Shouts from the Gutter

Debs

–Pork 'n' Beans–

ANDY CLEMENTS got up and limped to the fridge for another beer. His right knee, which had been fine earlier, now throbbed like the dickens. The worst thing about getting old were the obvious signs that your body was falling apart. Sure, the mind deteriorated just as quickly, but you could con yourself into thinking that you were as sharp as ever. A knee that burned like fire was harder to ignore. Andy made it to the fridge and then headed back to his chair by the window. Perhaps a few more beers would take the pain away. Not that he needed an excuse to drink.

The electric typewriter waited for Andy on the kitchen table. Next to the machine, a cheap radio oozed jazz music. Andy wasn't a jazz fan, but he hated silence and Top 40 was out of the question. The cigar in the ashtray had gone out so he sat down and re-lit it while searching his brain for ideas. He was trying to write a story about a homeless couple who lived in an auto graveyard, but the words weren't coming. Andy frowned at the machine and his lower jaw jutted from his square head pugnaciously. Even though he was just fifty-nine years old, his hair was whiter than a roomful of conservatives and the wrinkles around his eyes were that of a migrant farm worker. Not that Andy knew much about work. Other than royalties that trickled in irregularly or an odd cheque for a short story, he survived on a disability pension and hadn't worked a real job in a long time. Sometimes Andy wished he could tolerate people enough to take orders from a boss. It would be good to have a couple of extra six packs in the fridge. Writing was a fool's game.

A dog barked and Andy looked out the window of his doublewide trailer, glad for the diversion. He couldn't see the dog but there was no shortage of strays out here where the pound seldom ventured. Andy's decision to leave the city and move to the Royal Flush Trailer Court in Surrey was more than simple economics. He'd moved here fourteen years ago after recognizing that he needed people, but at a distance. Once in a while, he would get into his '84 Malibu and drive into town to drink at a skid bar. There weren't many women of interest around the trailer park, mostly old folks or single mothers with six kids. Men he could mostly live without.

Andy stared at the typer and got ready to squeeze out a few words much the same way that a constipated man might force out a solid little turd. He didn't believe in letting nature take its course as Bukowski advised. If he could just get the flow started, the rest might come more easily. His fingers hit the keys and he punched out three words before stopping for a slug of beer. The dog started barking again, and he looked out the window just in time to see an old blue pickup truck skid to a halt on the unpaved driveway. Quickly, Andy pulled the curtains shut and sat down on the floor beneath the window. A truck door slammed as he reached up to get his beer from the table. Harold Denton never had his own booze and only dropped by to mooch.

Presently, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and knuckles rapped loudly on the door. Andy took a hit of beer and, because the curtains were thin enough to see through, was careful not to lift his elbow above the sill. One of these days, he would replace the curtains with something heavier. Harold pounded on the door again and Andy could picture the look of sadness on his round little face. The chubby wee guy acted so hard done by when thwarted in his hunt for booze that Andy almost felt sorry for him. It wasn't that Andy disliked Harold more than he disliked other people— it was just that he didn't have enough beer to share. At times like this, and every other time as well, it was every man for himself.

Bang bang bang! Open the damn door, Andy! called Harold. I know yer in there because your stogie is still burning in the ashtray!

Andy cursed silently and wished he had remembered his cigar. Now that he thought about it, he could use a puff. He knew that Harold had his face against the glass and was peering into the house. It was tempting to pop up like a jack-in-the-box and scare the shit out of the old fuck but it wasn't worth the effort. Andy took another shot of beer and waited patiently. No way was he going to share his last six-pack, not even with Steve McQueen himself. If Steve were still alive, that is.

Open the gawdamned door! bellowed Harold. I know yer in there, and I even brought my own booze. Look, I've got a mickey of rye!

