“So, just how do you suppose record players really work?” Mike’s lips press the lukewarm Old Style, its aluminum taste forces him to wonder tonight’s count.
“You drop the needle in the groove, dickbrain.”
“No, like, how they work.”
“Are we actually doing this?”
“You’ve got a needle and you’ve got this black disk, right?”
“Black disk.”
“Put the two together and all of a sudden, Jim Croce’s in my house?”
“Apartment.”
“Come again?”
“It’s an apartment, Mike.”
“Come on, Andrew, y’know what I mean.” Mike shifts in his seat, feeling his legs drift with pins and needles playfully jabbing at his thighs. “That’s what they’ll have you believe though, right?”
“That’s what they’ll have you believe.”
“Bullshit.”
The two men toss aside their empty cans, stand from the grated park bench, and start down Gilman Trail. Their work boots slosh in the fresh dew until eventually reunited with the autumn pavement. Metal and flint kick twice and the cigarettes light.
Neither Mike nor Andrew has ever considered himself a smoker. The damned thing was that neither one ever got around to telling the other about his disdain for waking up in the morning with ash on the tongue.
Andrew takes a drag, “So what’s all this about records anyway?”
“Just shooting the breeze.” Mike stumbles and looks back at the road behind him for a broken branch to blame.
“‘Just shooting the breeze?’ Who are you, John Wayne?”
“People say it.”
“I’ll bet they do— just not us is all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look around, pal. Do you see any horses or gunslingers around here?”
Mike ditches the butt of his Marlboro into the grass. “Not a whole lot of horses, but Don Walker’s did get held up yesterday.”
“Completely on the other side of town— and that’s beside the point, man. I’m just saying that Syracuse is about as far away from Hang ‘Em High as it gets.”
“Hang ‘Em High’s Clint Eastwood though.”
“Fuck off, Mike.” Andrew extends the pack of Cowboy Killers.
Footsteps trudge down Mitchell Street. A newspaper truck pushes past.
“I was just shooting the breeze is all.”
Andrew chokes mid-inhale.
Three hours after pondering the inner-workings of his stereo system, Mike rises from his barebones mattress. He cocks his head to the side and cracks the necessity for a box spring out of his neck. He runs his hand over crusted eyes, past the brim of his nose, and scratches across his three-day beard. It doesn’t take too long before he hears his own head pulsating, radiating with heat. He knows just the remedy.
His shoulders push forward heaving his weight onto the tile flooring. He adjusts his boxers and opens a mini-refrigerator/nightstand to find a packet of American cheese, a yellowing bottle of orange juice, and a quarter-full fifth of JTS Brown Bourbon. He sets the fifth atop the fridge next to his coffeemaker and reaches back inside for the juice. Mike unscrews the cap, sips, then recoils.
He turns to his hamper and pulls out yesterday’s jeans and his dusted-over work flannel. He gets dressed, laces up his Caterpillar boots, then moves back to the fridge to fill a thermos with yesterday’s coffee and the remainder of his bourbon. Mike caps the thermos and glances back at his two-room shack
When he first moved in during the summer of 1978 after a nasty break-up, Mike found his place to be insufferable. The eggshell white walls edged him in and even the pair of compact windows couldn’t help him in catching a single breath; not that he’d want to open them anyhow. Neighboring his first-floor apartment was Rothstein’s Candles. While living near a candle shop may not sound as terrible as say, living near an automotive factory, the constant smell of vanilla and lilacs began to cloud Mike’s sinuses like that of burning rubber. Mike appreciated that at least burning rubber didn’t try to mask itself.
After a not-so-ideal first week of smelling candles and staring at walls, he figured he ought to spruce up the place. He started with some of the key new bachelor ingredients: Led Zeppelin IV and Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ posters, a hanging fern, a crockpot from his mother, and a compact refrigerator from a secondhand shop near Andrew’s house.
Mike met Andrew on his first day working for Gould Construction. Around that time, Mike was still fresh-faced and considered an honest two beers a day to be plenty. He lived with his girlfriend Emily in an apartment that nestled neatly between Syracuse’s campus and Westcott Park. If you asked him where he saw himself in five years, Mike would allude to a redbrick home, a manicured lawn, a black-haired boy, and his wife Emily, who would occasionally prod him about his brief stint in construction. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d make his fortune by then, given the denial of his college admission— he only hoped it would be something music-related.
On Mike’s first day with Gould, Emily dropped him off steps away from the job site at I-81’s overpass renovation. The entire drive over, Mike begged for Emily to let him out at least two hundred yards away from the area to avoid any possible first-day hassle. Emily only laughed and warned him not to be so fussy around his co-workers.
