Merv Duckwiler, that old door-to-door vacuum-tube salesman, sat down at the bar just after he shook the dust of a hot Kansas afternoon off his sandals. In his case those sandals were a pair of brown, scotch-grained bluchered wingtips with a double sole. "Damn fine shoe," he thought to himself when he bought them. "That's a damned fine shoe," the shoe salesman said to him, confirming Merv's thoughts.
"Gimme a bourbon on the rocks - a double," Merv called out to Donny the bartender. Good old Donny. Donny always set you up right. Donny always poured just one more for you when you needed it. Donny always listened. Donny never judged you, like some people.
"Hot one out there, Merv. How's sales today?" asked Donny as he obliged with the double bourbon on the rocks.
"It's rough," confessed Merv, "with that new radio store over in Wichita, people just take a drive. Buy some corn, buy their milk and booze and they buy a radio tube. Japanese crap."
"Take your medicine, chief," suggested Donny.
"Yeah. Japanese crap." Merv slowly sipped at his bourbon and felt the tension kind of slip away. He stared at the electric picture over the bar. The little lighted sign revolved or something, somehow, and a placid, tranquil scene of a northwoods lake with a canoe on its shore advertised some beer named 'Hamm's'. The picture revolved internally and you would see the shoreline of the lake pass by every minute or so. Merv voiced his approval to Donny. "You got this 'Hamm's' beer here?"
"No, sorry - ain't that something else? My brother Steve in Minnesota sent that to me just last week."
"Nice," replied Merv, and accepted a refill on his double bourbon.
The afternoon was just as hot, he realized, no matter how much bourbon was coursing through your veins. After a second and a third and then a fourth double, Merv settled up, tipped his hat to Donny and headed out into the late, late afternoon sun of Augusta, Kansas. In a few hours that sun would be going down and framing Wichita off to the west in a golden glow, and there would be some ass of a pimply-faced kid in a radio hut or a radio shack or a radio house or some damned thing selling a vacuum tube to his customer. Merv Duckwiler's customer. Merv Duckwiler's hard-won, fought-for, pandered-to customer who meant the ever-loving difference between a full belly and an aching, aching hollow when those Japanese for-crap tubes start selling off the ever-loving shelves in that radio hut or that radio shack or that radio house or some damned thing. Wichita. "You could just go shove that whole filthy city where the sun don't ever want to shine no more," a reeling, staggering vaccuum tube salesman shouted at the hot, deserted Augusta downtown.
Merv Duckwiler started feeling something welling up in his gut, and he knew those four double bourbons would see the light of day one more time. Don't scuff those wingtips, Merv, as you kneel down in the alley behind Donny's Place, kneeling and praying and vomiting and wishing you were paddling a little fiberglass canoe on the placid, tranquil lake in northern Minnesota.
Customers hate scuffed shoes on a salesman, you know.
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
07 April 2011
24 January 2011
A Tale of Two Jerries
When Mike Stencil was still in college - well before anyone had ever dreamed of calling him "Father" and a long time before he ever met Jerry O"Brien - there came a winter of confusion and a winter of sadness and a winter of wild introspection. A small airplane with his brother at the controls and a lot of December winds took them south from Salt Lake City to a coastal town in southern Mexico, where Mike was able to stay up late listening to music in a hotel bar, drink cerveza before noon, stroll through a sleepy little village, write poetry in the afternoons and wish that he had studied Spanish in High School. The better part of a month was spent in a Mexican haze, looking at people in the streets from behind his sunglasses and growing the first real beard of his life.
A wild New Year's Eve in a club brought many, many beers and an invitation to go sailing the next day - from another Jerry, fancy that, a Jerry much better off than the one who would enter Mike's life many years later on some dirty streets in a city in Upstate. This Jerry sailed the coast, plying the beautiful waters of the Pacific, drinking beers and giving day trips to Americans he met in exchange for more beers. "Come around noon," he told Mike, "we'll have something to eat and drink."
A sunburned afternoon of sailing and drinking left Mike woozy and probably staring too much at the young lady from NYU who also happened to be along for the ride. "I'm Jewish," she kept telling him, cheerily, in different contexts.
"As if I care," thought Mike.
The afternoon lolled along with the waves, and the beer flowed freely. Captain Jerry steered his gorgeous boat back to the tiny harbor from which they had begun and after swinging at anchor while the last of the beers were finished off, the captain and passengers watched the sun dip low in the western sky.
Suddenly the young Jewish girl sprang up. "Let's go," she cried, grabbing Mike's hand. She hit the water before Mike really knew what was happening, and like a fool he followed after. The rush of cool water brought him to his senses, and when he hit the surface he looked up to see Jerry smiling and waving adios.
