I walked back to my room and had a nap in the middle of the afternoon. There was one other place I needed to go to, but that had to wait until the evening.
As I lay in bed, thinking of my few hours of wandering, the thought came back to me that I had tried to banish earlier.
My memory wasn’t perfect. The orphanage proved that. What about others? If the memories of my father weren’t perfect, was it possible he wasn’t the ogre I had always made him out to be? Was it possible I had abandoned him for so many years with no good reason?
In that case, was it me who was the ogre?
Chapter 13
Low lighting, dark, dank. Stale cigarette smell reeking through the entire place. Appalling.
The bartender was a fat guy, obviously bored to tears, wearing a white shirt with thin red vertical stripes, a matching red bowtie, and cufflinks. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen, or even heard of, anybody wearing cufflinks. Another minor change in a sea of changes.
The room itself was smaller than I expected. The Riviera was a ridiculous name for this cheesy little bar off Main Street. It was run-down, begging for a health, building, or safety inspector to come in and close it down for good.
Although I didn’t know it then, the Riviera was still standing in the Nelson of my time. It was here now in its pathetic glory, nighttime home to the poorer people in town. Nighttime home to my father and my mother.
The bar reeked of stale cigarettes and cheap alcohol. When I first entered, the smell assaulted me, and I knew this was the right place. My parents stank whenever they came home from here.
The Riviera consisted of a single large room, with about a dozen tables. Each table had a plywood top, no tablecloths or anything else that could be used to hide the dinginess. Nobody cared.
The tables each had four or five plastic chairs scattered around. Some of the chairs were broken. Nobody cared.
Dim fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. Every third or fourth tube was blown. Nobody cared.
There were a couple of wet spots on the floor, and I couldn’t tell if they were from somebody spilling beer or something else. I avoided those spots.
Aside from the tables, there was a long bar running the length of the building. The bartender occasionally would wander out to see if the people sitting at the tables wanted anything, but my guess was that the regulars sat at the bar.
Today was Friday, but that wasn’t how I knew my parents would be at the Riviera. They were there six nights a week and would have been there seven if it had been open on Sundays.
A large sign hung on the mirror behind the bar:
Beer 25 cents
They also sold hard liquor, no wine. My own tastes ran to some of the trendy microbreweries in Seattle, but I knew tonight I’d be settling for a Pabst or Schlitz or some other kind of horrible commercial stuff.
I sat at the far end of the bar. It was just before 5:30, and I was a bit early. Casing the joint, I told myself. Wasn’t that the term those old mystery novels always used?
“What’ll it be?”
I glanced up at the bartender, who was staring down at me. I hadn’t realized how tall he was until he came close. “Beer,” I answered. Then quickly added, “Make it two.”
He slowly walked over without asking the brand. I soon saw there was only one pull available to him, so whatever came out of it was the only choice I’d have anyway.
“Fifty cents.” He thumped the glasses down in front of me, spilling one of them. He didn’t offer to clean it up. The bar wasn’t much better than the plywood tables. Once upon a time it might have held a nice oak veneer or something. Now it was scratched so badly, it was hard to see anything left of its heritage.
“Do you sell cigarettes?”
“No. Fifty cents.”
“Can I run a tab? I think I’ll be here a while.”
“No. I don’t know you. Fifty cents.” He leaned over and added with unnecessary emphasis. “Now.”
This was not the kind of establishment I was used to, not that I was an expert.
I was somewhat of a loner back home, and the rest of the people in my office long ago tired of asking if I’d be interested in joining them for a beer after work. That was just fine with me, since I couldn’t stand talking even more about the fucking stock market after a long day of fighting it. I never understood why the younger crowd (and they all seemed young these days) could yak and yak about every trade they made and every little blip of the S&P 500.
Who really gave a shit? They pretended, but all they really cared about was churning their clients’ money over. “Trade, trade, trade,” was their mantra. And with every trade they convinced their sucker clients to make, they pocketed a piece of change.
I did the same, but it was a long time since I had actually cared whether the client was better or worse off after the trade. As long as I made my seven figures each year, nothing fazed me.
I passed over two quarters and took a long drink. After the long day walking around Nelson in the heat, I was surprised the beer actually tasted quite good. Maybe my memory of Schlitz, or whatever this stuff was, was flawed as well.
I was on my third beer by the time they came into the bar. I was sitting where I could watch the door. Actually doors. I didn’t understand it, but there were two entrances. The first one had a sign saying “Gentlemen,” while the other one had a sign with, “Ladies and Escorts.”
I couldn’t believe it when my father came in the first door and my mother followed soon after through the second. Maybe at one point in the distant past, the two doors opened into separate rooms, a bar and a lounge, or something like that, but today they both opened into this same ratty little bar.
I sobered up immediately when I saw them. Saw him.
My stomach was doing somersaults and my mouth went dry. I took another slug and watched as they found two stools at the bar.
