The Third Step

by William Lobb

  To get to Turf’s, people had to drive past the gym. Maybe they didn’t have to, but it always seemed the way Frankie had to take. When he was home, it seemed he drove by here almost daily, like a punishment. Sometimes he would pull his car up to the spot where he was parked that night, with Pam, and just remember Sammy.

  No formal charges were ever filed. Ironically, this actually angered Frankie. He was convinced if Sammy had been a white kid from an important family he would be in prison for manslaughter, at least. He told a cop that one time and the cop went nuts, saying, “We kept your useless ass out of prison and you still bitch about us.”

  The cop, named Ogden, was the same one, the young one, who had talked to Frankie that night in the gym after Sammy’s death. Frankie never had the balls to go visit Sammy’s family. He was close to them as a kid. Alexandrine was Sammy’s distant, woodpile cousin. Sammy’s family was also from the Deep South. This time, this trip, he had to. It had been two years.

  Ironically, Eddie and Sammy had died on the same day, different years, of course, but the same anniversary day. It made it easier for Frankie to remember; he thought it convenient. His circle was getting smaller; only the old lady and Alex remained. Fewer people in his circle meant the less nonsense and bullshit he had to manage. Eddie was dead; Sammy, too, and Pam was gone. That was just about his entire inner circle. Suddenly realizing this, Frankie felt free and unencumbered by the weight and burdens of friendship and also completely alone. He liked the feeling of absolute loneliness; it was tight and controlled, clean. No loose ends.

  He pulled into the parking spot behind The Lovely Tavern at about 5:00 p.m. The Lovely was perfectly situated near the factories of the small city: a rubber manufacturing plant and a place that made some god-awful smelling stuff that somehow became the base stench for some perfumes. Other sweatshops made furniture, saturated with poison chemicals, that the men took into their bodies through their skin, accumulated, and from which they eventually died of cancer.

  The guys that came into the bar after long hot days in those hell holes were not in love with life. Those guys were survivors. Some had spent way too much time in Vietnam, only to come home to a country and a world that really didn’t care, hated that war, and sadly, those who fought in it, by extension. It was an inexplicably stupid and senseless war. Frankie just missed being drafted, but when he saw the changes in these guys he knew, he was convinced they had stood at the doorway to someone’s Hell, looking over, maybe putting a foot in, somehow coming back, but never fully returning.

  A lot of the guys found heroin in Vietnam. They brought that home with them too. To go there and do what they had done, and then come home and have blood thrown on them and be called baby killers was just unimaginably wrong. Others could see the war and the memories that they brought home with them in their faces. We could see the battles of these streets and homes, too. We could see that hatred of the owner, the foreman: hatred of the job, breathing in poison every day, dying a little every day, low pay, no future, no hope, failed marriages, failed and broken kids, and failed lives. These guys didn’t live. They endured fifty, sixty, seventy years of this and then died and were buried up on a hill that overlooked the city and overlooked the factories that killed them, as the toxic air that killed them wafted over their graves.

  If a guy wanted a fight, it was a really safe bet that he could find one at The Lovely about 5:30 on any weeknight. Dirty, angry, beaten men, some in their late twenties who looked like they were forty, some in their late thirties who looked like they were done. They coughed and hacked out the stench from those places. They smelled of burned rubber and some horrible concoction of perfume or the chemicals and dyes of the furniture shop. These were the guys that went to drink at The Lovely.

  Frankie walked in and saw Jack behind the bar: Captain Jack. He looked at Frankie and extended a hand, and then he came around the end of the bar and hugged Frankie hard. He stood back and said, “Jesus, you look like Hell.” Frankie did. The past nine months had pretty much been a speed bender. Frankie lost at least twenty-five pounds off his already skinny frame. The white crosses and lack of sleep and living in the truck had taken a deeper toll than Frankie had realized. As he sat down at the bar and looked in the mirror behind the cash register, he saw himself in his home surroundings for the first time in too long. He did look like Hell. Jack said he looked like a ghost, maybe he’d better go see Alex or his grandma and get some fat back on his ass. Frankie just ordered the Turf’s traditional—two Rolling Rock nips and a shot of tequila.

