His wife dead, children, gone and not speaking a word about the past, just calling, making sure he isn’t dead, and he, with those enormous fingers and wide red mouth, howls out loudly at his jokes, half drunk from the night before, only leaving the café to a quiet place, littered with the same beer bottles and greasy pizza boxes he has had for years. And now the man and his new waitress begin conversation, the same one with all the rest.
“What’s your plans tonight?”
“Nothing,” with a smile. This one is a young brown girl, dark eyes, lovely, crooked smile, nearly perfect, her long hair cut short on one side and black as the fresh cup of coffee she pours.
“Really? How bout you come on home with me?”
She giggles, “you’re so bad.” The man sits deep in his chair and blows smoke pillars up twirling with the ceiling fan. “You want me to put another pot of coffee on for you?”
“Well, when you get off honey?”
“About noon,” She smirks.
“Well, we have some time then don’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
What’s your name sweetheart?”
“Amber,” she says, not even looking up from the cup. “What’s your name?”
“Al, that’s A.L., Al.”
“Well Allen,” she says with that beautiful smile, “you’re a very dirty man.”
He drinks his cup and says, “That’s A.L., Al.” Amber nods, turns, and walks back to the kitchen.
Al then stands as his cigarette ends, slaps down a ten dollar and walks out of the café. Quiet. Down the road Al sees an old dog, brown with ugly hair, hobbling from the middle of the road, whimpering, must’ve been hit or something. Al slowly makes his way to the dog and by the time he finds himself above the poor creature, it has already laid down and death accepts it. Al kneels and pets its dirty head. With dried blood sealing his eyes closed, people circle and mumble curiously, then Al picks the stray from the pavement and walks down the side walk.
“Nobody should die amongst a nosey crowd,” he whispers. Al places the half dead dog in the passenger seat of his shit Oldsmobile. He putters down 10th Avenue and the dog begins to breathe heavy, whimpering out of pain then stops, he reaches over to feel its chest, cold and still, the dog is dead.
Once Al pulls up to his white house, two grackles are perched on the roof, waiting. Piercing eyes look down at Al and A.L., Al up at them; he reaches into the passenger seat holds on tight to the limp rag of a dog and makes his way towards the back yard through a maze of trash in his living room and overgrown grass leading to a large oak in the back corner where the ground is mostly dirt. So, Al then places the dog down softly and feels an immediate peace.
Hours pass and the dog’s body remains sprawled on the ground, hovered by the grackles, now waiting in the tree, Al takes a deep swig of whiskey and smokes a cigarette. As a caw comes from above, the grackles begin to get agitated, flapping their wings with fury in the night air waking Al from his daze; he stands, grabs the large shovel propped against the tree and begins digging slow in a drunken grace. He waited until he couldn’t feel the memories flow back so vividly yet, the booze allowed a clumsy shovel to strike the ground, break the hard dirt, and send painful sighs out of Al’s wide mouth. He now remembers his old friend, and the times when things where a little worse, but a little less lonely.
Once, about fifteen, twenty years ago I knew this old man, A.L., Al. His short, stocky build and… largest fingers I have ever seen, not to mention gapping red mouth that releases the loudest laugh. We used to meet together at the same café, the same table and drink the same coffee, as Al now enjoys alone, every day before work.
“Which of these ladies do you want Jake?” He would say, motioning towards the group of waitress’ behind the counter of the small café.
“Man, we don’t have a chance.” At that time we were around forty, not terribly bad looking, but forty non-the-less, dressed in our work uniform, slightly covered in dirt, stained from wine we enjoy every evening.
Al laughed his enormous laugh, splattering saliva across the small table, just missing my precious cup of coffee, and at about nine o’clock we left for work.
Morning dew risied off the grass and the sun shined in brightly. As we step out Café doors a hideous woman, wild hair and large dress, emerged out of her shit Oldsmobile and yelled, “Allen, where were you last night?” Everyone who knows Al knows he hates being called Allen; he makes it perfectly clear not to call him Allen spelling it, “A.L., Al.”
With head downcast slightly, “I stayed at Jake’s place, I got a little too drunk and couldn’t find my keys.” I look up surprised, quickly recoved understanding the situation. She stared directly at me with those terrible eyes, puffing air from her nostrils then turned quick peering at Al.
“You better come straight home tonight… and without wine on your breath.” He slowly turned as we walk away, “Bitch,” he mumbled under his breath.
Without much said about the incident we reached the graveyard. Al and I were gravediggers, when the dead and dying need some relative buried we were the men for the job. A nice six-foot deep, more or less, depending on how strong the wine was that night, hole, fit for a king. Not the prettiest or most gratifying profession I know, but one that would provide what some, like Al, needed, a place more depressing than their home.
That night, as the final grave was being finished I break the horrible silence haunting us, “So I didn’t know you had a wife.”
He responded coldly with a chuckle, “Ain’t hardly a person, can’t hardly be a wife.” Al continued digging without looking up.
The story of their meeting was one only heard of in the movies. A young boy, drunk and stupid, meets a girl, hardly drunk but definitely stupid, at some sleazy bar in some nothing town. A one night stand results in the clinging of the young girl to the boy’s wild antics of the night before, despite his many relationships with other women. She then becomes pregnant, forces the marriage and becomes more of a prison warden then a typical house wife, sucking every drop of freedom from the young boy’s soul.
Not speaking another word of his mystery wife for the next week or so, a spectacular fall evening brought in the first blistering cold front of the year. Al and I raced to grab the last casket from the hearse before the rain started to fall.
“Guess no more wine tonight Jake.”
“Guess not Al.”
As we reach the hearse he pulled out a handle of whiskey from behind the driver’s seat, about a quarter full. He opened it up, letting its poignant scent
I pulled back the bottle and swallow more than I could take. Coughing I asked, “What you mean?”
“I mean, I ain’t gotta worry bout that witch no more.”
“How you figure,” I asked, finally recovered.
“Old lady died earlier this week, actually, this one is her. Probably gonna break our backs so you better take another drink, you’ll need it.”
“Really Al?” I said amazed, “how are the kids, cause I see you’re taking it pretty well.”
“They’re probably as happy as I am, but CPS took’em away; they said the house is no place for children. They’re living at their aunt’s place now.” Al looks up takes the last of the whiskey, pours it down, then winks sharply at me.”
Couple days went by and no word from Al; guess that crazy son-of-a-bitch took off. The bodies at the grave yard began to get too much for me to handle alone, so I left town. I later heard Al left that night and got himself arrested trying to pick up a prostitute, driving drunk, and getting in a fist fight with a police officer. When he finally got out of jail he tried digging graves all by himself, but wound up falling in one night, probably drunk out of his mind. After that, he wasn’t allowed to work anymore and spent the rest of his time at that little café, hitting on his pretty little waitresses.