“Scott,” mumbled my father.
“Jimmy. Marie.” The bartender immediately put beers in front of them.
It was a little after six o’clock, and I assumed Little Sam and Marty were back home, having a delicious meal of peanut butter sandwiches. Our traditional Friday night feast.
I hated my parents for abandoning me so many nights.
It was hard to sit there and watch. But I needed to do that. I needed to see what kind of people they were.
Dad finished his beer in just a couple of giant gulps and immediately another appeared in front of him. Mom took a little longer, but not much.
They didn’t talk to each other. In fact, they didn’t even really sit together, with two empty bar stools between them. They looked like strangers who just happened to find the same bar to hang out in after a long day. Eyes glazed, silent, zombie stares on their faces.
They both had long unfiltered cigarettes and replaced them as soon as they burned down to less than an inch in length.
I could see my mother more clearly than my father, as she was closer. I couldn’t help studying the profile of her face as she stared blankly ahead.
Even from a dozen feet away, I could tell she had once been a beautiful woman. She was slim, had a crown of bouncy red hair, a slight lilt to her head. Offsetting that was a slight sagging to her cheeks; her beauty had started to flee her years earlier. She was 46 now, several years younger than Dad. I always thought of her as so old, but now, seeing her again, she wasn’t that way at all. Pathetic, sad-eyes, her life behind her, but not as ancient as my memory of her.
I tried not to be obvious about looking at her, but I couldn’t help it, and I kept my peripheral vision tuned to her. I wanted to fit the contours of her face to meet my memories, but they only half-matched. I guess I had never really studied her face before, deep down, staring. I took in every angle of her bone structure, every slight color change to her cheeks.
As I watched her, a feeling of deep sadness flushed through me.
I shook myself when I realized I was staring too much and looked around the room.
Is this what they did every night? Sat alone in a cold dismal bar and drank themselves silly? There wasn’t even a television in the bar for entertainment. They just mumbled to the bartender every once in a while and swilled back their drinks. None of the other patrons of the bar talked to them. There were no pool tables, no dartboards, just raw drinking.
After a couple more beers, I got braver and walked over to Dad. “Can I bum a cigarette, Mister?”
“What?”
“Borrow,” I corrected myself. “Can I borrow a cigarette? I tried to buy some,” nodding toward the bartender, “but I guess they don’t sell them here.”
He flipped open his pack and handed me a cigarette. I was surprised how reluctant I was to smoke it. I had given up the habit after stern lectures from Dr. Kyzer, but smoking was the crutch I always fell back to in times of stress. I borrowed his offered lighter and lit the Camel.
“Thanks.” I pretended to look around and notice the bar for the first time. “I’m new in town. You lived here long?”
“All my life. All my shitty life.”
“Shitty?”
He just stared at me. His eyes were cold and mean. I could feel anger radiating from him. He had pitch black hair and a five o’clock shadow looking even later than that in the poor light. His hair was neatly greased back with a wad of Brylcreem. He wore horn-rimmed glasses at home but not here. I didn’t know who he was trying to impress. Maybe just himself.
His pursed lips and angry eyes made me immediately on guard. I didn’t like this guy one little bit. And that wasn’t coming from memory.
“Fuckin’ shitty.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
He didn’t answer for a minute, continuing to stare at me. “Just fuckin’ shitty. Like everyone else. Most people are just too fuckin’ proud to admit it.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Like hell I did.
“What’s your story?” he asked.
“Just passing through. Not sure how long I’ll stay. I’m from Seattle. My name’s Sam.” I held out my hand and he shook it. A wimpy half-shake, like shaking a sponge.
“Jimmy. The wife is Marie.” He pointed his thumb over to her. She ignored me.
“I’m here from Seattle.” I knew I had just told him that, but my mind was racing, not clear. “Just wanted to try someplace different. I’m a financial analyst and stock broker.” I almost kicked myself for that. I only said it to show off, to show the miserable old bastard that the son he messed up had made something of himself after all. He didn’t ruin my life as much as he wanted to.
“Huh. Financial whazzit. Big fancy title.”
I took a long drag and felt the smoke crawl through my lungs. “It’s nothing special. Just a job like any other.”
“Yeah, you got that right. Just a fuckin’ miserable job, same as me pouring concrete all day long. Day in and day fuckin’ out.”
I didn’t know if he was being facetious, but I didn’t think so.
Beside his beer on the bar sat Dad’s hat. He never left home without his chestnut brown fedora propped neatly on his head. There was a small white feather stuck in the rim. Until that very afternoon, I had thought all men still wore fedoras whenever they went out in the sixties, but I hadn’t seen a single other man wearing one today.
Apparently, my father was living in his own personal time warp.
Regardless of the anger that was pouring from him and his miserable attitude in general, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity for him. Here was a man who was trapped in a hell of his own. I wondered if he was clinically depressed. Of course, that concept wouldn’t exist until after he was a rotting corpse.
