Joe's Black T-Shirt (25 page)

He had a twenty-year strong marriage. Without Brenda and his children, he would probably kill himself. A sin even he didn’t believe God would absolve him from. That kind of thinking though wasn’t like him. Up until all this shit hit the fan, he was happy guy. No, the rational thought, the idea that replaced the longing for Jeannie, was that of her death.

Throughout the day he imagined shooting her, strangling her, watching her sit inside of that shitty little car of hers as it exploded, or throwing her off the Eads Bridge. At night he drank and mourned for her, whipping himself with alcohol for his errant thoughts and cursing himself for doing such a stupid thing.

By Friday, with a check in his wallet, he drove with determination to the Seven-Ten Split. It was four o’clock and happy hour didn’t begin until six. Fuck it, Steve thought. He couldn’t take another night at home with Brenda or without Jeannie.

***

Vincent made it to the bar at eight sharp. This last week with Jeannie was the best he had ever known. Everyday he talked with Jeannie after she got home from work. He listened patiently as she vented about her job, her home, and her life in general.

She returned the favor as Vincent regaled her with stories from the being in a band. Mostly, they were funny, entertaining tid-bits she couldn’t imagine having really happened, but he told them so matter-of-factly, Jeannie had no reason to doubt their validity.

One of his most charming was the time the band was flat broke in Iowa. Out of desperation for gas money, they worked out a deal to clean the bar they had just gigged at for gas money. After two days of stealing beer and beef jerky, the owner called the police. The small town Sheriff impounded their van and locked them together in a cell with two bunks and a stainless steel commode.

Unable to pay their meager fines, the Sheriff gave them a choice: Play a charity gig at the local high school or pick trash off the side of the highway for a month. “It was always some shit like that,” Vincent told Jeannie, melancholy for those carefree days, but not the desperation it bred.

Steve’s buddies were at their regular table sans his brother-in-law. That didn’t concern him. Vincent had seen Brenda’s mini-van in the parking lot. Steve was here somewhere, probably in the john or pumping dollars into the impossible to beat claw machine. His brother-in-law’s presence use to concern him. They had never bonded and it was obvious Steve wanted nothing to do with him. Vincent, in turn, was more than willing to accommodate his wishes.

It took Vincent less than fifteen minutes to set the songbooks out and power up the equipment. It was his ritual to check every microphone prior to the show. Whether it was necessary or not, he replaced each wireless’ nine volt battery source. There had been thus far only one time a mic went dead during a performance. The singer had been malleable regarding the whole incident and was glad to take it again from the top. Vincent, however, found it professionally embarrassing. If he could, it was a mistake he would do his damnedest not to repeat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve stumble into his buddies’ table as he was sound checking the first mic.

“Check one. Check one-two,” he announced.

“Check this mother fucker!” Steve said to the great amusement of his pals. He held his crotch with his right and shook it with enthusiasm toward Vincent.

Vincent picked up the next mic. It’s green light glowed in the darkness indicating full power.

“Check one. Check one-two,” Vincent repeated. Before he could put it down, Steve was beside him. A thick odor of alcohol radiated from his every pore. Hardly able to stand, Steve rested his body into Vincent.

“I want to sing,” Steve said. His speech was a mixture of slur and beer belches.

“Sure, Steve,” Vincent said trying to seem undaunted. “Just give me a second.”

Behind Steve and his buddies, Vincent could see the bartender. He watched from behind the bar with the look of a dog ready to attack.

“No goddamn it. I want to sing now,” Steve said. With a slight bit of resistance from Vincent, Steve pulled the mic from his grip.

“Okay,” Vincent said elongating upon the vowel, “what song do you want?”

Into the microphone, Steven yelled, “What it’s gonna be fellas?”

“Brittany Spears,” yelled one of men. Another, even louder called, “Madonna.”

The reckless goading by Steve’s friends made Vincent nervous. It was obvious they had all been drinking more than usual. In an attempt to sandbag their current taunts, which could easily turn from playfulness to cruelty, Vincent cued up Black Sabbath’s ‘Ironman.’ A shout of ecstasy erupted from the table as Steve shouted, “Fuck yeah!” into the microphone.

