At the Richelieu

My dad's hand slapped my shoulder.  I knew what was coming next, “Come on Tommy, let’s grab some pizza.”

“Mona, hey Mona – me and the boy are going out for pizza.”

Noises that sounded like complaints came up from the laundry room, probably asking what in hell he needed with pizza two hours after pot roast.  He tossed the keys to me, “Hey, big boy – go start her up.  I’ll be out in a sec.”

I peeled myself out of the armchair and willed myself toward the door.  Not my will be done, but his of course, but hey, it worked.

Going down the front steps, I could hear my mom’s voice more clearly through the basement windows than up the stairs.  Things like “if you think” and “why in hell” and “all the damn day” while laundry baskets and cabinet doors were getting slammed about.  She ended with “Answer me!” and the sound of feet stomping up the stairs followed her words through the windows.  The old man crashed out the door, shrugging his shoulders into his spotty blue sports coat.   It hadn't registered with me immediately, but we were getting the kind of pizza that required a sports coat.

I’d just settled in behind the wheel of the Olds and cranked the engine up when he rapped on the window.  I started to shift across to the passenger side.

“Whoa-whoa, little buddy!  Hey, you wanna pull her into the street, champ?”

I froze.  Into the street!?  I’d backed “her” up as far as the street before, but never past the curb.  It really just involved shifting into neutral and taking the brake off for about two and a half Mississippis.  Into the street was more Mississippis and turning – and not crashing!  Much more complicated.  He looked so eager to offer, I didn't want to let him down, so I nodded my head and resumed my position at the wheel.  He stood by the window for a moment, then went over to yell one more thing back at my mom through the basement window. Evidently, he was crazy enough to let an eleven year old drive, but not so damn crazy he’d get in the car with him.

I shifted into gear – twice, just to make sure – popped the emergency brake, and lifted my foot from the brake pedal, keeping it suspended in the air, consciously not committing it to the gas pedal.  The other foot stayed locked on the clutch, trying to press it through the floorboards.

I threw a glance over my right shoulder, which lost me the death press I had on the clutch.  We began rolling.  By we, I mean me and Jesus, with whom I had just started a frantic conversation.

I muttered “turn-turn-turn-turn” to myself over and over, just in case I forgot when the time came.  Tires hit the pavement before I realized I didn't know when the right time actually was, so I immediately whipped the wheel to the right.  Equally immediately, I panicked and whipped it hard back left.  Then, I did the move I excelled at, stalling the engine and stomping back on the brake, everything but the gas.

He sprinted from driveway to window and waved me to the passenger side.  I almost lunged over to that side, then remembered to do the parking brake.  Ten seconds later, we were off, him in control, and telling me, “Hey, you have fun there, pal?  Gotta say, your mom would go apeshit if she found out.  Don’t worry, though, just us guys here.  I won’t tell your mom.”  I was nervous enough during my “maneuver” but more so afterward.  Dad was in co-conspirator mode.  I was about to pay for his silence with my own.

Sam and Angie’s Pizza, a tiny take-out place with one little two person table for people who got there early, and a bench for everyone else to wait for their pizzas and then move on.

“Hey, Gina, how’s my girl?  Can you make me up a small Supreme?  Tommy’s gonna wait for it here while I conduct some business next door.  My man Tommy here’s got a powerful appetite, like his old man, y’know."  He did that shooting thing with his finger and she blushed.  It looked like Gina did know something about his powerful appetites.

Gina gave me a half smile and nodded slowly about something, in time with her gum-chewing.

Next door was the Richelieu Bar & Grill. The grill that got it named after Richelieu shut down years ago, but the bar kept the name, 'cause it was catchy.

“You wanna pop?  Of course you do, hey Gina, pour me a Pepsi for my kid here.”  The soda came around the corner of the drink machine, sloshing a bit on the counter, but immediately scooped up by his hand and delivered to my table, still sloshing.  He said “Back in five, buddy” and he was gone.  I think the door stopped rattling before the soda stopped rippling.

Gina’s dad, who I assume was Sam, appeared from the back.  The conversation between Gina and Sam began with much gesturing on both sides and ended with gesturing on his side and cringing on her side.  At one point, I heard “dirty son of a bitch” as he glanced my way.  For just a moment, I felt very guilty, then realized he wasn't talking about me, but about the old man.  So, instead of guilty, I felt ashamed.  Still, an improvement, I guessed.

When the pizza was done, Gina brought it out to me in a box, cut eight ways for my small hands and small mouth.  Stacked on top were two paper plates, napkins, and a handful of Parmesan packets.  She refilled my drink, ruffled my hair, frowned, looked at the clock, and ruffled it again before going back behind the counter.

