by Sideswipe
“That’s okay, Pop. It was a nice little story, but I’ve still got a few more clippings.”
“Would you like some coffee, Troy? I don’t have any beer, but—”
“Coffee’ll be fine, but let me fix it. You had dinner yet?”
“I was going to wait till after the news.”
“Watch the news, then. I’ll fix dinner for both of us, and you stay out here while I work in the kitchen. Hell, that’s the least I can do for you.”
Instead of watching the news on television, Stanley sat at the pass-through counter while Troy prepared dinner. He delivered a bitter diatribe against his wife for leaving him, against his son, and Sergeant Sneider, and his neighbors, and Mr. Wheeler at the bank. Troy didn’t interrupt him until Stanley told him about the mysterious phone call.
“That must’ve been me, Pop. I borrowed a phone at the station and called to see if you were here. I didn’t have any money for a cab or a bus, but I knew if you were home you’d take care of it. I didn’t say anything else because I didn’t want the sergeant listening in, you know? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t’ve come directly to your house in a cab, but would’ve taken the bus, got off a couple of stops away from your house. Cab drivers keep a log, so I can be traced to your address. But inasmuch as I’m leaving for Miami, it won’t matter. I didn’t want to leave for Miami without thanking you—”
“I’m glad it was you, Troy. I don’t like the idea of getting scary calls like that.”
“You still might get a few crank calls, Pop. But don’t worry if you do. People who phone instead of facing you in person aren’t the ones you have to worry about. You might get some eggs or rocks thrown at your house at night, too. But that’ll be teenagers. They’ll hear their folks talking, you see, and they’ll consider you fair game. But after the word on your innocence gets around, it’ll all blow over. That is, if word does get around. It doesn’t seem likely that this Sneider guy and his wife will go around the neighborhood telling everyone that their daughter’s a pre-puberty hooker.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
When dinner was ready, Stanley set the dining-room table. Troy had cooked individual meat loaves, parsley potatoes, and beets â l’orange, using a covered bowl of leftover beets he had discovered in the refrigerator. There was no lettuce, but Troy had arranged a decorative pinwheel of alternating tomato and cucumber slices, garnishing the platter with stuffed deviled egg halves. He made eight cups of coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine and showed Stanley how to work it in the future.
“Seems to me, Troy,” Stanley said, with his mouth full, “you can do most anything. I never had to learn how to cook, so I never got around to it.”
“What you need,” Troy advised, “is a housekeeper. A half-day would be plenty. She could clean your house, fix your breakfast and lunch, and then leave your dinner in the fridge to warm up at night.”
“I couldn’t afford that. I’m on a fixed income.”
“Wouldn’t cost you much. If you got an illegal Haitian woman, you could pay her a buck an hour and change your luck on the side.”
Stanley put his fork down on his empty plate. He had eaten the beets, a vegetable he detested. “Know what I been thinking, Troy? I was kinda hoping you’d stay here with me for a while. I’ve never lived alone before, and I’m just rattling around this house. It’s only two bedrooms, and the porch, but it seems like a big place for a man all alone. There’s a single bed in the guest room, and you can have that all to yourself. And if you want to find a job of some kind in town, you can live here free. Won’t cost you a cent.”
Troy grimaced. “I don’t like the confinement of a steady job, Pop. I thought I explained that to you. I’ve got a little deal working in Miami, however, which’ll bring me in some quick cash—quite a lot of it, if it all works out. But I won’t be sure till I get down there and check it out. I’ll need to borrow a few dollars from you to get to Miami, for bus fare, because the desk sergeant advised me to leave town. In fact, he was pretty emphatic about it.”
“I can let you have thirty dollars. That’s about all I’ve got on me now, but if you want to wait till tomorrow I’ll cash a check and give you some more. But I sure wish you’d stay with me for a few days. Hard work never hurt nobody, and a smart young fella like you could get a job easy in Riviera Beach—”
“That’s enough!” Troy said. The white scar on his forehead had turned pink. “Who in the fuck are you to tell me how to live? You don’t know a damned thing about living. You don’t understand your wife, your son, or even how your mind works, and that’s because you’ve never had to use it. I’ve learned more about living in thirty years than you have in twice that long.” Troy got up from the table, took his coffee into the living room, and sat in the recliner.
