Some of Tim's Stories (4 page)

“Just want to say thanks for the great party.”

The female voice in Mike's ear woke him up. He'd only been half-asleep, though, with those weird dreams mixed with memories you get when sleeping drunk. He looked toward the door and saw that it was shut.

“What time is it?”

“Close to noon.”

“People still here?”

“A few. Couple passed out in the other room. Some having breakfast. Cody's asleep on the couch.”

“He still got his virtue?” Mike yawned.

“Still.”

Mike's chuckle made his headache worse. About halfway through the night before it became obvious a few of poor Cody's old girlfriends were going to give the groom-to-be one more try. The result was Cody appearing with a combination lock hung through his belt buckle.

Mike, headache or not, couldn't help laughing at the memory of Cody's drunken declaration: “Only Angela has my numbers. The rest of you ladies stand back.”

Good party. Damn great party.

In a minute he sighed.

“You got a nice way of saying thank you.”

“Bet you have a nice way to say you're welcome.”

It was close to three in the afternoon when he woke up next. As bad as he wanted a beer, he had to get his teeth brushed, cold water on his face. He shook his head at the sight of his reflection. It had “good party” stamped all over it.

Someone had made an effort to clean things up—some of the dishes were washed. Had to be the girls. Mike couldn't remember one of his buddies ever tossing an empty in the trash can. Where was the chili? There had been more than enough. Someone had put it in the fridge, still in the pan. He took it out and set it on the stove, took the leftover baked potatoes out of the oven, threw them in a pot with some water to heat.

There were still a few cars in the driveway, but the only person he found in the house was Cody, sitting up now, staring blankly at a soundless basketball game. Mike sat down and handed him a cold beer.

“Where's the rest of them?”

“I think in Bill's camper. They decided it'd be better than
the floor.” Cody sipped his beer automatically.

“The cops were here, right?” he asked after a while.

“Twice.” Mike said. “First for the music being too loud, then Starla was running around screaming her head off in the back yard. I think the neighbors thought she was being attacked.”

Cody shook his head. “I take it nobody was arrested.”

“It was pretty clear everything was consensual,” Mike said. “But they said if they had to come back again, they'd be taking people with them. At least it got quieted down.”

Mike went back to the kitchen. He couldn't stand the noise of the mixer, so he mashed the potatoes by hand, adding cheddar cheese and a small jar of jalapeños. Then he fixed two plates with mashed potatoes covered with chili and took them back to the couch.

They ate and stared at the game.

“You sure there wasn't any film in that camera?”

One of the girls who was losing at poker had hopped onto Cody's lap. Mike whipped out his camera and shot off a half-dozen flashes. He had enjoyed Cody's misery for at least an hour before he confessed to no film.

“I'm sure.” Mike heard the cars starting up in the driveway. In a few minutes Bill's camper pulled out too.

“Great party,” Cody said. Mike was glad he thought so. In the beginning poor Cody had been so worried Angela would find out, show up, he couldn't have any fun. And some of the teasing had bordered on mean…

“It'll be the last one like that I'll have,” Cody said. “Short leash from now on.”

“Yes.”

Mike's heartbeat picked up a little at the thought of the wedding. He ran over his list in his mind. Got the tux rented. Made sure the other guys did, too. Had Cody's plane tickets and confirmation numbers in a safe place. Would get the ring, the license from him the day before. Had part of the toast written down … Just knew it'd sound stupid…

“Good stripper,” Cody mused.

“Ought to be at that price.”

“Probably my last stripper.”

Poor Cody…

Mike went for a couple more beers. Somebody's shirt was on the porch. Yes, he remembered now. Bill had fallen down, landed in dog shit, chasing Starla around the yard. That was when she was screaming so loud the neighbors got worried. Guess they couldn't tell she was laughing. Damn great party…

Mike tried to get interested in the basketball game but didn't even care who was playing.

“You nervous?”

“Not really,” Cody said.

“You sure? No more parties…”

“You remember grade school, Mike? Playing war? Then that wasn't so much fun. Then middle school, we got so serious about baseball. Then cars … You just keep happening into different kinds of fun. Being married just seems like the most fun thing I can think of right now. The kind of fun that can last damn near forever.”

Cody's phone started ringing, and he dug his jacket out from under the sofa cushions to answer.

“Hi, sweet thing. Nothing. Just over at Mike's watching the game. You have a nice time at your grandma's? Dinner at your parents? Sure. Pick you up about seven? Sure, honey. Loveya too.”

Cody put the phone back in the jacket.

