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  WAITING FOR AL

  A Short Story

  by Buzz Harcus

  Copyright 2011 by Leslie F. “Buzz” Harcus

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,

  or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author,

  except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  ISBN 978-1-4660-5739-5

  Sandhill Publishing

  Harcus, Leslie F.

  10385 Twin Lake Road, N.E.

  Mancelona, MI 49659

  This work of fiction is a short story. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover and layout design by Allen and Harcus

  Printed in the USA

  Waiting for Al

  By Buzz Harcus

  WAITING FOR AL

  by Buzz Harcus

  I was standing on the corner of Fourth and Lyons waiting for Al to show so's we could grab dinner at Emil's, a small French joint over on Sixth. I don't know what there is about it but Al's always late, no matter where you want to go.

  I guess I'd been waiting about ten minutes watching the skirts go by, winking occasionally at what I considered outstanding female virtues, when I noticed this guy walking back and forth in front of Jerry's place. At first, I hadn't paid any notice to him but now he was getting on my nerves. He'd start for the door, just about go in, stop like he was real confused about something, then walk on down the street. Pretty soon back he'd come and with a somewhat determined look on his face, head for the doorway again. Then he'd get that confused look again, a real queer, uh-well, confused is the only way I can describe the look on his face, like should he go in or shouldn't he? Maybe his old lady'd kill him if he does, ya' know?

  I figured him to be about twenty-three or four, somewhere around in there, about five-ten, skinny, probably about a hundred and forty pounds, crew cut, pimply face; real milquetoast type, even down to his horn rimmed glasses. Gals might figure him as the intellectual type, ya'know, but not me. He looked like a nothing standing there in an old pair of khaki pants, faded blue T-shirt under a faded tan tank jacket; a big nothing by my book.

  So, anyways, I'm soon standing there on the corner for half an hour now and Al still ain't showed, and this poor slob is still trying to get up enough nerve to go in the bar.

  By now, I need a drink so I figures t' go into Jerry's and hoist a quick one. Heading toward his joint I notice the kid is attractin' an audience. He stopped, stepped aside, and watched me as I started to go in, so I turned to him and says, "Hey, ya' wanna go in with me?"

  "N-no...no thanks..." he stammered, his pimply face breaking out in a flustered look.

  I could see the sweat standing on his forehead. He wanted in so bad he could taste it.

  "C'mon," I coaxed. "I'll buy ya' one."

  "N-no...I-I'll b-be in l-l-later," he stammered.

  "Suit yerself," I said turning and walking inside the dimness of Jerry's bar and grill. I hiked my butt up on a stool by the entrance so's I could see the street in case Al went by.

  Fan blades wafted a cooling air down across the bar, a welcome contrast to the shimmering heat out on the sidewalk. I ordered a cold Blatz from Jerry, wiped the top off, which is a habit I got into overseas after my first taste of dysentery, and took a welcome sip.

  The Tigers were playing Boston on television and most of the customers along the bar were watching it. They were out of the pennant race so I wasn't really interested in the game. Instead, I kept looking out the door watching for Al, but mostly, watching the poor kid still trying to get in, finding myself unconsciously hoping the poor slob would finally make it and get in the joint. I think I'd even buy him a beer if he'd make it.

  A couple of loud mouths at a table behind me, three sheets to the wind, were having a real good laugh watching the poor guy trying to get in the joint.

  "Hey! Here he comes again!"

  "Bet ya' a beer he don't make it," says the tallest loudmouth.

  "Yer on!" says the other loud mouth.

  But once again the poor slob turned away and headed down the street.

  "Haw, Haw, Haw," laughed the tall one. "Ya owe me another beer. Christ, that Benny's a barrel of laughs. We oughta' get a couple of new guys and bet on him. Geez, we'd have free beer

  'till hell freezes over."

  "Yeah, how about that!" The other laughed heartily. "Oh, oh, here he comes again." They both laughed, guzzling more beer.

  I turned my attention from them to the door. The poor slob, Benny, I guess his name is, is trying again. Now, I could feel myself pulling for him. Come on, Benny. Come on, Benny. You can do it. Come on in. Show them smart-assed guys up. Come on in!

