So, with three hours to go till opening time, she put on her factory overalls, rolled down the windows and got some sleep.
10
"You live in that Chevy?"
"What business that of yours?" She bit her lip. She'd kind of promised herself she wouldn't attack the old guy no more. Now, first chance she gets and she snaps at him. "Yeah. For now."
"Can't be comfortable." Waldo was at his locker fumbling.
"Somewhere to sleep." She pretended to be fumbling at hers too, 'cept there weren't nothing in it.
"Saves money I guess."
"Saves belittling." She said it easy without thinking about it. Waldo looked at her. She wasn't nothing special to him. But she wasn't nothing to hate neither. Being black, he'd had his unfair share of bigotry in his lifetime. But being big and black, most folks waited for him to walk on by before they said something. It ain't easy to get your teeth into race-hating someone who's bigger than what you are.
But this little thing here, she would of just soaked it up. He heard 'em talk about her around the shop floor. People can be real nasty. He'd like to parachute some of 'em into North Vietnam and see if they got the balls to say their shit there.
He pulled out the back-up 'B' sandwich from his locker. It was carefully wrapped in aluminum foil. He tossed it into her hands like a Pass the Parcel prize when the music stops. She caught it and looked at him all surprised.
"You can either eat it, or give it away," he told her. "But don't you let me see you throw it out. Aretha always said there's six million people starving to death in the world. Wasting a sandwich is like killing some little kid in India. I mean, she said the first part. The part about India I made up myself. It's like okay to add bits."
"You bought this for me?"
"Nope. I made it myself." He bloated up with pride, if that was possible.
11
"So you know what she did?" Waldo was in the kitchen fixing baguettes.
Now I guess some of you real hard-assed book readers out there been saying as how it ain't culturally likely that some factory guy in Indiana would be eating baguettes. Maybe even some of you didn't get this far cause you was so disgusted by it. Too bad you couldn't wait for the explanation.
The French bread come to Mattfield thanks to Aretha herself. Her sister in New Orleans, whose name I can't recall right off, had a friend who was on her way to Canada to start up a little French bakery. So Aretha's sister told this lady who had the name Sendrine on account of her being French, to stop over in Indiana to break the bus journey some. She was gonna stop at Waldo and Aretha's place for a night or two.
Sendrine was a fine looking, big boned woman who spoke English with a funny accent. Aretha had left the sewerage and was at that time working as a housekeeper for the town clerk. Mattfield wasn't never important enough for a mayor, so town clerk was as fancy as you could get. To cut a long story short, Sendrine got introduced to the clerk, and they had a baby together, then got married and set up Mattfield's only bread shop. You ain't never seen two people so caught up on each other.
The daughter, who inherited her mother's big bones and her father's moustache took over the business when her parents went off to France. She also kept up the family tradition of delivering three courtesy French loaves to Waldo in gratitude for bringing her mother and father together.
"I'll tell you what she didn't do. She didn't eat it. Not right off." Waldo was still there in the kitchen despite all this side-tracking. He was being adventurous with his sandwich making. He'd bought some processed cheese and onions and mustard and he was experimenting with the right combinations. He even put margarine on the bread. You get fancy like that when you're cooking for someone else as well as yourself.
"She walked off with it like it was a little baby cradled in her arms. She looked at it real sad. I thought maybe she didn't like peanut butter or something." He took a bite of the latest experiment. Two-thirds onions.
"Then she unwrapped it real slow and looked at it. I was getting uneasy by this stage, Reet. I just wanted her to eat the darn thing. Then, at last she took a bite, smiled, and ploughed into it like she hadn't eaten for a year. That made me feel real good, watching her enjoy my sandwich, so I thought I'd give her another one tomorrow."
It still wasn't quite right. He doubled the mustard and tried it without cheese. This sandwich-making thing wasn't as easy as he figured.