I had two slices.  Two people came and left with their phone orders.  The clattering in the back picked up, as did muttered exchanges between Sam and Gina.

There was quiet for a moment and Gina suddenly was next to me, leaning her bosom right into my face.  I made myself look into her face, though my attention was decidedly elsewhere and my eyes begged to drift downward.

“Sorry, little guy, pop says you can’t stay, ‘cause we’re about to close, y'know, and he’s not going to want to stick around until your dad’s done … with his business next door.  So, I’m gonna walk you over and get you set.”  Her voice was gardenias, her bosom a garden of mums, soft and warm and fragrant, her face a bouquet of sympathy.

I nodded. 

She took me into the Richelieu and parked me at a small booth near the back end of the bar, making sad, hopeless, gestures at me to the bartender, who’d seen me enough before to know the deal.  He glared somewhere off into the back room, then shrugged it off.  He slid a coke my way, which Gina took to my table.

“So … coke and pizza – how often do you get to have that for supper!?  Lucky kid, you!”  Her voice was frowning and her eyes were sad, even as her voice was telling me how great this was.  One more gesture of “Whaaaaat?” at the bartender and she was gone.

All the pizza I could eat without throwing up was before me, coupled with what I knew would be an endless supply of coke.  I ate.  I was full, but I ate, because it was easier to watch the pizza going into my mouth than to make eye contact with the regulars.  I did glance up between slices, looking for him – while trying not to appear to be looking for him.  Hell, comes down to it, I was trying to look invisible – all other magic was secondary.

Half way into the fourth slice. I heard his voice from in back.

That got the imagination going, wondering what he was up to.  Pizza, coke, and a loose cannon dad.  How often do you get that for supper!?  Lucky kid, me.

I chewed slowly and quietly, diverting all my attention to the back of the building. Who was talking?  What were they saying it? What was going on? 

It was poker.  All the sounds were right.  If I moved to the opposite bench in the booth, I might have been able to see him, or at least the room he was in.  But if I did that, everything happening between me and the exit – my escape – would have evaded by notice. I felt better knowing what they were doing.  What my old man was doing, I had pretty good idea.

The Richelieu wasn't the worst place I’d been abandoned in.  There was a place out on the old highway that was half hookers and half johns, all covered by a patina of gonorrhea.  Of course, I didn't know any of those terms back then, I just knew there were a lot of things there that an eleven year old boy didn't want to touch.

The Richelieu was better.  During the day, it was essentially a neighborhood tavern, serving lunches alongside the booze.  The semi-respectability that soaked in during the day took hours to fully dissipate after dark.  It probably wasn't entirely given over to debauchery (also a word I didn't know then) until close to midnight.  Fortunately for me it was only 9:30, according to my authentic Batman watch which I had been assured was worth untold treasures, twelve box tops and seventy-five cents shipping and handling.

I was caught up in my thoughts, eyes down at the stupid watch, view obstructed by the pizza box lid when a different bartender came up alongside me.

“Hey kid … uh, what’s your name, kid?”

“Tommy”

“Hey, Tommy.  So your dad’s …?”

“In the back.”

“Ed Keller, right?”  I nodded tentatively.  Sometimes, like hell or damn or shit, a kid could get into a lot of trouble for using the words “Ed Keller.” This time, it got me the bartender’s sympathy.  He cupped a hand onto my shoulder and sighed.  “Well, listen, Tommy, I’m sure you’re a good kid despite ~“ He stopped himself in the middle of his sentence and in the middle of a shrug in the direction of my dad.  “Tell you what, Tom, be a big guy and come sit at the bar with your buddy Nick and we’ll let these nice people have the table while your dad wraps up his business.”

Nick was trying to be a regular guy, which helped out a lot.  What I usually heard was “Hey, kid, grownups need a seat.  Go sit out of the way, but first go tell your old man its time for him to get you the fuck home.”  Sometimes, when I was really young, it made me cry.  I hadn’t done it in years, though.  I’d gotten a lot better at hearing that stuff.

I guess I took too long soaking in that good feeling because good Nick became ballbuster Nick before I even saw it coming.

He leaned in close and in a voice crafted to reach no further than the nearest drunk’s ear, said “C’mon, don’t be a little shit, Tommy.  We already got Ed for that.  Move your butt to the end of this end of the bar.  I’ll grab the pizza.”

I started, scrambling to the edge of the bench.

“Don’t forget your coke, pal.”  I hated pal.  “Pal” “Buddy” “Sport” – when you’re a kid, they always carry a threat inside the pretty package.  Really all it said was “I’m telling you nicely to get it done before I get pissed.”  At eleven I was just barely skilled enough in math to approximate the number of times my dad had spoken warmly to me while beating me, or called me a worthless little shit in a voice that floated over the back fence like honeysuckle.  It was a big number, and a lot of times, those conversations started with “pal” or its buddies.

