by Alan Mulak
Oh, there was plenty more verbal abuse by big brother, but it was always at family gatherings or someplace where fisticuffs were not an option. Through the ensuing years, their relationship drifted further and further apart. They attended each other's weddings and other mandatory gatherings, and from the outside, looked like loving and caring brothers but privately, they both had dismissed each other many years prior. Permanently.
Alex held his father's reel for a long time, and then he stood and walked to the beat-up bookcase which stood against the far wall. He turned and looked back at his bed, where the protective woolen sock which had hidden the reel lay. But instead of returning the amulet to its hiding place, Alex gently placed the reel on the top shelf of the bookcase. It was time for it to be on display again.
5
The Brewery
Alex Delvecchio sat on a sunny park bench in Town Square Park. In July, the park was a busy place with picnicking mothers and toddlers, rambunctious kids burning off steam, and dog walkers tossing Frisbees for Fido. He was watching the storefront of the Dolores River Brewery, trying to figure out exactly what the sign hanging over the door was supposed to represent. It was a wrought iron design of a face that looked like a New Zealand Maori with his tongue sticking out, but had an Aztec flair about it. Eclectic as it was, it worked.
Watching the young families in the park brought back a series of images and memories from his own past. It was at least a dozen years prior, and the location was not unlike this neighborhood park in Dolores. It was a playground in the quaint New England town of Carlisle, Massachusetts, and the place was crawling with toddlers and preschoolers, squealing with the delight that only an old fashion slippery slide can bring.
He had taken his daughters to the park, giving Nicole the day off. Danielle was four or five, her sister Amy was a year younger. Danielle climbed the ladder to the slide, and Amy followed her up. Then, upon reaching the top, for some bizarre reason, Danielle let Amy pass then decided that the slide belonged to her. She turned to face the other kids coming up the ladder. The next kid was a curly haired little boy, maybe seven years old. Danielle viciously shoved him in the face which caused him to lose his grip and fall backward, crashing into the other kids on his way to the ground, taking them all with him. It is likely all the tumbling bodies somehow cushioned each other, and no one was seriously hurt. Alex – or Rob as was his name back then – dashed to the scene and helped sort out the tangle of crying little kids, all scattered about on the ground beneath the ladder. He then looked up at Danielle and would never forget what he saw; she was leering down from above, an evil smile of satisfaction plastered across her fat little face.
“Come down here! Now!” Rob demanded.
“No!” she replied folding her arms across her chest. Amy was imitating her sister, her arms also crossed.
In a flash, Rob climbed the ladder and retrieved both his belligerent children. Mothers were gathered around, comforting their kids, and watching the proceedings.
Rob squatted down so he was eye to eye with his daughter Danielle. "What was that all about? You hurt these kids!"
Danielle raised her chin in defiance. “My slide.”
“And what about all these other kids?”
Arms still crossed, she announced, “I don’t care.”
Rob, fighting to keep his temper under control, grabbed a fist full of Danielle’s sweatshirt to keep her close at hand, stood, and then turned to face the other mothers. “Anyone hurt?”
A chorus of “no’s” and “it was just an accident” sprang up from the nurturing young mothers.
“No,” Rob said. “It was no accident. I’m so sorry.”
With that, he grabbed both kids by the scruff of their necks nearly dragged them back to the car; all the while the girls kicked and squirmed and screamed variations of “I don’t want to go home” and “You are so mean.”
Roughly, he buckled them into their car seats and took his place behind the wheel. He paused, breathing hard, trying to get control of his emotions. After a few moments, he turned in his seat and faced Danielle.
“What the…” He paused, taking a few deep calming breaths. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She looked out the window, a disinterested smirk plastered on her face. Rob swiveled further in his seat to see what Amy was doing. She was imitating her sister.
Then, in a small voice, devoid of emotion, Danielle said, “We hate you.”
Rob blinked a few times. “We?”
Neither Danielle nor her sister Amy said another word.
Rob started the car and headed for home.
He was only about a mile from their street when lost in the upsetting events at the playground, and he didn't see the light turn red until it was nearly too late. He slammed on the brakes to avoid broadsiding a truck in the intersection, but the car that followed him did not.
The resulting rear-end collision was no big deal, and other than a few scratches on the bumper, no harm was done. Except from that day forward, when the stress level soared, Rob felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck.
But his misadventures were not yet over.
Upon arrival back home, Rob dragged the girls into the kitchen where their mother Nicole, was seated at the table, painting her nails. She didn’t even look up when they blew in.
Rob, face reddened, pulse pounding, leaned across the kitchen table, trying to get Nicole’s attention.
“Do you know what our kids did at the park?”
“No,” she replied impassively. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
The two girls stood alongside Nicole, arms belligerently crossed, faces dirty and streaked with tears.
“They – or at least Danielle - pushed other kids off the slide. Amy stood by and thought it was funny! We’re damn lucky no one got hurt. And the worst part is; they don’t see anything wrong with their behavior.”
Nicole blew on the wet nail polish, and then held her hands at arm’s length, admiring her work. “I’m sure you’re over-reacting. You always do.”