12
At lunchtime on the following Friday, B.O, Planks and Ribs flocked around Waldo in the coffee break.
"Waldo, we been talking," said B.O. Being Friday, it was his least sweet point of the week. He could of stopped a charging rhino just by holding up his armpits at it.
"What you been talking about, B.O?"
"'Bout you leaving next month and all. And me and the boys reckon, given you been like a fixture round here, the place'll be kind of empty without you." Waldo raised one of his eyebrows.
"B.O, you been smoking some of that Acapulco Gold they's talking about?"
"Come on Waldo. Sure, we give you a hard time here at work, but it ain't nothing personal. You supposed to trash the QCO. That's tradition. Don't mean we don't like you."
"Sure fooled me."
"Look, man, we'll show you. We planned a surprise, farewell night for you next weekend." Waldo was shocked.
"I ain't leaving till next month."
"We know that, Waldo, but given that next Friday's payday, Saturday could be the only day we got any money before you go." Waldo looked at the boys for some evidence that this was all a joke. He didn't see none.
"Well, boys, I don't know what to say. Thanks, I guess."
"OK. Hot diggety we'll have a good time."
Waldo watched them walk off talking about what a good time they was all gonna have. It didn't fit none. He was sure they was all glad to see the back of him. He would of understood things a lot better if he'd been at the secret meeting that morning.
Desire, arriving at her office direct from one of her gin breakfasts, called a couple of the boys in. She told them, as the old guy had been with Roundly's for longer than anyone, she wanted them to organize a little going away party. Something she wouldn't have to attend herself.
When they protested, she offered a financial contribution to the festivities. Being full of gin, she probably offered a little more than she should of. That put a completely different light on things as far as the boys was concerned. They set about planning the evening. Too bad they had to invite Waldo but they didn't really have no choice, did they?
13
She was finding the fish and potato baguette hard going, but she never complained. She was thinking about the fat man's woman. She'd asked him when he handed over her lunch.
"How come you don't get your old lady to make your sandwiches for you?"
"Aretha passed away fifteen years ago."
"OK. That's a good reason."
A lot of folks would of said, "I'm sorry." at a time like that but she weren't one of 'em. If she'd killed her it might of been appropriate. But it weren't her fault, so why apologize? As she sat on her cartons working on the sandwich, she imagined what it would be like to be married to someone. She wondered if her husband would still be talking about her fifteen years after she croaked.
The big guy was always "Aretha this'n" and "Aretha that'n", so she figured she had to be alive. It was kind'a sad and pathetic, and lovely in a way. But none of her business.
14
"I'm going out tonight, Reet. Bet that surprised you. The guys at the plant are taking me to some classy joint over near the state line." He had to yell to compete with the people in the next apartment. They was screaming at each other in Spanish. He'd been listening real close but he hadn't been able to pick up a 'hola' or a 'yo tengo hambre' in amongst all the yelling.
He was always sure the neighbours was killing each other when they had one of their scenes. But it turned out that was just how they communicated. They was always real lovey-dovey at the supermarket. He
figured plates smashing against the walls had a different meaning wherever it was they come from.
Waldo was wearing his best shirt. It was one of them Hawaiian reversibles you didn't have to tuck into your pants. It had big mother-frigging hyacinths all over it that made him look more like a flower arrangement than a guy going out for a good time. He figured it'd help divert peoples' attention away from his weight, but it didn't.
15
They parked their trucks in the lot and herded together for confidence as they walked on over to the pink florescent frontage of the Inn Diana Butterfly. They was clearly out of their paddock. This was class. A couple of the guys already wished they'd worn ties.
A man built like a seven-foot pigeon stood in front of the door. He was wearing a white suit and a black lace tie and looked how Colonel Sanders would of looked if he'd started taking steroids when he was three years old. His little beard was braided. Man this was classy. A goddam doorman and all.
"Good evening gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?" He said it with a face so straight you could of leveled cement with it. The herd stood before him, silent. "Do you speak English?"
