Souvenir Read Online Free PDF Page B

An easy walk after a hard day on the factory floor, downhill, lunch pails swinging, their time their own. When they turned the corner, Clay knew he wouldn’t be getting a gold watch one day from New Departure. The sign said two things. Jake’s Tavern, and For Sale.
    He hadn’t blown his back pay when he got out of the army, like a lot of guys. He got a job the first day he was in town, and opened a bank account on the second, so the down payment wasn’t a problem. He always told the story about the sign like it was a smart business move, but he knew. He knew in a place deep inside him, almost lost to him, that this was Jake’s Tavern, and that sign was never coming down.
    He got up, pushing back on the chair so it moved on its wheels, hitting the wall behind him with a clatter. Little things like getting out of a chair were starting not to be hard, exactly, but not easy, either. Clay looked down at himself and wondered when he had gotten thicker, lower to the ground. He shook his head as he dialed the telephone on his desk and got Cheryl at home. He asked her to come in early and finish opening up for him. He hated calling her, since he knew she didn’t want to come in and would be sure to let him know what a burden it was. Since she made her real money in tips, and tipping customers were rare before lunch, all it meant to her was a lot of extra work for a little dough.
    “Clay, can’t you get someone else? I ain’t ready yet.”
    “C’mon, Cheryl, you know there isn’t anyone else. I’m real backed up here. Please?”
    He could hear the TV on in the background as the announcer intoned, “The Edge…of Night”. He knew he was in trouble. Cheryl loved her soaps, and if she started watching this one, he’d never get her in.
    “There’s a five-spot in it for you. I’ll leave it on the bar.”
    “Okay, Clay. I’ll be right over.” Cheryl knew the difference between business and pleasure. Pleasure didn’t pay the bills. It was one of the things Clay admired about her. He put down the phone and walked into the barroom, slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar and set an ashtray on top of it.
    Loading his station wagon, Clay felt something nag at his mind. Petey? Wonder if he was okay or not. Petey was a regular guy, an okay guy, someone you could shoot the breeze with for a while, and then he was gone, until the next time. Dependable, like a good alarm clock. But this Al character. A punk. The more Clay thought about him holding the envelope and looking at him, the less he liked it. Something wasn’t quite right with that one.
    He sorted the cartons into the order he needed, then shut the rear door. He checked the lock on the back door, got in the car and turned the key. It turned, turned, trying to start. He switched off. Easy, don’t flood it. It’s only a ‘58, for chrissakes, it shouldn’t be conking out this way. Clay slammed his hand against the steering wheel, feeling himself bounce on the bench seat, anger vibrating his body. He blew out air from his lungs and shook his head, like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water. He wanted to wrench the key forward and slam his foot on the gas, will the damn thing to start.
    He didn’t. He smoothed his hair, arched his head back, twisted his neck so it cracked. He reached up to the steering wheel, gently this time, to coax the car into starting. The Chevy Belair wagon was a good car for his job, lots of room for cigarettes and his tools. It was two-toned blue, and he kept it washed and waxed, nice and clean, the way he liked it. He ran his second business out of it, so it had to look good. It was his calling card.
    He turned the key again, and the engine started right away, no hesitation. One of life’s little pleasures, a car starting up when you need it to. The kind of thing you take for granted until it doesn’t happen. He backed down the narrow driveway, pulled out and headed for his first stop. City Hall, a couple of blocks away. He didn’t worry