Gray words scrolled turning white as the lyrics appeared on the TV’s. Unable to read the legible words through his inebriated haze, Steve lyrically imitated the words in an infantile fashion of unintelligible grunts.

“Bluh, bluh, ba-boo-bee. Dada dada, dada, Fuck this shit.”

Vincent tried to control the volume from the mixer, but the squeal of feedback accentuated Steve’s ever-increasing volume. Frustrated, worried that Steve’s close proximity to the massive speaker could cause a blowout, he futilely moved the mixer’s sliders lower trying to avoid disaster.

It was a shock to everyone when the bartender pushed Steve from behind. Too drunk to stand, he fell with no more effort of a wobbly domino to the floor. The microphone slammed to the concrete floor causing a loud pop that overloaded the speakers. The built-in clip mechanism automatically shut down the power in an effort to save itself.

Steve floundered on the floor trying to regain his footing. He had not realized he had been pushed until he rolled over from his stomach to his back. Even in his worthless state, it was apparent to him things had become deadly serious.

The voices of his buddies became quiet with reverence. The unmistakable sound of a twelve-gauge shotgun click-chuck slide action was robust in the soundless room. Vincent was grateful for the intervention, but immobile with fear at the sight.

“That’s enough,” the bartender said. He was aiming the shotgun at a forty-five degree angle to the ceiling. Without hesitation, he could put the barrel onto a target. At this range, whatever he aimed at he could hit with complete confidence.

“Fuck almighty, man. There ain’t no need for that kinda shit. We were just having fun. Ain’t that right, Vince?” Steve asked.

Vincent couldn’t have said shit if he had a mouthful. He had seen Steve plenty drunk on many occasions. Normally a solitary drunk, who preferred the company of an empty, dark corner, it was rare to see him driven so far over the edge. Strangely enough, he did want to help him, to pick him up, and defend his actions as the carelessness we all befell to in the name of relaxation. The serious bartender and his weapon rendered him mute.

“Well, ain’t this some kind of fuck you,” Steve said.

“There’s a cab outside. I suggest you give up your keys and get your ass home.”

Steve floundered to his feet and found his balance against a chair. His friends whispered among themselves, unable to hide their laughing smirks. Steve smiled at them, emboldened, not understanding that for a change he was the butt of the joke.

“You can kiss my ass you dumb, fat bastard.”

Enraged, the bartender swung the barrel of the shotgun with the precision of hitting a fastball. Steve collapsed unconscious as he crumpled to the floor.

Before his buddies could rush him, the bartender swung the weapon directly toward them. Steve had got what was coming to him. If any of them decided to play hero, it might be the last thing they ever did.

The trio stood stopped in motion, paused in their group reaction to retaliate.

The biggest guy spoke for the group with his hands held high above his head. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Then pick this piece of shit up and get the hell out of my bar.”

The group moved slowly toward Steve. Limp and unconscious, they carried his slumped body outside.

“You okay, kid?” The bartender asked Vincent.

“Yeah,” he said having to think about it.

The bartender rested his gun over his shoulder and let go a deep sigh of relief.

“These fucking guys. Always horsing around, they never know when to quit.”

Vincent bent down and collected the fragments of the mic. The bulbous silver knob had a large dent and a wide crack split halfway down the cylindrical case. He didn’t need to test it to know it was a total loss.

The bartender set his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. He too could tell the damage to the microphone was beyond repair.

“Maybe,” the bartender said, “we should call it a night. The cops will be here soon enough.”

***

Sunday was a beautiful day. The forecast for cloudy weather had been circumvented by an unprecedented warm front out of the south. Late October’s traditional cold being held at bay was almost a disappointment to the heavily bundled guests.

It was an established ritual for the Bickel family, Vincent’s family, to hold a party the weekend prior to Halloween. Mother and Father Bickel, the proud parents of five, and beaming grandparents of nine found comfort in the ritual of gathering. The children played upstairs, enjoying video games on Grandpa’s colossal TV and a buffet of homemade candies and cookies dutifully prepared by Grandma. The adults were given the secluded semi-privacy of the basement.

