I said. “What’re you doing over here with the rest of the fruits?”
John smiled. “I got a promotion. I’m Assistant Produce Manager now.”
“What does that mean? You get to wax the apples?”
“It means more responsibility and more money. Two things you know nothing about.”
“Hey, where’s that girlfriend of yours? I want to check her out.”
“Birdie doesn’t start till five today.”
I made fun of her name and said Birdie was a perfect name for his girlfriend because she probably liked little peckers.
John laughed, but then told me not to talk that way in Birdie’s presence. She was a good girl and might not understand my sense of humor.
“Besides,” John said, “I just might marry that girl.”
I didn’t like what I was hearing. It seemed so many of my friends were getting married, and once they did I never saw them again.
“Married? What the hell for?”
John shrugged. “It’s time I settled down. You should think of settling down too, Mac. Find yourself a nice girl. Get married, have kids.”
I was silent for a moment, then I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me, right?” John and I always kidded each other, but this time the look on his face told me he was serious. He was in love, and I was afraid there would soon be one less bar fly at Henry’s.
John saw my basket of goodies, and knowing I had to get to work, offered me his car. “Look, take my car. Birdie and I are going out for pizza after work. She can take me home. Use my car for the rest of the night, and while you’re at work you can change the oil and filter.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
I headed for the checkout lane, satisfied at least that John was still my friend, but for how long? He made me realize I had a lot to think about. Here he was in a good job, with a girl he loves, and a future that no doubt included more promotions, kids, and a better class of friends. And where was I? Pumping gas was not a very satisfying career. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. I was only qualified to do one other job, and it was the same job I had in the Army. And my Army job was less appealing than pumping gas. One thing I knew for sure—I was too damn young to be thinking about marriage.
I emptied my basket on the checkout belt, my mind wandering. I didn’t know if I resented Birdie for coming between me and John, or if I was just jealous that John had a girlfriend. As I was taking my crumpled bills out of my pocket I heard an old lady’s voice behind me.
“Young man, this is the express lane. Eight items only. You have eleven. Can’t you count?”
“Yes, I can count. Can you count?”
“Of course I can count,” she said.
I held up the one finger that’s universally offensive. “Then, how many fingers am I holding up?”
I was glad John let me use his car. It was freezing out. As I drove to the gas station I realized if I were ever to find a girlfriend I would most definitely need my own car. I could probably afford basic transportation on my present salary, but if I wanted a decent car I would have to do one of two things: either get a better paying job, or cut back on my beer drinking. Or maybe I could find a girl who had her own car and didn’t mind chauffeuring me around.
Somehow I made it through that night’s work. When the wind picked up it felt like twenty below zero. When I first got to Vietnam it was so hot I thought I’d never get used to it. But when that cold wind was blowing through my undershorts I would’ve given anything for one hour of southeast Asian torridity. Lucky for me I had John’s car for the drive to Henry’s.
I arrived at Henry’s at ten fifteen; ten minutes earlier than usual. I parked John’s car right in front of the bar, and place his oil change receipt on the dashboard. He owed me twelve bucks. I made sure the car doors were locked before going into the bar.
I was greeted by many familiar faces, but the one I wanted to see most was absent. I wasn’t surprised. There would be fewer and fewer times when John would occupy the stool next to me. No more of me stealing his change off the bar and using it for the jukebox. No more of him tipping his cigarette ash into my beer. No more shoulder punching, crotch grabbing, mother insulting camaraderie. No more tar beach. And it was all his girlfriend’s fault. Birdie. What a stupid name.
At around one in the morning I had had enough. I bought two little bags of cheese crackers and put them in my jacket pocket. Outside, I bunched my jacket around my neck. My eyes immediately began to tear from the cold. I stood by John’s car searching every pocket for the keys. Did I leave them on the bar? After a minute or two I found them, or rather I saw them—snug and secure in the ignition.
I figured I had enough anti-freeze in me to make the walk home. And I only had to stop three time to let some out.
Chapter Three
On Friday evening, two days after Christmas, Bill pulled into the gas station. He was home from college for Christmas break. He had called my house and my mom told him where I was. I was too busy to talk to him for any length of time, so we agreed to meet at Henry’s after I closed the station. I told him to contact John so we could have a reunion and drink ourselves blind. Before he left he congratulated me for getting a job.
Business slowed down after seven o’clock to about one customer every ten minutes. But it seemed every time I lit up a cigarette some idiot needed gas. Charlie didn’t want anybody smoking around the gas pumps, so by the end of the night there were a dozen or so one-drag cigarette butts in the office ash tray.
At 10:00 I was walking briskly toward Henry’s. I was hoping John would be there without his shadow. The last time I saw John without Birdie was the week before Christmas. I had gone to Shop-Rite to buy a big bag of peanuts and a box of cheese crackers, and I saw him sweeping the floor in the produce aisle.
“You having a party?” John asked me.
“No. I feed this stuff to the squirrels.”
“You shouldn’t feed the squirrels,” John warned. “They become pests. They’ll hang around your house just waiting to be fed.”
“But I like squirrels,” I said. “They’re my friends. I know this sounds crazy, but I think sometimes they talk to me.”
“You are crazy.”
Then John invited me to join him and Birdie for church services Christmas eve.
I said to him, “What’s this going to church jazz? I thought the only church you knew was the Church of the Holy Draught.”
“Well,” he said meekly, “Birdie wants me to go.”
I didn’t know what to say to him, but words like Birdbrain and Birdshit sprang to mind.
When I arrived at Henry’s it took several moments for my senses to pierce the cigarette smoke and raucous din. But much to my delight, there at our favorite bar stools—in front of the girls’ bathroom—sat John and Bill. There was no Birdie in sight, but I think John was telling