"Hell, yeah," said B.O.
"We're from Indiana," added Sweet Potato. They all nodded their agreement.
"We ain't got no reservation but," said Waldo.
"No reservation eh?" The Colonel seemed mighty perturbed by this news. He tutted and shook his head real slow and the boys was starting to get disappointed. "Well, you look like nice enough guys. Why don't I go see if I can find you a table. Don't you go away now." He turned and went inside and the herd stood its ground, not daring to move.
"Hell, we might be lucky," Shithead whispered. "Might of known we'd have to book for a high class joint like this." The Colonel was back in no time.
"It ain't gonna be easy, guys. If I had some …ehr, incentive for the Maitre D' I could maybe …" He raised his eyebrows and winked. The herd looked at him, waiting for the end of the sentence.
"I mean, if I could offer him a little something …" He looked one by one at the faces of the collective genius of Roundly's. It was like staring into abandoned igloos. Subtlety had no place there. "You guys wanna give me a couple of bucks to find you a table?"
"Sure, buddy. Why didn't you say?"
"Right."
They give him a couple of bucks. Two's a couple. He knew he should have been more specific. These guys didn't work on the space program. He knew that much. He took the two bucks and led the gentlemen inside. A farm lass crammed into a bunny uniform took over from the doorman. She told 'em to follow her and headed off into the blackness. Her tail was flashing with little Christmas tree lights. What service. What class.
The boys formed a chain cause they couldn't see nothing, and Brylcream in front kept as close to the tail as was humanly possible. It led them to a low lounge suite made of black vinyl set out in a square around a heavy wooden coffee table. There was one of them luminous wax lamps as its centrepiece. That was a little too sophisticated for some tastes, especially cause if you looked at it squirming around too close, it tended to make you throw up. But they still appreciated the ambiance.
They was in a room about the size of an infield, and once their eyes got used to the dark, they could see twenty or so other lounge suites laid out in grids along and across the room. There was a few guys at one table, and some sad old bastard alone at another. Apart from them, the place seemed deserted.
There was tasteful sketches of naked women with butterfly wings painted with luminous paint around the black walls, and assorted liquor signs, but they was the only other source of light. The music was so loud you had to lean right in your buddy's ear and yell your guts out for him to hear anything.
A real sexy girl in a black mini dress and shoes like oilrig platforms staggered over to their table to take their order. At first she leaned over B.O. to ask, but even on a Saturday night, bathed in Brut for Men, there was no mistaking B.O's natural odor cologne. She moved over to Ribs instead. From close up he noticed she was a whole lot older than she was pretending to be. Ribs ordered eight beers and she didn't bother to write it down. They all watched her aft sway off towards the bar. Man, this was class.
They'd come just in time to catch the first show. Sweet Potato had told them what to expect. The girls at the Butterfly sure wasn't no slags. They was artistes. Professional dancers and singers who just worked at the place to help out the owner who was an old Broadway show guy. Sweet Potato's brother had learned all this from the manager's hairdresser.
When the girls finished their acts, if they took a shine to some guy in the audience, they might come down and charm him with their conversation, maybe even let him crack a feel. Of course he'd have to buy 'em a drink. Singing's thirsty work.
There was stories that once in a blue moon, some guy would get real lucky and the girl would go out with him to his truck and, you know. But he'd have to be some kind of Robert Redford to score with one of these classy ladies. They're used to rich guys up there in Broadway.
All of a sudden, one corner of the room that was in shadow when they come in, got all lit up. There was all kinds of spots and strobes and floodlights making a fuss of this little eight foot stage. A grease ball in a striped jacket was sitting at a fancy organ and the taped stuff went quiet and the grease ball started to play something. Live. Just like that. He didn't even read no music, just played out of his head. Boy, was this something or what?