  Rolling Rock nips were twenty-five cents in 1981, so for two bucks a guy could get a pretty good beer buzz. Turf’s was the kind of bar where men went to get drunk: cheap beer, cheaper booze. It was a medical facility. Frankie finished about ten nips and about five shots before deciding to stay the night there and get good and drunk. Jack had an apartment upstairs over the bar; he could sleep there if he could make it up the stairs. If not, any booth would do. He needed to get good and drunk with these guys; they were like family to him. He’d stay there and pass out after Jack bought the last round of the night, that fucking death shot of Jack Daniels. In the morning, he’d get up and head out to see Eddie’s widow. Tonight, it felt good to be home and getting wasted in The Lovely.

  It was only a matter of hours, sometimes minutes in The Lovely before someone started something. It was at least a nightly thing. Frankie rarely got involved. Since Sammy’s death, people were a little afraid of him and distant. He’d often sit at the bar, quietly drinking as bottles and glasses and ashtrays, a table or chair flew past him. Jack was the bouncer, bodyguard, and bartender. He never let things get too out of hand. He kept a pistol hidden behind the bar, but a sawed-off shovel handle was all he really needed. A couple of whacks across the back with that and things usually broke up “the assholes.” That is what Jack would call them after the mini-battles. About twenty minutes later, the same guys were sitting together getting drunk, the Brotherhood of the Lovely.

  Frankie quietly sat there this night, trying to get very drunk. He did not want to go see Eddie’s widow, not even a little. He needed to get past the night and figure out what to say and how to say it.

  Suddenly, the owner of the bar entered, sucking a cigar and pissed off as hell. He ordered the music turned down, while, over his head, he held a roll of toilet paper. He stands up on the bar and starts his declaration. “No-fucking-body gets more than three goddamn sheets, men or women. I just had to pay, again, to get the goddamn toilet in the women’s bathroom unplugged. If you got to shit, you come up to the bar and ask Jack for your sheets.” Jack looked at Frankie and they both started to laugh. Frankie yelled out to Dick, the owner, “Jack is going to need a raise if he has to monitor who shits, how much, and when.”

  Dick said, “Fuck you, Frankie.” This was The Lovely in all its loveliness.

  He later woke up in a blur, very hungover, and still a little drunk. He managed to stand and realized he was alone in the bar. He went to the back and climbed the stairs to Jack’s place. He walked in and went into the bathroom. Passing the living room, Frankie saw Betty was awake and smoking a cigarette, the girl everyone called Crusty. She was the girl no one wanted, but she always managed to find herself in the apartment of Frankie, or Jack, or one of two or three other guys on any Sunday morning.

  Truth be told: she was a really nice girl, smart; she worked in the rubber plant. Neither she, nor any of the four or five guys she always managed to sleep with on any weekend night, could ever understand why no one would commit to her. She may have been the smartest of all the Turf’s regulars. She was actually too good a person to settle for any of these guys and they knew it.

  Sometimes late at night, on the nights she found herself with Frankie, they would have amazing conversations until the sunrise. I think all the men in her life were a little in love with Betty, but it became some macho-pride thing to treat her like shit. The day Betty met a decent guy and mo
ved to Jersey with him, the boys of the bar were saddened and a little shocked, like they could not understand why she left.

  Frankie, now strangely, shyly, said hello to her and she waved her cigarette in his direction. She said, “You look like shit, Frankie. What the fuck have you been up to?”

  Frankie replied, “Living the dream,” and walked off into the bathroom to shower. Jack had managed somehow to bring his suitcase into the apartment at some point during the night. Jack was a good friend, better than Frankie deserved or even realized. He walked out into the small living room, nude, and began to go through his clothes, looking for a pair of shorts and a t-shirt to wear. It was already about ninety degrees out, just after 11:00 a.m. Betty commented again how sickly he looked, “Jesus, Frankie, it’s like I can almost see through you.” He smiled and quickly dressed.

