No Quarter - Part 2
January 14th, 2010
And now, a celebration. The Don Quixote Saloon across the tracks is alive with the smells of real people and spilt, sticky beer. Jamie slugs back a pint of Miller Lite with Joseph, Jesus, and Pete. They work in the kitchen at Berkshire’s French bistro. Jamie likes the ease of their biblical names. He especially likes Javier, the gardener for the late Mr. Laudenslager. Javier insists on playing him in a game of 8-ball, even after so many shots of Cuervo. It’s Cinco de Mayo, and tonight, tequila is two-for-one.
Javier lines up the shot with precision, and the cue slides through his thickly calloused knuckles. He wavers and banks the shot hard off the far wall. The 9-ball sails through the air, hits the hanging lamp, and slams on the floor with a victorious thud. The men holler and boo, and Javier smacks down a five dollar bill next to the corner pocket.
Jamie chalks his cue and basks in the neon glow of the red Budweiser sign off the plentiful wood paneling. He loses himself momentarily in the Social Distortion song on the badly-beaten juke box. Joseph whacks him on the back.
“I got the next game, white boy. Look out.” The men laugh, and Jamie grins, planning his next shot. He likes his style, but he needs a refill first.
“Mitch, turn the game on. And I need another round.” Jamie struggles to slide onto the high barstool. He peers into the grainy, twenty-inch TV screen between dusty bottles of Triple Sec and off-brand, peach schnapps.
While he waits for his pint, Jamie scrolls through his phone. Who should he tell first? Mom is probably still with Steve. Joey has pre-paid minutes, so he won’t answer. Chris’s phone is shut off because he’s been out of work for a year. Big Joe is still in jail last he heard. Mikey will answer.
“Hey, Mikey, it’s Jamie. I just got some awesome news. You guys still planning on coming up Tuesday? And if you’re watching the Phillies game, let me know. I’ll put twenty bucks on the Red Sox to make it interesting. Call me back.” He puts the phone down and looks up in time to see the Red Sox score the first run of the game.
Joseph appears in Jamie’s peripheral vision, panting. He shoves two twenties under a coaster. ”Relax, I haven’t even beaten you yet. We’ll play in a minute.” Jamie tries to buy him another drink. Joseph is just trying to pay his tab and leave. Quickly.
Pete grabs Joseph by the back of his stained T-shirt. “The eagle has landed. Let’s go.”
They rush out. Where did they see an eagle in Connecticut? He turns back to the game, and his phone is silent. No voicemail. Maybe the reception is bad in here.
“Hey Mitch. Wanna put five on the game? I’ll go easy on you. You can have the Phillies.” Mitch assures him he’d never bet on the Phillies. He’s a Mets fan. Defeated, Jamie slumps in his well-worn barstool and races to the bottom of his glass.
Before he can finish, he feels the distinct static charge of another body behind him. A slicked-back pompadour of salt and pepper greets him with a nod.
“No, I’m not the busboy, sir.” Jamie snarls. Upon closer examination, it’s the Baldwin look-alike. Jamie finishes the warm, bitter end of his beer and stands, not caring that the man is nearly six-foot-three, including his hair.
“Jamie I presume?” The man tosses a five on the bar, and Mitch slides him a glass of something on the rocks. The man sips delicately around the lemon and stares down at the perfect part in Jamie’s auburn hair.
Cheeks ruddy with alcohol, Jamie tightens his shoulders and core, preparing to give or receive a punch to the solar plexus. Here’s the plan: he’d land a right hook just below the rib cage. The man would double over in agony, and Jamie would deliver a swift upper-cut to the bridge of his nose. Jamie would feel the man’s cartilage snap and collapse into his nasal cavity. Blood would spill over his soft palate and flood down the back of his throat, causing the man to choke.
The man grins, then sits. Jamie stiffly backs down, keeping his eyes fixed on the sophisticated pomp.
“Alec Baldwin I presume?”
“I don’t know who that is. My name is Bradley. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance.” Jamie ignores the offer for a handshake. “Pardon my saying so, but this place looks like Beirut in the early ’80’s. You should try The Wilks. It’s a traditional pub-style lounge. The owner was formerly head chef at Tavern on the Green.”
Jamie turns back to the game and a new pint. “Tavern on the Green? I don’t play golf.”
The Red Sox score another run, and Jamie cheers his glass at the half-scrambled picture. He pauses a moment. “Wanna make a bet? Twenty bucks on the Patriots. They’re only in the first inning.”
“I don’t gamble on baseball. I’m more of a squash man.”
Jamie laughs into his beer. “OK, squash man. I guess it gets exciting when people crash planes into the racquetball court. No one bet on that happening, right?”
“Mr. Laudenslager was a friend of mine. I don’t appreciate jokes about his passing. And it was a private jet.” Jamie is shamed into silence and stares into his glass.