When they pulled up to the site, eyeballs stayed glued to the couple’s shared F-150. Mike opened the door and let his crisp boots fall to the asphalt. Before he could shut the door, the call of Emily’s “Go get ‘em, Tiger!” had already caught the ears of everyone in the surrounding area. Andrew laughed, but he was the only one of the crew who didn’t double over in doing so.
As Mike passed his crew mates, they all hooped and hollered after him, some even slapping him on the back. Andrew was last in the line and decided to toss in a quick, “Hey, don’t let them get to you, man.”
Mike only scoffed and brushed past.
Two months later, during a lunch break, Andrew found Mike eating alone. Mike looked up from his peanut butter and banana sandwich and caught a little smirk from Andrew.
“Hey, Mike.”
“What’s going on?”
“Old lady kicked you out, huh?”
Mike looked up, “How’d you figure that?”
“Doesn’t take much,” Andrew reached into his flannel pocket and pulled a withering pack of cigarettes. “Just noticed that she hasn’t been around to drop you off in a while.”
Mike couldn’t help but ask himself who the hell this guy thought he was.
Andrew pushed a cigarette between his lips and extended the box to Mike, who waved his hand, declining the enticing offer.
“Plus, y’know,” Andrew muffled through the cigarette as he rummaged his pockets for matches, “All the guys have been complaining about the lack of material they’re getting to make fun of you now.”
Mike took a sizable bite from the sweating sandwich.
“So are you guys splitsville, or what?” Andrew had given up on searching for the matches and let the unlit cigarette dangle from his lips.
“Not exactly. There are a lot of moving parts.”
Andrew scrunched his nose. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
A truck’s backing up sound called across the site.
“Well, listen, if you’ve found a new place already, I’ve got a decent secondhand shop within spittin’ distance of my place— they’ve got just about all you’ll need as far as pots and pans are concerned.” Andrew cracked, “Maybe they’ll even have a little fridge or something to help keep those beers you’re drinking cold enough.”
Forcing a, “Oh, that’s great. Thanks, Andrew,” Mike pulled a Zippo from his pocket and handed it to Andrew.
Andrew nodded and a smile creaked out from behind the Marlboro. “So, Saturday?”
“What?”
“We’ll go pick everything up on Saturday?”
Mike cocked his head. “I’m not so sure, I think I’ve got a—“
“Come on, we’ll grab a few beers beforehand.”
That Saturday, after several beers followed by hauling in Mike’s new refrigerator, Andrew noted the apartment’s lack of a turntable and albums. Rather than go into meticulous detail in telling Andrew about his old setup being held hostage by his former love, Mike only shrugged. Andrew suggested that Mike take his old AIWA setup and a few starter records (Springsteen’s Born to Run, Jim Croce’s I Got a Name, and Bread’s On the Waters) since he was in the market for a new Pioneer system anyways. Mike presumed this to be the moment where he and Andrew became honest friends.
Now four hours post-Hang ‘Em High debate, Mike’s rusted-out Ford groans into its gravel-ridden parking spot at the Matheson Medical Centre construction site. He checks his watch and shuts his eyes if only for just a moment of rest—
Clink-Clink
Mike opens his eyes to find the site manager Tom Leone hosting a scornful look as he raps at the truck’s driver-side window with his metal thermos. Mike shakes the greasy black hair from his eyes and grabs his hard hat. As he approaches the site, the sounds of scathing metal and falling brick shine an even brighter light on his hangover. Before he can regain composure, Mike walks directly into an ambush.
“Heya, Michael! Running a little late today, huh?” Richie Corver blocks Mike’s path.
Mike doesn’t hate Richie— actually, far from it. If anything, he just feels embarrassed for the kid. Construction just hasn’t caught up to him yet like it has the other guys.
Richie still shows up to work with tight blue jeans and a near-spotless plaid shirt.
“Hey, Rich.”
“Say, Michael, you wouldn’t happen to be doing anything this weekend, would ya?”
“Oh, I’m not too sure I—“
“Because I’m having a barbecue on Saturday afternoon, if you can make it! The Mrs. really wants to meet all of you guys. She says, ‘If you’re out there risking your life with these gentlemen then I ought to give them each a talking to!’ Isn’t she just a riot?”
Mike feels the nausea coming on strong. He needs to get out of here. He gives Richie a weak slap on the back and does his best half-chuckle, “You’re a lucky, lucky man Rich.”
Three more steps and Mike is ambushed yet again. This time, the voice belongs to Andrew, who looks considerably better off than Mike at this particular moment. While Andrew’s supposed “superpower” of zero hangovers can be attributed to his sturdy 6’4 frame and years of high school wrestling, Mike prefers to call it: “Dumb luck.”
“Looking a little blue around the gills today, Mikey.”
Mike manages a grumble, “Yeah, and talking to Richie sure didn’t help me any.”
“Oh, come off it. You were the exact same five years ago. People don’t forget.”