Now Andy was in a bit of a spot. If this was a trick, he'd still feel obliged to let Harold in. On the other hand, he was starting to feel a bit silly sitting on the floor like some schoolboy hiding from his mommy. Perhaps it was time to end this game. He stood up slowly, prepared to find Harold as empty-handed as ever. When Harold saw Andy, his puffy face lit up in a grin. To Andy's surprise, the old coot did indeed have a pint of Golden Wedding, which he displayed triumphantly. Andy, did ya drop yer keys on the floor or sumpin? I thought that you'd never answer the door. His small brown teeth were muddy little lumps in his pumpkin of a head.

I was just taking a rest, muttered Andy, unlocking the door. I suppose you never done that. It was hard for Andy not to feel that he'd made a mistake by letting Harold in, but he needed to take a break anyway. Maybe the story would come easier later.

Harold uncapped the bottle and took a snort. He was a short, rotund little fellow, and the only hair on his head was a fringe that ran around the back of his skull like a shabby white fence. His skin was a pinkish colour and he looked like Santa Claus, but without the facial hair and red hat. Instead of offering the whisky to Andy, he sat down across from the typewriter, his eyes twinkling merrily. I hope that I'm not interrupting ya. I wouldn't want to slow down the next Stephen King, but it seemed like a good day for a few belts, so I thought I'd drop by. For Harold, every day was a good day for a few belts.

I was resting, so I can spare a few minutes. Where'd ya get the pint? Did someone leave ya an inheritance? There was no point in telling Harold that he'd rather eat his own fingers than write Stephen King novels. Andy chose not to associate with other writers. Writers bored him to death.

Harold grinned and the contrast between his brown teeth and pink skin was horrible. I moved the Jacksons' and they paid me forty bucks. Say, have ya gotta smoke? I didn't get a chance to buy any yet.

You stopped to pick up booze but ya didn't get any smokes? said Andy, scowling. He passed Harold the pouch of tobacco that had to last all week. You just can't change the spots on a buzzard, he thought.

I forgot, Harold offered feebly, rolling a thick smoke. I'll get my own tibby later. He licked the cigarette shut and lit it with Andy's lighter. Say, have ya seen the Jackson girl lately? She ain't too bad, iffin ya know what I'm saying. He leered like a creep and Andy wanted to punch his pink little face.

I try to stay away from fifteen-year olds, said Andy. Listen, let me have a shot of that whisky. His cigar tasted like old socks but he took another puff anyway.

Harold passed the little bottle, but watched worriedly as Andy splashed a tot into a dirty coffee cup. Go easy on that, willya? he said. When the bottle was safely in his possession again, the lewd smile returned. So, you'll never guess what happened to me yesterday. Of all the crazy things!

I don't have to guess because you'll tell me anyway, said Andy, sipping the whisky. If Harold was going to smoke his tobacco, it'd cost him a few shots of booze.

Yer no damn fun, said Harold, looking perturbed. Anyway, I was at home watching TV, when I hear this knock. I get up to answer the door, an' there's this girl standing there. You can tell that she likes the rock, but she has a nice ass and light brown hair. I've done better, but not for a little while. She wasn't so bad, know what I mean?

Cut to the chase, willya? said Andy, wishing he had stayed on the floor. What had he been thinking?

The hurt look returned but Harold continued. So I let her inside, and as soon as she gets in the door, she asks if she can have my can of beans!

What beans? asked Andy, tossing back the rest of the whisky. He noted with alarm that the mickey of rye in Harold's grubby hand was already half-gone. A bottle that small never went far.

There was a can of pork 'n' beans in the window that I'd forgotten about, said Harold, looking a bit sheepish. It was hiding behind the curtains. He lived in a little bungalow on the side of the highway that his mother had left him. Welfare and ever-diminishing moving jobs paid the bills, but never on time. Few customers called back when they learned that he rarely drove sober.

So the girl wanted the beans, big fuckin' deal, said Andy, growing impatient. He knew there was more to the story but didn't want to play the game. It was a good thing that Harold didn't write, as he was incapable of telling a story without a whole lot of filler.

She wanted those beans so bad that she offered to suck my dick for them! said Evil Santa, grinning to split his face. Obviously, he was very pleased with himself.

She wanted to give you head for a can of beans? asked Andy in disbelief. He found it hard to believe that anyone would suck anything of Harold's, not even for all the beans in Canada. What did you do?

