Only two types of people in this world, the old man says.
The greenpinkblue glow of a beer-on-tap sign hangin’ on the brick wall forms a halo over his baldin’ head. He’s holdin’ the same bottle of Sam Adams he’s been sippin’ at the past fifty-six minutes.
I’m at the Green Dragon on Union and Marshall, it’s ten to midnight, and I’m sittin’ at the far corner of the bar in a swirl of cigarette smoke starin’ at cracks in the black stained surface, and for the past fifty-six minutes I’ve been hidin’ quick glances between the cracks and old man.
He’s sittin’ in a black J. Press and sportin’ a pair of shiny Mint Simmons.
In my mind I’m seein’ young Longinus Lechers marchin’ through the black doors like he did in my old man’s J & J Discount mini-mart. He’s wearin’ a pair of Mints and browsin’ through the PlayboysPenthousesStags, and I always knew it was Lech because his Mints made a tappin’ like two pennies glued to the bottoms.
Lech’s shoutin’ at the old man, I’m tryin’ to sleep, ya old dog!
Lech fell off his Bay Village apartment balcony on Patty’s Day last year, but his wife later confessed to pushin’ him off for browsin’ the nudies. The first floor neighbors found him dead in the bushes wearin’ a pair of Mints.
The old man’s sittin’ with a thin wrinkled neck between bony shoulders and the neon glow’s puttin’ shadows on his square razor blade face and he’s yappin’ as if Russ Nixon’s listenin’ at Fenway durin’ battin’ practice.
Only two types of people in this world, he says.
In my mind I’m seein’ young Arthur Agitprop wakin’ up from all the racket and the tail of his black Cabot Deluxe Permanent Press bathrobe’s flyin’ above his legs as he’s dashin’ down Boylston, Charles, Beacon, Sudbury, Congress, Union, Marshall and through the black doors and grippin’ the old man’s neck, squeezin’.
Agitprop’s shoutin’ at the old man, I’m tryin’ to sleep, ya old dog!
Agitprop was hired to divorce my ma and old man but died in his sleep the night before Lent. His secretary found him in bed wearin’ a pair of Mints.
Don’t ya know what I mean? the old man says.
I’m countin’ the cracks, slowly, pretendin’ I haven’t noticed him.
People don’t know a thing, he says. Standin’ in hotel lobbies with fingers in their pockets playin’ with pennies and then starin’ at people’s shoes. Always starin’ at the shinies.
In my mind I’m seein’ young Leonard Liason, the head concierge at Buckminister, scuttlin’ through the door and smashin’ a bottle of Green Dragon brew over the old man’s head.
Liason’s shoutin’ at the old man, I’m tryin’ to sleep, ya old dog!
Last February Liason got caught ’bezzlin’ cash, fled to São Paulo, and was found dead in a motel outside São José dos Campos on the mornin’ of a strangely cold Ash Wednesday. The cleanin’ lady found him on the motel floor wearin’ a pair of Mints.
The old man at the bar starts yappin’ again. Shoes supposed to be dirty, he says.
I’m starin’ at the cracks and then shiftin’ my eyes down to his shiny Mints.
What’s a man gonna do with shinies when he’s sick in bed? he says. What’s he gonna do with a gold watch when time runs out?
The old man looks down at his Patek Philippe Calatrava, 11:57, and stumbles off the stool. The Mints make a tappin’ hittin’ the floor. Then a man at a round table near the door starts shoutin’ at the old man.
Hey, old-timer!
The shoutin’ man’s suckin’ on a Connecticut Broadleaf and wearin’ a moth-eaten Picariello and Singer.
Hey, geezer!
I’m starin’ down at the Mints. Then the room’s quiet and I’m ignorin’ the shoutin’ and I’m not feelin’ like seein’ a fight.
Hey, kid! the shoutin’ man says.
I’m shiftin’ my eyes and starin’ at the cracks in the wood.
Kid!
Then I’m turnin’ slowly to the shoutin’ man and he’s starin’ at me and a woman wearin’ a black Mary Quant’s sittin’ on his lap and her face’s caked in make-up and she’s kissin’ his neck and rubbin’ her hands through his hair and I’m hatin’ it.
Tell ya old man to get home! the shoutin’ man says.
