The Third Step

by William Lobb

  The first day was absolute hell, noise and filth and heat and sweat and the smell of burning rubber and a constant crush to move faster, work faster, work harder, listen to a bell, eat, drink, piss, fuck off, get caught, get yelled at, another bell, back to the line. Work, push, pull, drag, lift, another bell, eat lunch, another bell, back to the line. Coughing, gagging, burned hands, visit the nurse, get a bandage, back to the line, guy next to him pissed because he left the line, another bell, smoke a cigarette, piss, pull the lever, push the button, lift, push, pull, swear and sweat, another bell. Wash off the stinking black rubber and go to the bar. Get drunk, go home. Hate life. Repeat.

  To hear Frankie tell the tale, he worked at the rubber plant for years. If pushed, he would admit it was only the one day, but it was the worst and hardest day ever. At least that’s how Frankie saw it. The next day was much less involved. He showed up very drunk and brought two pints of vodka with him. By the 9:00 a.m. break, he was completely drunk and fired; to Frankie, that was a very good day. He had a real respect and sympathy for these factory guys. Between the war and the hellish lives they were handed, he was just amazed they got out of bed each day.

  He walked up to the bar and Jack motioned him to the side. Jones had called while he was away. “He left a number and said to call him back as soon as you got back. How did it go with Eddie’s wife?” Frankie kind of looked down at the ground and smiled. Jack said, “You suck, dude,” and slapped his back. “You better be careful too. Betty said you need a good woman to take care of you. I’m done, you can be next.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Betty And

  The Working Life

  Frankie reached behind the bar and picked up the phone and called Jones. The phone rang about four times; Frankie was about to hang up when Jones picked up. “Listen, buddy; I found the guys who hit Eddie. You remember Fat Joe, the guy who works the dock at Hunt’s Point; the one you have to bribe with porn magazines and beer if you want to get unloaded quickly? Well, I spoke to him today. I called the dock and he picked up. He said he was really sorry and he liked Eddie a lot. Eddie always hooked him up with the heavy Euro porn and the beer was always cold. He said he knew who did it. He didn’t want anything, he just wanted the guys who did it to pay. Frankie, we got to get down there tomorrow.” Frankie listened and agreed.

  Frankie walked around to the other side of the bar and sat down. He looked up at a sign on the wall for Marlboro cigarettes, with a tough-looking cowboy pictured. He wondered how tough that son of a bitch really was. How tough were these guys in the bar; yeah, they been through hell Hell and they lived in Hell, but how tough were they? Could they do what needed to be done, when the time came? He sat with his head down, spinning a bottle of Rolling Rock around in his fingers, watching the wet circles it made on the bar top. Frankie looked deep into the grain of the oak, into where the cigarette burns burned away the varnish and burned into the wood. The grain was still there, kind of like a man; he can be beaten and cut and burned, but the core remains the same. Scarred for sure, but even in the scars, one can still see the grain of the man come through. He sat there, thinking about wood grain and scars and character, because it was easier than thinking about what he needed to do, thinking and rethinking what his friend Jones had just said and what he’d left unsaid.

  Thinking that there are things we can walk away from with a few scars, and over time the scars will heal and fade, and there are things we can never walk away from, that we will never heal from. These are the stones he told Jones about, heavy, gray, ugly, formless stones we drag along with us to the grave.

  Betty walked in and sat down next to him. He looked at her and asked her if she was hungry. She said she was, so they walked together out of the bar and up the street to a small Italian restaurant. The place was small and intimate; it smelled of red sauce and Parmesan cheese and fresh bread. It was dark, with candles on the tables, red tablecloths and red brick walls with huge windows that looked out at the intersection of the main street in the city, called Main Street, of course, and the street that ran up and past most of the factories; ironically, not called Factory Street.