Harold massaged his crotch lustily. Whaddya think I did? After all, it was only a can of beans!

Andy swigged beer and figured Harold for a liar. No one would suck cock for a can of beans, especially not Harold's cock. A more repulsive act he couldn't imagine.

Is it all right if I grab a beer? asked Harold, walking towards the fridge. To Andy's amazement, the mickey stood empty on the table. Everyone had a special talent, and Harold's talent was his incredible ability to make booze disappear.

No, you most certainly cannot have a fucking beer! said Andy, rising to head Harold off at the pass. The gall of the man was incredible.

But the fridge was open and Harold had already seized one of Andy's beers. Just one! shouted Harold, trying to avoid Andy's reaching hands.

Put that back, you fat little fuck! swore Andy, trying to wrestle the beer away from his guest. He knew it was unfair for anyone with a beer gut like his to call another man fat, but life was like that.

Harold got the beer open, but Andy slammed his head into the wall when he tried to take a drink. The beer fell to the floor and foamed all over the linoleum. Look what you did! yelled Harold as Andy grabbed him by the collar and hustled him across the kitchen. Andy got the door open with one hand, and tossed Harold down the steps with the other. The poor little guy landed face down in the dirt and lay there motionlessly. Andy went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Incredibly, the beer had fallen right side up and was still half-full. Andy mopped up before taking the remainder of the can with him to the table. He re-lit the stogie and took a blast of beer. The words entered his head and he pecked at the typewriter with purpose, glad to be back in the saddle. Over the jazz music, he heard Harold curse loudly before starting his truck to drive away. The dog barked twice and went quiet.

Then Andy stopped typing. He got up and walked over to dig in his cupboard. At the back, next to a dusty can of beef broth, he found a can of pork 'n' beans. Smiling, Andy walked over and placed the beans on the windowsill behind the curtains. The day was starting to look up.

–Two Bits Don't Buy Much These Days–

ABE JOHNSON stood behind the counter and gazed out over his small grocery store. As usual, the place was still and empty. The long wooden shelves, stocked neatly with dry goods, stood ready and waiting for hungry customers. Not that the customers would come any time soon. Business hadn't been the same since the Food Mart at the end of the block opened last year. Things were so slow that it almost wasn't worth staying open during the day. Only when Food Mart closed did the local residents straggle in for a pack of smokes or a bag of kitty litter. Why should they pay more when they could get what they needed elsewhere? If things didn't improve soon, and Abe had no reason to believe that they would, he would have to shut his doors for good.

Abe was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning grey hair and small purple bags under his eyes. A pair of old-fashioned wire framed glasses sat on a bump in the middle of his long, narrow nose. Only fifty-two years of age, he had the speech and mannerisms of someone much older. To further contribute to his elderly appearance, he had a permanent dent in the middle of his brow that always made it look as if he were about to ask a question. Abe had not been with a woman since his wife ran off with another man seven years earlier. Despite the anger, he missed his wife deeply. The lonely man took a half pint of rye from a drawer under the counter and took a good slug. The rye burned a path to his stomach and lit a fire. He'd intended to hold off until later, but it was too depressing to stand around without a few snorts to kill the time.

The bottle went back in the drawer and Abe came out from behind the counter with his duster. Just because there were no customers was no reason to let the store go to hell. He started at the back with the duster and worked his way forward. With its stamped tin ceiling and pot-bellied stove, the store was from a different time and era. There was a furnace now, but once in a while, when the frost got too thick on the plate glass window, Abe would fire up the stove. His father had left the store to him when he passed away ten years ago and, not including the three years his wife had helped him, Abe had run the store alone ever since. Abe's younger brother also worked at the store when their father was alive, but the youth fell in with the wrong crowd and served several prison terms before being murdered in his cell. Lately, Abe had taken to locking the door and retreating to the apartment in the back during the day. It wasn't as if there were any customers to disappoint.

