July 5, 2011. The Man

 

Graham always had drugs. Drugs and tickets to rock concerts. He’d show up to work high on acid. “Dude,” he’d whisper, “I’m seeing trails right now.” We worked night shift at a deli, selling beers, smokes, and sandwiches to those unlucky enough to live in the welfare hotel next door on 13^th Street. But if anyone needed tickets, Graham was The Man.

  The boss, Hersh, was a failed pro golfer who’d bought the place from old Jack shortly before Jack died.  Hersh worked days and had usually gone home by the time we arrived. He wouldn’t return until closing, so in the interim we did as little as possible: man the register, sweep, keep the fridges full, roust the rowdy drunks. The deli crew handled the sandwich and grill orders.

 “You wanna see Clapton?” Graham said, “I got primo seats.”

 “Can’t do it, man,” I apologized. “Drank all my pay.” It was true. Hersh paid us in cash at the end of each week, but allowed each of us to run a tab, which he monitored by keeping a hand-written total on the side of a cigarette carton for each man in his employ. By week’s end, after deducting for my tab, I usually took home just enough for a few groceries.

 Graham said there were girls at these concerts, though I only met one. He’d brought her by the deli on his night off.  I think he was trying to show her off. But she looked a lot like him: wide hips, frog mouth, small raisin-like eyes lost in a pancake face.  She would have passed for his sister. But she seemed sweet and willing. I didn’t ask.

 One night Graham came in high, as usual, only worse. Hersh had stayed late to go over the beer order and had found some problems. Nothing really serious, but Hirsh was a perfectionist. He once gave one of the deli guys a half-hour lecture on the proper way to slice cheese in isosceles triangles. Nobody had the heart to tell Hersh that the poor bastard didn’t know geometry. Hersh was a little nuts. Too many years trying to hit a ball into a cup with a stick. So when he geared up for one of his lectures about the beer order, Graham knew what was coming and lost it. The two stood nose to nose, screaming, spit flying in each others faces. The bottom line: Graham was fired. Permanently.

 A few months later the drinking caught up with me and I missed a shift without calling in. I knew I was done, and I didn’t mind, except for the lecture on professionalism from Hersh—a requirement before I could pick up my final pay envelope.

 Years later I saw Graham again, both of us sober. We sat on folding chairs in a church basement and sipped over-brewed coffee from foam cups. Sobriety was foreign to both of us.  And aside from its moments of extreme emotional pain, rather dull. No trails, no rock shows, no women. Nothing to say but “Glad you didn’t die out there.”

 “Yeh man,” he said, “me too.”

Comments

[Pale]

As much as I hate FB, "Like." Cheers, Charlie.

D.

[Jill]

What a gifted and vivid writer you are. I have never had enough nerve to comment on your site or Uppercase Woman, but I didn't want this story to end.....you have a magical way of processing everything.

A fan from FL

[Charlie]

Thanks, PaleMother and Jill.