Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  “Yeah.”

  “Could we get together this week, maybe have coffee or something?”

  “Um, let me think.” After a moment, “Sorry, I’m all jammed up until after the first. But feel free to call me when you’ve done a few steps, okay?”

  To appease him, I said, “All right, I’ll try to do the steps.”

  “Don’t try, do.”

  Confucius rides again.

  “Look, I’m sober. Isn’t that what sobriety is all about?”

  “No, that’s not what it’s all about. Sobriety is about recovery, meaning it’s about getting your head together so you can stay sober. And following the steps is the best way I know to do that.”

  Before he could say something else I’d regret, I acceded. “All right, I’ll call you after I’ve done a few steps.”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, take care and all that.”

  “You too.”

  We hung up and I got thirsty just thinking about that conversation, so I called Wonderman to distract myself. Not that I wasn’t eager to connect with him anyway, seeing as we hadn’t talked in I don’t know how long. I’d even settle for an update on his business and wedding plans. What I got was a recording, one of those discontinued-service messages. Was he not paying his phone bills? Had he moved and neglected to tell me? That would piss me off, because friends kept friends informed of their whereabouts, did they not? Having gotten all worked up, I decided to chew Wonderman out, which I’d have to do in person since I no longer had his number, nor was directory assistance likely to be of much help. Moreover, I’d need to visit my friend today or Monday, seeing as the store was closed on Sunday. Of course I could drive over to his apartment tomorrow, but if he was out or really had moved I’d have wasted my time. No, I’d visit the store today.

  Right now, in fact, before I changed my mind.

  #

  I hadn’t been to Marty’s, né Harry’s, since Wonderman took over, which is why I went into shock after entering the store. Gone were the narrow aisles, poop-colored walls and sloppily arranged produce. The current proprietor had doubled the aisle width, painted the walls a zingy canary yellow and arranged the produce in orderly rows and stately pyramids. All in all, the place looked cleaner, tidier and far more appealing, and I resolved to congratulate my friend on these improvements after reaming his ass. I looked around but he was nowhere in sight. His fiancée, Doreen, appearing thinner than I remembered her, was working the register, ringing up a long line of customers. I decided to stick around until either Wonderman showed up or business slowed enough for me to ask her where he was.

  Meanwhile I paced the aisles, triggering a raft of memories, some of them surprisingly agreeable. Even Harry, that putz, improved in retrospect, and I almost—I say almost—missed the smell of his cigars. What caught me most unawares, though, was my recollection of the crappy chores, such as sweeping the aisles, stocking the shelves and pricing merchandise. Back then these tasks were pure drudgery. Now they all seemed tolerable, and some even pleasurable.

  Memory is weird.

  Mine strayed next to delivering groceries, which I appreciated even back then because it got me out of the store. But now, looking back, I realized how much I enjoyed driving around and listening to the radio, to Dick Purtan, Robin Seymour and Jack the Bellboy spinning “stacks and stacks of wax,” like the latest from Elvis, Chuck Barry, Little Richard and Fats Domino.

  Naturally Amanda Fontaine was another highlight of those deliveries, one I hoped to make more than a memory. I was halfway down aisle four, snacks and soft drinks, thinking how much I wanted to make her more than a memory, when I heard, “You’re Nate, right?” I turned to see Doreen standing there with a sad little smile on her face. Had she and her fiancé gotten into it that morning? I don’t know why I thought that, unless it was because her future husband often cheated on his women.

  “Right,” I said. “Hi.”

  Doreen craned her neck and glanced at the young lady who’d taken over the register, then turned back to me.

  “I tried waiting until the line went down before breaking away,” she said, “but I finally saw that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.”

  “Business is good, I take it.”

  “Almost too good.”

  “The owner ought to get a second register, hire more help.”

  “I wish I could, but business isn’t that good.”