  Some nights, usually a Friday or Saturday, we’d see the factory guys in there with their families. It was good food and not expensive. Everyone here was working class; the waitress and cooks, even the restaurant owner all lived together in the same neighborhoods, always within walking distance to the factories. Sometimes Frankie felt like he didn’t fit in at this place at all; sometimes he felt that way about the entire world. This place belonged to the working guys; this place was a reward for the struggle. Frankie was, at best, a very fortunate bum; someone who just always skated by with the minimum of effort. A cute, dark waitress showed them to their table in the corner. They ordered a bottle of red wine.

  Betty asked, “What’s the occasion? Usually you guys just buy me beers at Turf’s and take me home and fuck me.”

  Frankie always liked how Betty never pretended anything was not exactly what everyone knew it was. He wished more people could be that honest with themselves and others.

  The wine arrived and as he took a sip he looked at her and realized she was actually quite pretty. She had the whole factory- girl thing nailed. She was pretty, smart, and somewhere buried deep inside, kind of sweet, but very matter-of-fact.

  Frankie replied, “No special occasion. I’m going away for a while and I wanted to see you. I don’t know if I’m coming back here at all.”

  She asked where he was going and he said he wasn’t sure, but hopefully not to jail. She said she’d heard he was a big drug dealer now and he assured her he was not; he was simply driving a truck, and that had kind of fallen through now. He was going to meet a friend down at the shore to figure out the next move. He told her he’d invited his friend Alexandrine to join them, but she demanded alone time.

  Betty asked if they were sexual and Frankie laughed, “No, she is more my—I don’t know what she is, maybe my conscience. It could never be sexual; that isn’t what it’s about.” The waitress came and took their orders. Frankie finished his wine and poured another glass. “I’ve got to ask you a question. You go to church sometimes; I remember dropping you off one Sunday morning after you stayed with me.”

  She said, “Oh yes, I always pray for redemption after fucking you, Frankie; all the girls do.”

  He laughed and said, “Do you believe it? Do you swallow the whole thing, the whole story?” The waitress came and brought them bread and salad.

  Betty replied, “I do find some comfort there. It’s a quiet solace; being there brings me peace. Did you ever experience peace, even once, Frankie?”

  He smiled and said he didn’t think so; pretty sure he never had, in fact. “Peace just isn’t my thing. My life has always been all about war, fighting someone, some demon, some devil, something. I wish I could find and connect with what it is all of you do. Like, you know I killed Sammy, right? It was an accident, for the most part, except a little intentional because of the hit he gave to my head. I came out of that headshot wanting to kill, and I did. I’m really sorry about that; it haunts me every day of my life. That was rage; that’s what my rage has done. Sammy was my best friend. But my question is: would this God of yours forgive me for killing Sammy? What about if I kill again? Can I just keep killing people and coming back around and asking for forgiveness?”

  Dinner arrived and they made small talk with the waitress and she walked away. Betty responded, “I’m not certain of the church’s position on redemption, Frankie. I know I go to confession; I ask for forgiveness and I try to do better, which usually works until one of you guys gets me drunk and takes me home and fucks me. To be honest, I don’t see fucking you or any of the guys as a sin. When I’m taking to God, Frankie, in all honesty, you never come up. I know that you need to try. You can’t kill a guy, then ask for forgiveness and then go kill another guy and ask for forgiveness. That’s not how it works. Are you plan
ning on killing someone again? Is that why you’re going away?”

  Frankie shot back, “But what do you feel? Do you feel something inside? What do you feel when you pray? What do you feel when the priest says, ‘Go and sin no more’? Do you feel all safe and new and secure and clean?”

  Betty looked at him and simply said, “Forgiven. That is what I feel, and before you ask or make fun: no, I don’t know Jesus in my heart and I don’t talk to the Virgin Mother. I don’t see Jesus as my best friend.”

  Frankie almost jumped up, “I’m not making fun of anything and I’m certainly not playing here. I just want to understand this whole forgiveness thing and redemption thing. I’ll never find it; I’ll never feel it. When I talk to a priest, my blood runs cold. When I try to pray, I feel empty and stupid. Yes, I think unless some miracle occurs in the next twenty-four hours I’m going to have to kill a guy again. Do me a favor; tell your God when you talk that this motherfucker has it coming.”

