[FILE 4.2.3] - - the goldman file / archive - basement files / short stories / to each his own

to each his own

5:00 pm. That’s when I reenter the real world. 5 pm is when everything that’s not going right for me suddenly resurfaces. Working in a steel mill you have no time to think about how the outside world is treating you. Take a mental break on the job and life will be that much more difficult with only one hand. If there’s a silver lining to this business it’s that for eight hours I get a break from reality; it almost makes coming home reeking of sulfur all worth it. Then 5 pm comes. 5:07 I walk by the same homeless man, not even beggin’ for change no more, and I’m reminded that this plant’s the only difference between sleeping on a funked out mattress in the streets and one in a 400 square foot room. 5:28 I get back to an empty place, and I’m reminded of the girlfriend of 6 years that left me for some skinny shit because I wasn’t ready to be a dad. It’s not always this way, this hard, but when it is and 5 pm comes and I have to face everything again, I just want to punch somebody’s lights out. If I can just throttle someone and take out my anger, maybe I’ll be able to keep my own head from exploding. It’s times like these when I’ll head over to Marve’s Original sometime after work, my favorite bar, and look for a fight, hoping a situation will present itself. I always go on Friday after work, but I’ve been making an effort to drink less, so I stopped going on Tuesday and Thursday’s. This week though, I couldn’t even wait for Friday. Once I got off of work I went over to Lamar’s to watch the Steelers game on Thursday Night Football. He used to work in the plant with me for a few months but transferred to the transportation department. The Steelers were on that night, and as if I needed anything else to bring me down, they started the year going 0-4, and only proceeded to lay an egg against the Browns, of all teams, in that Thursday game. I left Lamar’s after the 3rd quarter, when they were down by 17, and headed over to Marve’s. I took up my usual position at far end of the bar counter. It was slightly more alive than usual, and maybe if I had a clearer head I would’ve gone and talked to some of the exceptional ladies that were there that night. Sittin’ at the counter I get to talkin’ to Marve sometimes. He usually does most of the talkin’, and I don’t think he even realizes it ‘cause of his age. Heck, there was something he said that night that caught my interest for once…about how a guy came in last week and walked out without paying.  He described the dude as some white college guy, a skinny fellow. I knew to figure the guy was older than Marve thought, since Marve started calling me young man about a month ago. I was finishing up my 6th beer when what I had been hoping for practically fell right in my lap. I don’t know if it was fate, or what it was, but not 30 seconds after I learned of the walkout, I felt something spill on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was a guy standing behind me, moving his mouth but not making any noise. I wasn’t listening; all I could see was his slim physique. Lookin’ back on it now he was probably trying to apologize, his arms trying to keep up with his lips, but I could care less at the time. Marve had to have noticed what was going on, because all I heard ‘im say was “that’s the guy!” I walked toward ‘im and wasn’t surprised when he started to back away; but I continued to make my way toward ‘im. His friend tried to get in my way so I pushed ‘im to the side, and when I did, he got out the door. I went through the door and went after ‘im. After a block I had to stop and drop to a knee. The beers were coming back up. Once I was finished, I didn’t know if it’d be safe to go back in case the cops got called. I staggered off away from the area of the bar, and decided I would walk the mile back home. 

I purchased the property in 1981, and named it Marve’s. I opened on August 3 of that year on a humid Pittsburgh day, and the air conditioning unit broke. Since then it’s been all uphill. Or downhill. I haven’t had too many complaints since; let’s leave it at that. I thought owning a bar would be a fun thing to do for a man in his 40’s. I didn’t want to just serve the bar either so I got my bartenders license to boot. Over the years I’ve found the most rewarding part of the job is getting to know the regulars here over a brew or two. You meet a lot of interesting people bartending. Artists, performers, a puppeteer and, hmmm…well there are others that have all passed through here. There also ends up being a good number of unsavory characters that make it over to my bar. I’ve seen my fair share of bar fights and then some. People will fight for any reason, I tell ya. One thing that gets me irritated more than fights, however, is when a tab doesn’t get picked up! Just last Tuesday, or maybe it was Thursday, someone left without paying. It was still on my mind a week later when a regular by the name of Coby came in. I could remember his name unlike most of the others since he was the first and only Coby I’ve met. He’s a big guy, and usually comes in here on Friday’s. But it was a Thursday, I’m pretty sure. We began talking and I told him about the walkout incident last week, before I went to go serve customers at the other end of the bar. After giving them their drinks I watched them make their way down the counter. When they got to Coby, one of them all of a sudden poured his beer on him! I don’t know why it didn’t before, but just then it hit me that this was the walkout guy! Only he could be so blatantly disrespectful. I had to make it known, so I walked over to the commotion, pointed a finger, and shouted to Coby, “He’s the guy!” Just then the walkout’s friend tried to join in the action and pushed Coby! But Coby was much too strong and pushed him over in self-defense. The walkout ran out the back door with Coby giving chase. Inside the bar I surveyed the scene. The walkout’s friend had damaged my wall when he fell over. He’ll have to compensate me for that. Hmph, insult to injury, that’s what happens when you hang around people that are up to no good. I haven’t called the police on a bar fight in over a decade, and wasn’t going to start now. 