The old man followed him and put his hand gingerly on Troy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to rile you none. You don’t have to get a job to stay here. I didn’t mean that. I never got along good with my son, but I’ve been able to talk to you, and I’ve got enough money coming in each month that the two of us can live here pretty good. I’m worried about you, that’s all. Going down to Miami, broke as you are, you might get into some trouble.”
“I might at that.” Troy grinned. “But I don’t think so. If everything works out, I won’t need any money for a year or so, maybe longer. But I appreciate the offer. Maybe I’ll come back from Miami and spend a few days with you—in a couple of weeks or so. How does that sound?”
“It sounds fine. I’ll write my phone number down for you, and you can call me when you’re coming and I’ll get some steaks and stuff.”
“Good. How about some kind of dessert?” Troy put his cup on the cobbler’s bench that served as a coffee table. “Anything you like. I’ll fix it.”
“No thanks, Troy, I’m not much on sweets.”
“Suit yourself.” Troy tapped the cobbler’s bench with a forefinger. “I worked in a shoe repair shop once, a program for young offenders in L.A. I really hated the smell of cobbler’s glue.”
“Now that’s a good trade—” Stanley started to say something else, but changed his mind.
Troy cleared the table and washed the dishes, pots, and pans. If Troy had asked him to help, Stanley would have been glad to, but the thought of volunteering never occurred to him. Finished, Troy reentered the living room, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“It’s a peculiar thing, old-timer, but a man your age can learn something from me, although it should be the other way ’round. First I’ll tell you something about me, and then I’ll tell you about you.”
“A man can always learn something new.” Stanley filled his pipe. “There’s an extra pipe if you want to smoke. I don’t have no cigarettes.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Smoking is a comfort to a man sometimes. I like to smoke a pipe sometimes after dinner, but I don’t smoke during the day—”
“Smoking comforts ordinary men, but I’m not an ordinary man. There aren’t many like me left.” Troy drew his lips back, exposing small even teeth. “And it’s a good thing for the world that there isn’t. There’ll always be a few of us in America, in every generation, because only a great country like America can produce men like me. I’m not a thinker, I’m a doer. I’m considered inarticulate, so I talk a lot to cover it up.
“When you look back a few years, America’s produced a fair number of us at that. Sam Houston, Jack London, Stanley Ketchel, Charlie Manson—I met him in Bakersfield once—Jack Black. Did you ever read You Can’t Win, Jack Black’s autobiography?”
“I been a working man most of my life, Troy. I never had much time for reading books.”
“You mean you never took the time. I’ve just named a few men of style, my style, although they’d all find the comparison odious. Know why? They were all individualists, that’s why. They all made their own rules, the way I do. But most of us won’t rate a one-line obit in a weekly newspaper. Sometimes that rankles.” Troy pause
d, and his brow wrinkled. “There was a writer one time… funny, I can’t think of his name.” Troy laughed, and shook his head. “It’ll come to me after a while. What I’ll do is pretend I don’t want to remember it, then it’ll come to me. Anyway, this famous writer said that men living in cities were like a bunch of rocks in a leather bag. They’re all rubbed up against each other till they’re round and smooth as marbles. If they stay in the bag long enough, there’ll be no rough edges left, is the idea. But I’ve managed to keep my rough edges, every sharpened corner.
“But you, old-timer, you’re as round and polished as an agate. You’ve been living in that bag for seventy-one years, man. They could put you on TV as the perfect specimen of American male. You’re the son of a Polish immigrant, and you’ve worked all your life for an indifferent capitalistic corporation. Your son’s a half-assed salesman, and you’ve had the typical, unhappy sexless marriage. And now, glorious retirement in sunny Florida. The only thing missing is a shiny new car in the driveway for you to wash and polish on Sundays.”