As I shifted toward the bar, the curtain to the back area widened and out popped my old man with a blond by the waist.

“Hey, Nick, how about we get some – holy shit, Tommy … Nick, what the fuck …”

Nick stopped him cold, his eyes very clearly warning him off.  “Gina brung him. You abandoned your son there fifteen minutes before they closed.  It’s on you, buddy – don’t drop your shit on me.”

They stared for a few seconds, then my old man said, “Well, just watch him for fifteen more minutes.  Can you do that much, for chrissakes?”

Nick stepped back behind the bar, maybe cause that’s where his job was; maybe cause that was where his baseball bat was. “Time’s comin’, Ed.  You see me twitch your direction, you best go hide out in Mongolia or Tierra del Fuego for a while.”

Then he fired a quick shot at me as he turned, “Kid, you’re still here at 11, you’re going into the dumpster.”  He caught my big eyed, open mouth stare and turned back to me.  His brow furrowed and he shook his head, frowning, trying to wave off my fear.

We all stood there for a moment, suddenly fascinated by my struggle to surmount the bar stool.

“Let’s keep this professional, Nick.  Bourbon rocks for me and my friend.  Tommy, meet Brenda.  She’s an old friend from church camp.”

Any uncertainty I had about believing him evaporated when Brenda turned and slapped his shoulder.  She could hardly say “don’t lie to your own son” but that’s what the slap said, regardless.  She stood there looking aggrieved for a moment, then turned the old man back down the hall.  Her giggle announced that, not only were all sins forgotten, they were also forgiven.  Time for new ones, evidently.

Once I was back in an agreeable location, Nick was my buddy again.  He’d point out guys who’d had too much, women he described as “lookers”, and things like that.  He even told me two stories about how his own son who was in little league but he didn't get to see a lot of games because of his work schedule, but the kid’s mom took good care of him and besides, she was seeing some new guy who seemed pretty stand-up and really liked the kid so that was good.  I didn't know what “stand-up” meant, but from the way he said it, it was clearly a good thing.  All that came out in a single flow, a river of words that spilled out from his tongue.  It started warm and brisk, but by the end the words came soft and in slow burst as he turned his attention to arranging the liquor bottles on the back counter.

I watched him as he talked and worked, but my attention was all directed off my left shoulder.  My old man came out twice to go across the back hall into the restroom.  The girl followed him out both times.  The first time she stopped in the hall and waited for him. When he re-emerged, she pressed him against the door to the poker room and kissed him deeply, her hands firm on his cheeks.  My cheeks burned.  My eyes burned worse.  The second time, she followed him into the restroom and it was a good three songs before they came out again.  He slapped her butt as they crossed the hall and she wiggled her butt and I could hear her giggling until the other door closed on them again.

Nick stared at me, picking up my offset attention.  Not knowing anything else to do, I picked up another piece of pizza and took a bite.  It was dry and cold. It had no flavor to it. Everything it lacked made me gag.  I leapt from the stool, hand over my mouth, and sprinted down the hall.  I hesitated at the men’s room door, but my stomach didn't.  Its contents splashed against the door and wall, spattering back on my shoes. 

Someone called out “Goddamn, Nick! Now the kid’s puking down the hall!”  Nick was already whipping around the corner, bar rags in hand.  On the good side, three bursts and I was done, which didn't take too long to clean up.  Nick gave me one rag and told me to go into the men’s room and wash up.  I just shook my head, not wanting to stumble into the space that still wore the scents of my dad and Brenda.  He insisted and I shook my head again.  He insisted one more time, this time by shoving me through the door, which set me bawling.  I heard him through the door talking to a guy, “It’s out of order.  Use the Ladies’.” 

“Ladies’? Hell Nick, I just wanna…”

“Then pee in your boot or out in the alley – I don’t give a shit, Billy.  Just get the fuck out of my face or I’ll fucking deck you.”

That was all the motivation Billy needed to choose Option B.

After trundling the rags off to the back room, he came back and rapped on the door.

“Hey, uh… Tommy?  You ‘bout ready to come out?  I’ve got guys who need the room, y’know.  I’ll get you some water, but you need to come on out, fella.”

Fella was somewhat better and different from “pal” or “buddy” and the others.  Less condescending, somehow – part of a fellowship, not just a diminutive label like you give a pet.