Mike throws Andrew a side-eyed glare.
“I mean, you oughta be into this barbecue thing— Sounds right up your alley.”
Mike ignores this and cracks his thermos. He hopes that continuing the bender will postpone his current hell for just an hour longer. He draws his lips to its cold metal and gags.
Andrew’s nose crinkles in on itself. “Jesus, Mikey. Going good with the kerosene this morning. I can smell it from here.”
With one eye closed in an attempt to force the gulp of Irish coffee down, Mike fumbles, “Hair of the dog.” He raises the thermos for another.
Before Mike can struggle another swig, Andrew sternly forces the brew away. “Put that fuckin’ thing down, Mike. ‘Hair of the dog’s’ a Sunday afternoon bloody Mary, not a Tuesday morning whiskey.”
Mike regains control of the thermos. “I’m hurtin’ today. I just need this one.”
“Need’s a tough word, pal.”
A call for Andrew cuts through the surrounding beams. He turns, waving and signaling to the caller that he’d be right there. He looks to Mike again, opens his mouth to say something, but instead flashes a look of pity. The nails and gravel crunch beneath his feet as he leaves his friend behind.
Lunch comes around at 12:30 and contrary to his ‘hair of the dog’ theory, Mike is much worse off than he was in the morning. He refuses to touch his pail, knowing well that whatever he forces down will return with minimal effort.
As everyone begins to toss their scraps and return to work, Mike and Andrew hang back. Holding himself steady against a girder, he feels the spins coming on.
Andrew stands guard for his friend, ensuring that Tom Leone doesn’t catch Mike twice in one shift.
“Mikey, just go on home,” Andrew says.
Between gags, Mike chokes, “Can’t. I’ll ge- get canned.”
“I’ll cover your third floor. This is just unbearable, man.”
Feeling guilt rattle his empty stomach, Mike asks, “Are you sure?”
“Of course. They always seem to give you the cushy jobs anyways.” Andrew kicks a little dust with his boots.
Mike looks up and manages a smile. “Asshole.”
“Go on, get out of here man.”
Mike heads down to the gravel lot.
Once in his truck, Mike pushes the hardhat off from his head and onto the seat beside him, then turns the ignition. The jangling keys rattle his brain. Mike throws up one more time— it splatters his passenger seat, missing his hardhat by inches. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel and pushes the truck into reverse.
Mike pushes open his apartment door and tosses his keys onto the mattress. He stumbles towards his pile of records in the opposite corner of the room and pulls I Got a Name. He leaves it A side up and lets the needle fall into the groove. Mike shifts towards the bathroom. He turns the faucet and cold water runs over a pale blue washcloth, he then drapes it across his face. Feeling the spins coming back on, Mike grabs a seat in front of the toilet. He leans his head onto the glass shower door to his right and drifts off.
Mike wakes to the clanging of his phone. Almost immediately, he realizes that his hangover has passed— This kind of ringing should have sent him directly back to the toilet. He removes the once-soaked towel from his forehead and tosses it into the sink. He makes his way out of the bathroom and towards the phone. He squints at the window and is greeted by an orange autumn sunset. Mike grabs the phone from the wall.
“Hello?”
“Michael?”
Only one person in his day-to-day life called him Michael. Mike closes his eyes and exhales, “Hey, Richie.”
“Michael.” Richie’s usual pep is nowhere to be found.
“What’s going on Rich?”
A breath crosses the lines, “Andrew, Michael.”
The usual hum of passing cars from outside Mike’s window falls dead. “What about him?”
“He’s hurt bad.”
Mike feels his neck begin to sting. Sitting still only sharpens the tension. He picks up the phone’s base and paces the bone tile flooring. “Hurt how?”
“He’s over at St. Rita’s now. He landed on hi—“
Landed?
“Sorry, say that again, Rich?”
“Landed. He fell off of the scaffolding on floor three. We didn’t even know what he was doing up there. He’s been assigned to first-floor interior all week.”
Silence befalls Mike’s end. He wants to move his lips. He wants to make the words, but he doesn’t dare. Something has caught in his throat and his dry, scratched lips need to be hydrated. He looks over to his bedside for the thermos but realizes it’s still in his truck.
“You there, Mike?”
“Landed how?”
“On his back. Near the base of his neck, I think.”
Flesh now sears. Pacing doesn’t help. Mike holds the phone in the crook of his neck and steadies himself with hands on the refrigerator.
“Tell me what’s happening right now.”
“He was still in surgery last I checked. He’s supposed to be in there ’til morning. Listen, I—”
“Have you heard anything yet?”
“Just chatter.”
“Okay, what chatter?” Mike’s eyes fall down his sleeves and onto his wristwatch. Fourteen hours post-Hang ‘Em High. He wonders if the beer cans are still littered across the path.