  My confusion must have showed, because Doreen stared at me a second or two before speaking again.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  The only thing I knew, from the catch in her throat, was that something bad had happened. But it didn’t take me long to realize what. Wonderman had done it again, and his fiancée had found out and called off the wedding. So he’d split with his new love and handed the store over to his ex-fiancée. That last part didn’t make sense, but it was the best I could do on such short notice.

  “What don’t I know?” I asked.

  Doreen started to say something, but then pointed toward the storage room and led the way there. Even from behind she looked proper in flat heels, a mid-calf dress and a tightly wound bun atop her head. But unlike the last time I’d seen her, Doreen’s shoulders sagged, giving her a weary, melancholy air.

  We pushed through the double doors of the storage room, which had also transformed. Half the cartons remained on skids, but now occupied the room’s four corners, while the rest were stored on shelves along the walls. The new arrangement gave the space a roomier feel, despite another addition, an old and tattered but comfortable-looking couch.

  Doreen motioned me toward it and we both sat. “Nate, Marcus is no longer with us,” she said.

  I knew it. The louse.

  “He died last month. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

  No.

  Impossible.

  “What?” I said, so low I could hardly hear myself.

  “Marcus passed away a month ago, from sickle-cell anemia. Doctor said he’d probably had the disease since childhood and never did anything about it. As far as I know, he hadn’t told anyone either, certainly not me. Then one day we were shopping and … and …”

  Doreen paused to collect herself but achieved only moderate success. Her lips quivered and both hands, resting in her lap, shook a little. She did complete her thought, though. “… he had a stroke and was gone.”

  She stared at her hands. By the time she looked up tears had formed. “I’d have called you,” Doreen said, “but I didn’t have your number.”

  I barely heard this addendum because I was still processing the news. Wonderman had died. Of sickle cell anemia. Which had led to a stroke.

  I felt faint.

  I’d heard “sickle cell anemia” mentioned on the news from time to time, but knew nothing about the disease except that it affected blacks more than whites and men more than women. Now I knew it had deprived me of a friend, one I’d never see again. True, I hadn’t seen much of Wonderman since he’d become a business owner, but at least he was there, in my life, only a visit or phone call away.

  Now he was gone.

  Dead.

  The word was so ugly, the truth of it so final, I started to unravel. But Doreen beat me to it, dropping her chin to her chest and sobbing so hard her whole body shook. It wouldn’t do for both of us to come apart, so I reined myself in and let her cry for the two of us. After she’d wept awhile, I hesitated but then slipped an arm around her shoulders and took her hand in mine. Gradually she stopped shaking. When she finally looked up her eyes were red and puffy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was all cried out but obviously I’m not.”

  “That’s okay. Cry as much as you want.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  I was? When was the last time someone had called me that? Never, I think.

  Doreen excused herself and retired to the ladies’ room, where she remained for several minutes. She returned still looking cheerless
but otherwise much improved.

  “He talked a lot about you,” she said after reseating herself. “Kept saying he ought to call you but I guess he never did.” She paused, then said, “Men. They have a hard time staying in touch, don’t they? I wonder why that is.” She gazed at me as if I knew.

  “They do,” I said, “and I don’t know why. Must be in the genes.”

  Doreen cocked her head, as if to determine if I were serious. “Anyway, he liked you,” she said. “You were his only Caucasian friend. Did you know that?”

  I said he once told me as much. But then something else occurred to me. I knew very little about Wonderman, and he knew as much about me.

  Men.

  “He had very few friends,” Doreen said. “I mean real friends. I think that’s why he threw himself into the store. Now he’s left it to me, and I’m not sure how long I can keep it. I have no head for business, and those three investors of his know it. They keep asking me all these questions and I don’t always have an answer.”

  “I’ve got a friend who might help,” I said. “Maybe offer some advice.”

  “How much does he know about running a store?”

  “Owns the ice cream parlor down the street.”

  “Dandy Randy’s?”

  “The same.”

  “That place is booming. My brother Carl and I, we grab a sundae there once in a while. It’s always crowded, especially Saturday nights. People go there after the movies.”

  This woman knew more about Sheldon and his business than I did. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. And maybe I ought to reconnect with my only remaining friend before one of us died.