Mike looked around while he treaded water, and saw the Jewish girl backstroking away from him, smiling and laughing. "Who the hell is she, and what am I doing in the water swimming after her?" he thought to himself. Having nowhere else to go, he began lazily paddling toward her and toward the shore, some 150 yards off.
Streaks of orange and yellow sunlight played over the top of the water all around him, the sounds of the tiny harbor bouncing around the inside of his head that was woozy and already hurting from too much beer, and the smell of the salt water and the diesel of distant boats filtered into his nostrils. "Beautiful," Mike thought. "Absolutely beautiful." It was then that he saw the shark.
No, there was no shark in the water - this story does not end with a shark attack and missing limbs. It ends with a young Mike Stencil asleep in a lounge chair on the veranda of his hotel, hours after swimming to shore in the midst of a panic attack over a non-existent shark. It was a shark that he saw in his mind's eye - a shark that bared its hideous teeth and sank them deep into his legs and violently thrashed him about from side to side. It was a shark that he then saw go and attack the young Jewish girl and rend her limb from limb. It was a shark that had been in his sub-conscious all his life, perhaps. It was the same shark that would haunt him all his life - those dead, black eyes staring at him whenever he felt insecure, whenever he felt the grip of self-doubt and failure seize him. The shark that would surface and make a deadly bee-line for him whenever he was at his lowest - it would play upon all his fears and upon all of his insecurities. Those sharks can be real bastards, and they don't care who they eat...who they dismember...who they leave washed up on life's beach.
Mike Stencil awoke with a pounding headache. It was Sunday and church bells were ringing. Fresh clothes and fried bread and a walk and some Kerouac read in the open air of the village square made him feel human again. He swam no more for the rest of his time in sunny old Mexico.
A wild New Year's Eve in a club brought many, many beers and an invitation to go sailing the next day - from another Jerry, fancy that, a Jerry much better off than the one who would enter Mike's life many years later on some dirty streets in a city in Upstate. This Jerry sailed the coast, plying the beautiful waters of the Pacific, drinking beers and giving day trips to Americans he met in exchange for more beers. "Come around noon," he told Mike, "we'll have something to eat and drink."
A sunburned afternoon of sailing and drinking left Mike woozy and probably staring too much at the young lady from NYU who also happened to be along for the ride. "I'm Jewish," she kept telling him, cheerily, in different contexts.
"As if I care," thought Mike.
The afternoon lolled along with the waves, and the beer flowed freely. Captain Jerry steered his gorgeous boat back to the tiny harbor from which they had begun and after swinging at anchor while the last of the beers were finished off, the captain and passengers watched the sun dip low in the western sky.
Suddenly the young Jewish girl sprang up. "Let's go," she cried, grabbing Mike's hand. She hit the water before Mike really knew what was happening, and like a fool he followed after. The rush of cool water brought him to his senses, and when he hit the surface he looked up to see Jerry smiling and waving adios.
Mike looked around while he treaded water, and saw the Jewish girl backstroking away from him, smiling and laughing. "Who the hell is she, and what am I doing in the water swimming after her?" he thought to himself. Having nowhere else to go, he began lazily paddling toward her and toward the shore, some 150 yards off.
Streaks of orange and yellow sunlight played over the top of the water all around him, the sounds of the tiny harbor bouncing around the inside of his head that was woozy and already hurting from too much beer, and the smell of the salt water and the diesel of distant boats filtered into his nostrils. "Beautiful," Mike thought. "Absolutely beautiful." It was then that he saw the shark.
No, there was no shark in the water - this story does not end with a shark attack and missing limbs. It ends with a young Mike Stencil asleep in a lounge chair on the veranda of his hotel, hours after swimming to shore in the midst of a panic attack over a non-existent shark. It was a shark that he saw in his mind's eye - a shark that bared its hideous teeth and sank them deep into his legs and violently thrashed him about from side to side. It was a shark that he then saw go and attack the young Jewish girl and rend her limb from limb. It was a shark that had been in his sub-conscious all his life, perhaps. It was the same shark that would haunt him all his life - those dead, black eyes staring at him whenever he felt insecure, whenever he felt the grip of self-doubt and failure seize him. The shark that would surface and make a deadly bee-line for him whenever he was at his lowest - it would play upon all his fears and upon all of his insecurities. Those sharks can be real bastards, and they don't care who they eat...who they dismember...who they leave washed up on life's beach.
Mike Stencil awoke with a pounding headache. It was Sunday and church bells were ringing. Fresh clothes and fried bread and a walk and some Kerouac read in the open air of the village square made him feel human again. He swam no more for the rest of his time in sunny old Mexico.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)