The vibrant yellow gold shag carpeting had faded. It’s luster fresh and new in the seventies was now dull, stained, and quite immaterial to the décor. Concrete basement walls were disguised behind imitation pressed wood paneling. Cutouts where once a light switch had been installed then removed or access had to be gained to make a repair were left open. Not forgotten necessarily, but familiar enough that after a time they were no longer noticeable.

Its only modernization in the last twenty-five years was a state of the art stereo system. Eight speakers had been snugly retrofitted to the ceiling, inconspicuous to the eye and warm to the ear. Dad insisted Vincent not play any of that modern rap-crap and he had gladly complied. For this party in particular, he had chosen a mix of classic soul featuring the likes of Al Green and Bill Withers. It proved a pleasant change of pace from his normal Rolling Stones and Grateful Dead picks.

Jeannie and Vincent sat together at the makeshift bar, occupying two of the three available stools. The remainder of the group compiled of blood relatives to distant cousins, mingled or danced or sat on a graveyard of old couches. All were accounted for except for Brenda and Steve.

“I enjoyed the movie the other night,” Jeannie said.

“Me, too.”

Vincent and Jeannie had missed the last third of the movie to sit in the back row and make-out like lustful teenagers.

They had mutually decided to take it slow. Sex, if it should come to pass, wouldn’t be a perfunctory, routine thing. Vincent had had a lifetime worth of anonymous sex with pathetic groupies eager to get closer to a band. Likewise, Jeannie in a desperate attempt to erase her multiple and abusive stepfathers, was in no rush to consummate this wonderful thing. When the time was right, they would know it and together they would gently cross that border.

The shock on Jeannie’s face was apparent as everyone else’s when Brenda and Steve came downstairs. Steve with stitches and a swollen black eye was already somewhat drunk. Without the slightest hesitation, he left his wife alone to find more liquor. Brenda, used to such behavior dismissed his actions as routine.

Her coat still on, she walked directly toward Vincent and embraced him in a full hug. Jeannie found the resemblance striking. Except for her smooth cheeks and her full-figured body, she and Vincent were identical twins. After exchanging pleasantries, Vincent modestly introduced Jeannie to his sister.

Without any hesitation, Brenda embraced her. A bolt of shame and regret twisted at Jeannie’s heart knowing what she had done with this woman’s husband. Not understanding her embarrassment, Vincent misinterpreted her sudden reclusive spirit as a simple case of nerves. Who wouldn’t be uncomfortable at first, he rationalized, meeting someone’s entire family for the first time.

Vincent offered to take Brenda’s coat. He surreptiously hoped that it would give the women an opportunity to get to know each other.

“How long have you been seeing, Vincent?”

“A couple of weeks now,” Jeannie replied. Her concentration wasn’t effected as much by the few drinks she had consumed as much by her awareness Steve was watching them.

“You make a cute couple. When Vincent first told me about you, I was so happy for him. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone special.”

“Well,” she said feeling genuinely demure, “I think Vincent is pretty special too.”

Vincent came back and placed his arm about Jeannie’s midsection. She found it comforting that he could be so casual with her in this atmosphere. Her only regret was to the clandestine set of circumstances that had allowed her such a marvelous fortune.

Jeannie excused herself from Vincent’s embrace to use the bathroom. It was across the room, at the far end, a direction impossible to cross over without passing by Steve.

She maneuvered between family members. Hard to be heard over the music, she politely tapped strangers on the shoulder to pass by. The bathroom door closed a moment before she came to it and she would have to wait her turn. Jeannie’s urge wasn’t critical and she easily could wait the few minutes before it would become her turn.

“Hey, baby,” Steve said. He was close to her and his presence surprised Jeannie.

“Oh, hey, Steve,” she said. “Great party, huh?”

“Cut the shit, bitch.”

“Steve, I don’t think---”