  I got Doreen’s number—she was living with her brother temporarily—and offered her mine. I promised I’d have Sheldon contact her. She thanked me and said she had to get back to the register. We parted in mutual sorrow.

  Outside, mine grew into full-fledged grief, and all the feelings I’d submerged in Marty’s rose to the surface, especially the guilt—for not calling Wonderman more often, for not insisting we get together, for not trusting he hadn’t cheated, for not appreciating him while he was here.

  The guilt-tripping over, at least temporarily, I felt the full impact of never seeing my friend again, of never again enjoying his humor and comradeship, even his jabs. I’d known grief before, but not like this, not this searing pain for which no anesthetic seemed available.

  Except one.

  #

  I knocked back four shots and two beers in quick succession, then a couple more shots before testing the waters to see if I was numb enough.

  Wonderman is gone.

  I felt only a twinge of sadness at the thought, so I tried again just to be sure.

  Wonderman is gone

  Not even a twinge this time, thanks to good old alcohol.

  Then I got brave.

  Wonderman is dead.

  That one ripped right through me.

  Words make all the difference, don’t they? Gone versus dead. Gone, a twinge. Dead, riiiiiip. Well screw alcohol, and screw AA, and screw the horses they rode in on.

  I ordered a Bud to show my displeasure. Waiting for its delivery, I looked around. Where was I anyway? Not a clue in sight, but then I wasn’t seeing too clearly. After straining what remained of my brain, I remembered. J’s Place. Nice place on Twelfth Street between Maxie’s Bagels and a hard place. I mean, and a barbershop. At least I think that’s what I mean. Hard to say. Where was I again? Ah yes, getting smashed.

  Life’s funny. You can remain sober for more than half a year, meaning seven months, and in the blink of an eye get pie-eyed. One minute sober, the next blotto. Presto prestidigitation.

  Didn’t think I knew that word, did you? C’mon, tell the truth. Didn’tdidn’tdidn’t.

  Another question. Was I losing my mind, this time for good? Before leaping to conclusions I asked my shrink, who, doubling as a bartender, set my beer down.

  ”Tell me something,” I said.

  “What?

  “Am I crazy?”

  The guy was a little on the chunky side—okay, he was fat—so his chins jiggled as he spoke. “If you ask me, everyone who comes in here is a bit off his rocker. I don’t know you because you’re a first-time customer, but based on the odds I’d have to say yes, you’re probably cuckoo.”

  I emptied half my Bud and stared at my shrink’s nametag, which refused to stand still. I gulped down most of the rest but that didn’t help.

  The guy tapped the tag with a thick, stubby finger. “You trying to read this thing?”

  I bowed my head, in deference to what I couldn’t say.

  “Joe. The name’s Joe.”

  Joe? Joe the bartender? What kind of bartender names himself Joe? I must be shitfaced, or have I said that already?

  Maybe I should’ve gone to Dandy Randy’s and gotten drunk on sundaes. But then Sheldon would have asked what’s new, and I’d have told him, which would have driven me to the nearest bar. So by coming directly here I’d eliminated the middleman.

  Now where was I before I interrupted me? Joe, Joe the bartender, who was now wiping down the bar, maybe because I’d spilled a little beer. In appreciation, I offered him a cigarette, which he graciously accepted. I took one myself and lit it, barely. I volunteered to light Joe’s but he graciously declined and lit his own.

  After a drag or two he turned remorseful. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I said before, about you being cuckoo. Bad manners on my part. I wouldn’t mind saying you drink a little too much, but I can’t. The owner might object.”

  “Who’s the owner?” As if I might know him.

  “Me.”

  Which it turned out I did. So mystery solved. J’s Place was Joe’s place, and, as I said, a very nice place.

  Except for the jukebox, where Bobby Vinton was spouting nonsense again, insisting that roses were red and violets were blue. All roses were red? He ever hear of the yellow rose of Texas? Or was he calling Mitch Miller a liar? And violets were blue? Next he’d claim oranges were brown and redheads were green, or maybe blacks were white and whites were black, in which case Amanda Fontaine and I could be together and no one would think anything of it, including her.