Abe paused in front of the dairy cooler. If he didn't sell the first row of milk and cream soon, he would have to toss them. Though he'd been ordering less and less, he was throwing more away. He let out a long sigh and thought about the bottle of rye in the drawer under the counter. It just didn't pay to get out of bed nowadays.

With difficulty, Abe went on with his dusting. If only things could be how they were when he was younger. His father would light the stove and the men from the neighbourhood would gather around. The men would smoke cigars, trade jokes and, of course, gossip about whoever wasn't there. Often they'd slip a little whisky in the coffee while Abe's mother minded the counter and took care of the kids. For a child, the store was a fun and exciting place. There were the boxes of food to stock on the shelves, and the bottles of soda pop to immerse in icy water. The old cooler was long gone now, but Abe remembered how the cold, wet bottles felt in his hand on a scorching summer day. Best of all was the candy. The boxes would come, and his dad would allow him to help put the candies in the glass jars. Naturally, there would be a reward, maybe a jawbreaker or a long black licorice whip. The smell of the sugary treats still brought back pleasant memories of his childhood. The children came around once in a while, but not in the numbers they used to. There wasn't much money in the candies, anyway.

Abe dusted a row of tinned corned beef and moved on to the canned vegetables. If he didn't stay open a full three hours later than Food Mart, he would never sell any food at all. Abe reached up and massaged the bump under the bridge of his glasses. As a child, he had pulled a stack of tinned corn over and one of the cans nailed him square on the nose. Somehow, even that memory was a fond one, as his mom had doted on him for weeks.

When the dusting was complete, Abe went back to his station behind the counter. As he passed the window, he saw a man approach. The old duffer was at least sixty-five and walked with a slight limp. He was pale but clean-shaven and wore neat blue slacks and a button-up shirt. Though Abe had never seen the man before, there was something very familiar about the way he carried himself. Abe couldn't put his finger on it.

The chimes above the door jingled brightly when the customer entered, and it was a sound that Abe didn't hear often enough. Mornin', nodded Abe. Looks like it's shaping up to be a hot one.

Can't complain. It'll be winter soon enough, said the customer, giving the standard reply. He stood looking around the store: not at the items, but at the ceiling, the walls, and the pot-bellied stove. Moments passed and still the stranger stood and stared. Finally, Abe couldn't help himself.

Is there anything in particular I can help you with, Mister? asked Abe, still struggling with his memory. He had seen that pallor, the guarded look before.

Another moment passed before the stranger replied, I used to come to this store a long time ago. You know, the place hasn't changed all that much. He looked at Abe closely. You look a lot like the fellow who used to run it, but you couldn't be. That was forty years ago.

Abe chuckled. That would have been my father. He passed on about ten years ago. I run the place now. My name is Abe. He offered his hand to the stranger.

The stranger shook Abe's hand and looked him in the eye. His handshake was firm, and you could tell a lot about a man from that. I'm Terry Reeves. Sorry to hear about your loss. You must be one of the little yard apes I remember running up and down the aisles. This place was always full of people. What happened?

Food Mart opened a branch down the street, said Abe with a shake of his head. People only come here when they're closed. If I sold my stuff for what they did, I'd go broke.

Seems like you're going broke anyway, said Terry, instantly regretting his choice of words. I mean...

No, it's okay. You're right, but it goes against my business principles to sell my goods at a loss, Abe said sadly. So, what brings you around after being away so long? Forty years is a long time.

It was Terry's turn to shake his head, and he did so ruefully. Well, I've been out of town for a while. I just got back a couple of days ago, and I thought I'd visit the old neighbourhood. He shrugged glumly. So far, I haven't seen a single soul that I used to know.

Then Abe remembered where he'd seen that look before. Say, I hope you won't be angry with me, but have you been in prison? My brother did a few stretches and he looked the same way when he got out. You know, pale and kinda suspicious.

The guarded look on the customer's face was more obvious than ever and Abe knew that he had guessed correctly. Abe thought the old man would leave the store but finally he answered. Yeah, I just got out. I did twenty-five years for killing my wife and her lover, Terry said, with a wry twist of his lips. "They would've given me parole