Rob stiffened. “Did you hear what I said? Danielle pushed a kid down the stairs on the slide, and like I just said, they don’t see anything wrong with what they did.”
Nichole looked at Rob for the first time. "Can't you do anything right? This was a simple task. You take the kids to the park. They play. You come home." Then she turned to the girls. "Go watch TV."
The two girls marched out of the kitchen, smirking at Rob as they left.
When the TV was turned on, Rob again leaned across the table. “I’d like a little support here. I think the girls should be punished.”
Nichole stood and gathered her nail polish accessories. "I think the kids are just being kids." She pursed her lips in thought. "Sounds to me, they were simply a little aggressive. That's how you get ahead in this world. You might take a lesson from them." Then, without another word, she turned and left the kitchen.
Among the assortment of traumatic memories that Rob – now Alex – carried with him, this was one of the worst. He didn’t realize it at the time but that day at the playground foreshadowed what was to come. It was the beginning of the end.
Unconsciously, Alex grabbed the back of his neck and looked up at the bottomless blue Colorado sky. He then closed his eyes and willed away those memories; trying to once again tuck them back in the shoebox and return them to the rear of his mind’s memory closet where they belonged.
At about four-fifteen P.M., the SHUT sign was removed from the window, replaced by a sign reading OPEN. Alex walked across the street, and as he entered the pub, took the HELP WANTED sign from the window.
The inside of the Dolores River Brewery was every bit as eclectic as the sign hanging out front. First, there were the large plate glass windows which lead the patron to believe they are about to enter a cavernous saloon but instead, the Brewery magically shrank to a warm, intimate tavern. The light shafts streamed in through the sky-light added an amber hue to the air, wh
ich was already laced with smoke from the over-sized, open-hearth oven. The decor was a funky mix of what you might expect in an old-fashioned cafe, with an assortment of curios from more recent times. There was a decorative tin-tiled high ceiling, creaking wood plank floor, U-shaped wooden bar in the center of the room constructed from rough cut pine boards with a thick gloss finish, a dozen wooden tables all different with no attempt to match, a variety of chairs scattered about, and benches lining the walls. The chairs and benches were worn smooth by patrons hunkered down for long evenings of serious beer drinking and casual conversation. But if the surprising décor of the Brewery resembled a western saloon, the wall-sconce electric light fixtures, Bee-Gees disco ball suspended from the ceiling, and faded wall decorations of Miles Davis, Winnie the Pooh, and Alice in Wonderland harkened back to the '60s and '70s. Swinging doors separated the frantic kitchen out back from the bar area, and a mixed aroma from the wood-fired baking hearth and yesterday’s beer hung in the air. The coup de grace of eclectic decoration was the heavy red velvet drapes with gold trim that hugged the far wall. Somehow, they fit right in.
An average-sized, bearded man wearing a faded plaid, flannel shirt, and jeans was behind the bar. He looked to be in his forties, was the owner, brew-master, resident chef, and, at this moment, dish-washer. He was wiping pint-sized beer glasses.
He looked up. “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
“Beer?”
Alex held up the sign.
Neil stopped wiping the glasses, looked over Alex, and then extended his hand. “Neil Wilson. I run this place.”
The men shook hands. “Alex Delvecchio. I live over on Riverside, and I’m looking for work.”
“You must be new in town. I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
“Yeah, I just moved in.”
“From?”
Alex chuckled. “New Jersey. Unlikely place, eh?”
Neil smiled. “No more unlikely than Rochester, New York. You have done this type of work before?”
“I put myself through college waiting tables. Can’t be all that different.”
Neil folded his arms and studied Alex.
Alex said. “I’m forty-eight.”
Neil raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“You were wondering if I’m too old to do this work but couldn’t ask me my age because it’s against the law to do so. I’m forty-eight and in great shape. I work out every day at the Cortez Rec Center. Don’t let my beard fool you. I’m still a young man.”
Neil continued to stare for a few beats and then shrugged. “Fair enough. When can you start?”
“I’m not doing anything today.”
“Great. You’re hired. We’re going to get slammed in about an hour. Can you start now?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, let’s get to it. In a few minutes, Janice will be coming in to run the register and work the bar. She'll grab you in the ass from time to time but don't mind her; she's cool."
“No problem,” Alex said with a smile. “But wait, don’t I have to fill out some sort of application?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Neil scratched his beard. “I think you’re right. Let me see if I can find one.”
Alex asked, “And are we going to discuss money?”
“Eight bucks an hour plus an equal split of tips. Plus supper and beer. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
Neil started for the back door. “Follow me. Your first job; wipe down the tables and chairs on the back patio. Customers hate it when they stick to the furniture.”
The patio was a gravel and slab stone backyard area with a few Aspen trees here and there to provide shade. A handful of metal chairs and wrought iron tables were scattered about, and a covered wooden stage in the corner invited fiddlers and banjo pickers to step up at play a few tunes. A tall wooden stockade fence enclosed the yard, and tacked up on the gate was a sign that read All Dogs and Unruly Children must be left outside.
