The Man in Black ~ An Albany Story

Stunning small snapshot of interior of a pub

Stunning small snapshot of interior of a pub (Photo credit: whatsthatpicture)

From time to time, I post short stories I’m fretting over. Really, until I let them go to some unsuspecting journal, they’re all Works in Progress. And, after their editors reject them, they still are!

This story is my Albany-centric twist on the Hemingway classic “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.”

It’s a little more than 1,700 words, but hang in and I hope you like it. My fiction group colleagues did. They know me as more storyteller than a poet.

The story’s working title is…

The Man in Black

Beams of morning sunlight with squared corners ran through the window and onto the floor of Pauly’s Tavern on Central Avenue. The morning crowd never noticed the specks of dust floating in the box-shaped ray crawling closer to the window as the sun rose in the sky. They only noticed mahogany and glass as drinks sank to the bottom of their mugs and tumblers.

The college kids called Pauly’s an old man’s bar, and in truth, the morning crowd skewed closer to Social Security age than 21. Thorough checking IDs for the age of patrons was not Phil Papandrea’s problem, working daytime as he did. 

Barely a head raised when the scraped and scratched wood and glass door opened and the shadow of the old regular called Johnny stretched across the worn oak floor. Phil looked up, though, and noticed it looked like Johnny already had a head start on the other patrons.

Johnny ambled on long, unsteady legs to a stool at the far end of the bar, upon which the morning Times Union lay. Phil always left it there to save Johnny’s spot, one as sacrosanct in Pauly’s as the place on the shelf behind Phil where they kept the cognac no one ever ordered.

“Morning, Johnny, how we doing today?” Phil said.

“Ummph,” Johnny said, as Phil reached into the cooler beneath the bar and pulled out a green can of Genesee Cream Ale, popped the top and poured it into a glass.

“Here you go, champ,” Phil said, sliding the glass in front of Johnny.

Phil then walked down to the sunny end of the bar where a new member of the morning crowd was nursing a boilermaker and the New York Times crossword.

“Hey, Phil,” Ed Burley whispered, “what’s with the cans for the old guy? You’ve got Genny on tap.

“Aw, it’s just something we do for old Johnny. He buys his own beer up at Oliver’s Beverage store and we keep it cold for him here. Otherwise, I don’t think he could drink here.”

“Yeah, but…um…why?”

“Because he’s Johnny No-Cash. Can’t you see?” Phil said, in no way explaining other than to point out the jet-black toupee and black shirt and pants Johnny wore that gave him the look of a cartoon version of the iconic American singer.

“We let Johnny slide because the boss loves him. He lets him live upstairs and helps clean the place up at closing,” Phil said. “He’s pretty harmless unless you hassle him. Most of the college guys think he’s a hoot.”

“They don’t bother him?”

“Not too much. In fact, some of the Siena boys took such a shine to him they brought him golfing with them. Let him ride in the cart and caddy for them,” the bartender explained.

“I heard the other day he had problems. I mean besides what you keep under the bar,” Burley said.

“You mean trying to kill himself?”

“Yeah, well, that was something different. He’d been in here drinking all day and afternoon and some punks came in from St. Rose. I was off by then. They thought it would be fun to play with his hair,” Phil said, and jerked his thumb toward Johnny.

“It didn’t end well. He was so drunk and angry chasing his hair while they played keep-away, he fell and pissed himself. Johnny is anything if not fastidious about how he looks. A bunch of regulars stepped in, but Johnny was embarrassed and had to be carried upstairs crying like a baby.”

“Nasty punks,” Burley said. “Was that when he did it?”

“No, when Pauly closed he went upstairs and found Johnny passed out in his bed. Checked on him and he seemed okay. When I got here in the morning, cops and EMTs were already out front.”

“Who found him?”

“Believe it or not, his niece. Found him in the bathroom with a rope around his neck. Pulled down the ceiling lamp. She keeps tabs on him since he’s got no one else after his daughter died,” Phil said.

“Aw, man. really? Man, what happened to her?”

“OD’d. Right down on Judson Street. It’s said Johnny was in fair shape then, had a real job and real money, but that just drove him off the edge.”

“Phil!” Johnny boomed from the other end of the bar, rapping his empty glass on the mahogany.

“Keep your shirt on, champ. I’m coming.”

“Instead of playing slap and tickle with that guy, you might want to see if you can serve the drinking customers?” Johnny said.

Phil took Johnny’s glass and filled a new one with another can of Genny.

“You slept at all, champ?” Phil asked Johnny. “Been going all night?”

The man in black either did not hear him or just flat out ignored the bartender.

“Pauly told me to look out for you. I don’t need the boss getting pissed at me if you decide to keel over.”

“Fuck you. Go check on 39-Across down there,” Johnny mumbled into his glass.

“Careful, champ. No one’s bothering you. No need to get testy.”

Johnny stared ahead at nothing and silently sipped his beer.

Phil returned to Burley, poured him another boilermaker and wiped the bar.

“You say he had a real job?” Burley said.

“Yeah. Was a manager type with Price Chopper, I heard. But the thirst was in him and then his daughter…”

The sun had mopped itself from the floor and the bar glowed in the reflection of the light on buildings across the street and flashed from the windows of each passing car and bus.

“Woe Ho, Philip!” came the greeting from Frankie Noonan, the beer delivery guy, several cases of long necks piled on his cart in the doorway. “Comin’ through, gents.”

As Frankie reached the end of the bar, where it hinged upward allowing bar staff and deliveries entry, Johnny banged his glass again.

“Phil!” he roared.

“Easy, Johnny. I’m coming. Would you mind scooting over a couple stools while Frankie delivers his goods and hauls out the empties?”

“I would,” came the cold reply.