This time it’s Richie’s turn to take the vow of silence.
“Rich.”
The sound of Richie’s grinding teeth can’t hide on the line.
“It’s no good. It’s no good, Mike.”
“What’re you saying? Wheelchair?”
“Maybe. They said he’ll be lucky to make it out and even luckier if he walks.”
His whole body is set ablaze amidst the shadow-cast room. “You’re not at St. Rita’s right now, are you?”
“I had to head back to see the wife. I think Tom left around the same time. He’s the one who found him, you know? Never seen someone so shaken before.” Richie’s breath rattles across the line.
Mike’s imagination can only push the vision of Andrew’s bloodied, entangled mass to the forefront of his thoughts. A jolted yelp from Tom Leone bounces the walls of the apartment.
Mike squeezes his eyes shut and presses his head firm against the plaster wall. “Thank you, Richie.”
Mike holds his position against the wall. He wants to scream out, but his throat has collapsed in on itself. He wants to put his fist through the wall, but his foot to the base of the refrigerator will do. The box rattles, dancing on all four of its corners. The empty bottle of JTS Brown falls, then shatters. Mike looks at the glinting pieces of glass at his feet. His fingers tremble and his mouth waters. All for the prospect of a drink.
The second the thought enters his head, he regrets it. He begs and prays forgiveness.
His fingers rapidly drum alongside his dusted jeans.
Unable to drum fast enough, the fingers curl, balling a fist, and are sent promptly through the yellowing drywall. Mike screams, clutching his hand. He slinks down to the carpet, keeping his eyes from the shattered bottle.
From behind the shelter of the mangled, trembling fingers, he hears a soft crackling from the speakers beside him. The sound brings him to drifting embers. He looks at his turntable and finds the needle patiently waiting atop the midnight ABC Records label. He motions for the record’s sleeve, then pauses. He turns back to the player, lifts the stylus, and brings it back to the side. Mike picks up the album with the tips of his fingers and flips it. The needle falls back into the groove and somewhere, a guitar swells into “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song.”
Mike crosses the room and for the first time in years, unlatches the windows. He breathes in the pavement, the sunset, the candle shop. He finds his broom and dustpan and pulls a garbage can from under the sink. He sweeps the glass shards and brown paper label into the dustpan, then dumps it.
Mike’s rusted Ford coughs and sputters out from the driveway and past Rothstein’s. He can still smell the puke embedded in his front seat and draws back, disgusted. He cranks his windows down and prays the stench leaves soon.
As the truck drags its way down I-81, closer and closer to St. Rita’s, Mike’s grip around the bonded leather steering wheel tightens. His eyes travel from the whitened knuckles and over to the speedometer. He wonders how many people have ever been pulled over for going below the limit. He promises himself that he’s not dragging, only being careful. After all, the last thing Andrew would want is Mike in the hospital bed next to him.
St. Rita’s parking lot fractures and crumbles beneath the tires and the headlights swing into a spot at its farthest end. Mike’s cracked, matted-down boots fall to the ground and the driver’s side door creaks and then clicks shut.
He looks at the building’s flat, gray exterior. The majority of the fixture’s windows hold a dark, unblinking stare. From the outside, St. Rita’s appears somber tonight, maybe even hopeful. Mike shakes his head, feeling certain of the anguish that dwells within.
His knees weaken as he holds onto the truck’s tailgate, displacing all of his weight onto its bed. A beaten, even bludgeoned Andrew awaits him.
The worst part of all, Mike thinks, is that Andrew won’t be upset. He’ll tell Mike that it was nobody’s fault but his own, and probably even crack a joke through tubes and entanglement. How could he even respond to something like that and act like it wasn’t completely and utterly his own fault?
The lobby doors open across the way and an older man shuffles into the parking lot, head bowed and back hunched. Mike laughs to himself, wondering who he’s here to see at this hour. As the thought carries further, though, the grin recedes from his face. Regardless of who the old man is here to see, it’s not good news. Wife, son, daughter, or friend, not good.
Mike watches the old man putter across the lot and towards an Oldsmobile, its silver finish glinting beneath a light fixture. The man stops and huddles into his coat. Mike crooks his neck from behind his truck’s tailgate for a better view, but cannot see any more than the old man rummaging through his pockets. He squints his eyes, unblinking and entranced by the old man. From his muddled shape, metal and flint kick twice and the lone cigarette lights. The door of the Oldsmobile opens and clicks shut. The car backs away from its spot near the hospital doors and slinks off into the night.
Mike pats down his front and back jean pockets, then up to the frayed flannel pocket. Realizing that he doesn’t have a pack of Marlboros for himself and Andrew, he steps back from St. Rita’s glass doors, climbs back into the Ford, and turns the ignition.