by Ed Baldwin
Still looking for my deal I headed back out after my coffee. I failed to find anything and was waiting at the gas station by the interstate at 6:00 when the rest of the guys came by to pick me up. Hot, tired and soaked with sweat, I answered the inevitable first question with a shrug and a wry look. The guys made room in the back seat and left me alone with my thoughts as they chattered about their day. I had heard it all before, as had Barney but he was going through the motions of listening and being interested and correcting any wrong opinions or methods.
I pulled out my checkbook and began to balance it. I had closed my other two accounts and was trying to get by on the same standard of living with much less income. I was still paying the rent for my apartment in which Honey and little Phil lived without me and was paying the rent on Paris’ apartment, too, not to mention her $200 a month liquor bill and her “walking around money,” which was another $150. All this added up with my car payment and lunch money was way over what I was earning and the money I had built up during my high days was almost gone.
What to do? I knew better than to try to stop paying the rent on Honey’s apartment. If I let the finance company take the Chrysler I really would never have a chance of rebounding with a crew again. Those long legs and flaming red hair were fading from my life. I decided to pump her for all she was worth tonight and move out in the morning.
“Want a roommate?” I asked Barney after we had dropped his order off at the office.
“Who?”
“Me.”
“What happened to that redhead? If she needs someone I’ll trade places with you.”
“She’s a drunk. Besides, I can’t afford her anymore,” I said, not really meaning to be so truthful.
“I’m a drunk, too,” he said with a smile.
I well remembered bailing him out of the tank, not a year ago. “So am I,” I said, not really meaning it.
He nodded and we were roommates. That night I poured a little more champagne than usual down Paris and talked her into a few tricks I might not ever get a chance to try again. In the morning while she was still comatose I wrote a simple farewell note and packed my bag.
I’d been out of the apartment with Honey for a couple months and had seen her and little Phil only once. I decided to drop by the next day, which was Sunday, and pick up some clothes that had missed the impromptu packing job on the night Honey threw me out. I didn’t call first to see if there might be someone there filling in while I was gone. Unfortunately, someone worse than a new lover was there. Her father, T.J. Towers was there.
“Phil!” Honey said as she opened the door. She looked genuinely shocked.
“Hi. I need some stuff,” I said, matter of factly. I did still live there, after all.
T.J. didn’t say anything. He just looked at me. There didn’t seem to be any more animosity there than usual, just that heavy jowled look like he was getting ready to swallow a fly. He’d been reading the funnies to Little Phil and had some doughnuts on the table beside him with some coffee. It was an altogether wholesome Sunday morning type of scene.
T.J. set Phil down from his lap and Phil came running toward me. I picked him up and he hugged my neck with real fervor. I hugged him back and closed my eyes. For an instant, while my eyes were closed, I saw an image of Paris the night before, naked on the bed. I opened my eyes and it was gone and my attention returned to Little Phil. There was a lump in my throat from just holding him. I set him back down and he stood there holding my leg and asking if we were going for any more walks. I felt like a shit and wished I hadn’t come.
“I’ve got to go,” T.J. said as he got up. I noticed how large he looked standing there and wondered if the twenty years of youth I had on him would make up for the forty pounds and longer reach he had on me. In a real knock down drag out contest of who was who, there was no telling who would come out on top.
I felt he was about to swing, but he just picked up his hat and walked by me. I was tensed and ready for him but he was gone before I blinked.
“What do you want?” Honey asked as soon as we were alone.
“I need some silverware and some plates and the rest of my clothes. I need a frying pan.”
“You’ll have to put your clothes in a bag. You can have the silverware your mother gave us. It’s crap anyway.” Now that it was clear I wasn’t there for a tearful reunion she was decidedly less cordial.
I don’t know what you’re so tense about. You’re the one who threw me out.”
“Oh? And you didn’t deserve it? You two timing low life scum!” She began throwing my clothes into the middle of the room.
“Hey, don’t worry. I’m not asking to come back,” I said, picking up my clothes and stuffing them into a paper bag.
She looked at me with a snarl on her face but with tears in her eyes. I made a quick exit.
Barney had planned a little celebration for that afternoon. He’d had a few roommates but, like his love life, they never lasted. He’d bought a case of beer the night before and went to the store and got some steaks. We cruised around the pool at his apartment and secured a couple prospects for the planned festivities. Then we iced down the beer in his big “Sunday” cooler and sat by the pool and listened to the ballgame while we talked to the girls.
As the beer took hold the scope of the party increased. Every few minutes found us on the phone to someone we just couldn’t have the party without. By evening there were five or six of the salesmen and a couple girls in addition to the two we had found.
“All right, Phil. Get away from there before you ruin something,” Barney said as he put on his apron with “The Old Master” and a picture of a fat chef cooking a steak on it. I was sorting out the steaks we had bought and the ones the guests had brought.
“Where’s the charcoal?” I asked, going along with the great chef.
“Out on the patio, 25 pounds. Lighter’s out there, too.”