“No, seriously, Johnny, you gotta move so we can get our delivery.”

“Yeah, c’mon, buddy. I’ve got eight more stops to make today. I won’t be long,” Frankie said.

“Told you, no. Phil, where’s my beer?”

“Unless you move over, Johnny, I ain’t serving you any more. You’re being a nuisance keeping me from taking care of business here.”

“What’s the problem, old dude? I’m just trying to do my job. I won’t take long. Promise,” Frankie said.

“Go round,” Johnny said. “Phil, you want me tell Pauly you’re pissing off paying customers? You think he’d like that?”

“I don’t think he’d mind me kicking your ass out of here while his beer’s getting warm and undelivered,” Phil said.

“Another Genny, now,” Johnny said.

“That’s it, you’re outta here. I’ll let the boss settle with you when he gets here. Until then you’re not going to be my problem anymore.”

Phil slid over the top of the bar and grasped Johnny’s shoulder and pushed him to the door, the old man resisting, but unable to overcome the bartender’s strength.

“Just you wait, punk. If I was 20 years younger….”

“Yeah, and about 20 beers lighter. Out,” Phil said and pushed Johnny out into the bright sun on Central Avenue.

After Frankie made his delivery, Phil went back to talking to Burley, who was beginning to show his liquor, too.

“Which way did he go?” Phil asked Burley.

“Down Central.”

“He didn’t go ’round the corner here?” Phil asked.

“Nope. Headed that-away.” Burley pointed east.

“Okay, he didn’t go back upstairs then. Fuck.”

“What’s a matter?” Burley said.

“Aw, Pauly just has a thing about the old guy. Worries for some reason. Doesn’t want him going to some ghetto joint for his hooch. Or drinking himself to death on the street. Guess he reckons it’s better the old bastard does it in a neat place like his.”

“Yeah, but he can buy his Genny at some store and find a quiet place to drink in the neighborhood,” Burley said. “He’ll be okay on a nice day like this.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Phil said. “It’s just that the boss worries.”

“Sure,” Burley said, “he’s got a nice old-fashioned place here. Not too many around anymore. I guess Pauly figures he needs a crazy old drunk as part of the decor.”

“Must be.”

“I guess I’ll be headed out,” Burley said with a grunt, slipping off his stool. “Thanks for the entertainment, Phil. You really should get a band in here during days, though. These passion plays don’t play so well with this crowd.” He pointed to the quietly buzzing mid-day drunks.

“Yeah,” the bartender said.

“Look, you know as well as I do that God looks out for the likes of Johnny No-Cash. Else why would he still be coasting up and down the Avenue and will more than likely be darkening your door tomorrow. I’ll bet he’s back right after you go off shift.”

“You know, you’re probably right. I’ll tell Pauly when he gets in. Let him worry about his old mascot,” Phil nodded.

“Sure, see ya tomorrow, Philip, my boy,” Burley said, oozing out into Central Avenue.

He looked west up Central and then down in the direction he last saw Johnny. Burley smoothed the narrow old tie onto the front of his shirt. He crossed Central and walked south on Quail Street, stopping in a bodega run by a Pakistani guy for a six-pack of Genesee Cream Ale.

“Thanks, my friend! Have a lovely afternoon and evening,” Burley said.

He walked two more blocks south, sweating through his dark suit just as the cold cans of Genny sweat through the paper bag in which he carried them.

Burley stopped at the park on the corner of Madison Avenue and found an empty bench in the shade. The light was good and the shade was cool. Over on the basketball court young black men were running up and down in a loud shirts-and-skins game of run-and-gun.

Burley, pulled a can from the pack, popped the top and took a long, cool draught of ale. Cops would be by to hassle him about drinking in a public park, but not before the black kids got into his face over why an old white dude was sucking down beers watching them play hoops.

Until then, though, he hummed and occasionally quietly sang “Because you’re mine, I walk hmm..mmm…” 

 
©Joseph Hesch 2013

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Five Sentence Fiction ~ Blush

Lillie McFerrin

Empty-Handed

It’s not like I was totally embarrassed or something.

I mean I’ve been this drunk before, on hot dry nights and nights as cold and rainy as this one.

But tonight I may have blushed a little when I couldn’t pay the bartender for the vodka on the rocks he nudged across the crowded bar – my seventh or eighth or tenth that evening – because I had forgotten my wallet in the rush out of my girl Alice’s.

I reached for it in my back pocket and came up as empty as that bottle of Stoli I’d polished off just before I skedaddled out of her place when she got a call from her husband.

Okay, reaching under my raincoat to pay the man, I may have felt a little warm-cheeked when realized I left my wallet there on her dresser … where my pants still lay folded oh so neatly.

©Joseph Hesch 2012

This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Blush.”

Five Sentence Fiction ~ Perseverance

Lillie McFerrin Writes

For seventeen years, Frank Pineillas worked nights and weekends on the manuscript of his novel, polishing and revising until he was sure it was ready for submitting to agents and publishers.

“This’ll be great,” Frank said to himself when he sent it out, but was crushed with each rejection note, eventually realizing the manuscript needed further revision, given suggestions by some of the editors.

“Frankie, I just got a contract on my book,” his writing group buddy Len Tanner called to crow one night, which drove Frank to spend three more years revising his novel and then sending it to fifty carefully selected publishers and agents.

After he received his thirty-seventh rejection of that manuscript, more severe in comparison to the “getting-close” ones before it, Frank finally lost hope, smashed his computer into scrap and ran to an isolated cabin in the Adirondacks.

This is why Gray Gander Press never received a reply to their email, or an answer to their repeated phone calls, accepting Frank’s novel, “Dog on a Bone,” a modern take on “Les Miserable.”

©Joseph Hesch 2012

This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Perseverance.”