Getting Higher

Chapter 4

Chapter 4It was still raining when Joe and Crank decided to walk to Tap's, a bar that was down the street from Crank's place. It was around two o'clock when they left, and Joe had finally dried off from his earlier trip in the rain. Now, both he and Crank were soaked again, the clothing pasted to their bodies like wet paper.

Joe had pulled his hair back and tied it in a ponytail that ended midway between his shoulder blades; after only a few steps in the pouring rain, the hair was dripping wet, slapping Joe's back when he walked. Though he'd managed to scrape some of the mud from his pants and T-shirt, they were both still speckled brown. His sneakers, which both had a hole above the big toe, were caked with more mud and dirt and were darkened from stepping in puddles along the sidewalk.

Crank, though his sopping T-shirt clung to every roll and ripple of fat, did not look nearly as shabby or grimy as Joe. His hair didn't even look wet; there was something about him that always made him seem dry, even in the middle of a downpour. Water just rolled off him, as if he were a huge, red-haired duck.

Crank's shoes, a pair of old combat boots, were scuffed and muddy, but had no holes or tears like Joe's leaky sneakers. He always wore combat boots, heavy black standard issue he picked up at the Army Surplus store. Nobody knew exactly why he wore the boots; he was never in the army, so they could not have had any sentimental value. About ten years ago, he had tried to join the National Guard, but completely failed basic training and was shipped home. Probably, he just thought the boots made him look taller, and they were cheap.

The streets were still slick and dark as Joe and Crank neared Tap's. The rain still came down steadily, drenching everything in sight, filling the air with a sibilant wet whisper. Looking up, Joe saw the dense dirty clouds parked overhead, dumping their cargoes on him and his friend. There were always gray clouds over Brownstown; it was an old, crumbling steel town locked in a valley in Western Pennsylvania. The weather was usually bad, even in spring and summer; warm weather came late and left early, cold weather came early and left late. It rained and snowed a lot, and even the pleasant days were mostly cloudy.

Tap's Bar was located three blocks from Crank's place, along the same street, Piedmont Avenue. Piedmont was a long, straight street that cut across the northern section of Brownstown, an area composed mostly of old grocery stores, run-down apartment houses, and bars. It was a narrow street, bounded on one side by the brick and board buildings of the North Side and on the other by the Stonybank River.

The Stonybank itself had once been a rushing, wide river, full of fish, gliding boats and barges into town. Now, it was a dead brown trickle, creeping miserably along through slanting cement walls, polluted by the sick red spouts of drainpipes. For too many years, it had served as the sewer for Brownstown's steel mills.

Across the Stonybank, Joe glimpsed the old Global Steel plant. In 1895, Global had built its first mill there, in the center of a tiny coal town, and a thriving industrial city had sprung up around it. Now, the process was reversed; Global had shut the plant down, and Brownstown seemed to be shrivelling in on itself. Like the river into which it had dumped its waste, the mill was now dead. Many people felt that Brownstown was the next to go.

None of this concerned Joe and Crank, though. They had their parties, they drank a lot of booze, they smoked some pot. Neither of them worked, and neither of them wanted to work anymore. Joe had been a bagger at a supermarket for a while, about two years ago, then had been laid off and hadn't found another job since. A year ago, Crank had been a janitor in a bank; he was fired from that job, and had also failed to find more work. Both men were getting unemployment compensation from the government, and as long as their checks came in, they managed to scrape by. Also, they earned some extra cash by working as delivery boys for a couple of local pushers. Somehow, they always scrabbled together enough money to buy food and booze each week, and aside from that, they couldn't care less about anything else.

They spent most of their days hanging out at Tap's or Big Man, another bar across the river. They drank, played pool, and talked with their friends; most days passed the same way, dragging slowly through the smoky sad bars. On Thursdays, Joe and Crank went to the unemployment office to sign up for their checks. On Mondays and Wednesdays, they did business with their pushers, and were paid by them on Saturdays. Other than that, everything was changeless from one day to the next.

After walking for a few minutes, the two friends reached Tap's. They went in and were welcomed by the familiar stink of beer and cigarettes.

"Yo, Ralphy," bellowed Crank as he and Joe walked up to the bar. "Put up two drafts, all right?"

Behind the bar, a small figure turned and stared at the two men. It was a man, a strange-looking man with a large head and a small, blocky body. He had black hair and a full beard and huge, dark eyebrows that knotted together as he stared. He had a large forehead and inky, recessed eyes. He was out of proportion, with a heavy upper torso and a tapered lower body and legs.

Actually, Ralphy was a dwarf, a little under four feet tall. He walked along a platform behind the bar, which raised him a foot above the floor and enabled him to serve customers at eye level. It also helped him to make the most of his intimidating features and savage temper.