Then the old man’s turnin’ slowly and starin’ at the shoutin’ man and I’m lookin’ ’round the room seein’ a dozen still faces and white eyes.
In my mind I’m seein’ young Percy Perfidy, our landlord on Newton and Brookline, sprintin’ through the door flingin’ a Sam Adams at the old man and the black glass’s tearin’ into the old man’s face and he’s unrecognizable.
Perfidy’s shoutin’ at the old man, I’m tryin’ to sleep, ya old dog!
Perfidy rented my old man a room over at South End off Tremont and Northampton but kicked him out when a retired priest of Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine agreed to conduct confessions in his apartment closet, savin’ Perfidy a trip. Perfidy died Christmas eve last year. The police found him under his office desk wearin’ a pair of Mints.
Then the old man’s sittin’ down again facin’ the bartender and says, Another, and the bartender’s slidin’ a Sam across the black stained surface.
The old man says to me, I ain’t ya old man. Ya know that, don’t ya?
I’m countin’ cracks in the wood.
D’ya hear me? the old man says.
Then I’m lookin’ at the old man and I say, My old man left twenty years ago. Then I’m hangin’ my head toward the cracks in the wood and then I’m starin’ at his Mints.
Where’d ya get ya shoes? I say.
What? he says. I sell ’em.
Sell ’em?
Ain’t that what I said? Twenty years, he grunts and takes a sip of Sam.
What ya doin’ here? I say. Don’t ya have—
Never had a kid, he says. Never had any thing.
Then we’re quiet for a while.
Then the old man says, There’s two types of people in this world. Those who don’t know a thing but pretend they do and those who don’t know a thing and don’t know it, like him.
Then he’s noddin’ toward the shoutin’ man who’s still suckin’ on a Broadleaf.
Then he says, I had some leather shippin’ in last week and I saw him down at the Fitzgerald unloadin’ boxes and these boys came walkin’ by cussin’ at him and he starts throwin’ rocks at ’em. They was the boss’ boys. Got fired the next day. Sometimes ya gotta keep ya mouth shut. Ya don’t know when stuff like that’s gonna happen.
He keeps yappin’ but I’m listenin’ for the buzzin’ of greenpinkblue.
So what type are ya? I say.
I’m done pretendin’, he says. Don’t let the suits and ties fool ya. Skin tears as easy as yours.
He drops a few coins on the counter and stands and says, And don’t talk like ya know what’s gonna happen. That’s when life’ll prove ya wrong. But don’t let not knowin’ get ya down. Ya got another sixty and I another twenty and there’s a lot more I’ll be doin’ than sellin’ Mints. We both got time to work on it still.
Then he’s stumblin’ towards the door and the Mints are tappin’ and then I’m starin’ at each step until his Mints are disappearin’ out the door into the street.
Then I’m standin’ up puttin’ my fingers in my pockets playin’ with the coins. I’m droppin’ some dimes on the bar and noddin’ to the bartender and he’s noddin’ back and I’m lookin’ over at the woman in the black dress and she’s still kissin’ the shoutin’ man’s neck and then I’m walk over to them and they’re lookin’ up at me.
Don’t talk like ya know a thing, I say.
And they’re just starin’ at me.
D’ya hear me? I say.
What ya talkin’ ‘bout, kid? the shoutin’ man says.
Don’t talk like ya know what’s gonna happen, I say. That’s when life’ll prove ya wrong.
Then the woman’s standin’ up stickin’ her clown face in mine.
What’d ya say to us, kid? she says.
The whole room’s quiet now.
I said what’d ya say to us?
The shoutin’ man’s standin’ up and says, Hey kid, what ya say to me?
And we’re all just starin’ at each other.
Sometimes ya gotta keep ya mouth shut, I say.
Then I’m turnin’ and walkin’ out the door into the mornin’ sunlight and up Union to Hanover to Blackstone and I’m seein’ a mass of menwomenchildren in the middle of the street starin’ at the pavement and I’m pushin’ through bodies, movin’ my head leftrightleftright tryin’ to see ’round the shoulders.
A black Pontiac Streamliner’s sittin’ right-angled in the intersection of Blackstone and Hanover and two legs are stickin’ out next to the back right tire. Pokin’ out and limp against the hot asphalt’s a pair of Mints.