He sips at his drink as if it were the sole reason for life and pays no heed to the chatter of the truck drivers or the clickclacking of the pool balls, as well as the bonging of the pinball machine which lured him into this bar in the first place. As he leaks out his luncheon imbibement he notes his reflection on the towel roll. A touch of heckling grey for his hated whores. Now he was working nights--11-7. Home to hear the mother bitch in the kitchen school and baby breakfast two boys and girls with a thirst for car keys out of this pocket comes tuition for the private school or college. He heads up to the attic calm of his hidingplace. Four hours of sleep then sneak past the mother again to waste his afternoon but something to do. Golf doesn't hold his interest. Pinball does. "Oh Waterbury," he muses, "How in hell did I end up here? The brass city which makes my zippers." Fumbling in his wallet he notes the pawn ticket held as receipt for his golf clubs and he pays the barmaid leaving a dollar for lunch. Today is payday and he makes the ride to Naugatuck for his check. He gets off Route 8 heading south on Rubber Avenue to the footwear division of U.S. Rubber co. The valves on the green blue Ford station wagon tap as he idles in Employee Parking Lot #2. He turns the key and prays against the annoyance of pre-ignition. He mutters; "Religion works, but only for the inanimate." The car does not diesel. He shows his security card to the guard at the gate and is admitted. Heading for the payroll office he bumps a busty young secretary against the wall. He mumbles--"Sorry, this just isn't my day." She winks, "Better luck next time." Something to think about through the haze of 7 Tom Collins' on an empty stomach. He saunters through the door feeling a little self-assured and at least less depressed. Thanks to the whole lack of anything. Holding. Talking. The whole day of it lapsing into night secret motels or the western upstairs of the Kingsbury Hotel. Why did Bob choose Waterbury? Scovills. Anaconda. Goss/Chase. Firms lodged to make firm a solid nineteen-sixties. A profitable one. The family to INSURE. Their money to flaunt. The kids' bankbooks. His kicks. The flickering away for nights mostly in the green ford. Greystone roads here strange fancies in the bushes. Where the Mickey Mouse fan my kid and oldest boy belongs in his Arkadia, the little one too vulnerable and all of the mother and her classmates. The money was enough to argue about. The old man wanted his check, he was hungry and noticed it. He had to remember his budget. His plastic card and polaroid face. More of a backdrop. "B-e-r-t-o-l-e-t-t-e---yeah yeah-- 0-4-8/-0-9-/-0-0-0-2." "Just checking sir." "$120-----" Used to think commission commission commission commission click click work by the month, not this $500 a month shit what have I done lost my job for all afternoon long lunches the kid-my kid home on the couch that day the mother gave him the ketchup for the cloth on his forehead. I thought she needed the car but look-- him, and all staged by him and her. The reason for the laugh as he slid down the cliff at Greystone. Up by the asshole of Waterville. I wonder if he'd think about that for the rest of his life. Mickey Mouse me eating bread balls with him he'd call me to sleep in one of the 2 beds in his room. Better than whispering and thrashing around with the mother... Down to the Mayfair where another Crescent Street native was at work at his restaurant, the usual amiable chat with the cats on the 2nd shift ready to tumble on over to footwear and punch in and out their eight no harm in that. Talk of the negro women on East Main that weekend. Then the brief neighborly monotone with the cook and patron, Mr. Faskali, father to the boy kid's buddy, little Hercules- "Harry" they called him, their stick or soft ball games in the street crossing bus stop side. The usual chiliburger. A nickel for the Daily News. January 10, 1962. How significant would the fact be that I did it on his ninth birthday eve- how would he be told. Now a bigger nickel for a length of vacuum cleaner hose how long would it take. It was still light. A January 10th-11th in some other life I have made. I will leave my own corpse for the episcopal minister at All Soul's Church. Dad and Mom plus Chicken would come. How would it look to them especially after Jerre's argument with me on Dad's sunporch at Pilgrim Street by the golf course near where I will be buried, off by some godforsaken tee at the Club, about ten dollars- what was that a mortgage payment? Who did that all the money upfront for at least 15 years anyone could fuck up after that if you dont make it by 40 forget it the old adage who could make it on insurance. the Waterbury Savings Branch'll cash it I can use my polaroid mug it will prove me. $120 in cash green. East Main it'll be to throw two or three last ones. Just a memory now rubbing it in. The hose at the hardware store to stash in the well, can just suck it or better yet leave it in the back seat idling at the same time give it a little gas and let it run till the cops or somebody comes thinking I'm just getting warm lucky it's winter a quarter tank might do it but I'll fillerup so they'll be no second tries. Each time I'd leave the kid'd ask me if he could come he wasnt that stupid and probably'll hold it against the mother because she seemed to start the fights. No Kingswood for him in Wtby. The liguor store bottles smiling. Two six-packs a jug of vodka, no- scotch---some good stuff today. Sidewalks. Parkinglots. Factories. Car Parts. Real Estate. Mortgages. The Daily News. A Wallet. A Polaroid Mug. Money. Personal Possessions. Cops and Fire Engines. Sirens and Lights. Summer egg bursts in Lake Quassapaug nights in the warm water the mother at the front door the father out of commission into footwear. sole punching. the sewer held responsibility. 11-7 when he whent. third shift bluesy molding neoprene poring heaven never waits. seconds my kid would get from me an employee or others which also reside on Crescent Street that top of my world to hide on the bottom one day my chimney painted pink daughter and dildo high on my toot I marked the bottles and had to get pissed off at that kind of stunt I'd never pull even at Kingswood pissing down Crescent Street openly would beat the pink chimney or kid crap in the bathtub the only time he can do it. Nothing happens. Psychiatrists and mental hospitals. A.A. might as well leave a little money behind $60 and change I'll put in the top pocket and save thirty after gas for gassing off or goosing down into some fluff uptoward Cherry Street (the kid throwing sand into some kid's eyes or dropping the rabbits off the roof with another demon which talks loud corrupted ALREADY by this same earth we could all lay the blame on some strange episcopal minister writing a sermon for me. will the kid hear it?) or he would go off to the Dickinson's and his beth friend be told alone this morning by the minister which is probably the best thing it will be his birthday the only birth I drove the mother to; Waterbury morn January 11,1953 I cant go through a tenth anniversary here at five in the morning but the weather's not that bad as it was that morning snow and down Plaza Avenue fearing hills sliding slow corners he better not go looking for fathers, that's all I put in- 15 years. It's the mother's turn and at least she wont have to feed and put me through college 15 years rising the Robert Bertolette Insurance Agency at 10 and downwards after 40 no need to excuse myself Mom and Dad, I'm not leaving the table just the world last documents DAILY NEWS 1/10/62 left to fumes. |
©1975 PETER BOONE BERTOLETTE |
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