“I got a son named Sam,” he said.
“Really?” I then added, “I think I met him.”
He looked suspiciously at me. “When?”
I told him the story of meeting Little Sam in the park and how he had referred me to Mrs. Williamson. I added, “I happened to see you out on your porch last night, and I just now realized you must be Sam’s dad.”
“Ahh.”
“It’s nice to see the stars so clearly at night.” I felt like an idiot saying that, knowing he would never appreciate such a concept. He didn’t answer.
Dad turned to the bartender and yelled, “Scott!”
The bartender sauntered over. “Sell this guy some cigarettes if he fuckin’ wants ‘em. He seems okay.”
Scott still wasn’t sure, and neither was I, but we eventually completed the transaction, and I stuck the pack of cigs in my pocket.
“Better head out,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Jimmy.” I looked over to Mom. “Nice to meet you, Marie.”
She smiled through pursed lips and nodded, never having said a word to me. Even so, the skimpy little smile showed again how she had once been very attractive. Maybe still could be. I wish things had turned out better for you, Mom.
Dad shook my hand. “Maybe we’ll run into you again.”
“Count on it,” I said.
Chapter 14
I should backtrack and write about one other small errand I took care of on that Friday. When I was wandering around Main Street and Washington Avenue, I looked for a particular type of building. I wanted to find something well-built that was likely to still be around in my own time.
My first thought was the house my parents lived in, but I wasn’t confident it would still be standing almost four decades in the future.
There were lots of other buildings that seemed to have the same problem. Very few of them were shoe-ins to still be around in 2007. Either they were already old and candidates for demolition, or they were new but didn’t seem solid enough to last that long. I knew that when industrialization came to town, there wasn’t much that survived. Down would go the hardware store and up would come Home Depot.
Eventually a building caught my eye: City Hall. It was relatively new, maybe ten years old, squat, built of solid brown bricks and trimmed with white siding. At first, I didn’t recognize what the building was, but the memory kicked in soon enough.
The front entrance had a chiseled granite sign announcing office hours of ten o’clock until four. The whole front of the building was grandiose, as if the politicians who had built it wanted a monument to themselves.
Nobody bothered me as I circled around, looking for a suitable hiding place. A hiding place that would work for forty years.
At the back was a small set of concrete steps leading up to a secondary entrance. A grassy area surrounded the steps. Not perfect, I thought. But, it’ll have to do.
I’d borrowed a small garden trowel from Mrs. Williamson for this very purpose. Careful to be perfectly precise, I cut into the grass a small distance from the concrete steps, near the corner where the stairs met the main building. I measured exactly six inches from each and then dug a hole, as deep as I could manage without really making a mess of the lawn, and estimated it to be five inches deep.
“Good enough.”
I carefully placed a 2004 silver dollar in the hole and quickly replaced the dirt, and then the grass. I eyed the area and decided nobody would be able to detect my handiwork.
A 2004 silver dollar was waiting for me when I returned home. It would be the proof I needed that I truly was living in two different times.
Chapter 15
It was Monday night before I saw my parents again, back at the Riviera bar. Over the weekend, I heard them yelling next door, but I decided not to be too obvious about hanging out in the back yard, eavesdropping. At first they were arguing about money. She spent too much. He didn’t earn enough. That got her a slap. Then they moved on to different topics. She wouldn’t sleep with him any more. He treated her like shit. She deserved it. He was a terrible father. Another slap. A yelp. And on and on. Arguing so loudly, all the neigh
bors must know every detail of their lives.
It was depressing to listen to it, and I felt like I should be protecting my mother, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to get on my father’s bad side. Not yet.
When they came into the bar, they followed the same pattern as they had on Friday night. Separate entrances, my father first, followed a moment later by my mother. Sitting on the same stools separated by two empty ones. Bizarre. It was obvious to me that nobody ever sat in the two empty chairs. Good ole boy Scott the bartender would see to that.
“Scott,” Dad said as he entered.
“Jimmy. Marie.” The same three words must have been spoken a thousand times by now. Probably more.
I nodded at my dad and put on a plastic smile. “Good evening, Jimmy. Good to see you again.” Polite, not overly interested.
He looked at me, maybe a bit confused, not quite remembering we had talked three days earlier.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Sam, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
They both grabbed their cigarettes and lit up. Robotic movements.
The weekend had been very quiet for me, as I tried to get a few current events under my belt. It was awkward trying to make conversation when I didn’t have a clue what was happening in the world. I knew generally what was going on but not the specifics.
I knew, for example, that Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were both killed in 1968. I didn’t know what part of the year, though, so I didn’t know if they were already dead or not. I made a mental note to find out before I said something really stupid.
I knew the Vietnam War was raging and there were lots of protests about it. It was going to be a long time before the protesters could lay down their signs. I thought it was ’75 when Nixon finally pulled the troops out. Another seven years of hell.
The Memory Tree Page 6