on his chest and pumped five times. I didn’t know if the number was right. I didn’t know if anything was right. I was going on instinct.
I exhaled once more into his mouth.
I finally heard the sirens, the sound of ambulances, police, and fire. Someone must have called 911. When you call, they send everybody.
I pounded on Gerry’s chest until I felt someone wrap a hand around my arm and tug at me. I whirled and saw Artie staring at me.
“Let it be, man,” he said.
I tried to turn back to Gerry. Artie pulled harder. “Let it be.”
I let him tug my arm, and I finally got to my feet. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to help Gerry anymore.
An ambulance swung around toward us off Somerset. Its siren was louder than the screeching tires.
Gerry’s chest didn’t rise or fall.
After about ten minutes, Artie couldn’t take it anymore. He turned and went back inside the bar, mumbling something about having customers to serve. Those customers were all standing outside with me, pint glasses in hand, watching the cops and EMS work. Not much talking going on. In fact, the only sounds were the whispering of the cops asking witnesses questions and a few horns honking down the street.
I stood and watched the EMS guys. They were doing what I had been doing, but nothing was working. One of them, a guy with a goatee and shaved head, was just watching. The other, a woman with a short bowl-cut hairdo and no makeup, was pumping Gerry’s chest. They were both shaking their heads. Finally, the bald guy and the driver got the stretcher, as the woman kept pumping. Two more pumps, and she stopped, wiping her brow. Making eye contact with her partner, she backed away and they lifted Gerry onto the stretcher. Checked his pulse one more time. Wheeled him into the ambulance, which pulled away without sirens. Gerry’s blood stained the street, a crusty dark red mark. The odor of asphalt and car exhaust permeated the air.
EMS workers can’t pronounce someone dead on the spot. They have to do everything they can to keep the patient alive. Even if the person is dead they have to put on the act. From what I could see, these guys didn’t try too hard.
Down the street, the cops were talking to a crying woman. They had one of those small, spiral notebooks out and were taking notes in blue pencil. A cop was nodding as the woman spoke, probably doing his best to be understanding through all her blubbering. Once the beat cops determined this was a hit-and-run, the plainclothes detectives would show up. If they heard I was here, they’d want to talk to me. I turned to one of the regulars and told him I’d be inside if the cops wanted to chat.
“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “You might want to wash up. Look like a goddamn vampire.”
First thing I did was hit the bathroom. Artie did his best to keep it clean, but it still smelled like someone had puked. The walls were a pale yellow, the toilet was white and chipped. The sink only ran cold water, and the mirror was cracked. I looked at the blood congealing on my face and hands and thought that even if I washed it off, I’d probably still feel its mark. I scrubbed harder.
By the time I returned, Artie had changed the music. The Band’s “The Weight” was playing while he wiped down the bar. I wondered if he felt the same way about the bar as I felt about the blood on my face: if he cleaned it, then all trace of Gerry would be gone.
“I love this song,” he said. I took a stool across from him at the bar. He got me another bottle of Heineken, popped the top, and put it in front of me.
I took a sip, listened to the music. I hadn’t heard the song in years. Let the laid-back rhythm sink in. “Good song.”
We listened to it play out.
When I finished my beer, Artie got me another. I let it sit. Something that sounded like Lou Reed came on. I wanted to ask who was singing, what the title of the song was, something to delay the inevitable, make some sort of small talk—even if I could guess all the song’s information. But Artie didn’t wait.
“So, what do you think?”
I picked up the beer, looked at it. Put it back down. “About the song?”
“No.”
“Oh,” I said. “It didn’t look good.”
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen anything like that since ’Nam. One of us should have gone with the ambulance.”
“We’re not family,” I said. “It wasn’t our place.”
“We were the closest thing he had. You know that.”
“Fuck,” I said. I hated when Artie was right.
I took the first sip of my fourth beer of the day. It wasn’t even five o’clock.
This was the worst part. Waiting for the inevitable news you prayed wasn’t going to come. Most people try to talk around it, sit with a knot in their stomachs and pray. I hated that. Instead, I laid it all out on the table.
“He’s not going to make it. He wasn’t breathing. I don’t think EMS got him to start. He’s dead.”
“You don’t know that for . . .” Artie made eye contact with me. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Did the cops find the car?”
My beer was half-gone, and my stomach started to feel a bit light. I wished I had gotten a chance to eat the burger. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
This time it was Artie’s turn to put it out for all to hear. “Do you think it was an accident?”
He could wait while I finished off the beer.
Truth was, I didn’t know. Gerry did have some enemies. Six months ago, the manager of a theater Gerry used to act at paid his landlord to try and evict him. That way she could drum up some press about starving actors to bring in theatergoers who felt bad. I stepped in and talked to her and the landlord. When I was done, he kept his home. Last I heard, she’d sold the theater, moved out of state.
Artie put another Heineken in front of me. I didn’t touch it. He said, “Are you going to look into it?”
“The police will.” Sweat dripped off the beer bottle onto the bar. “They’re already out there asking questions.”
“I don’t trust the cops. They’ll look at it as a hit-and-run accident. If they find the car, good for them, they’ll talk to whoever did it. Maybe put some sort of manslaughter charge on it.”
“Maybe it is just manslaughter.”
The beer looked lonely just sitting there. Artie had taken the empties away. The one green bottle made the bar look unprofessional and asymmetrical. I picked it up. Took a swig. The beer was still cold, tasted bitter going down. For the fifth, it should have been easier to drink.
Artie said, “If it is, I want to find out from you. And if it’s not, I’d like you to take care of that.”
“Are