I followed him out and climbed back on the stool as Nick produced a tumbler of ice water.  He wasn’t at all subtle with his body language.  Though he was trying to look calm and focused, he kept glancing down the hall.  He had half a dozen half starts.  He wanted to throw my dad out.  I’d seen the moves too many times to mistake it for anything else.  For the moment, though, he withstood the impulse.

I didn’t see my old man in fifteen minutes, like he promised Nick, but neither of us was surprised.  Brenda came out four times, though, with empty glasses and winks for me and Nick.  She reached over and ran her fingers through my hair and called me cutie.  She said my dad told her to come check on me, which was probably true, if “please check on my son” was code for “hey, get us refills, babe.”  The first three times, she told me “You’re going to break some girl’s heart someday” as her cloud of stale cigarettes and perfume faded back behind the curtains.  Evidently, she had only one script for little boys in bars, which, was probably more than most women.  At least, that’s what I've always hoped.

On her fourth trip out, there was a crash from the back just as she turned toward me, but before she reached for my hair and started her “You’re going to break …” line.  She froze and shot a look at Nick.  He put his hand to my arm to make sure I didn't race back.  I knew better than that.  Around my old man, you didn't race in to any space that loud noises were coming out of.  Guys got smacked for showing up uninvited to a ruckus.  Still, though, I watched intently from my stool, which was at a safe distance.

More banging, chairs and tables being shoved around, I guessed, all coming through the curtain, shrouded in a forest of shouting.   I couldn't make out the actual words, but the tone said plenty.  Some surprised accusation followed by an appeal for calm.  More accusation, with the hard edge of indignation back.  There was a plaintive edge to one of the voices, then they all seemed to shout at once, almost drowning out the sound of a scuffle.  My dad popped out the door, flailing at arms that couldn't seem to decide whether to pull him back in or push him completely out.

Brenda squeaked “Eddie” and raced to him.  Nick’s hand tightened on my arm.  I didn't want to watch any further, but watched anyway.  Nick didn't want me to watch either, and kept trying to get my attention.  As soon as she reached my old man, Brenda snaked her body around his and showered his face with kisses.  She gave him the once-over to see if he was injured, and kissed his bloody knuckles before setting her head on his shoulder.

I could barely see as they talked back and forth.  He must have been replaying the dispute for her.  Something made her recoil.  Her response turned his face some, and he pushed her back and pressed her against the wall, berating her, angry finger inches from her face.  She tried to shield herself, maybe from the accusations, or maybe she’d felt his fists before.

I hadn't even noticed Nick moving until he eclipsed my father and Brenda.  He rapped his baseball bat on the door frame where the curtain hung, and the old man stepped back.  Over Nick’s shoulder, I saw his face.  He was doing the math, figuring the odds between himself and his adrenaline, and Nick and his baseball bat.  Evidently, the odds fell in favor of Nick and bat.

Nick told Brenda to go home and she streaked past me, her smoky perfume burning my nostrils as she passed me.  Her mascara was already making tracks down her cheeks.  I was pretty sure she was actually done for the even.

Nick said, “That’s two strikes, Ed.  Next time, I see you, I’m swinging for the fence.”  He jerked his head over his left shoulder toward the front door.  My dad had no trouble interpreting where he stood.  He glared at him as he passed by, but didn't argue the ruling.  We were leaving.  His five minutes was finally up, two and a half hours later.

He grabbed the shoulder of my shirt as he passed me.  The shirt stretched cartoonishly before he tugged me off the bar stool like a heavy duffel bag from a luggage cart.  I dropped and trotted to keep up, only then aware of the tears that filled my eyes and the snot that overflowed my nose.  A woman at the booth nearest the door tried to hand me napkins for my nose, but he jerked me to the other side as we burst out into a darkness deeper than even in the Richelieu.

He sped up, like he was trying to outrun me, while still dragging me by my shirt so as not to lose me.  At the car, he spun me around and slammed me against the front fender.  He slapped me sharply on both cheeks.  “Listen, kid – you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about.  Stop being a baby, baby.”  I was ashamed; I was also angry.  At that age, both emotions tended to mean tears, and that’s what I got. 

I cried more, he slapped me more, until, finally, he yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and crammed it into my face. “Clean yourself up, for Christ’s sake, and get over it.”  He sighed and shoved me around to his door and I scrambled across the seat to the passenger’s side.  The drive home was stone cold silent.  He was a rock for the first half, brittle as slate, as I got myself under control.  The second half, he began to relax.  By the time we pulled into our driveway, he spoke again.  “Not a word, right?  Men keep each other’s secrets, right?”  He punctuated the question with two light taps on my cheek.

I nodded.

He grinned, gave me a light punch on my shoulder and said “Come on pal, let’s go see what your mom’s been up to” as he tousled my hair.

It was done.  Again.  For the moment, anyway.