Yes, I was always the kicker to his story about America being the land of opportunity, and now, suddenly, I was a punch line to a bad, sad joke.
His eyes were actually wet. I’d forgotten how soulful a man he was, front row of the seven o’clock mass every Sunday morning, always holding hands with Charlotte, according to my mother….
“You really want this job?”
“Only if you need me.”
He nodded. “Sure thing, Mick. Be at the garage tomorrow at eight.”
“Yeah, I remember the drill.”
“Got the shoes you need? Can’t do this work in those friggin’ cross-trainers!”
“My mother never chucks anything out. I’m sure my work-boots are in the attic.”
“All right, then. Tomorrow.” He extended his hand for another shake, but this time there was a clinical aspect to it—he was sizing up the goods. A grin full of mischief crossed his map.
“Wear gloves, Mick. You’ve gone soft in the hands.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I watched him limp to the truck. He’d been shot in the hip in Korea, an injury that left one leg shorter than the other. He was entitled to a government-financed artificial hip, but he wouldn’t get one. He was proud of his limp. He wanted people to see that men like him were still around, men who did what they had to do and didn’t whine about the consequences.
I broke the big news about my new job at the dinner table, and let’s just say they didn’t break into applause.
Steady Eddie stared at me. My mother’s mouth literally fell open. She closed it, swallowed, and sighed.
“You came all the way back here to push a lawn mower?”
I slid my plate of macaroni and cheese toward the center of the table. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How exactly would you put it?”
“I need work. This is work.”
“John Flynn is moving to Florida in a few months. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“What will you do when he leaves?”
“Get another job, I guess.”
“Where?”
“Why are you breaking his balls?”
My father said it to stop my mother in her tracks. Vulgarity was his stun gun. She retreated from her attack long enough for him to make his point.
“It’s good he’s doing this, Donna. Let him do it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pushing a lawn mower for seven dollars an hour is good?”
“Eight, Mom. More than twice what it paid last time I had the job.”
“That’s just wonderful.”
“What are they paying you at the stiff parlor?”
Her eyes were as big as baseballs. “Michael!”
“When the Flynn job ends, maybe you could pull a few strings. Get me on as a junior undertaker. No complaints from the customers, right?”
She pointed right at my face. “Do not mock the dead!”
“I’m not! I’m mocking the living who make their living off the dead!”
“Enough!”
My father had risen to his feet, arms spread wide. He glowered first at me and then at her as he settled back in his chair.
“He’ll work outdoors. He’ll clear his head. Lot of time for a man to think with a job like that, Donna.”
“Think about what?”
“Things. Or nothing. Maybe he just wants a job that’ll make him tired enough to sleep at night. Been a while since you’ve slept good, am I right, Mick?”
I was shocked. Steady Eddie had hit the nail on the head. He shook a Camel out of his cigarette pack and tamped it on the table. He did this to pack down the loose tobacco flakes but also to torment my mother with the fear that he’d light up in the house.
“Am I right?” he repeated.
All I could do was nod in agreement.
My mother tore her gaze from the cigarette and turned to me. “Is that really how you feel about it?”
I had to laugh. “I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel that the sooner I earn some money, the better off I’ll be.”
The coffee can money was off-limits. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wasn’t going to spend it.
My mother’s face softened. She felt bad for me and mad at me. The two emotions warred briefly within her, fought to a draw, and left her face slack with exhaustion.
“Work is work, Mom,” I ventured. “It’s not supposed to make you happy, right?”
She almost smiled, and then her eyes welled up. “You had that job when you were in high school!”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, Mom. Speaking of high school, you probably also remember that I never graduated. That sort of limits my options, you know? So I guess I’ve come full circle, here.”
My father stuck the cigarette in his mouth, reached for her forearm and gave it a squeeze. “Come on, Donna, don’t worry. Let the boy heal.”
He caught my eye, winked, went to the kitchen door and opened it, lighting up on the door saddle before stepping into the backyard. We got the barest whiff of smoke before the door slammed shut, enough for my mother to notice but not enough to complain about. The man was a maestro.
I got up from the table. “I’m sorry I made fun of the funeral parlor,” I mumbled to my mother, then gave her a clumsy kiss on top of her head before going up to my room.
That night she got my old work shoes out of the attic. I set them beside my bed along with a pair of work gloves I’d found in the garage and went to bed before ten o’clock to be fresh and strong for my first day back on the job.
The very job I was doing when I lost Lynn Mahoney.
CHAPTER SEVEN
While I’m obsessing over the girl I lost, I should probably mention my ex-wife.
Her name is Lois Butler and I doubt very much that I could pick her out of a police lineup if I saw her today, given the toll of time and cosmetic surgeries that have certainly happened since we parted.
I met Lois on the set of the doomed-from-the-start TV pilot for Sweet Days. The premise of the show was that an aspiring singer-songwriter (guess who) working as a dishwasher falls in love with a waitress (Lois) who dreams of being an actress. Late at night after work they drink coffee in the deserted hash house kitchen, share their dreams, fall in love, reach their goals, get married, have kids, grow old together, and are buried in adjoining plots.
Kidding, kidding! As I said before, three episodes aired and that was the end of Sweet Days, the TV show. The critics crucified it, and one guy even went so far as to say I was “unconvincing” as a dishwasher.
He was probably right. My mother never let me anywhere near the kitchen sink for fear that I’d “splash too much” when I did the dishes, and so the first time I ever had my hands in a sink full of suds was the day the director yelled “Action!” on the Sweet Days set. Maybe if I’d played a gardener, the show would have worked….
Lois