  "He ain't gonna make it!" Loudmouth roared.

  "Hey, Jack," says the other. "Let's help him in."

  "Good idear, Sammy...Let's give our ol' buddy, Benny, a helpin' hand."

  "Yeah," says Sammy, "our ol' buddy, Benny..."

  They rose drunkenly, held onto the table momentarily for support, then launched themselves forward, staggering toward the door, laughing and falling all over one another.

  Something inside me clicked. I get damned mad at jokers like them two anyways, but, then, I figured not knowing what the setup was, maybe I'd better keep my nose out of it. I lifted my bottle and let the cool brew drain down my throat.

  By now the loudmouths were talking to Benny telling him they'd buy him a beer and to come inside with them.

  “I’d-I'd -like t-to, f-fellas, b-but I-I can't...n-not just y-yet..." he stammered.

  "Sure ya' can, Benny," Jack says. "We'll even help ya', won't we, Sammy?"

  "Sure thing, Benny, ol' buddy..." He doubled over laughing.

  They both grabbed Benny at the same time, clutching at his arms, dragging him toward the doorway. A look of real terror blanched Benny's face.

  "P-Please, f-fellas'..." he screeched. "N-No! P-Please!"

  "Aw, sure thing, Benny. You'll feel better after you've had a cold beer."

  "N-No! P-Please!" Benny begged.

  It made me sick to watch those two smart alecks. They had him just about in the door now. He was pushing and jerking, trying to get out of their grasp, and they were jerking just as determinedly with all their drunken strength. I'd had it. I was just about to slide off the stool ready to throw punches when this voice boomed behind me.

  "Hey! Leave that guy alone!”

  I jumped, so startled that I spilled my beer, whirling around in time to see Jerry coming from behind the bar, a sawed-off pool cue in his hand.

  "What th' hell do you two jerks think yer doin'?" He demanded, not breaking his stride, half way to the door now. "Leave Benny alone! Let the kid go!"

  "What for?" says loudmouth, Jack. "We was just havin' us a little fun."

  "Yeah," says Sammy through rubbery lips, bleary-eyed. "Jus' a little fun...right, Benny?"

  Benny had backed off at the sudden release of his arms, backing away from the entrance, big tears trickling down his face.

  "Y-yeah, o-only l-let's don't d-do it any m-more," he stammered.

  "Sure thing, Benny. Anything you say," Jack smirks. "C'mon in. No hard feelings, right? Let's go in here and have a beer. Okay?" He reached out for Benny, who immediately backed further away, staying out of his reach. "C'mon, Benny. "We'll treat." he sniggered.

  Sammy laughed, slapping his knee.

  "Okay. That's enough!" Jerry threatened the two
waving his pool cue. "You guy's get the hell out of here and don't come back. I don't need yer lousy business. G'wan, get movin'."

  "Keep yer pants on, peddler," Sammy snapped, trying to focus on the bartender with his blood-shot eyes. "This's a free country, right, Jack? We'll drink wherever we damned please." He thrust his chin out belligerently. "Wherever we damned please!"

  "Not here you won't," Jerry yelled, advancing toward them, the cue stick raised on high. "Not here you won't!"

  "Aw' right! Aw' right!" Jack said, retreating, his voice fading as fast as his bravado. "We don't like yer crummy joint anyways. Right, Sammy? Let's go."

  "Yeah," replied Sammy, straightening on wobbly legs. "So long, Benny, ol' buddy," he said, passing him. "Buy ya' a beer sometime, if ya ever get in..." They both doubled up howling with laughter, staggering off down the street.

  "That's okay, Benny," the bartender said going over to him. "Everything's okay now. Don't you pay no attention to them. They gotta get their kicks somehow. If it ain't swipin' candy from kids, it muggin' dames or little old ladies. They pick on guys like you who've got problems."

  He put his arm around Benny's shoulder. "Now you just take it easy. When you get good and ready, why you come in and I'll set ya' up. Okay?"