“I’ve got a car, Troy! A new Escort, but Maya took it when she left.”
“I’m not running you down, Pop. I like you. But life has tricked you. You fell into the trap and didn’t know you were caught. But I’m a basic instinctive man, and that’s the difference between us. Instinct, Pop.” Troy lowered his voice to a whisper. “Instinct. You’ve survived, but mere existence isn’t enough. To live, you have to be aware, and then follow your inclinations wherever they lead. Don’t care what others think about you. Your own life is the only important thing, and nothing else matters. Want some more coffee?”
“I better not. I got me a little bladder problem. If I drink more than one cup it gets me up at night.”
Troy got another cup of coffee. He returned to the living room and grinned at the puzzled expression on the old man’s face.
“If I were in your shoes, Pop, I’d enjoy the situation. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. All of a sudden you’ve departed from the norm, and now people are noticing you. Yet you’re upset because your neighbors are disturbed. Why should you worry about what they say or think about you? You survivors think you’re living out here in Ocean Pines Terraces. What you’re doing, you’re dying out here.”
“I worked hard all my life, and I was a fine craftsman. I took pride in my work—”
“Did you? You hated it, Pop. You told me you got sick every day from the smell of paint and turpentine, but what about the bathroom back there? Did you get sick when you painted the bathroom?”
“No, but that ain’t the same as working on the line.”
“Sure it is. The paint’s the same and the smell’s the same. But you didn’t get sick because you were working for yourself, and you painted it the color you wanted. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but maybe you should take off the blinders. Where’s the phone book? I want to find out when the bus leaves for Miami.”
“Right there.” Stanley pointed. “Under that pile of Good Housekeeping magazines, on the counter.”
While Troy looked up the number and called, Stanley’s mind raced, trying to think of something to say in his defense. He wanted Troy to have a good opinion of him.
“Two-thirty, Pop. If you’ll let me have the thirty bucks now, I’ll be on my way.”
“You don’t have to leave just yet.” Stanley put his pipe down, looked into his wallet, and handed Troy thirty dollars. “Sit down awhile, Troy. There’s plenty of time. I can always call you another cab when the city buses stop running. I don’t want you to think you’ve hurt my feelings, either. A man don’t mind hearing what others think about him, even if they’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t, Pop, and I don’t care what people think of me.”
“Well, I like to listen to you, anyway. I liked that part about the rocks in a leather bag. That makes a lot of sense. But a man’s born where he’s born. And if he’s raised in a city, he can’t help being a city man.”
“I was raised in a city, too. Los Angeles. But if you follow what I’m saying, it’s all a matter of awareness and instinct. Today the times are so damned good it’s hard to be an individualist. What you should’ve done, the first time you came home and puked up your guts, was quit striping cars.”
“I couldn’t quit, Troy. It was the best job I ever had. I was newly married, too. I guess I can’t really explain it, but most people in Detroit’ll work for an auto company if they can. The union did a lot for us, too, you know.”
“Have you got an alarm clock? Maybe I’ll take a little nap before the bus leaves.”
“Sure, you can sleep in my wife’s bed, Troy.” Stanley led the way into the bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. “I’ll just sit up, and wake you in plenty of time for the bus.”
Troy put his arm around Stanley’s shoulders, then dropped it. He pinched the old man’s skinny buttocks, and Stanley flinched.
“Ever fool around, Pop? Want to go to bed with me? I wouldn’t mind a little round-eye. It’ll make me sleep better.”
“No, no.” Stanley shook his head and looked at the floor. “I never done anything like that.”
Troy shrugged, sat on the side of the bed, and pulled off his boots. “I won’t press you. But I advise you to keep away from little girls. Next time you’re liable to land up in Lake Butler. And some of those cons up there would rather have a clean old man than a young boy.” Troy unsnapped the buttons on his shirt. “If you’ve got an alarm clock, go to bed. You look like you need some sleep yourself. I won’t bother you.”