  Betty looked at him and asked if he wanted to stay with her tonight. He looked at her and he thought, “She is way prettier than Jack,” and he accepted.

  They finished dinner, walked back to the bar and grabbed Frankie’s things from Jack’s apartment. Frankie went around the bar and gave Jack a hard hug. Jack knew he was off on some kind of mission. Jack said, “Take care of yourself.”

  Frankie stood in the door of The Lovely, with Betty by his side, and he yelled out, “You assholes take care of yourselves; I’ll be back.” Then he turned and walked up the street, toward the factories, toward Betty’s little apartment. They stopped along the way for another bottle of wine. Frankie remembered he had to call Alex before he left.

  He woke up in Betty’s bed; she was in the shower, getting ready for work. He heard the mysterious sounds women make while behind bathroom doors: things whirring and doors opening and closing and water running. Frankie got up, found his cigarettes, poured the last of last night’s wine into a dirty glass he found on the floor, went over to the window, lit a Marlboro, and drank the wine, a fine breakfast wine.

  From her second-floor apartment, he could see the steady march of the men and women on their way to the factories. Just thinking about that rubber plant sent chills down his spine.

  Betty emerged from the bathroom and sat on the bed. She asked if he wanted to stay there for a while. He smiled, thanked her and said he had to get going. He showered while she dressed. He dressed quickly and grabbed his bag. Together they walked out to the car. He drove up past the factory workers’ parade. How he hated that word, “workers.” Sounded to him like they were bees. Someone called him a good worker once and he took a swing at the guy.

  Frankie pulled up in front of the rubber plant and kissed her on the cheek. He said he’d look for her when he got back, not sure when that would be. Betty waved and smiled as she walked into the hideous building.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Alexandrine’s House

  And The Nursing Home

  He turned the car around and headed off to Alexandrine’s house, down in the rougher part of town, the ghetto. Middletown was an amazing city, a small American city in the 1980s with a mixed and diverse culture and very clear battle lines drawn. The poorest of the poor lived in these holes that looked a little like the burned-out or bombed-out buildings of a war zone. A street up housed the relatively middle-class; four streets away from that, resided doctors and lawyers and business owners, with the earliest trappings of wealth. Within a mile of the ghetto in any direction was some serious wealth. Old-money mansions: tall and large and white, always white; white, fat heavy wooden pillars stood tall as marble stairs led to walkways and large oak doors, with their brass doorknobs and hinges. Big oak trees tossed cooling shade over huge, thick green yards. You could smell the old money.

  Frankie had more friends down in the neighborhoods than he ever did, or ever would have, in large white mansions. More than once he wished that he could be there the day the people in the neighborhoods decided they’d had enough and walked the oak-lined streets of affluence and burned the tall white houses to the ground.

  Alex’s house was not far from the factories, about midway between the factory ghettos and the tall white mansions; she always said she lived down where shit gets real. He walked to her front door and knocked. He heard her yell in a large and loud voice, “Who is it?” Frankie yelled his name back and she opened the door. She pulled him in, talking fast, talking about the landlord bothering her kids and threatening eviction. He asked her what she needed; she says about $600. Her husband left her high and dry again; that man pissed him off. He moved to Newburgh, a city on the far eastern edge of the county.

  Frankie wanted to find him, but Alex said sometimes he just stopped by. Frankie said, “Great, you let this asshole stop by to get laid and he leaves you hiding from the landlord. That is just fucking great.” She handed him a piece of paper with the landlord’s number on it. From the small kitchen, she heard him raise his voice; he didn’t mince words. He hung up and told Alex, “The asshole will be here in ten minutes. He’ll be paid in full and he’ll never bother you or your kids again.”

  Alex looked at him. She hugged him; it had been over ten months, nearly a year. She said, “It’s getting easier for you, the violence. Before, it was more difficult; now it’s just part of your day. I spoke to your grandma a lot while you were gone. I got some rides to her house and we had coffee. She’s worried too, about the violence. This isn’t you, but now it has become you.”