  Benny looked at Jerry for a couple of seconds, then nodded yes.

  "Good boy," Jerry said. "Now, don't hurry. Jus' take yer time."

  He looked up the street making sure the loudmouths were gone, then he came back inside moving behind the bar, carefully placing the cue where it would be ready for any future action.

  "People like them two grind me," I said, striking up a conversation with him.

  "Yeah. Punks. Them two punks just ain't no good. Makes ya' sick inside when ya' see that kind of trash walking the streets. Should be in jail doing hard time." He noticed my spilled beer, grabbed up a bar rag and began wiping the counter off.

  "What's the deal with him...this guy, Benny?" I asked, noticing that Benny had once, again, reached the door only to stand there with that dumbfounded look, not able to come inside.

  "It's kind of a long story," Jerry replied.

  I got the cue right away and raised up my bottle for a refill. Anyways, I'd spilled practically all of it 'cept a swallow.

  Jerry broke out a new bottle, took my bill and rung it up while I wiped off the top of the bottle. He came back and stopped in front of me, slapped my change on the counter, and rested his foot on the wash tanks. I motioned for him to get himself a beer.

  "Benny's got a real problem," he said. "He's got to make up his own mind as to whether he wants to come in or not." He reached over and pulled himself a draft, then took a healthy swallow. "Ya see, he's got a real mental problem, like, uh, 'klaws-tro-foe-bee-ah' -- I think that's the name. Well, anyways, he’s scared of being closed in or trapped --" He paused a moment, took another sip, then continued. "Lemmee tell ya' Benny's an okay guy, 'cept fer this trouble, ya' know. Do you realize he's thirty-eight years old?" He pointed toward the doorway; Benny was standing there again, fidgeting, jaw set , then he walked away. "Yessir, thirty-eight years old."

  "Yer kiddin"," I replied. "He looks more like twenty-three or four."

  "No, sir. He should be a hundred and thirty-eight after what he's been through, but he is thirty-eight." He picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of his beer, then draws another one. While he does this, I pull down a couple of swallows.

  "Him and me was in Italy together in a tank outfit," he says, getting comfortable again. "Just outside of Rome we got ourselves caught in one hell of a cross-fire from some concealed German 88's. The tank Benny was in was first in line, mine was second." He is now demonstrating the setup with a couple of six ounce glasses, one in front of the other. "I was a staff sergeant, Benny a buck sergeant. Well, sir, a shell hit us and knocked our tread off so we had to abandon. I got out just in time to see a shell hit Benny's tank. Another shell hit and knocked the turret kinda' cock-eyed, jamming the top hatch, ya' know what I mean? Those poor guys didn't stand a chance."

  I nodded yes; we'd had tank support when I was island hopping with the Marines. I'd seen our flame throwers at work, had seen Japs burned beyond recognition in their little tanks.

  "Well, it was just enough to jam it. I figured the whole crew had been knocked off. Then, whammo, another shell hit it. By this time I'd high-tailed it off the road behind a big rock for cover. All I had was my .45, and that's no great help against an 88. Anyways, as I peeked around the rock I could see smoke and flames poof right out of all the ports on his tank, and then I could hear the 50's going off inside. The place was a real inferno and as I lay there watching, I could hear a real funny sound rising above the roar of the ammo and fire -- and then it hit me, I realized what it was; someone was screaming their lungs out in that fire-trap tank. That's a hell of a way to go, ya' know?" He took another swallow. "It was poor old Benny, there."

  He pointed at the pitiful figure standing at the doorway again. "He was trapped inside. The escape hatch was blocked by the bodies of the rest of the crew and the fire was setting off them 50 calibre rounds which ain't too far from the 75 millimeter shells. Well, I don't know what got into me, maybe because I know how I'd feel if I was in that death trap, but I made a break for the tank, climbed up on it and jerked that damned hatch open. How, I don't know to this day, but I'll never forget the look on Benny's face, or what was left of it, when he saw that open hatch. I mean to tell ya, there was flames and black smoke rolling out of there, but thick! Then Benny's head and shoulders came up through the hatch. He was a mess! His hair burning, his clothes on fire -- well, you can picture it. I even hate to think about it, even today. It's the only time I've ever seen anything so bad it turned my guts inside out. I grabbed his hands and jerked him out, but not before an exploding 50 calibre nailed him. He tumbled to the ground in a burning heap. Just then a German machine gunner, who was really having himself a ball, started spraying the side of the tank. I heard them slugs slappin' steel and then I got knocked right off my pins finding myself on the deck beside Benny. Two broken legs and a chunk of my side gone, how about that, huh?"

