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Will Work Browne notices him staring “Oh… hey, found this crowbar in the basement while I was digging out last year’s returns. Thought I’d give you a hand.” “Only thing left is that one window over the front door. Gonna need a longer ladder, though.” “Forget it,” Browne tells him, looking past him into the garage. “That’s been up there for years. I never bother to take it down.” Mickey shrugs and begins picking up his meager belongings. Browne walks into the garage and takes a quick inventory. Sees everything more or less in place. He tosses the crowbar onto the work bench and walks up behind Mickey. “Hey, can’t help but notice your jacket. You in the service?” “Yeah.” “No kidding.” He walks a half circle around him, checking out all the different insignias. “How long you in for?” “Four years.” “Four, huh? Well four’s plenty." “Was for me.” “You know, I got a lot of respect for you military guys. A damn lot of respect. What’s all those badges mean? Looks to me like you got around. See much action? Grenada maybe? Desert Storm?” Mickey shrugs. “These? Don’t mean anything.” Browne steps closer and examines the different symbols and faded patches: anchors, eagles, crossed swords, gold stars. “Listen,” he says, “I know you think I’m just kinda patronizing you here, acting like I’m interested in who you are and what you’ve done. But you’re wrong if you think that, okay. I’ve known lots of guys. Down on their luck, no real reason. Just something that happens. Come back from a war. Maybe women problems. Maybe some kind of money problem. Hell, I knew this guy once, was making a killing in the market. I mean raking it in. Had everything going for him. Then one day he decides -- screw it. Walks out of his office and disappears. No one hears from him for six months. He finally turns up living in a shack in New Mexico making necklaces out of coyote bones. Stuff like this happens. Nobody’s fault.” The man takes a deep breath and gazes up into the sun. “Mister, this jacket ain’t mine. Got it at the Good Will over on Woodside. It was right before Christmas and cold as hell. It was the only thing that fit me so they let me have it. Was never in the Army though I spent four miserable years cleaning latrines and peeling potatoes in the yew-nited-states navy. Closest I ever got to seeing the world was Govonor’s Island. And I damn sure never bought or sold a stock in my life. That about satisfy your curiosity?” Browne just grunts. “Navy man, huh?” He spots a car turning into the driveway. “Ah shit, there’s my wife now.” The two men watch as the car comes to a stop next to Brown’s Lumina. The woman inside gathers up packages from the back seat and wiggles out from behind the wheel. “Look,” says Browne, grabbing Mickey by the elbow and turning him toward the garage. “Don’t say nothin’ okay? She finds out I dragged you here to do this for me I’ll never --.” He hears the clicking of his wife’s high-heels and spins around. “Hi Hon.” “Hi.” She stops and sees the windows stacked next to the garage. “You’ve been busy.” “Yep. Just about finished. Turned out to be a little more work then I thought but hey it hadda be done, right.” Browne sees her eyeing Mickey suspiciously and his mind races. “Oh, say hon, this here is Mickey. “Well hello,” she says, “Doreen.” Mickey mumbles hello and looks over at Browne who is shifting his weight from foot to foot. She turns to her husband. “I picked up some nice chops that were on sale and some fresh veggies.” She waits for a response but he seems lost in thought. “I thought we’d eat around six-ish. Is that all right?” “Oh yeah, sure thing, hon,” Browne tells her. Doreen turns toMickey who averts his gaze. The man looks shipwrecked. She notices a slight tremor that seems to affect all his extremities. She clears her throat. “Well … I’d better get started dinner … I’ve got more then enough. Perhaps Mickey would like to --.” “No,” Browne cuts her off. “I mean jeez, we gotta run. Don’t we?” “Huh?” Mickey says, caught off guard. “Don’t you have to get somewhere?” “Oh yeah, right, I almost forgot,” Mickey finally says. “The tow - remember? I need to arrange for a tow.” “Right, the tow,” Brown echoes. “My car’s down on the parkway,” Mickey explains to Doreen. “Busted axle. I forgot my wallet and was going to hitch a ride to the service station. Know a guy who does some towing so long as you catch him before he closes up. Your husband was out here stacking these windows. I asked if to use your phone and next thing I know he’s offering to give me a