  Jack was gone and for a moment he thought about fucking her, but he really didn’t feel too good. He needed food and a few beers. Maybe later. Betty was just about always available. He asked her if she wanted to get something to eat. She declined, so Frankie decided to leave and said goodbye. He asked her to tell Jack he would be back later for his clothes and stuff.

  He grabbed a hard roll—he always thought about the Canadian waitress whenever he ordered one—and a coffee. Then he ate and drank them while he leaned up against an old gray building on West Main Street.

  He looked up at the clock on the bank in the square downtown and knew it was time to head off to see Eddie’s widow. Frankie had no idea what to say to her. He had the cash from Vince and a few thousand he added, but it wasn’t much insurance. He really hoped Eddie had mailed home some of the cash from this year and it wasn’t all in the truck. He walked back to the bar, it was past noon now and the lunch crowd was starting to assemble.

  Frankie walked in The Lovely, said Hi to everyone and walked off into the back to a somewhat-secluded booth. Jack came over next to Frankie and sat down; he brought over a couple of breakfast nips. He said, “Are you home now? Done with that smuggling stuff?”

  Frankie shook his head, “No, were just on a little break until we figure out exactly who the fuck and what the fuck did this, and why.”

  Jack said, “You know, Pam comes in here a lot and I think she’s done with Billy; I thought you should know. She’s asked for you, wondering if I ever see you or if you ever come around.”

  Frankie took a very long drink from the nip, finished it in one shot, sat the empty bottle on the old, stained, and cigarette- burned tabletop and said, “No, fuck that. I need to go see Eddie’s wife and Alex, then Grandma, and get back down to the beach and meet Mr. Jones and see if we can figure out our next move. I’d love to see Pam for a nice long night of brain fucking, but I’ll have to pass. I’ve learned a lot this year, Jack. Mainly, I’ve learned that it’s time to move past her. If I wanted my brain fucked again, I’d drill a hole in my skull so she didn’t have to work so hard.”

  Jack smiled and patted him on the back, brought him another nip and another shot and went back to work. Frankie finished up and slapped some money on the counter; as he walked out the back door of the bar, he waved at Jack. He passed some of the factory guys in the back, who were passing around a joint. He stopped, shook some hands, took a hit, thanked them, and started to walk away. It was as if a person could almost see through Frankie in the early afternoon sun. Jack was right; he did look like a ghost.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  Eddie’s Wife

  The drive to Eddie’s house was only about twenty minutes from the city of Middletown, which was surrounded by farms and farmland. The ride to his house was always pleasant; Frankie would usually spend the time productively, smoking a joint and listening to the radio. This trip seemed much harder. He had no idea what he’d find there.

  He knew Eddie’s wife, Kathy, pretty well. She was younger than Eddie and only a few years older than Frankie. They’d smoked together a few times. Frankie always found her pretty hot, but he never made a move on her for a couple of reasons: she was Eddie’s wife and Eddie would kill him, and his love for Pam—laughable now, but at the time, it seemed real. Truth be told: Frankie never once ever could connect the dots between love and getting laid. The two were about as closely related as eating a sandwich and changing a tire on his car. He knew that was not the way most people viewed it. They went hand in hand, but the whole concept was lost on Frankie. A big pissed-off guy beating the fuck out of you for fucking his wife, that conceptually made sense to Frankie, but the rest of it was lost on him.

  He pulled into the driveway and grabbed the envelopes of money off the seat. Frankie walked to the door and knocked. It was a nice little house surrounded by hayfields and a beautiful view of the Shawangunk Mountains in the background; the mountain range called the Purple Ridge by the locals. The view outside the house was calming to Frankie. The hayfields were dry and freshly cut. Frankie got lost for a few seconds thinking about summers on his uncle’s farm. The relentless sun, the work, the hot sweat of hay cutting just before the Fourth of July. He loved that farm. Probably the happiest times of his life happened there. Fresh eggs and thunderstorms and ice tea under a giant bean tree; the sweet smell of a freshly cut hayfield, just like the one he was looking at now. Fleeting memories of a happy childhood all centered around that farm.