  They heard a knock on the door; it was the landlord. Frankie opened the door and practically pushed the man onto the deck of the front porch, a porch so much in need of repair it’s a wonder two full-grown men didn’t fall through it. Frankie reached in his pocket and asked, “How much?” The nervous man, named Larry, said she owed him $600. Frankie peeled off six one-hundred dollar bills and handed them to him, and the man turned to leave. Frankie says, “Not so fucking fast. Did you come around here and threaten her kids? Did you tell the neighbors things about my friend?” Larry looked away and nervously tried to walk past Frankie, but Frankie blocked him.

  Most of the people around this town know something of Frankie; in the past year he’d become something of a legend—not a legend to look up to, more someone to fear. Larry said, “I want no trouble with you; I didn’t know she was your friend.”

  Frankie stopped him there. “What the fuck does her being my friend have to do with you intimidating her and threatening her kids? Why don’t you threaten me? I mean, I’m right here.”

  Larry threw up his hands. “I want no trouble.”

  Frankie said, quietly, like a whisper, “If I ever hear you were here again, or talk to her kids, or try to scare her, I will beat you to death. Do you understand me? Do you think I’m just talking?”

  The landlord looked at the ground and ran off.

  Alex watched the entire episode unfold on the dilapidated porch. Alex opened the door and said, “This is what I speak of, Frankie. It’s easy for you now. Too easy for you. It’s become part of who you are now. It’s in you; it is defining you. This violence. You are not becoming violent—you are becoming violence. This world you’re living in, not here, not on my porch where you should stay, this world you have immersed yourself in, you are becoming one with its violence. There’s a big difference.

  “My husband was violent; it was a part of who he was. You are different. You are becoming violence. He could visit his violence and leave. You can’t; it has become who you are. People are afraid to be near you, my dearest friend. You have become frightening, even to me.”

  She brought him a glass of water, and he walked back into the tiny, dark apartment. They sat down on an old, well-worn couch, gray and white with floral patterns across it. “Landry spoke to me after he met you in Canada.”

  Frankie interrupted. “Who the fuck is this Landry guy, anyway?”

  Alexandrine smiled and simply
said, “He’s an old friend, from the Bayou country. He grew up wild, with the snakes of the swamp. He’s like you, poisoned too many times: Landry by the snakes, you by your violence, your world. He has gained insight from almost dying many times. Every time he comes back from near death, he becomes stronger, closer to his God. Not you, Frankie. Every day I see you shedding a little bit more of your humanity. You don’t even look healthy, Frankie. It’s as if I could see right through you.”

  He stopped her and told her about the acid trip in the woods. She said she knew, and it wasn’t the acid; it was his destiny. “Frankie, that was a gift, not a gift many men get. You saw your own death, and you still have time, but not much time, to change it. I talked to your grandma about it. I talked to Landry about it. You are not the only one who had this dream. That was no dream; it was a warning. I don’t know where you are going now, but we all know it involves your dead friend, Eddie. Don’t do this. Let it go. Let the universe handle these men. You’ll find no redemption in this, Frankie, only more poison. Your spirit is dying, I can see it and feel it. So can Landry. He said you are close to the line from which you’ll never come back. Now sit down. I have bad news for you.”

  Frankie laughed, “Wait, all that was the good news?”

  Alex laughed with him. “You are such an asshole, my friend.” She got up from the couch and went to a closet in the kitchen, over the stove. She pulled down a bottle of scotch, cheap stuff, Clan MacGregor, then grabbed two glasses and came back to sit next to him. She poured two long drinks.

  Frankie smiled and said, “Breakfast?”

  Alex looked sad and said, “You’re going to need this. When was the last time you spoke to your grandma?” Frankie said he wasn’t sure, maybe a couple of weeks. Alex corrected him and said it had been months. “She’s in a home, Frankie. It’s a nice place, nice people, and she’s well-cared for. She fell in the root cellar under her house; your uncle found her. She laid there for three days. Such a tough old lady.”