| Supper alone on a Tuesday night in a train station cafeteria. Man, that’s sad. That’s rough. Well, who’s keeping track. Joe bought a Salisbury steak and some mashed potatoes to soak up the beer. He took a table, shook pepper on the steak, and gave it a taste. Not bad. He looked around the room: a few single men, part of the nationwide fraternity of Fred Harvey diners. Guys who’d never be here if they weren’t on their way to some place else. Except him: no train to catch, not tonight. This was the first place he thought of when he left the bar – a place where everyone had their head down, where no one was interested in a good time. No fussy waiters or chatty waitresses angling for a tip; just a plastic tray and some ground-up meat and the crash and bash of plates dumped into the busboy’s bin. Boil it all down to this. This, plus some pudding. Butterscotch. The one thing cafeterias always had going for them, in the end: pudding. . No one ever made pudding for themselves, certainly not a single guy. Maybe your wife made it for you, or your mother. But no one made pudding on their own. Which made pudding a treat. Probably more honor than it deserved, but who’s complaining. His mother had been wrong; he wasn’t tipsy, he was drunk, and he’d been drunk a lot. That was done. That was over, he knew that. A guy was entitled to bender once in his life, but he’d better recognize the end when it came or the bender just went on and on. At least he picked the right time: boss was down for the count, out in Minnesota for some treatments, and Frank was on a three-state swing through the south to drum up some banner business. He’d had work to do, sure, but he did it at the bar. They loved him the first few days: the guy who draws who’s legit, who’s got a meal ticket, and whaddaya know, he draws something useful. Then he kept showing up and working and they liked him less – you trying to prove something? So he stopped working and started sketching the regulars, and they liked him more. Then he just showed up and drank, and they liked him more than ever. They called him Picasso. Was she really going to Florida? Did he hear that right? He got up, walked over to the coffee urns along the wall and refilled his cup. Didn’t shake half of it into the saucer – good sign. He didn’t want another drink. He was just going to ride this out for the night and take his lickings. What’s the word? Chastised. No, that wasn’t it. Abashed. That was it. He read that in a novel and got what it meant, but this is what it felt like. Rueful. I’m loaded with rue, he thought. But it could be worse. He could have liked being Picasso. It could have been a kick, sitting there in the booth, drawing drunks, having everyone fawn and grin bad yellow smiles, and he could have gone on telling himself he was like that guy he read that article about in the art mag, Hogarth. Sketching all the gin fiends for history. But he kept feeling eyes in the back of his neck. Someone watching, someone disapproving. Someone who was disappointed. And what made it good: disappointed and surprised at what he was doing. “That’s not me,” he said to himself. “You’d know,” said a voice to his right. He turned. Bud. He was pulling a cup from the other spout. “Train’s late,” he said. “Ah, you son-“ “Don’t get sore. Sorry about what I said. I just wanted to drink my beer in peace. I shot my mouth off. No hard feelings?” “No. Sorry. I had a few.” “I understand. See you ‘round.” He took his coffee to a table on the other side of the room. Joe watched him for a while: Bud leaned back, lit a cigarette, stared at the ceiling and blew smoke rings. No magazine. No suitcase. If he had a watch he didn’t check it. He chained his butts, but there wasn’t anything nervous in his actions. He just sat, and smoked, and sipped his coffee. Joe left at eleven o’clock, mostly sober. He nodded at Bud on the way out: places to go. Bud lifted a finger in salute. It was the same gesture the barman gave him when he entered. At first he got nothing. Then he got recognition. Then the bartender flicked his eyes up at the clock, noting that Joe was early. Then he wasn’t early anymore. Then he got the salute: hey, Picasso. Joe walked outside the Terminal. It was warmer than when he’d gone in. Ahhhh, Picasso’s dead, he thought. Or not? We'll see tomorrow. He'd ask his mother. Do I look like Picasso? Do I draw like Picasso? No, she'd say. You draw nice things. You draw things people can use. Why, where would we be without matchbooks? How would we know about Florida? |
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