The Drunken Spelunker's Guide to Plato by Kathy Giuffre Page A

bet he’s not doing anything much. Why don’t you go on over there and bring your bass and play some with him for a little bit?”
    â€œOh, I couldn’t just barge in like that.”
    â€œCome on,” Tom said. “I’ll go with you. Billy Joe will be happy to see us. We’ll bring beer.”
    Charlie looked doubtful, but he got up off his barstool. Rafi filled a brown paper bag with cold beer and handed it to him. Tom pulled out his wallet.
    â€œNo charge,” Rafi said.
    After they left, I said to Rafi, “Tom sure is a nice guy.”
    â€œNothing nice about it,” Stinky said, turning to look at me. “Take my word for it—it’s a pretty near certitude that, statistically speaking, Charlie Blue will just end up another failure. Uneducated punk kid like that? He’ll never amount to anything, future-wise. Tom’s just setting him up for a fall. Nothing nice about it.”
    â€œHow do you know?” I said.
    â€œSeen it too many times, little lady,” he said. “He’ll end up just another loser sitting in a bar.”
    Stinky got up and paid his tab and left a nickel for a tip.
    â€œYou come back soon, now,” Rafi said as the door closed behind Stinky.

    A couple of months later, I ran into Orla for the first time since I had moved. We were both buying cardboard-tasting winter tomatoes in the produce section of the big supermarket. She was happy to see me, especially in such a compromising position. I was like a Baptist preacher being caught with two hookers and a basketful of porn.
    â€œI didn’t see your wedding announcement in the paper,” she said. “I looked and looked. Didn’t you put one in?”
    â€œWe’re not married yet,” I said.
    â€œHmm,” Orla said.
    â€œWe’re going to get married, but we just haven’t yet,” I said.
    â€œHmm,” Orla said again.
    â€œThere are so many details to take care of,” I said, and laughed uneasily, feeling unaccountably panicky, like when you’re driving down the road, minding your own business, and you suddenly notice the car behind you is a cop. Even though you’re not doing anything wrong, you start to worry.
    â€œWe’re thinking of June!” I semi-shrieked.
    Orla leaned forward and gently patted my oddly sweaty hand. She looked deep into my eyes with a small, sad smile. “I’ll pray for you,” she said. Then she patted my hand again and walked off toward the snack aisle.

    It is one of the ironies of Christianity that Saturday night turns so seamlessly into Sunday morning. Danny was face down on the pillow with his arm flung out across my belly. I could feel the warmth of him and hear the quiet sound of his breathing. He was awake.
    â€œWe’ve got to get up now,” he said. “I promised my folks that we’d come by after church and eat lunch with them.”
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œIt was either that or have them here.”
    â€œLord, anything but that.”
    â€œDo we have an iron?” he asked, sitting up.
    â€œLike for clothes?”
    â€œThere has been some discussion of wrinkled shirts from my mother, and I thought it might be best to head that off at the pass.”
    We had no iron, but he found a sweater with only one smallish hole and a pair of pants that had been worn only once since they were last washed. I put on the dress Uncle Joe had bought me for my high-school graduation.
    â€œI’ll hit you if you laugh,” I said to Danny.
    He didn’t laugh.
    â€œIt’s just that they have these ideas,” he said. “They have these ways that they believe things should be.”
    â€œWhat do they believe?” I asked.
    â€œWell, for one thing, they believe that hell is real, and they believe that I might be going there.”
    â€œNice parents,” I said.
    â€œIt’s just that they love me,” he said. “They want so much for me.