“You're whipped, man,” Mike said.

“Yep.” Cody took another pull on his beer. “Your turn next, bud.”

“Not a snowball chance.”

“Poor Mike.”

Cody got a damn goofy grin on his face. You could tell it wasn't from remembering the party.

“I told you I couldn't pay you back till tomorrow.”

Mike unlocked his door. He had been real surprised to see the other bartender, Ed, waiting on his front porch when he drove up. He couldn't figure out what the older man would be doing there.

“I didn't come for my money,” Ed said. “I told you, no hurry.”

He followed Mike into his house without an invitation, set a box down on the coffee table.

“You got to quit running around like a chicken with its head off.”

“What?” Mike's nerves were humming, his temper short—he hadn't slept in three days. Yes, he owed Ed big time right now, but also he was in a really bad mood right now. The guy had better start making sense.

“You went back to the bar, didn't you? To act it out.”

Mike stopped pacing for a second. That was where he had been. But the closed, deserted bar had provided no answers.

“Sit down,” Ed said. “Breathe.”

“What the … I am breathing.”

“No, you're not. Sit down. Think about it. In. Out.”

Mike, too buzzed to argue, sat down, took a breath. Then another. Then another. His mind cleared a little. His heartbeat slowed. He breathed.

Ed came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses. One was water. He handed it to Mike, who drank it without protest. The other was an ice tea glass full of whiskey, and he handed that to Mike too.

“I will kill the next cop who tries to cuff me,” Mike said after a long swallow.

He looked at the marks on his wrists. There had been no need for that. He wasn't resisting arrest.

“I don't think so.” Ed sat in a chair across the table, opened the box. It was pizza.

“I'm not hungry.”

“You're starved,” Ed said.

Mike was getting tired of this. Ed always treated him like a kid. Even called him that most of the time.

“I won't go back to jail.”

“You won't have to. Not for this. The guy is going to cool off, drop charges. You get paid for throwing jerks out of the bar; you were just doing your job. He swung first. There's a dozen witnesses. You won't even get a fine.”

Mike slugged some more whiskey. He had been real surprised to see the cops come into the bar. It wasn't a normal occurrence. More surprised when they cuffed him, shoved him into the back seat. Surprised at his own violent reaction.

If he hadn't been cuffed, they couldn't have shoved him around. He had yanked at the cuffs, making them tighter.

“Hang on, kid.” From somewhere he had heard Ed's voice. “I'll get you out. Hang on.”

Mike's heart had pounded. A rage flickered. He couldn't remember being helpless like this.

“Open a window, willya?” he had said at last. The cops paid no attention, and Mike didn't repeat his request.

If he could have gotten the cuffs off, he would have killed them. He knew it.

“Look,” Ed said now. “I've watched you bounce bozos outta the bar for three years. I've never seen you do anything you'd serve time for. You sometimes drive when you shouldn't, that'll do it, too. But you're good at your job. Don't worry.”

Mike was remembering being in the cell. The other guys hadn't bothered him; he wasn't the first person you'd pick to mess with. But he could not breathe in that place. He looked at his watch every two minutes, sure that hours had passed. He'd paced back and forth, like a dog on a chain.

He would have skinned himself live to get out of that place.

He was halfway through his whiskey. He finally admitted what was on his mind.

“Other guys get jailed. Do time. Laugh about it. I shouldn't have freaked out like that.”

“You're claustrophobic, kid. You know that.”

Mike hadn't thought about it. But it was true he always had to have a window open, in a car, in a house, no matter what weather, had to work the window end of the bar. He could not get into an elevator, but Saturday night he'd been shoved into one anyway…

The pizza was half gone. He drank some more whiskey.

“Terry…” he said.

“Yeah, cousin Terry's doing hard time, and you should be in there with him.”

Mike looked up.

“You talk more than you think when you're drinking. And you sure as hell drink more than you know.”

“If I was in there with him maybe we could watch each other's back or something.”

“I doubt it. You'd be in the nut bin by now. He like you?”

Mike was puzzled. They were the same age, had the same long-boned build, the same color of hair. People always took them for brothers…

“I mean with this claustrophobia thing.”

“No.”

Terry was bad about heights. Mike did not know if there were any heights in that place.

He never went to see.

Mike wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning and not wonder, first thing, if Terry was still alive.

“Well, he may come out of it okay. Some of them do. I did a year in a county jail. It was a piece of cake after 'Nam. Take off your boots.”

“Why?”

“You're going to pass out in five minutes, and I don't want to do it for you.”