When they stepped out onto the patio, Alex looked around and said, “You run a casual operation.”
Neil straightened a few chairs at the closest table and replied, “That’s us. We are, to quote some famous writer from back east who wrote us up in the newspaper, ‘charmingly casual.’ That’s what we do here.”
“Got it. Lead me to the soap and water.”
Labor Day weekend came and went. On Tuesday evening after closing, Neil and Alex sat at the bar, finishing a pint of IPA, chatting amiably. “Noticeably quieter now that many of the tourists have gone home,” Alex observed.
“Fine with me,” Neil said, and then casually added, “I’ve noticed Donna, the grocery store lady, has been in here quite a bit lately. Her visits seem to correspond with the times you’re working the bar.”
“Hadn’t noticed,” Alex said with a grin.
“Start looking. She’s a foxy cougar – if you don’t mind the mixed metaphor.” Neil laughed.
“What’s her story? I mean, is she divorced? And most importantly, if so, is her ex some local cowboy who drives around town with loaded rifles hanging his truck?”
“Let me find out. I’ve got a friend, MacKenzie, who knows all those sorts of things.”
After a sip and a pause, Neil asked, "So, am I to assume – and this, of course, is none of my business so you can tell me to back off if you want – that you're not gay?"
“Me? Gay?”
"It doesn't matter to me, and it's sure as hell none of my business…"
Alex held up his hand. "No worries, man. No. I'm not gay. I've just been taking a timeout, that's all."
Neil tried to hide a smile.
“What’s up with that?”
“With what?”
“The smile.”
"Now don't take this the wrong way but if you decide to take Donna out for a date, and it turns out to be more than an innocent evening of friendship and deep, meaningful conversation, then me and Lucy will win the pool."
“What pool?”
Neil shifted in his chair, apparently a bit uncomfortable. “Well, some of us have been speculating about you. There’ve been three different scenarios. The first is you’re gay. Me and Lucy bet heavily against that. The second is you’re still suffering from PTSD and, well, you got other things on your mind right now. But me and Lucy figured you were just biding your time, laying low, sizing up the prospects. I think we’re going to win the pool.”
“Well, Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, don’t be pissed. This is just a small town with nothing else to talk about.”
Alex shook his head. “I guess I better be careful what I tell Lucy.”
Neil said, "Don't be too hard on her. She says you're a really great guy, and maybe, you just need some time. Really. She’s okay. However, no denying she talks a lot, especially after a few beers.”
Alex laughed. “Congratulations.”
The two men finished their beers then Neil poured another. “September. I hate September.”
“Why? I thought you’d be okay with the post-busy season breather.”
“Taxes. Third quarter taxes are due next week. I hate paying taxes to the fed. It makes me crazy to write big checks to those guys.”
Alex scratched his beard. “I get it. And no doubt, the federal government is not exactly frugal. Incidentally, just out of curiosity, who does your taxes?”
"Why that would be me," Neil said.
“Do you use any computer software?”
“TurboTax.”
Alex furrowed his brow. “I didn’t think TurboTax could be used on restaurants.”
“Well, that’s what I use.”
Alex fell silent.
“Why do you ask?”
Alex shrugged. “Just curious. In my past life, I used to be a tax consultant for commercial businesses, especially the hospitality business. I know something about taxes and deductions and all that stuff.”
“You did? No kidding. What happened? Why did you…”
&nb
sp; Alex sipped his beer. “I bet Lucy already told you.”
Neil nodded. “Yep. Sorry.”
Alex pointed at the shiny new tap and beer distribution system. “I’m assuming you’ve taken all the expenses associated with the new equipment, and a deduction. Yes?”
Neil squinted his eyes. “I think so.”
“And are you using straight-line depreciation?”
Neil shook his head no.
“And how about the truck? Are you claiming it as a business expense?”
Neil again squinted his eyes. “Can’t remember.”
Alex turned and faced Neil. "Want me to take a look at your taxes? I can fill out the third quarter estimated tax return, and examine the annual returns for the last few years. Can’t hurt. And maybe I can find some savings you’ve overlooked.”
Neil thought about it for a minute, and then said, “Can’t hurt.”
6
The Butterfly Effect
The next morning, on his way back to the Brewery for his second day on the job, Alex swung by the post office and picked up his mail. An official-looking envelope was tucked among the junk mail. His stomach tightened into a knot as he tore it open. It was a notice from the town: property taxes were due. He took a few deep, steadying breaths, slipped the note into his shirt pocket, and then went to work.
Later that day, while Alex was writing out a check for the tax bill, the town assessor asked, “Now that you’ve become an official citizen of Dolores, would be like to be enrolled on the voting list as well?”
Alex paused, and then said, “Yes, please.”
“And how about a library card?”
“Sure, why not.”
Several hundred dollars poorer but feeling pretty good about becoming part of the community, Alex left the office. If he got his grocery shopping done quickly, he might be able to get in some evening fishing. He didn’t give his visit to the town office a second thought.