I mounded the charcoal, planning a raging fire, in his fairly large grill. I guessed we could do the steaks in two or three batches, which was OK with this group, just getting liquored up for a big night. Bookmen party on Sunday as they usually get home too late Saturday to get much going.
While I was lighting the fire the girls gathered in the kitchen and discovered only an old brown head of lettuce and half of a tomato for a salad. They dispatched someone to the store for some decent vegetables and began arranging tables in the living room and kitchen.
“Don’t put no goddamn wine glass at my place!” Barney called from the kitchen. Further questioning revealed a couple of gourmet wine drinkers among the guys and all the girls wanted wine. That settled, Barney started bellowing about pepper.
“Can’t fix no goddamn steak without pepper,” he said, faking a sneeze or two to emphasize his point. Every available car was in use on an errand except his and mine and we were too busy in preparation so he borrowed some from a neighbor. In fact, the party was more notable for what we didn’t have than what anybody had thought to bring.
“First you cut off the extra fat,” Barney said to no one in particular as he began trimming a porterhouse someone had brought. “It drips into the fire and flames up. Don’t want to burn nothin’ down.” He rubbed his butt up against the girl who was his date for the party and who was standing beside him drinking a beer. God knows why, but she looked like she liked it.
“Then you put some pepper on it.” With this he opened the pour spout on the pepper can and doused the steak with it. A crowd was beginning to form. “Then you rub it in real good.”
“Jesus, Barney, that’s my steak,” someone I’d never seen before in my life piped up from the back.
“Hey, I’m cookin’ here. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it,” Barney said, not looking up to see who was complaining. “Don’t worry, most of it drips off with the fat. It’ll be great. Make you drink more beer.”
The salad was made. The wine was poured. The fire was ready. Barney made his triumphant exit to the patio with everyone�
�s steaks prepared and on a platter already looking like they were charred because of the pepper. Everyone followed to watch the ceremony.
“How hot do you want the fire?” someone else I didn’t know asked Barney as he set the platter down and put his hand over the charcoal, testing it.
“Hot enough to melt an anvil,” he said after a moment, both in answer to the question and in pronouncing the fire acceptable. “Let’s eat.”
He threw four steaks on the fire which was soon blazing above his head. He was prepared with a full can of beer which he used liberally to douse the flames and irrigate the meat. Steam billowed and the air was filled with the appetizing scent of cooking steak and burning pepper.
“Whose steak is that?” he said, pointing to one of the smaller ones. The owner identified himself. “How do you want it?”
“Medium rare.”
“Get your plate. Whose is that?” he barked, taking orders, taste testing, and dowsing until all the steaks were cooked and soaked with beer. My steak, at least, was perfectly done.
We ate inside where the air conditioning was going all the time and the temperature was a good 10 degrees cooler than outside. Still, all the pepper made everyone sweat. The steak was really tasty, but it did take a couple beers to wash it down. No complaints were heard. Everyone was smiling through his tears and sweat.
After dinner there were some old fifties records and dancing. I fondled my date a bit and made the obligatory proposition and was refused. She thanked me for the evening and left with Barney’s girl. Then the drinking could begin in earnest.
“How’d you get into the book business, Barney?” I asked later, after the guests had all left and we were seated in the kitchen, finishing off the beer.
“Same as you. Nothing else to do. I flunked out of college when I was about your age and answered the ad. Probably the same ad, except the salary was just $65 a week. That was good then.”
“When was that?”
“Fifty-five,” he said, looking at the beer. He seemed to be lost in that reverie I had noticed when we talked in the bar about his days as a district manager.
“I didn’t figure you for a college man,” I said after a moment.
“Well, I wasn’t for very long. It was a church school in Alabama. They asked me not to come back after my first year. Something about bad habits.” He smiled, but he was still looking at the beer can.
“So you started in Birmingham?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t quite as hot as you were when I first started, but I did pretty well. I had a crew by the end of the summer. We spent more time on the road because Birmingham isn’t as big as Memphis. I think it’s harder to get bad habits on the road.”
“I guess I’ve learned some along the way,” I said, beginning to lose some of the warmth and happiness of the evening.
“You’ve got most of ’em, and what you don’t have you’ll learn living with me,” Barney said, just a little too bluntly.
“Damn! Don’t be so negative. Shit! I just move in and already you’ve got me a has been.”
“Not a has been. You’ll bounce back. Not as high maybe, but you’ll bounce back, or quit, which might not be too bad either.”
“Quit! And go back to the flower shop?”
“A lot of guys sell cars, or insurance. Once you’ve knocked on doors the rest of that stuff is easy. A lot of guys work for finance companies, too. I guess after seein’ orders go down you get a feel for dead beats.”
The conversation had gotten too serious for me so I got some pillows and a blanket and bedded down on the couch. Barney agreed to loan me some money the next day to rent a bed.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning dawned bright and early, I suppose. I wasn’t aware of anything until Barney got up and began frying leftover steak and eggs about 10:00. Cursing the cat that must have spent all night in my mouth, I got up and washed some of the taste out with a cold one that had managed to find a hiding place in Barney’s refrigerator behind a huge bottle of ketchup. It was the last of a noble breed so we split it.