  I needed a drink. Where the hell was the bartender? I summoned him by finishing my beer and gently tapping—all right, loudly rapping—the bottle on the bar. As it happened, Joe was standing right in front of me.

  “Whoa, partner, easy,” he said. “Maybe you oughta call it a night.”

  “Okay, it’s a night. Now where’s my Bud? I’m outta beer. Can’t you see that?”

  To help him see that, I turned my empty bottle upside-down. A lone drop fell on the bar and I mopped it up with an elbow.

  “There, I’ve done your job for you. That deserves a beer, right?”

  I flicked an ash at the metal ashtray to my right and missed. Joe just stood there, so I mopped it up with my other elbow. I had to do everyone’s job for them. What a world, and I couldn’t even get a drink to cope with it. I raised the bottle and prepared to slam it down on the bar to show my displeasure, but a hand reached out and wrested it from me.

  “Okay, pal, that’s enough. Settle up and move it on out.”

  Who said that? Joe? Couldn’t be, not my shrink. He wouldn’t cut me off in mid-session.

  Something that looked like a bar tab appeared below my nose. It was attached to a hand that was attached to—I looked up—Joe.

  Traitor. I was surrounded by traitors. This one mumbled something, which I ignored. He wiggled the tab and rattled off a total.

  I could see this battle, like all the others I’d fought lately, would be a losing one, so I got up and dug out my wallet. At least I think it was my wallet. Must have been, since it contained some bills. I removed them all and threw ’em on the bar to show what I thought of turncoats. A hand grabbed a few, rang the register, extracted some change and placed it in front of me. I left it on the bar along with a couple of dollars.

&nb
sp; Joe swept up the tip. “You got a ride home?”

  Dumb-ass question.

  “Of course I’ve got a ride home. I have a car, don’t I?”

  “I mean is there someone who can drive you?”

  “I can drive myself, thank you very much.”

  “No you can’t. You’re too drunk. And I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  At least we had that in common. I didn’t want my death on my conscience either, because God knows there was enough on it already.

  “How ’bout I call you a cab?” Joe offered.

  “Allow me. I’m a cab.”

  “And a regular comedian. Look, pal—”

  “Hold on.” I removed my wallet again, which about exhausted me. I gazed at the remaining bills but had no energy to tally them. So I ventured a guess. “I don’t think I have enough.”

  Joe grabbed the billfold and counted. “You don’t, unless you live next door.”

  “Guess I drive.”

  “Guess you don’t. Hey, either you get someone to drive you or I call the cops. They’ll throw you in the tank till you sober up.”

  I knew that. Didn’t he know I knew that? I thought everyone knew I’d been in the tank once. I remembered not liking it there, so I tried to think of someone I could call, someone who’d drive me home. No one came to mind.

  Then someone did come to mind, someone with a glossy head and snide attitude who wore putrid turtlenecks.

  God, not him.

  Yes, him. It’s what you deserve.

  #

  I awoke having no idea where I was. I knew only that I lay on my back in total darkness. Not even an outline of something suggested my location. Maybe I was lying in a coffin, getting a head start on dying. Someone obviously had pounded a nail in my skull, so my imminent death made sense. I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

  As I lay there suffering the agony of the almost-dead, pitch black turned to dark gray and then to lighter gray and finally to broad daylight, which is when I discovered I wasn’t in a casket after all, but rather on a stiff leather couch. I also knew where I was, and that I didn’t want to be there any more than in a coffin. So I willed myself to another kind of death.

  Sleep.

  #

  I awoke for a second time and looked up, only to see Merv looking down on me, doubtless in more ways than one. He wore a yellow silk robe that hurt my eyes, as if I weren’t hurting enough. There was good news on that front, though. The throbbing in my head had ebbed, replaced by a dull, steady ache. I trusted even that would be gone soon, along with my life, thanks to the executioner standing over me.