  Kathy answered the door. She was as pretty as he remembered. She pulled him into her arms and started to cry; they held each other for about a minute and she brought him into the house.

  The house was small and neat; the kids were off with her sister. She wanted to just be alone today. There was a service later that night for Eddie at a local church; she offered and Frankie politely declined. They both smiled at the absurdity of it. She had a million questions and Frankie tried to answer them as best he could. She knew about the business; she told him Eddie thought a couple of more years and he could retire.

  She got up to get a couple of large, sixteen-ounce cans of Budweiser from the refrigerator while Frankie rolled a few joints. They went to the back of the house and sat in a couple of Adirondack chairs, and cracked open their beers. Frankie lit a joint, inhaled deeply, and passed it to Kathy. They sat there in silence, in the partial shade of a massive oak tree, passing the joint back and forth; looking at the changing patterns on the mountains as the sun slid across a cloudless sky. It was the most relaxed Frankie had been in a long time.

  Kathy asked what his plans were now and Frankie said he really had no plan. He was going to see his grandma and Alexandrine and head down to the shore and meet Jones and wait to hear what his next move was. She asked if they had any idea who killed Eddie and he only said people were looking into that. She asked what would happen to them; Frankie smiled at her without saying a word. Kathy said, “I want them dead. You have to promise me that will happen. I don’t care who does it, but they have to die.” Frankie assured her they would.

  She got up to grab two more beers and came back quickly. They drank them slowly and smoked the second joint. Frankie felt he was melting, the stress of the past year just seemed to be peeling off him like the buried layers of an onion. It was at this moment that he realized the level he’d been running at the past year. As the tension and stress slid off him, Frankie felt like he had stepped out of his body, and he saw himself for the first time in a long time. He looked ghostly. He felt the anger and need and greed and fear and exhaustion of the past year; suddenly he felt the pain and exhaustion in his body.

  Kathy commented on how he’d aged dramatically in the past year. She worried Frankie wasn’t taking care of himself; they both laughed at that. Even in those calmer days, before the fight with Billy Martin, Frankie received most of his nutrients from beer, tequila, and vodka. Frankie wanted to stay there forever, just melt into this scene. The fields were silent now; he thought how in a month it would be August, and the sound of the dog day cicadas would make that sound that always signals that summer is wearing down. Frankie hated t
hat sound; soon again it would be cold in a seemingly relentless cycle, but one where the cold always seemed to last way longer than the hot summer sun.

  Kathy asked if he was finished with his beer and he guzzled what was left. She took him by the hand and into the house. It was dark inside; the sun was setting now, and she led him into the bedroom, turned out the light and shut the door.

  The door opened about an hour later. Frankie emerged shirtless and Kathy came out wrapped in a towel. She grabbed her cigarettes off the counter, got two more beers and walked with Frankie out the back door to the chairs again. They joked a little, smoked their cigarettes, drank their beers and watched the sun slowly drop lower in the western sky.

  Frankie made a comment about needing a shower and she said she needed to get ready for the service. There was no mention of tomorrow or the next time. It was not an awkward scene; it simply played out without a script. As with everything in his life, with Frankie things just happened.

  They showered together, then they dressed; a kiss on the cheek and Frankie was headed back to Turf’s while Kathy headed off to the service for her dead husband. Frankie was in a really good mood on the short drive back. He suddenly realized it had been almost a year since he’d been with a woman. He was pretty sure it had been that long; there may or may not have been a couple of girls from down at the Hunt’s Point Market. It had been a rough year; he couldn’t remember every detail.

  The bar was quiet that night; it was just a little past 6:00 p.m. The factory boys sat in their designated spots at the bar. When they saw Frankie walk in, he was greeted like a conquering hero. He had become something of a legend while he was gone. Frankie felt sadness for the factory guys who needed to live vicariously through him. He had a very deep sense of who he was and he knew there was nothing about him to be admired. Conversely, he deeply admired these factory guys. Frankie did a stint in the rubber plant that lasted exactly two days.