The Wheel, Part III "The Twenty Goes 'Round"

Anne had a way of appearing silently at exactly the moment when Frankie was apologizing to a customer for messing up a drink order or when the bartender was sneaking a broken glass into the trash. Anne’s glittery little eyes missed nothing, and the corners of her mouth perpetually pointed down.

      Frankie felt grateful to Anne for giving her the job at The Wheel—the hours were perfect for her class schedule—but, at the same time, she was a little afraid of her. Anne wasn’t the friendliest boss Frankie had ever worked for, and the only generosity Anne could be considered guilty of was letting her employees drink as much as they wanted the last half hour before closing. This was a mixed blessing, though, because Frankie and the others soon got very good at tossing down shots in that last half hour, and they often got so drunk so quickly that during clean-up, several glasses and, occasionally, a chair got broken. The replacement costs came out of their wages, and they went home most nights feeling sick and vaguely cheated.

     Anne’s gimlet eyes went immediately to the Indian. The bartender had just set another beer in front of the Indian when he saw Anne approaching. He took the dollar bill the Indian had placed on the bar and backed away quickly. A little fist of fear grabbed in Frankie’s chest.

      Anne stopped abruptly by the Indian’s bar stool. “You’ll have to leave,” she said sharply. The Indian looked from side to side slowly, not seeming to understand the words or even where they were coming from.

      “Leave. Now.” The words were authoritative, but not loud. Only Frankie and Mike and Gary and his friend at Table 3 heard. And the Indian. The other customers continued to laugh and talk and smoke. The Indian stared at Anne as if to read her lips.

      “Now. Get out.” Anne’s words flicked through the smoky air. The Indian stood up, still holding his beer, and peered at her through half-closed eyes.

      “Get out now, or I’ll call the police.” Anne reached past him and opened the side door of the bar. The Indian slowly turned to look around the room, as if for an ally or at least an explanation. His gaze passed over Gary and his friend and stopped on Frankie. She stood still, clutching her drink tray to her chest where the tightness made it hard to breathe.

      The Indian set his beer down carefully. Slowly, he moved away from the bar, pushed through the side door, and stepped out into the alley. Anne shut the door firmly and marched back to her office. She said nothing to either Frankie or the bartender. Frankie stepped back as Anne passed. Mike snatched up the Indian’s beer glass and wiped the bar where it had been. Gary and his friend sat in silence, Gary still red-faced and breathing heavily, his friend searching the pockets of his jacket nervously, his eyes cast down. The rest of the customers continued their talking and smoking.

      “Miss, can we get those drinks?”

      Frankie turned to the group at a table behind her. “Sure. Right away.” She gave their drink order to Mike without looking at him, and he filled it without comment. As she was distributing the drinks, she noticed Gary and his friend putting on their jackets. Thank God. Gary’s friend seemed to be trying to catch her eye, but Frankie looked away. She lingered at the other tables, carefully resetting glasses on fresh napkins. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gary’s friend leading him by the arm. They crossed the room, and the padded leather front doors swished closed behind them.

Finally, she returned to Table 3 to pick up the empty glasses. Gary had left a quarter, a dime, and two pennies as a tip.  Big spender. What a creep. Under a crumpled napkin where his friend had been sitting was a twenty-dollar bill. Frankie tucked the bill into her pocket. She carried her tray to the bar and emptied it. She put her hand back in her pocket and touched the twenty. “I’ll be right back, Mike.”

Frankie hurried to the side door, opened it, and stepped out into the alley. The night had turned cold; she could see her breath. The bulb over the door cast about half a block’s worth of light, and across the parking lot, the lights of the train depot glowed yellowy. The chunky shadows of the dumpsters made a black and grey checkerboard on the alley. 
      At first Frankie thought the alley was deserted, but then she heard a faint scraping noise to her left, and turning, she saw the Indian. He was leaning against a telephone pole, his head back and his eyes closed, the way she’d seen him standing at the bar.

      Frankie walked up to him slowly. Was he asleep? Passed out standing up? This close, his face was even bigger, and in the semi-dark, its colors were shades of grey and blue. The panels above his lips and between his eyes, his temples, the vast forehead and cheeks were all slate and cobalt and tungsten. She took the twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and held it out in front of her. “Excuse me.” The Indian didn’t move or open his eyes. She stepped closer and brushed the front of his jacket with the bill. “Excuse me. Ah, are you okay?” Still, he didn’t move.

      She extended a forefinger and gingerly touched the second button on the Indian’s jacket. Pressed lightly. Pressed harder. Suddenly, his big eyes snapped open. She jumped back. “Jeez, you scared me. Are you okay?” Frankie nodded toward the bar. “Hey, I’m really sorry about all that.”