  He indicated his legs and left side.

  "How about that? My crew came running over and pulled me to one side behind that big rock out of the line of fire. Then they dragged Benny over and smothered the flames. The fire must have got to the 75's 'cause all of a sudden that old tank just up and disappeared in one hell of an explosion. I came to a couple of days later in a rear area field hospital. They'd pinned a Silver Star on me for bravery in going to Benny's aid, and also a Purple Heart for getting myself shot up."

  He paused, remembering back to that moment.

  "Well, I had my ticket back to the states, a Silver Star, Purple Heart and a big hole in my side. Poor old Benny, there..." He pointed to the door where Benny was just walking away again, "He had a real rough deal in the hospitals, third degree burns, skin grafting, and all that. I kept tabs on him all the time, even after I got out of the Army and bought this bar. I used to go up to the Army hospital and visit him. They fixed him up pretty decent, I think, but they couldn't get the mental block out of his mind. When he finally got discharged I told him he could live with me. He's doin' real fine, 'cept now and then he just has to make up his mind about going into a place. Some days he's not bothered at all, but other times it's like, well, right now. He's afraid of getting in a joint, getting trapped. He just can't forget what happened."

  I shook my head, a big lump coming in my throat. I picked up my beer but it suddenly seemed flat. Jerry shoved off down the bar to wait on a couple of new customers. I looked toward the door again. Benny was standing in the entrance now, a little closer to being inside. I could feel myself pleading inside for him to make it, to come on in. Just then, Al went walking by and I slid off my stool and headed for the door. Benny saw me coming and stepped back, hesitated a moment, then walked off down the street.

  I cursed myself. Maybe this would have been the time he'd have co
me in. I watched him for a moment, then headed for Al, who was waiting on the corner.

  "Hi!" I said casually.

  "You been in a bar again," she snapped, eyes narrowing at seeing where I was coming from. "How many times I gotta tell ya' not to go in a bar. Some floozie'll pick ya up and roll ya. How many times I gotta tell ya, huh?" She was starting in reading me the riot act, her big lecture on drinking and sin. Al was okay, but she was a dame, worst of all, she was my wife.

  Her mouth was hitting sixty now and I was hoping she'd get lock-jaw. I kept nodding my head, agreeing with her -- what else could I do? I looked around to see if we'd attracted an audience. Nope. Then I looked up again. Benny wasn't walking up and down the street anymore. He wasn't in sight at all. A big grin broke out on my face. He'd made it!

  "You ain't even heard one word I said," she yelled grabbing my arm. "Not one word!"

  "Shut yer yap!" I snarled at her. "I gotta buy a friend a beer. You can come along if ya' want to, but keep yer yap shut! Ya' understand?"

  "Y-yes, honey..." she stammered, timidly as I grabbed her by her elbow and steered her into Jerry's place. "Anything you say."

  The End

 

  Novels written by author Buzz Harcus are available at Amazon.com and wherever eBooks are sold and include the following:

  China Marine: Tsingtao Treasure – Harry Martin is conned into returning to the old Marine barracks in China to recover a cache of hidden black market money. This is 1979, thirty years after the Marines were kicked out of China in 1949. The cache couldn’t possibly be there. And then the murders began. Someone else is after the cache. Knowing the cache must be real, Harry gets to China as member of the crew aboard the Swedish grain carrier, Otto J. Nurad. He saves the ship from sinking, tangles with the gorgeous blonde cook, Osa, finds love in Shanghai, and fights for his life in Tsingtao retrieving the cache.