[stylist] fiction

[Chris Kuell]

                                                                                                1,425 Words

 

 Just Call Me Al

 

 

By Chris Kuell

 

The jingle of the bell at the door caught me off guard. I was squatting in a very un-lady-like position, tightening a nut on the new faucet in the double sink. Twenty past eleven was early, even for the biker crowd. I heard the tap, tap, tap of a cane and stood up to see Mike Edison, a blind frequenter of my bar, The Chicken Bone Cafe. He made his way to the corner stool, collapsed his cane and tucked it under his leg.

 

"Hey, Mike. Haven't seen you much this winter. What've you been up to?"

 

"Oh, you know, the usual," he said. "Training for the Olympics-I'm pole vaulting next summer. I'm also taking a welding and a photography class at the Voc."

 

"Smart-ass," I said, and poured him a pint.

 

"Actually, I've been making pretty good progress on my novel. I'm on Chapter 17, a little over 200 pages."

 

"Hey, that's great," I said. "Congratulations." I placed the beer on a coaster in front of him. With a well practiced ear, he found it without difficulty.

 

"So, why're you in here before eleven-thirty, instead of being home, writing a steamy sex scene in your book?"

 

"Ain't no cure for the summertime blues." He sang the line, and thankfully, didn't continue. Ray Charles, he isn't.

 

I clicked on the TV in the corner of the bar. "You and the wife arguing again?" Mike lived down the street, so he came here sometimes to cool down and gain perspective when things weren't so glorious on the home front.

 

"Naw, that's not it," he said. He took a long pull off his beer. "Ahh. Like mother's milk."

 

I've heard this expression from him a hundred times, and it's pretty well worn out.

 

"No, me and the old lady are okay." Mike took another drink, and then looked me right in the chest. Now, I know he can't see, and he doesn't know that is where his gaze is focused. But at times, I have to wonder.

 

"You ever notice how I have a knack for pissing people off?"

 

"That's not true, Mike," I said. "You seem to get along with everybody. Especially the ladies you buy drinks for." 

 

I turned on the faucet and checked for leaks, but everything was dry. Rosie Riveter comes through again. 

"There was that one night, though, when I thought I was going to have to take the bat to you and Steve. You had too much to drink and were quite vocal in your opinion about Bush stealing the election."

 

"I wasn't drunk," he broke in. "I was bullshit. I mean, the whole 2000 election debacle was unconstitutional. But, I'm unpatriotic if I don't just bend over and take it."

 

His face reddened and he stopped talking. After another sip of beer, he said, "Well, I pissed off a lot of people in the internet writer's group I belong to by posting an anti-tea party satire."

 

"What didn't they like?"

 

He drained his beer and I poured him another. Nobody else had come in yet, so I didn't mind talking.

 

"My commentary was mildly acidic, although, you would have fainted if you saw my first draft. This was the toned down version. I thought it was entertaining, thought it would make people laugh. And maybe, just maybe, make people think seriously about our country, and what is best for all Americans. Both today, and ten, twenty years from now."

 

"Doesn't sound bad to me." I warmed up the small grill where I made burgers and sandwiches for the lunch crowd.

 

"I didn't think it was. After I posted it, I thought of a dozen other points I should have included. You can guess how it went. The choir cheered, the republicans in the group think I'm a knee-jerk liberal, and a handful think I hate Jesus." 

 

"Do you?" I asked. Bartenders and shrinks are masters of carrying on conversations with very few words. It's a real talent.

 

"No, of course not. I love Jesus." He took a draw off his beer. "I also love Buddha, and Moses, and that Hindu God with all the arms, and Mother earth. I'm still on the fence about Mohammed and Joseph Smith, though." He leaned his head to one side, listening to the weather forecast on the television before continuing. "In fact, I probably love Jesus best of all. I just don't believe in heaven, in the way most people do, so I don't think you have to be a Christian to get there." He absent-mindedly swirled the beer in his glass. "I think there are many religions on this planet to serve the people of the various cultures. To help them get through this soap-opera we call life."

 "I try never to discuss politics or religion with people unless I know exactly where they stand," I said. "It's just asking for trouble. You want a burger?"

 

"Sure," he said. "You're right, I know. I've stirred up trouble a dozen times before on internet groups, I just can't seem to help it. Manipulation by fear and intolerance infuriates me." He sipped and scratched the nubs of beard on his face." They spew out lies and hypocrisy, and America eats it like Lassie on a T-bone."  

 

"Un-hunh," I said, flipping the sizzling burger.

 

"I just want to shake them; tell them to wake up. But, then I realize I'm no better than the nut-jobs on the far-right of the political spectrum."

 

Mike sat in silence for a minute. Then he said, "You know what I was thinking about this morning when I was eating my Raisin Bran?"

 

"What?" 

 

"I remind my self of Al Sharpton, which is not a compliment." He shook his head and rubbed one finger along the edge of his glass. "Now, I'm no fan of Mr. Sharpton. He is a bigoted idiot who takes up causes primarily to get his face on TV. But, even though nobody of power takes him seriously, they have to listen, to appease him somehow, because he does have followers. In his loudmouthed, opportunistic, wacko kind of way, he brings attention to African-American issues - and people notice. He makes them think."

 

The door jingled again with the arrival of fresh patrons. I set the burger down in front of Mike. 

"Ketchup at ten o'clock," I said, putting down a bottle.

 

"Ketchup, Reagan's favorite vegetable," he said.  He felt for the top of the hamburger bun and splashed a glob left of center.

"It makes everybody's buns taste better."

 

I laughed. "Do you ever stop thinking about sex, Mike?"

 

"Sure. I only think about sex forty-five out of every sixty seconds. Gotta leave some time for politics, religion, and general day-dreaming."

 

"Personally," I said, pouring a beer for a customer with a beard like a lumberjack, "I think you should carve out more time for your book, and spend less time gabbing with your friends on e-mail. Biggest time waster ever invented."

 

"Again, you're right," he said. A small blotch of ketchup was on his lip and I wished he would get it. 

"But, writing is a lonely business. I don't go to an office where I can interact with other people around the coffee machine. I mostly get to hear people's opinions in essays and writing prompts. It's fascinating to see the different directions people go with a similar starting point."

 

He finished his burger and wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin. "Another beer, Mike?" 

 

"No," he said, reaching in his pocket and handing me a twenty, folded into a triangle. "You've convinced me. I'm going back to my novel, where I can at least pretend everything is okay."

 

"After you finish, you can have a book signing here," I said.

 

"That ought to bring in two or three new customers." 

 

I handed him his change. He said, "Keep the ones and just give me the five."

 

"Mike, that's about forty-percent tip," I said.

 

"Support your local bartender," he announced to the two other patrons, and then got up to leave.

 

I held the door and he pinched my ass as he walked by. I gave him a quick jab to the shoulder but he shrugged it off and laughed.

 

Two college-aged girls watched Mike tap his way down the street. They came into the bar, holding hands and bubbling with the excitement of new love.

 

"Hey, was that Mike Edison, the blind writer?" one of the girls asked. "I heard he lived around here."

 

"Yeah," I said. "But, he thinks he's Al Sharpton."