      The Indian with the big face looked at her. He said nothing, and he didn’t look at the twenty-dollar bill.

      “Here, I thought maybe you could use this.” Frankie held the twenty out at arm’s length, as if offering scrap meat to an unfamiliar dog. “I’m sorry she was so rude to you.”

      The Indian still didn’t look at the twenty, but his hand came up from his side and took the bill. His huge eyes reflected the dim light flatly.

      “I gotta get back inside.” The Indian said nothing. “It’s cold. I’m still on shift.” Frankie backed away. “Well, goodnight,” she said, “thanks.” She paused with her hand on the knob of the side door. The Indian had gone back to his pose, big eyes closed, big face turned toward the sky. Frankie open the door of The Wheel and went inside.


*Photo of the train depot courtesy of Connie Rodriguez-Flatten, 2011

[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]

The Wheel, Part II "Come Here Often?"

“Two 7-and-7s. Doubles,” Frankie told the bartender.

      “For those guys? Looks like they've already had a few.”

      “Yeah.” Frankie swabbed her tray with a bar napkin. “They’re not regulars, I take it?”

      “Naw. I’d say engineers, from out at the nuclear site. You’ll get to know the regulars pretty quick. Give yourself a week or so.”

      In the week and a half she’d been waiting tables at The Wheel, most of the customers Frankie had indentified as regulars were railroad workers and bus drivers just off duty. The bus terminal and the railroad depot shared an alley and a parking lot with the bar, and Frankie guessed that The Wheel Club’s name came from one or both of those sources.

      Frankie took the doubles Mike handed her and returned to Table 3. The short man smiled when she set the drinks on their table. “M’name’s Gary. What’s yours, Sugar?”

      “We’re celebrating,” said Gary’s friend, not waiting for her answer.

      “Oh? Celebrating what?”

      The thin man pointed at Gary. “Promotion.”

      “Well, congratulations, Gary. Can I bring you anything else?”

      “Just keep those doubles coming, Sugar.” Gary pointed at the Indian. “Can you believe that one? Looks like he’s about to howl at the moon.” Frankie glanced again at the Indian. He was still standing with his head thrown back, but as the bartender placed a beer in front of him, he lowered his gaze and looked into the mirror in back of the bar. Frankie could see his big face clearly without staring at him directly. It was still astonishing.

      Frankie swiped her bar towel over imaginary moisture on the table, then took the fifty-dollar bill Gary’s friend held out to her. “I’ll haveta get change. Back in a minute.”

      Gary gulped his drink and clapped the glass down sharply. “Bring another pair of doubles when you do, Sugar.”

      Frankie took her time returning to their table. She first made the rounds of the other customers, replacing napkins and emptying ashtrays. Things were picking up a little, getting fairly busy for a Thursday night, and she worried that she wouldn’t be able to handle it all. This was only the third night that she’d been on a shift by herself. At least Mike’s ‘tending tonight. He’ll help out if it gets too bad.

      A few more customers came in, and gradually, the noise in the bar increased, conversation and laughter completely overtaking the piped-in music. The air grew blue-grey with smoke. Someone dropped a glass, and Frankie hurried to clear the pieces away.

      When she returned with two more drinks and the change from the fifty, Gary didn’t wait for her to serve him, but grabbed his drink from her tray. “So, d'you come here often?” he said around gulps of liquor. Both men laughed.

      “I don’t know what you mean. I work here.”

      “Yeah, but do you cum here often?” The men laughed again, harder. Frankie turned away. “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” Gary half rose from his chair, but his friend pulled him back down.

      Drunk. Frankie moved off quickly to another table. She concentrated on the new drink order. “Two Scotch and sodas, Black Jack straight up water chaser, Long Island ice tea, two vodka screwdrivers,” she repeated. Two Scotch and sodas, Black Jack straight up water chaser, Long Island ice tea, two vodka screwdrivers she chanted on her way back to the bar. Two Scotch and sodas, Black Jack straight up water chaser, Long Island—

      “Hey, Sugar!” As she passed his table, Gary’s arm snaked out, pulling her off balance. Frankie fell against him, knocking her shin on the edge of his chair. Gary circled her waist with both arms and pulled her onto his lap. “Le’s wrassle,” he said, “I’ll let you win.”

      “Knock it off. Let me up.” Frankie twisted in Gary’s lap and pushed hard against his chest. Where was Mike? Over her shoulder she could see the bartender talking to a customer, his back to Frankie.