"What the hell, you shitheads?" snarled Ralphy. "I told you I wasn't keeping your tabs no more. I never know if you fuckers are gonna' pay me or not." A disgusted sneer split Ralphy's beard and his bushy brows squirmed closer together.

"Aw, c'mon man, give us a break. We're cash today, man, don't worry." Joe smiled and tried to be charming. "Ralphy, would we ever steer you wrong?"

"Yeah, you would. You already have, and I don't forget that s**t. You bastards have been on tab in here for the past three months, and I haven't seen a f*****g penny of it yet. I probably never will. You're both fulla' shit."

Crank leaned forward, folding his arms on the bar, and smiled confidentially. "Aw, Ralphy, don't get all hot 'n' bothered. We're buddies, ain't we? We party together all the time. Remember last week, when I had you over my place?"

The short man nodded. He had been to Crank's before, even though he hated the porky redhead. The two did not get along well, mainly because Crank teased Ralphy about his height, constantly harassing him and making a big deal about Ralphy being the only man in Brownstown shorter than him. Every time Crank saw him, he had to make some idiotic wisecrack about his size; Ralphy, who had taken that kind of abuse all his life, did not appreciate it at all.

"Well," continued Crank, "whenever you come over to my place, you always enjoy yourself, don't you? I give you stuff to drink and smoke, and I never complain, do I?"

Slowly, suspiciously, Ralphy shook his head. His eyebrows were so close together, they looked like a single velcro stip, a hairy caterpillar crawling above his eyes.

"So, I guess that means you're my friend. Friends always share, Ralphy, right? When one needs somethin', the other'll help him out. Sure, that's how it is, with lots of s**t. Remember when I introduced you to Wanda?" Crank winked.

Suddenly, Ralphy seemed to coil up, his entire body quickly tensing like an animal ready to spring. His big head bowed slightly and he glared intensely at Crank. "You introduced...me...to Wanda." Ralphy's voice was flat, barely subdued. "Crank," he mumbled, scowling furiously, "you introduced me...to Wanda? Crank, rny...friend...do you know...what Wanda...had? What she...gave...me?" Ralphy gritted his teeth with rage; he clenched like a horrible, hairy fist, bones and veins bulging as if they were going to erupt.

Crank started to say something, then stopped. He hesitated uncertainly, frozen in the middle of his patented spiel. He leaned back, lifted his arms from the bar, and shrugged. "Well, friend, I'm real sorry about that. I didn't…know about that, y'know. It really wasn't my fault, buddy." He tried to smile endearingly. "Ah, no hard feelings, right?"

"Wrong." Suddenly, Ralphy whipped around, snatched something from beneath the bar, and smashed it on the surface in front of Crank. He moved so fast and the object made such a loud crack that both Crank and Joe leaped off their stools.

"You bums want drinks," grated Ralphy, "I wanna' see cash up front. Now. No more damn tabs. I don't give s**t-one whether we're friends or not."

Joe and Crank just teetered for a moment and stared at the thing on the bar. Joe felt like vomiting violently.

It was a baseball bat.

"Damn. I don't believe it." Joe's voice was a shocked whisper.

Crank shook his head silently; before long, though, realizing he had to defuse the bartender bomb, he spoke. "Say, Ralphy," he cooed smoothly, "no problem, man. We said we're cash today, didn't we? All ya' gotta' do is ask us, old buddy."

Ralphy still seethed. "I repeat, you bums want booze, cash up front. Or get the f**k out." He smacked the bat on the bar f or emphasis.

Crank slowly reached into a pocket of his polyester slacks and took out a crinkled bill. "Okay, Ralphy, here's a fiver. We'll take two drafts, then as many as this'll buy. No problem, right pal?"

"That won't even cover a fourth of what you owe me. That won't even pay for last week." Ralphy hunched over and pushed his bat toward Crank's head. "I am sick of you, asshole ."

Crank was cool; he didn't move as the shiny, hard wood slid toward his ear. When he spoke, his voice was low but firm.

"Think twice," he said. "Maybe you oughtta' think twice, Ralphy."

Ralphy glared and the bat twitched. His shoulders pumped as he sucked in the gritty bar air.

"Like I told you," insisted Crank calmly, "Joey and I can pay for today. We'll pay the tab soon, but not now."

Ralphy shook his head and remained silent, except for his noisy breathing. Then, suddenly, he jerked forward across the bar; Joe stumbled wildly out of the way, but Ralphy only grabbed the five dollars and jammed it in his sweaty shirt pocket. In a flash, he snatched the threatening bat away from Crank and hurled it on the floor behind the bar. As he drew beers from the hissing tap, the bat just lay there, resting in the dust near the wall where Joe and Crank could both see it.

Joe just stared at the baseball bat for a long time.