lift.” “It’s not a Toyota is it?” she asks. “Is what not a Toyota?” “Your car. The one that broke down. It’s not a Toyota by any chance?” “Naw," he says. “Chevy.” “Well you were very fortunate finding my husband out here working Mickey, normally he’s glued to that tee-vee of his in the den, watching football or golf or God-knows what sport. Midget wrestling, I imagine.” One of her packages slips and she heaves it back up on her hip. Browne accepts the verbal jab and smiles affably. He doesn’t want to press his luck. He fishes around for the keys in his pocket and ushers Mickey toward the car. “Well, I guess we better get a move on.” “You’re coming right back?” Doreen calls to him. “Won’t take more then ten or fifteen minutes.” They both get in the car. Doreen watches as they back out of the driveway. Mickey gives a quick wave to Doreen and sees a couple of her fingers peek from underneath one of the bags and delicately wave back. Browne comes to a stop at the end of the block, looks both ways. “Appreciate that,” he says to Mickey. “She woulda had my balls for dinner tonight. Know what I mean?” “No problem,” Mickey tells him. Browne moves into the left hand lane and pulls a wallet from his hip pocket. “Look,” he says, pressing his knee against the steering wheel as he continues driving, “I know we was supposed to eat. I mean that’s what the deal was, right? But… here …” He doesn’t bother to count the thin fold of bills he pulls from his pocket. He thinks there’s about four or five bucks left over from the twenty he broke for lunch on Friday. Then he remembers the two lottery tickets, that leaves …. Ah, what the hell, he decides - ain’t like we signed a contract or anything. He drops the bills into Mickey’s can. “… It’s all I got. Better’en a couple of burnt pork chops, huh?” “Sure, thanks,” Mickey says tonelessly. “There a problem?” “No, no problem.” “Well, okay then. Where can I drop you?” “Next light make a left. You’ll see a liquor store about a mile or two down.” “Thought you wanted to eat?” Browne says sharply. “I ain’t hungry no more.” “Ha! So I was right after all!” “Yeah? Right about what?” “About you. About all you guys. All you idiots standing on the corner saying you’re hungry and you’re willing to work for some food. It’s all a big con isn’t it?” “I did what you asked, didn’t I?” “Yeah, but that’s not the point.” “What is the point? You figure you overpaid me?” “Hey look, all’s I said was that I’d feed you. What do I look like, Bill Gates?” Mickey rubs his thigh where it feels like it might charlie-horse. He groans and slides down in the seat. “You can buy yourself a burger or something,” Browne offers. “You can even get a beer to go with it. I know you got some dough in that can, too. Probably a lot more than I carry.” Browne pauses as he changes lanes. His voice softens. “Look, all’s I’m saying is you should lay off the hard stuff. Ya know? Eat something. You look like hell.” “Maybe I can get me a couple of nice chops. Maybe some veggies to go with them,” Mickey says. “Geez, I’m not taking about food here. I’m talking about self-respect. Look at’cha.” “Look mister,” Mickey says, staring down into the can like he’s looking straight into his own soul. “I’m a bum. Okay. Not some shell-shocked GI drowning the horrors of war in an ocean of booze. Not any ex-Harvard wiz-kid who dropped out because I couldn’t stand all the phonies on Madison Avenue. Okay? I’m just a bum. I tell people what they want to hear so that I can buy a bottle. That’s all the self-respect I’ve ever had and it’s all I need.” “This is hopeless,” Browne swats at the air. “Some fuckin’ soldier you are.” “Sailor.” “Soldier. Sailor. Whatever!” Mickey pretends to look out the window. Browne’s holding on to the wheel like he’s clutching a lifesaver. Mickey doesn’t look at him. Instead he drops his chin to his chest. “That was nice back there,” he says softly. “Your wife inviting me to diner like that. Just coming right out and asking me -- can’t remember when’s the last time I ate off a real plate. Was like she really wanted me to stay.” “Whoa! … partner … don’t try putting this all on me.” “Right up here,” Mickey calls out. He points at a sign that reads: Discount Liquor. Browne pulls over to the curb and Mickey gets out. “Hey listen … Mickey.” It’s the first time Browne addresses him by name. “I just wanna say, good job. Ya know. I mean you did a good job back there with those windows.” Mickey nods. Browne leans way over and sticks his hand out the window. “You take care.” |
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