      “Come on, Gar’. Leave her alone.” The thin man pulled on Gary’s arm, but Gary shook off his friend’s hand.

      “Come on, Sugar. First a little kissee,” panted Gary, “then a little—“ His voice rose sharply. “Hey, man, le’go!” Gary suddenly released Frankie, and she nearly slid to the floor. She caught herself on the edge of the table and stood up. 
      The Indian with the big face was standing just behind Gary, one large, friendly-looking hand on Gary’s shoulder, as if to congratulate him. But the collar of Gary’s shirt gaped away from his neck, and his pale flesh was quickly reddening under the Indian’s grip.

     “Hey, man, let go,” Gary repeated, but this time his voice was less belligerent, almost polite. The Indian let go. He watched while Frankie retrieved her tray and backed away. Then he turned and mounted his barstool again, his back to Table 3 and the rest of the room.

      As Frankie turned away from the table, she saw that Anne, The Wheel’s owner, had come out of her office behind the bar. Frankie held her breath and hoped that Anne, like Mike and apparently all the other customers, hadn’t noticed the trouble.


*Photo of the bus depot sign courtesy of Connie Rodriguez-Flatten, 2011

The Wheel, Part I "The Indian with the Big Face"

The Indian had the biggest face Frankie had ever seen. He came in the side door of The Wheel Club and stood for a moment, rocking on his heels and blinking. He was tall, and his chest was massive,but that wasn’t what Frankie noticed first. It was the face. The forehead and cheeks were huge, rosy, waxy planes. The eyes were large and black, the nose beaky. Not only were the lips overfull, but they stretched long across his face, and Frankie imagined what the teeth must be like. The better to eat you with, my dear, she thought.

      Frankie realized she was gawking, so she turned to an empty table and began loading glasses and sticky beer bottles onto her tray. He must be that Myers guy that Mike told me about. She carried the crowded tray to the bar where the bartender helped her clear it.

      “Two scotch and sodas for Table 5 and a rum and Coke.”

      “Check," said Mike. He flipped three clean glasses from the rack, somersaulting them onto the bar with both hands, then filled them from bottles and spigots in effortless, twin movements.

      “Thanks.” Frankie leaned far over the bar. “Mike, is that the guy who does the coyote call?” she asked in a low voice.

      Mike flicked a look at the Indian with the big face. “Yeah, that’s him. Myers Somebody. I’m surprised he’s back. Wait’ll Anne sees him. She’ll have a shit fit.”

      Frankie frowned. “He doesn’t look all that drunk.”

      “He’s not. Doesn’t matter.”

      Frankie shook her head. "I don’t get it.” She lifted her tray of drinks from the bar. As she made her way from the couple at Table 5 to the lone drinker at Table 8, she kept an eye on the Indian. By now, he had claimed a barstool by the door. His haunches overhung the stool, and he braced himself with one leg on the floor. His hands gripped the edge of the bar like a non-swimmer grips the pool edge in the deep end. His eyes were closed, and his head was thrown back so that his long black hair fell straight away from his big face.

Two men in white shirts--one thin, one short--each with his suit jacket slung over a shoulder, pushed open the padded leather doors of The Wheel’s front entrance and stood peering around. The thin man clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His voice rang loudly over the Muzak that piped from small speakers just above their heads. “Sorry, Gar’. I haven’t been in this dump for a long time. This used to be a rockin’ place to go in town.”

      “Well, nothin’s rockin’ here tonight, pal. Let’s try the Bourbon Barrel.”

      “In a minute. Long as we’re here, let’s get another drink. Might as well have one in each place.”

      The two men crossed the room and claimed seats at Table 3, near the bar. The thin man pulled out a chair and hung his jacket over the back of it. His friend did the same, but his jacket promptly slid off onto the floor, the sleeve catching on one rung of the chair. He didn’t notice. He snapped his fingers in Frankie’s direction.

      “Hey, Sugar! Can we get a drink over here?”

      Frankie placed a cocktail napkin in front of each man. “What’ll you have?”

      “Two 7-and-7s. No,” the short man grinned, “make that two double 7-and-7s.”

      “Hell, make that two triple 7-and-7s,” said his friend.

      “No, make that two septuple 7-and-7s.” They guffawed at their own joke.

      “How ‘bout we start with doubles,” said Frankie. “Be right back.” As she turned to the bar, she could hear the two men snorting and laughing, and she thought she heard the short one say, “Nice ass.” Jerks, she thought.


*Photo of the Chief Theatre mosaic courtesy of Connie Rodriguez-Flatten, 2011