And a singer walked up on the stage. She was a dream. The Roundly's boys' tongues unrolled out of their mouths like red carpets at the Oscars. They'd never seen a celebrity up close before. Two of the boys swore it was Diana Ross. Even took bets on it. On account of him being black and everything, they had to take Waldo's word that it wasn't her.
She had legs so long they must of reached half way to Michigan if she laid down. She wore one of them haute couture PVC hot pant outfits. Could of been the same material as the lounge suites. She was saving her voice. That was obvious. Hell, if you can make a million dollars on album sales, you sure don't want to tire it out helping out an old friend in Indiana. She was definitely holding back, but, man she looked good.
The boys hooted and clapped their palms raw when she finished her set, and she must of really taken a liking to Ribs, because before you could say, "Can I have your autograph?" she was there beside him sipping on a Bacardi Coke and kneading away at his bony old thigh. None of them could believe Rib's luck. They was all in shock.
The singers kept on coming and as the night got older, more guests arrived and the place started to get raucous. Guys was whistling and yelling stuff at the new singers. They wasn't showing no respect to the artistes at all. They might as well of been twenty cent whores at a barn dance. The boys seriously considered going on over to teach them goons a lesson, but they was some big old goons so they let 'em be. Lucky for them.
The boys now had four singers sitting with them. It showed that class women didn't respect goons. The ladies knew gentlemen when they saw 'em. Waldo was right about Diana Ross. Her real name turned out to be Bubbles. It seemed Bubbles must of saw something in Ribs that his wife didn't, cause she just fell head over heels in love with the guy. It was all so romantic he borrowed the truck keys from B.O. and him and Bubbles went off for a little canoodle.
They all felt proud and kind of jealous. It got them all thinking too. If a pop star like Bubbles could fall for Ribs, there had to be love dust in the air that night. Wasn't a one of them without a chance of some romance of their own. Excepting for Waldo that was. He was enjoying the night, kind of. Well, it was his night so he had to. But he wasn't really sharing the enthusiasm the boys showed for these girls.
For one thing he was a music lover. They'd been there two hours and he hadn't heard none yet. If the singers was holding back to save their voices like Sweetpea suggested, they was holding so far back as to suggest they couldn't sing at all. Course, that was just his opinion.
The grease ball announced the final sin
ger of the troupe.
"All the way from Pay Jing China, the top chanteuse in the charts over there, brought to Indiana at great expense for a limited season …Miss Wanita Wong."
An Asian beauty in a kimono split to the waist to reveal a hint of leather panties, hair blooming with plastic orchids, climbed up to the stage on stilettos with little flashing lights. She was a sight. If there'd been a travel agent in the place, every guy there would of booked himself a flight to Pay Jing China. She had one heck of a chest packed into that old kimono and every time she swayed back and forth, her pretty legs come into view.
Her singing wasn't much, but hell, this weren't even her language. She was probably great in Chinese. But, man she was a picture. Even Waldo couldn't take his eyes off her. They was pinging and ponging out like table tennis balls. The other guys elbowed each other and chuckled.
The Chinese babe must of noticed Waldo staring cause she looked over in his direction and even dropped the microphone. Probably didn't have black guys in China. If possible, her singing got worse after that. She lost her rhythm completely but Waldo was fascinated.
Ribs and Bubbles come back from the truck, Ribs with a smile on his chops like the bottom half of a supper plate. Bubbles had to prepare for her next set after the Chinese so she went off to the ladies' room and they never saw her close up again. Seems her fiancée turned up at one of the other tables.
The girl with the orange Afro wig whispered something in Sweetpea's ear and he grabbed the keys from the table and led her off outside. It was a hell of a romantic night. Waldo went over and sat in front of the stage where he could study the Chinese girl. She grinned at him and he fell back like a big sea lion clapping its flippers. The boys was glad he'd found himself some romance too, although they knew that being old and colored he wasn't likely to get much more than a look.
Pool and its Role in Asian Communism Page 3