Ralphy dropped two foamy beers with a clunk on the bar, then slunk to the far end of his platform to sulk and polish glasses. He was frigidly quiet the whole time, seemingly oblivious to the two guys sitting at the bar.

Crank nudged Joe and poked his chin toward the pool table across the room. Joe nodded; they picked up their drinks, got off the barstools, and sidled over to the table.

"Hey! Cranky, Joey--what's happenin', man?" A guy, one of four hunkered around the table, glanced up and smiled as the two approached. He was tall and very husky, with a trim, thickly-muscled build and profound biceps. He wore a tight black T-shirt that hugged his muscles, and a pair of bell-bottom jeans. Around his waist was a wide black leather belt, cinched by a giant glinting gold buckle; the buckle was embossed with a bald eagle, its wings spread wide, and the words "Buy American". The man had a huge, red face, wavy, black hair and a thin mustache above his lip. When he smiled, his eyes squinted, his mustache lifted, and he showed a rack of enormous, flinty teeth.

"Hey, Rocky, not much, not much at all. What's goin' down with you?" Crank walked over and pumped Rocky's arm in a handshake.

"Oh, you know, the usual. I was just kickin' the s**t outta' these boys at pool." One man was bent low over the table as Rocky jabbered, preparing to take a shot; at that moment, just as his cue was striking the ball, Rocky thumped him on the back with his palm. "Ain't that right, Buzz?" he chuckled, as the cue ball weaved crazily across the table's green felt. The man slumped, then whirled around to face Rocky.

"Yeah, Rocky, that's right," he sneered. "You're kickin' the s**t out of us. That's right." He stepped closer, slowly bringing the cue stick up to tap Rocky's meaty chest. "Only, you pull any more of that bullshit, and I kick your ass. Got it?"

Rocky's grin broadened, if that was possible, and he showed more teeth. He was obviously amused, and with good reason: Buzz was about seventy years old. He had a shrivelled, prune body, sunken eyes, and only a few feathery wisps of silver hair left on his shiny head. There was a spark in his eyes, though, a flicker of strength suggesting that in younger days, he would have been more than a match for Rocky.

"Yeah, old man, I got it," said Rocky, still smiling. He stepped back and laughed, and Buzz pulled his cue away.

"You damn well better have got it," grumbled the old man, turning his attention back to the game, "that's all I can say."

Rocky laughed again, jabbing Crank in the ribs with his elbow. "How 'bout that dude, huh?" he snickered. He laughed some more, but somehow, his voice seemed to hold respect. Rocky liked people who stood up to him, especially if they didn't have the stuff to take him on.

"So, Rocky, what's the latest on Agnes?" Joe broke in as the big man's laughter began to subside.

Rocky snorted, rubbing his eyes. "Ah, you know. She's my main squeeze, right? So what do you think I do? I squeeze her, man!" He slapped Joe on the back and laughed. "I squeeze her all the time!"

Joe chuckled and took a sip of his beer. "Were you two at Crank's party last night? I don't remember too much, y'know?"

"No man, we weren't. Fact is, I didn't even see the b***h last night. She had to see some dead aunt, up some funeral home in the East End. I had tickets to wrestling down at Morgan Center, had the whole night planned out, so I was pretty pissed. I finally said 'f**k it' and went myself. It was a good match, too."

Crank nodded. "Too bad you couldn't make it, man. We had some good s**t, plenty to go around. It was wild." He finished his beer with a gulp, then marched away to get another.

"So, Joe, you workin' lately?" Rocky leaned against a chair and watched the pool game intently. Buzz was still shooting, slipping his skinny cue back and forth over shaky knuckles to line up the shot.

"Nah, why bother?" said Joe. "There ain't no jobs in Brownstown, anyway. Where the hell you been?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I been up in Bartlett. Heard there's work there, maybe."

"You find any?"

"Not yet, but I applied at a few places. Some dude at Donaldson Trucking told me they might hire in May."

Joe finished his beer. "Think you got a chance?"

Rocky shook his head, still staring at the pool table. "f**k, how do I know? I been laid off from fuckin' Global since they closed down the foundry, what, 'bout two years ago. Who the hell knows anymore? All I know is my unemployment's runnin' out in July." Rocky frowned, lips and mustache tight over his picket fence teeth. "I don't mind not workin'. I mean, I don't at all miss bustin' my ass all day for scale. I'd rather hang out around here. You know, play some pool, get f****d up. Only problem is, I like to eat."

One of the men at the pool table, a skinny guy with greasy brown hair and a cigarette, whistled sharply. "Hey Rocky," he yelled, "your turn, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'." Rocky walked over and picked up a cue stick, eyeing the felt table as he moved.

Crank eventually returned with two beers and gave one to Joe. They drank and watched the pool game for a while, saw Rocky and Buzz go at it again.

By the time they left Tap's Bar, it was dark outside, and they were both drunk. It was still raining.