“I don’t need any sleep. I had me a long nap this afternoon. I’ll wake you in plenty of time.”
Stanley closed the bedroom door. He poured a cup of coffee and pulled the plug on the machine. If he was going to stay up anyway, the coffee couldn’t bother him too much.
What made Stanley uneasy was the way Troy had hit the nail on the head about his alleged allergy to the smell of paint. When Maya had wanted the all-pink bathroom, he had wondered about it at the time. He had enjoyed painting the bathroom, taking his own sweet time, and he had done a beautiful job in there. But the bathroom was small, and he had often worked with the door closed. And he hadn’t been sick or nauseated during the three days it took him to complete the job.
But he didn’t recall actually hating his job at the plant, either. He’d been too happy to have a good job, especially when a lot of men in his neighborhood had been laid off. There had been days when he had been sore about something or other, but that was only natural with any kind of work. Besides, Troy had never had a regular job, he said. What could he know about the comfort and security it gave a man to know that he had a paycheck coming in every week? With a paycheck, a man could plan things, build up some savings, even buy on credit if he wanted something bad enough. He knew exactly how far the money would go every month. Except for strikes. The budget went to hell then. But after the strike, he would be better off than before, with a higher paycheck and other fringe benefits. Reuther had been a genius; that’s probably why they had killed him. There were a lot of things he would like to talk about with Troy if he would only stay a few days …
At one-thirty, Stanley made a fresh pot of coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine. It wasn’t so hard. At two he awakened Troy.
“I made some fresh coffee, and I already called for the cab.”
Troy, fully dressed, joined him in the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.
“What’s your all-fired rush to get to Miami, Troy? Staying here a couple of days won’t hurt you. If the police don’t know you’re here, they won’t be out here checking on you.”
“I’m not worried about the cops, I’m looking for a fresh stake. I wouldn’t mind staying here a couple of days, but I want to visit the West Indies. Sit down a minute, Pop. There’s this guy down in Miami I met in New Orleans. He’s a Bajan nonobjective painter, and he told me about a job in Miami that could make us both a bundle.”
“What kind of a painter?”
“A
Bajan. Barbadian, from the island of Barbados. They call themselves Bajans.”
“I mean the other. Nonobjective, you said.”
“Right. It’s different from abstract. In abstract art, part of something is recognizable, but in nonobjective art nothing is.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Hell, you told me you were a painter, a striper.”
“I am. But I never heard of nonobjective art. It don’t make any sense.”
“Now you’ve got it. It isn’t supposed to make any sense, Pop. But James, that’s his name, can’t draw worth shit, so he became a nonobjective painter. He’s a remittance man, in reverse. His father’s a black man, and his mother’s white, an Englishwoman. His father owns some kind of catch-all store in Bridgetown. Dry goods, English china, peanut butter, and he also has the island concession on two different European cars, James told me. That’s the way they work down there. His old man has the peanut butter concession, so anybody wants peanut butter he has to get it from James’s father. James is the only legitimate son, although he has a few illegitimate brothers and sisters. When his father made enough money, he went to England and got himself an English wife before he came back.
“James’s father wants him to go into business with him, but James talked his family into letting him study painting in the United States. His old man sends him an allowance of two hundred bucks a month, and he keeps this allowance low so that James’ll give up painting and come back to Barbados. Evidently, legitimate sons are a premium in Barbados, and having light skin is good for business, too.
“If he wanted to paint on the side, James told me, his old man wouldn’t care, but full-time nonobjective painting is too much for his father to tolerate. His aunt sent him some extra dough on his twenty-sixth birthday, and he used it for a sketching trip to New Orleans. I met him on the levee one day. He had a sketchbook, and he was trying to draw the Dixie Queen. It was like some little kid drawing. We got to talking, and we became friends. He mentioned this setup in Miami when he learned that I was experienced in that line. He’s desperate, you see, to study art in New York at the Art Students League, on Fifty-seventh Street. He thinks if he could get a one-man show in New York, he’d get some recognition, and then he’d never have to go back to Barbados.