally given way, released him after a long tug-of-war. Whatever had been driving Joe, pulling him to Bartlett, and Burger World, and Shelly, had let go. He was free again, free from a binding that he hadn't fully recognized until that day.
He hitchhiked back into town and walked through the downpour to Burger World. Still shirtless, he strolled into the restaurant and quit his job. He said goodbye to Mike and Mr. Stevens and his friends, and joyfully told Mr. Gurney to 'fuck off.' With each move, each word, he felt better and better, more and more relieved. Grinning, he ambled out the door and back into the rain. The managers were raging, and he wasn't allowed to quit without giving a week's notice, but Joe didn't care.
He went to Rocky's apartment, packed a few things in a plastic garbage bag, and left. As he stepped out again into the storm, he felt better than he'd felt for a very long time. He saw his reflection in a shop window, and knew that he'd done the right thing.
And he knew that he was back.
*****
Chapter Thirty
Back in Brownstown, it was raining heavily. The sky was roofed with clouds, a solid blanket over every gray inch of the city. The dead, dark smokestacks of Global Steel jutted into the grayness, their outlines blurred as if they were melting candle-like in the downpour. The river was slowly rising, inching its way up the concrete banks as rainwater swelled it. Everything was the same as Joe remembered it, bleak and foreboding as it always seemed to be. It was a dying, dirty place, crumbling daily and washing away in the rusty stream of the Stonybank River.
Despite the dismal nature of the place, Joe exulted as he toured it. At last, he felt like he was home, like he was back where he belonged. Until that day, he hadn't realized how much he'd truly missed the place, and how badly he had wanted to go back. Now, he was back, and everything felt right again, felt simple again.
Brownstown wasn't much different from Bartlett, and it certainly wasn't a nicer place to live. The climate was colder and rainier, there were fewer jobs, and the whole town seemed to be rapidly disintegrating. Truly, there wasn't much in Brownstown for Joe to return to: Crank was dead; Joe had no place to stay, and scarcely any friends whom he could depend on; he had no job, no income, and no government checks for assistance. Really, there was nothing for him in Brownstown, no practical reason to go there again. In Bartlett, he'd had Rocky, and Rocky's apartment, and his girlfriend Shelly, and the promise of a high-paying job. Back there, he'd found everything, all that a person should need to be happy.
In Brownstown, he had nothing, yet he'd been drawn there irresistibly. As vacant and negative as the town was, he'd been sucked into it like dust into a vacuum cleaner. He had come not because of any virtues of the place, but because it was the place where he'd grown up, where he'd forged his identity. It wasn't Brownstown that he had missed; it was himself. For a while, in Bartlett, he'd been living a lie, and now he had decided to tell the truth again.
And so, Joe rambled over the sidewalks, blithely inspecting the city as he traveled. He was still shirtless, and his bare, furry chest sparkled with rainwater. He toted his makeshift luggage, the green plastic garbage bag that he had brought, which was stuffed with clothes and some money that he'd earned at Burger World. His beard already looked darker and thicker; in a while, it would be draped below his chin, brushing his neck and chest like before. His hair was still cropped short, though, a final reminder of the life which he had just abandoned. It would take a while for the mane to grow back in, but Joe had lots of time.
As he walked, Joe was smiling, gladdened by the familiar sights around him. Everything appeared to be the same as the day when he'd left it; the streets looked the same, the buildings looked the same, the river was also unchanged. Everything was the same, right down to the gloomy, seeping weather. Joe had only been gone for a few weeks, of course, but somehow, he had thought that the city would be different when he returned. He had only spent a few weeks in Bartlett, but so much had happened to him there that it had seemed like a lot longer.
Joe had arrived in Brownstown only two hours ago. He'd walked out of Rocky's apartment around noon, aiming himself at the Bartlett city limits. After hiking the whole way to the edge of town, he'd marched out onto the highway, Route 219, which would lead him back to Brownstown. He'd then walked and hitchhiked the rest of the way through the rain, and it had taken him several hours to reach the city. Now, he was finally home, strolling along the grimy riverbank at seven o'clock in the evening.
