edge when some new guy shows up with his elbows. Ginny Archey gave me the eye when I walked in and gestured toward a booth at the back. As I crossed, I could see Chick on one side, slouching on the bench, and Tim-Rick on the other, upright and alert.
“What’s the word?” I said as we closed, nodding to Tim-Rick the way you might greet a strange dog.
Chick looked over hazily. A half-empty beer was on the table in front of him. A full beer was in front of Tim-Rick.
Tim-Rick slid out of the booth and stepped to me.
“He’s high as a kite. I don’t know what’s going on, but,” he said, leaving it hanging there.
“Hey,” Chick slurred, his face clammy. “What’s that prick saying about me?”
Tim-Rick’s face darkened and he half turned toward Chick.
“I’m kidding,” Chick said. “It’s love. I love that prick.”
He picked up his beer as if to drink it but just held it in front of him for a second. Then he let it drop to the table, a tiny bit hard, and slouched against the far wall of the booth. Unsie slid in next to him and pushed the beer away.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said to Tim-Rick.
He looked skeptical.
“Look, he comes in here, Ginny asks me to sit with him because he’s clearly fucked up,” he said. “But, I mean, come on.”
I nodded.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Tim-Rick seemed to be debating, weighing objectivity against the prerogatives of the past. Then he headed back toward the bar. Halfway, he turned around.
“That’s one sad son of a bitch,” he said, louder than he needed to.
Patrons fell silent.
Chick roused from his catatonia and tried to push out of the booth, but Unsie held him in place with a steel thigh.
I turned toward Tim-Rick, caught between bad options.
“T-R!” Ginny hissed from the register.
He looked a second longer at us, then turned to Ginny and spread out his arms, palms up, before huffing out the front door.
Ginny turned back toward the register and put one hand to her cheek. Chatter resumed.
I slid in across from Chick. Even spaced out, he appeared sheepish.
“Prick,” he said.
We’d been stoned plenty of times, but this wasn’t stoned, at least not the way I remembered. Back then, there was a humor to it. There was none of that now. Chick looked pale, unhealthy, his eyes both fidgety and lidded.
“What are you on?” I said.
Chick looked down and reached for his beer. I slid it out of his reach.
“I’m serious,” I said. “What are you on right now?”
I don’t really know why it mattered to me, since I wasn’t a pharmacist. I think I just wanted confirmation. I wanted him to acknowledge that he was betraying something.
Chick looked back up at me and leaned his head into the corner where the booth hit the wall. He raised one hand to his lips and locked them with a phantom key. Then he smiled and closed his eyes. In seconds, his breathing was slow and steady.
Unsie adjusted in his seat and looked across at me.
“Well,” he said. “Not quite old times.”
I picked up Tim-Rick’s untouched beer. A hefeweizen. Figures, that pansy. But I drank it anyway.
Ginny Archey maneuvered her swollen belly over to the booth like a magic bumblebee, bar stools seeming to move out of her way on their own.
“Bottoms up,” she said, a smile on her face but not in her eyes. “You’ve got to get him out of here.”
Unsie and I carried Chick out to the Escalade and deposited him in the passenger seat.
“Don’t overdo it,” Uns said, patted me on the shoulder, and headed off on a fast walk down Housatonic. I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Chick was snoring by the time I started the truck. I drove him through town, past the library, rounding away from the police station. We headed toward the long rise up to the Church-on-the-Hill. At the bottom, I heard evening bells, like vespers, but not from the hill. They were from the tower of St. Barney’s, just on my right, silent and dark on a weekend night.
When the shit with Bill
“What’s the word?” I said as we closed, nodding to Tim-Rick the way you might greet a strange dog.
Chick looked over hazily. A half-empty beer was on the table in front of him. A full beer was in front of Tim-Rick.
Tim-Rick slid out of the booth and stepped to me.
“He’s high as a kite. I don’t know what’s going on, but,” he said, leaving it hanging there.
“Hey,” Chick slurred, his face clammy. “What’s that prick saying about me?”
Tim-Rick’s face darkened and he half turned toward Chick.
“I’m kidding,” Chick said. “It’s love. I love that prick.”
He picked up his beer as if to drink it but just held it in front of him for a second. Then he let it drop to the table, a tiny bit hard, and slouched against the far wall of the booth. Unsie slid in next to him and pushed the beer away.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said to Tim-Rick.
He looked skeptical.
“Look, he comes in here, Ginny asks me to sit with him because he’s clearly fucked up,” he said. “But, I mean, come on.”
I nodded.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Tim-Rick seemed to be debating, weighing objectivity against the prerogatives of the past. Then he headed back toward the bar. Halfway, he turned around.
“That’s one sad son of a bitch,” he said, louder than he needed to.
Patrons fell silent.
Chick roused from his catatonia and tried to push out of the booth, but Unsie held him in place with a steel thigh.
I turned toward Tim-Rick, caught between bad options.
“T-R!” Ginny hissed from the register.
He looked a second longer at us, then turned to Ginny and spread out his arms, palms up, before huffing out the front door.
Ginny turned back toward the register and put one hand to her cheek. Chatter resumed.
I slid in across from Chick. Even spaced out, he appeared sheepish.
“Prick,” he said.
We’d been stoned plenty of times, but this wasn’t stoned, at least not the way I remembered. Back then, there was a humor to it. There was none of that now. Chick looked pale, unhealthy, his eyes both fidgety and lidded.
“What are you on?” I said.
Chick looked down and reached for his beer. I slid it out of his reach.
“I’m serious,” I said. “What are you on right now?”
I don’t really know why it mattered to me, since I wasn’t a pharmacist. I think I just wanted confirmation. I wanted him to acknowledge that he was betraying something.
Chick looked back up at me and leaned his head into the corner where the booth hit the wall. He raised one hand to his lips and locked them with a phantom key. Then he smiled and closed his eyes. In seconds, his breathing was slow and steady.
Unsie adjusted in his seat and looked across at me.
“Well,” he said. “Not quite old times.”
I picked up Tim-Rick’s untouched beer. A hefeweizen. Figures, that pansy. But I drank it anyway.
Ginny Archey maneuvered her swollen belly over to the booth like a magic bumblebee, bar stools seeming to move out of her way on their own.
“Bottoms up,” she said, a smile on her face but not in her eyes. “You’ve got to get him out of here.”
Unsie and I carried Chick out to the Escalade and deposited him in the passenger seat.
“Don’t overdo it,” Uns said, patted me on the shoulder, and headed off on a fast walk down Housatonic. I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Chick was snoring by the time I started the truck. I drove him through town, past the library, rounding away from the police station. We headed toward the long rise up to the Church-on-the-Hill. At the bottom, I heard evening bells, like vespers, but not from the hill. They were from the tower of St. Barney’s, just on my right, silent and dark on a weekend night.
When the shit with Bill
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