Bradley softens. “But I’m not above a game of chance. Why don’t we play darts-a gentleman’s game. Unless, of course, you’ve had too much to drink. ”
Never.
Jamie pushes aside his beer-soaked fog, collecting his last, poorly-aimed dart off the edge of the dilapidated board.
“So, Jamie. I suspect you’re a townie. Is that correct?” Bradley interrupts Jamie’s concentration.
“No. I’m not from here.” Again, he barely makes the edge of the target.
“You’re misunderstanding. No one is ‘from’ Berkshire Estates. What I’m saying is that you’re a townie from somewhere else. Northeast Philadelphia, if I have to guess?”
“Sort of. Kensington. Why? What’s that supposed to mean?” ”I can tell by the way you said ‘golf’ earlier, along with everything you’ve said after that.” Before Jamie can decide if he should be offended, Bradley recovers. “I have relatives in Philadelphia on the Main Line.” Bradley hits next to the bulls-eye.
“I’m not surprised.” Jamie readjusts his stance, braces his knees tightly, and throws. His dart pierces the paneling just above the target.
“Besides playing darts badly, what do you do, Jamie?” Jamie sucks in a big gulp of air and puffs his chest out, exhaling his words confidently. At last, he can tell someone. “I built this social media website called Craven. It’s really popular among programmers and techie guys. It’s one of the most widely-used sites after Facebook. You may have heard of it. Time Warner made me a pretty nice offer, so I sort of took an early retirement. I guess you could say I peaked early. And I just found out I’m up for Philadelphia’s Man of the Year for 2009.” Jamie nails this shot.
“Man of the Year? Your father must be very proud.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t talked to him in years. I don’t even know where he lives.”
“He’s still your father. My father has threatened to kill me on multiple occasions, but here I am. I still wheel him to brunch every Sunday morning.” Bradley’s shot is slightly more centered than Jamie’s.
“He said I ruined his life. And meant it.” Jamie’s beer has taken over the mic.
“I’ve heard that before. You may regret your decision someday. When you get out of your early twenties, you’ll understand.”
“The man has no spine.” Jamie could be here all night explaining the difference between harsh words and manipulation. “And I’m 31. What do you do?”
Bradley laughs deeply as he lines up his next throw. “I haven’t ‘done’ anything in almost a decade. I used to work in bonds. Now I live off interest that will continue to accrue long after I’m dead. It’s amazing how much money you can make by doing absolutely nothing. I won’t bore you with the lack of details. I’m bored to tears with it myself.”
Bradley re-thinks his shot. He turns and aims for the glowing Budweiser sign. His shot lands squarely between the letters, perfectly dotting the “i”. The neon tubes spark and sputter. He grins slyly at Jamie’s curious expression. “This is your life now. I advise you find to something to make it interesting.”
Jamie struggles to respond. He hands over his wager of twenty dollars in exchange for losing the game. “How about I buy us a round of whiskey on the rocks and make this a real gentleman’s game.” He can’t suffer through any more tedious conversation without something a little stronger.
“No, thank you. This is club soda. Drinking on a school night is a slippery slope.” Bradley deposits his glass quietly at the edge of the bar. He reaches in his blazer pocket and hands Jamie a small card tucked neatly in an envelope.
“What’s this?” Jamie flips it over and examines it carefully, then shakes it, listening for explosives or anthrax.
“It’s your engraved invitation.” Bradley turns to leave.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
With his dramatic exit interrupted, Bradley pauses mid-stride. “You really should be more grateful when someone hands you an invitation. And for future reference, keeping a low profile in Berkshire Estates is virtually impossible. See you tomorrow. Don’t bring a towel.”
The salt and pepper mane turns and swoops out of the empty saloon. Jamie gingerly opens the envelope and runs his fingers over the raised script on the card stock.
Pool Party. Thursday, May 6, 2009. 6PM to 10PM at the Canterbury Swim Club. Hosted by Bradley Hancock. Proper attire expected.
Even the swimming pool has a tea-and-crumpets name. Jamie stays for another pint, waiting to see the final score on the game. It’s 4-0 at the top of the eighth inning, and no one called him back. Looks like it’s going to be a shut-out.
Back at the West Quarter in his three-story home, in the east wing, in the master suite with walk-in closet and adjoining master bath with the steam shower with fourteen settings, Jamie sinks into his bare mattress. He rolls over to check his phone on the floor beside him. Still nothing. It’s too late to call his mother, even with the time difference. Mikey’s probably playing pool at Yesterday’s Tavern. Carla took the shuttle back to Thomson Square hours ago. He slides his phone back on the floor and reaches for the invite. He turns it over and over between his fingers.
Finally. Friends.
1 Trackback(s)