In the spirit of Oktoberfest I had been making an attempt to try out a new bar a couple of times each week. I thought it was a good excuse to go out and meet people, ideally women, and drink a little more than usual in the process. In my time at Pitt I tended to spend my social life at parties as opposed to bars. I needed a new way to meet people, and in an attempt to reclaim a social life lost for the most part after college when friends moved away, I thought the bar deal had potential. At the office that day Jeremy and I made plans to try out a new place by the name of Marve’s Original we found on Yelp!®, and saw comments regarding their two-for-one and a quarter draft beer Thursdays. Jeremy and I have been proofreading statements for the same manufacturing company for six years now, Steel City Products, Inc. Recently I had been feeling as if maybe I had grown out of this job, and should put my telecommunications B.A. to better use. I’d gotten used to signing off “ALB” at the end of every document, for Allan Leonard-Barton, the indication that my work on the file was complete. After getting off of work at 6:30 P.M. I went home to take a nap before heading over to Jeremy’s. When I got there it was roughly 9:30. We nursed a couple preliminary beers and ordered some Chinese food while kicking around some topics of interest. He told me about how he was thinking about coaching a little league team in the upcoming Spring, and I told him how that’d make me have to sign up as an umpire to screw his team over. “But that would be unfair to the kids,” I said, and we laughed. The Chinese food arrived, and we praised how much better life was once you find a competent Chinese restaurant that delivers too. We finished eating, and set out for the bus stop down the street who’s line would take us within two blocks of Marve’s. Based on the location of the bar, the two of us joked that we would be getting our “monthly cultural exposure” taken care of tonight. As we entered the bar we found it to be relatively full. Marve’s was relatively skinny, as it stretched away from the entrance, perpendicular to the street, with the bar counter on the left and a long row of tables on the right. We walked up to the counter and ordered beers while scoping the scene for potential women. The bartender was an older guy with a poor memory, as he had to come back to ask us what beer we ordered twice before fulfilling the order. Most of the women there were a little too rough around the edges for my taste. A girl finally caught my attention at the far end of the bar, sitting at a table with her girl friend. The two of us decided that I would go for this girl since I pointed her out, and Jeremy her friend. In getting closer to them I noticed that this girls friend was actually more attractive than I originally thought. I was walking on Jeremy’s right side slightly behind him, trying to convince him to switch girls with me. The next thing I know I heard the screech of a chair backing out coupled simultaneously with an impact on my side, and as a result caused beer to swish out of my glass. I followed the beer path, and was dismayed in the least in where it landed; I had spilled beer on perhaps the most intimidating man I have ever seen. If I were to come across this person in a dark alley I would shit my pants, twice over, and then drop dead before anything would even take place. I tried my best to explain it was an accident, but he wouldn’t hear any of it. Literally. He didn’t say a word. I saw the bartender come in our direction and hoped was going to say the police were on the way, but he accused me of walking out on a tab! Jeremy came between my aggressor and myself, and no sooner was he sent tumbling over an empty table and into the drywall, leaving an impression. It was then that I decided to make a run for it. I found the back door, and once I was outside bolted a left down the alley. I heard him come after me. When I hit the street roughly 30 yards later, I hit a left, and didn’t look back until I reached the next block. When I did look back there was no sign of him. During my attempts to apologize, I noticed a name stitched on the left breast of his work shirt: Coby. I finally found my breath after about a minute, dialed 9-11, and went back to wait for the police to show up.