It was hotter than hell when he woke up. It had been one of those stifling Oklahoma nights. Must be in the nineties. Was the air conditioner out? No, the small window unit was still pumping out cold.

Then he knew, without looking, that all the windows, both doors were open. It had happened before. Sometimes he even remembered doing it.

Mike rolled to sit up, rubbed his head. He was so sick of hangovers…

He wondered if Terry was still alive.

Mike watched the teacher walk back and forth in front of the blackboard. She was a little thing, maybe five-three or-four, barely came up to his shoulder. She looked to be about twenty-five, a couple of years younger than he was.

He had expected to be the oldest one in this American Short Stories class, but there were several students far older than he was. Just a few looked fresh out of high school. It had been almost ten years since he'd been in high school. And he sure didn't remember any teachers that looked like this.

Once in a while she would stop, look down at her notes on her desk. When she did this, a piece of hair would fall forward over her face, and she would absent-mindedly brush it back behind her ear.

Mike kept thinking he would like to smooth her hair back like that. She had pretty, light brown hair, a gleam like silk to it.

He should be paying attention to what she was saying. Something about Henry James. He hadn't been able to read the Henry James story, though he did like the one by Hemingway…

He started thinking about the first time he saw her. He had thought she was a student. He was taking a computer class for work. The boss had a bright idea about getting all the inventory, the records, on a computer, and since the other bartender would not touch a computer, Mike volunteered.

The class was fun in a way, and he was thinking maybe he'd take another one, something different. It was a community college. You could take things for no credit, it didn't cost much. He was getting a little restless at the bar.

He was wondering what to take, when he saw a very pretty student in the hallway. She was looking at the bulletin board, and Mike, who was not shy about pretty women (though he was about most things), stopped and asked, “You know of a good class to take?”

She looked directly at him, didn't seem to be afraid of him, although he scared some people. Tall, long-haired, tattooed, he looked more like a janitor than a student, and he knew it.

“I hear the American Short Story is good.”

“You going to be there?”

“Yes.”

Mike had walked off and signed up for the class. It was a day class, he worked nights, what the hell.

And when he walked in and saw she was the teacher, he had to laugh.

It was a good class. He read his first book ever for this class.
To Have and Have Not
. It was the first book he tried to read that seemed to have something to do with real life. He liked hearing what she had to say about the writers.

But best of all he liked watching the teacher. She was so pretty. She moved as graceful as a deer. She always wore long skirts and light sweaters. He liked to picture what she looked like underneath…

Everyone got up to leave, and Mike realized class must be over. He gathered up his notebook and book.

“Michael,” she said. “Could you see me after class for a minute?”

When she'd first called roll, she'd asked each person what they preferred to be called, which was nice. He'd said “Michael,” though no one ever used it.

Now what? he thought. So far he hadn't made a good impression on her. Two weeks ago he forgot and wore his gun to class. When she spotted it under his jacket, she called him out into the hallway and gave him what-for.

“I have a permit.” He still shouldn't wear it into a school building, he knew that.

“I don't care if you have a handwritten note from God Almighty. Get that thing out of here.”

He had, and she made no objection when he slipped back into class.

Now he stood next to her desk, trying to think of what he could have done. Maybe his staring had bothered her.

She looked up at him, and paused, and seemed to change her mind.

“Would you mind not wearing your ball cap in class?” she asked. “It really makes it hard to see your face.”

Mike took it off. It was so much a part of him he felt like she'd asked him to go half-naked.

“That's much better.” She had dark blue eyes, the color the sky got ten minutes after sunset. “You have nice eyes.”

He was startled at hearing her repeat what he had been thinking.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Okay.”

“I don't mind you always sitting in the back, but can you tell me … why you are always watching the class? When I bore people, they usually look out the window. You're always looking at the other pupils, watching for something. What is it?”

Mike, relieved she hadn't said anything about watching her, tried to think. Suddenly he laughed. He knew what she meant.

“I'm a bouncer in a bar,” he said. “I have to watch for fights building up.”

“You think the class is going to break into a fight?”

“Well, when Mrs. Greemore said Henry James was better than Twain, I thought Mr. Lewis was going to pop her one. Sorry. It's habit.”

She laughed, too. “Well that solves that. Thanks for taking off your hat.”

Mike nodded. She must have been looking his way a lot if that bothered her so much.

He didn't wear the hat the next day. He knew she could see him better, and tried to keep his eyes on his book. But sometimes he had to grin to himself. He could feel her watching him.