Looking up at a street sign on the corner that he was approaching, Joe noticed that it read "Piedmont Avenue." He chuckled and shook his head; Piedmont was the street on which he and Crank had once lived, and along which Tap's Bar was located. Memories flooded his mind, recollections of the many times that he'd walked along the same street, and of the many things that had happened to him there. He remembered one night when he and Crank had gotten drunk, and had gone out in the middle of the street to play 'chicken' with passing cars. It had only taken one set of screaming tires and a blaring horn to convince them to give up and try something else. Instead of dodging cars, they had then decided to swim in the river; they had stripped off their clothes, jumped into the filthy water, and swam, oblivious to the slime and the stink of that polluted waterway. Crank would do anything if he had enough booze in him, and Joe would just naturally follow along.
To his left, Joe saw something which brought back more memories. It was an old brick building, a few stories tall, with black, scorched splotches in a strip across its face. Since some of the windows in that strip were intact and lit from within, Joe figured that people still lived there. Instinctively, his eyes found a particular window, one that was surrounded by the darkest, most charred brick of all. The glass was still broken from the frame, and the space behind the paneless window was dark; Joe guessed that no one was living in that room, since the landlord still hadn't replaced the window. It was Crank's old place, the one where he and Joe had lived...until the fire.
Smiling, Joe remembered when he'd first moved in. "Okay," Crank had said, "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." His friend's voice came back to him vividly once more, and Joe again found it hard to believe that he was dead.
As he wistfully looked around, Joe kept walking. Though he felt like going inside to see the old apartment, he knew that he couldn't stop there, couldn't stroll in and look around. He remembered the landlord, Charley Wills, and how much the man had hated him and Crank. If Joe even set foot on the front steps of the building, Wills would probably blow his brains out with a shotgun. Though he was curious about the place, and wondered if Wills had fixed it up at all, Joe didn't want to see it badly enough to risk getting his skull shot to pieces. He kept moving down the sidewalk, memories drifting like soap suds through his mind.
When he had walked a little more, Joe sighted Tap's Bar. The dirty little place squatted across the street, looking as seedy and run-down as it always had. Joe grinned when he saw it, and walked a bit faster. At last, he had come to a place that he could visit, a place where he would still be welcome; he had spent more time there than anywhere else in town, and knew that he could fearlessly go inside and reminisce.
He crossed the street and strode through the door, his heart racing a little in anticipation. When he entered, he realized that everything was unchanged from the last time he'd been there: the tables, the bar, the pool table, the smoke hanging in the air, even Ralphy. The stubby, stubborn bartender looked
up as Joe ambled in, and Joe thought that he smiled a little behind his beard. Then, whatever trace of a grin Joe had seen vanished, and the little man's face returned to its normal, irritated scowl.
"Hey, Ralphy," greeted Joe, walking up to the bar. "What's up, man?"
"So, you're back," grunted Ralphy, polishing a glass.
"Yeah," smirked Joe. "I got tired a' the good life, so I came back here. You doin' okay?" He sat on one of the barstools, resting his garbage bag luggage on the floor.
"I guess so," mumbled Ralphy. "You know, things are th' same. You back to stay?"
"Yup," nodded Joe. "Girnme' a draft."
Ralphy stared suspiciously at him from beneath his caterpillar eyebrows. "You cash?" he muttered warily.
"Of course, Ralphy!" laughed Joe. "Have you ever known me not to be?"
"Yeah, asshole, I have," punctured Ralphy. "I wanna' see it first. Then, you get a draft."
Joe pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled one off. Grinning, he slapped it down on the bar in front of Ralphy. "There ya' go. Put it up, pal. I'm thirsty."
Ralphy stared at the money for a moment, then snatched it and jammed it into the cash register. He gave Joe a couple coins in change, then got him a glass of beer. Joe drank it down, relishing the cool liquid as it flowed into his body. Then, he stood up and clunked the empty glass on the bar.
"Well, I'll see ya' tomorrow, Ralphy," he said, hoisting his garbage bag. "Thanks for th' brewski, you fucker."
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