On the way into town we picked up the rest of Barney’s crew. He went a little out of his way every day to pick up his crew. I had never done that. I was glad not to have to pay parking on the Chrysler. A couple bucks every day can add up after awhile.
I had coffee while the field managers met with Harvey to get assignments and then sat in the back of the sales room while we heard about the contest and who had made the sheet for the previous week. I was ignored by one and all.
We worked close in and finished around 11:00.
“Why don’t we get a couple of six packs on the way home instead of sitting around the Holiday Inn,” I suggested to Barney. “It’s cheaper that way.” He blanked that night so he readily agreed.
We got a case so we could have some on hand, as well as some cheese and crackers to have something to eat with it. Then we ended up playing gin rummy till the wee hours and finished it all, not even leaving one for breakfast on Tuesday. That night, we laid in a couple of cases so we wouldn’t have to run to the damn store so often.
By Thursday I was flat broke and had to borrow a $20 from Barney just to feel like I was paying my share of the refreshments. Luckily, though, I scored a deal on Friday and it verified Saturday morning so Monty, the branch manager, gave me an advance on the commission and I paid Barney back plus the other $20 I had borrowed on Monday to rent the bed. I bought three cases of beer, some whiskey, a bottle of wine, cheese, salami, crackers, two of the thickest T-bones I could find, salad fixings, and some eggs to go with the leftover steak, and was broke again.
We partied again Saturday, a repeat of the first night I spent with Barney. We started a little later and included just the girls from the weekend before and both got lucky. Lucky means waking up to find someone with you to share the breakfast beer.
As I lay there, late Sunday morning listening to my “date” snore, I contemplated the places the winds of chance had blown me. This gal was a little older than any of my recent partners. Still, what I remembered of the night before, she had served me well. Sort of like a dependable car that one doesn’t notice the worn seat covers or the little dents because it gets you there each day and doesn’t yet make any really serious noises. Like the car, she could have used some “Guardian Maintenance.” I struggled to remember her name, and thought of going to her purse to read her driver’s license, but was afraid she would think I was trying to rob her if she woke up. It came to me when I got up to take a leak.
There was a scene of domestic tranquility in the living room when we emerged. Barney and his prize from the night before were reading the Sunday paper and drinking coffee. I could smell something cooking but couldn’t quite place it.
Grits! Boiling away on the stove with some bacon and eggs ready to go on the side. I was really impressed with old Barney. A little lovin’ and he turned right into a family man. I opened a beer and offered one to Louise, who accepted. She looked through the refrigerator and found some tomato juice to pour into hers, said it helped with the hangover.
By noon we were into the second six pack and Barney had joined us. By mid-afternoon another party was brewing, this time a fish fry. Barney and I found a fish market open and bought some catfish and corn meal. Louise surprised us all with a hushpuppy recipe and a deep fat fryer in her apartment. Fried catfish, hushpuppies, with a slice of onion right by it, and a can of Busch’s best had to rank right up there as one of life’s rare pleasures. It’s a meal that you eat until you can’t hold anymore and then eat another plateful.
Barney and I lay on the floor groaning as the girls cleaned up. It seemed like an occasion for some good bourbon so I cracked the seal on some Old Granddad I had gotten for just such an eventuality and we poured it over some ice and talked of the finer things until they finished with the dishes.
The evening passed through varying stages of mellow. We talked of fish fries we had been to, good times all; then fish stories, t
rue tales and otherwise; and then on to tales of marriage. Barney was a two-time loser and the rest of us had cracked up one a piece. We decided marriage was for others and moved on to tales of bookmen. We kept the girls entertained until something stirred in someone to remind us it was that time of night and we moved into our separate bedrooms. It was altogether a fine weekend.
“You’re gonna have to leave,” Barney said Tuesday morning.
“Leave? What? Am I not holding up my end of the expenses? Hell, Barney, I’m a little short this week. You know I’ll hit again and when I do I’ll pay it all back.”
“It’s not the money,” he said, looking away from me. This was clearly hard for him.
“What is it then? Is it that girl? You want to spend more time with her? Hell, I can understand real love, Barney. I’ll make myself scarce,” I said, confident now that I understood the situation, relieved that I wasn’t going to be just tossed out into the hot summer night.
“That’s part of it, but she’ll be gone again in a week just like all the others. I just want to live alone,” he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. We were driving into town.
“Barney?” I said, really in a panic now.
“Look, Phil. I owe you. You dried me out and kept me in the business when I was in a spin. I appreciate that. But I can’t do that for you. Instead of saying ‘no’ when you want to party, or drink instead of working, I say ‘yes’. Between the two of us there isn’t one good conscience. Before you moved in I used to read at night, and on weekends I went to movies or played volleyball over at the pool. Since you moved in I’ve boozed every night. I’m sorry, Phil, but I don’t want to live like that anymore.”
“Barney, you can’t tell me you lived like a Sunday school teacher because I know better,” I said working up to a real tirade.
“Sure I drink, but not every night. And besides, the girl’s movin’ in and she doesn’t want you here.”