by Robert Boucheron
Hambrick’s Lounge was decked with tinsel, which gave Malone something to scoff at. He sat at the bar, empty stools to each side. He drank draft beer, local brews with ridiculous names and gaudy logos. A shot of whisky now and then.
“I can hold my liquor,” he said to no one in particular. This was true. But years of sitting and drinking made his body soft, like bread dough.
“Alcohol is my sole indulgence,” he said. This was also true. Malone never traveled on vacation, ate at restaurants, went to the theater, or played golf. He had no sport like fly fishing to soak up time and money, no hobby like woodworking to demonstrate craft. He earned a decent salary and saved in a retirement account. That and equity in a bungalow gave him satisfaction. He took a miserly pleasure in figuring his net worth.
Thursday night, Hambrick’s featured karaoke. That and the first snow of the year kept the crowd light. Snow in Virginia disoriented drivers. They missed turns, dazed by the falling flakes, and skidded off the road.
At the microphone, a nervous young man in a windbreaker stood on a little square platform. A pin spot threw a harsh glare on a marionette body. The young man sang a sentimental ballad to orchestral accompaniment. Dean Martin recorded the song in the 1960s, in a voice of mellow bourbon, with flourishes only a professional should attempt.
“This guy can’t even find the pitch,” Malone said. His voice was harsh, and he smirked. “Never in a million years would I make a fool of myself like that.”
A few stools away, Jolene Pitt sat at the bar. Full-figured, in her thirties, she wore makeup, a hairstyle inspired by a flaming torch, and clothes to match, bright red and leopard print. And fine shoes. People admired feet, more than you might think. Show them what you’ve got. She was all about curves—bust, hips, calves, and a shapely instep.
Jolene observed Malone. He was dressed for the office, but rumpled and frayed, with stains here and there. Medium height, stocky, age forty or thereabouts. Dark hair parted on the side in a style he adopted in high school. He was pudgy and sallow. He smoked cigarettes in a needful way, as though he did not enjoy them. He cleared his throat and made noises of which he was unaware. Malone did not appeal to Jolene in any way, shape, or form. But pickings were slim on karaoke night.
The young man at the mic finished. At a table for four, three friends clapped. He stumbled off the platform and sat in the waiting chair. His friends congratulated him.
“What a relief!” Jolene said to Malone. She spoke in a high, sweet voice, like a girl.
“For him or the rest of us?”
Jolene smiled. Nothing could be more amusing than this remark. By way of a salute, she lifted an empty cocktail glass.
“Do you need another drink?”
“Why, thank you.” Jolene nodded at the bartender, who silently removed the empty glass and got busy behind the bar.
“My name is Jolene.”
“Like the Dolly Parton song?”
“Yes! I love her to pieces, don’t you? And your name is?”
“Dick Malone.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Malone. Do you live here?”
“Born and raised. My family owns a small factory in town.”
“That’s wonderful. A real family business!”
“I don’t work there. I’m a materials engineer at the foundry. I started right after college, Virginia Tech, and I’m still there.”
“That’s wonderful, too.”
“Maybe not. Haven’t you heard?”
“No. Tell me all about it.”
“The foundry is in trouble, businesswise. Declining sales, competition from China, obsolete product lines. Metal manufacturing is on the way out in the U. S. of A.”
“That’s terrible! You must be worried about your job.”
“Not a care in the world.”
“Oh, Mr. Malone, you’re teasing me.”
“Seniority. I’ll be the last man standing in the design department. And you can stop with the mister routine. Call me Dick.”
“All right, Dick. But what will you do if the foundry closes?”
“It may take years. When push comes to shove, I can always sell widgets.”
“What is a widget?”
“The family business makes parts for other products, like refrigeration equipment, walk-in freezers, central air systems. Widget doesn’t mean anything. It’s a joke.”
“Ah, I see.” Jolene didn’t see the joke at all. She scanned the room. The evening was going to be a bust, businesswise. She sampled her fresh cocktail. Over the rim of the glass, she raised her eyes at Malone. Under the circumstances, why not have a friendly chat? Jolene had a big heart. That was always her problem.
“Are you married, Dick?”
“Twenty years. I don’t wear a ring. It gets in the way. We have one daughter, Meghan. Smart as a whip and highly attractive.”
A young woman with bangs in her eyes, wearing loose jeans and a shapeless beige sweater, stepped up to the microphone and looked at the floor.
“Please don’t hate me. My friends made me do this.”
“Sing your heart out, Kate!” someone shouted.
The karaoke machine started to play folk guitar. Kate swayed in rhythm.
“I need to take a leak,” Malone said. He slid from the bar stool and fumbled for his wallet.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Jolene said.
“Likewise.” Malone slapped cash on the bar.
Jolene sipped her old-fashioned and watched his backside recede. On his feet, he was still a dumpy guy with poor posture. She liked them tall with a bit of swagger, men who flaunted their wealth and status. She found them at conventions, big city bars, and hotel lobbies. Hambrick’s Lounge was a roadside joint with downtown aspirations. Karaoke night was a mistake.
***
Shelly Garnett married Dick Malone after college, where they met. Twenty years ago, she was an attractive brunette, thoughtful and quiet. The freshness of youth went, but she kept her figure. The quiet manner sharpened to reticence.
Shelly’s college major was American History. Facts intrigued her, how to define and establish them, but no clear path lay ahead. Malone pursued her, and Shelly allowed the quick young man to catch her. In the lottery of life partners, they both won. They shared this opinion for several years. Shelly delayed a career until Meghan reached her teens. She then took a course at the local college in paralegal basics and found a job with a law firm. For five years, Shelly saved money, added to her skill set, and plotted her escape.
Malone was aware of Meghan’s successful transition from high school to college. He did not grasp the implication. Fun times with Shelly ended long ago, but all couples experienced a leveling off. He read that in a magazine. Shelly said he snored, so they had separate bedrooms. Apart from meals in the kitchen and television programs in the living room, they led separate lives. Shelly socialized with women her age, and Malone played poker with the guys for small stakes. They drank, smoked cigars, and watched televised sports.
Still dressed in the plain blouse and skirt she wore to work, Shelly waited in the living room on Thursday night, in an armchair facing the door. Malone was surprised. He brushed snow from his shoulders and hair.
“What are you doing, still up?”
“It’s not that late.” Shelly looked directly at him for a moment, to verify this was her husband, the man she must confront. “Please sit down.”
“Why?” Malone stood with the door key in his hand. He wore a winter coat, an old corduroy. The corner of a pocket was torn.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“So tell.”
“I rented an apartment. I’ll be moving out this weekend.”
“Just like that, you’re leaving?”
“It’s been a long time coming. You can’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
“What are you talking about?” Malone was sarcastic. “Everything is hunky dory.”
“Go ahead, mock me.”
“You could have given me some advance warning. Two weeks’ notice.”
“Like a maid? Don’t you see how awful that remark is?”
“No, I see a woman waiting in ambush in my own house.”
“How can it be an ambush? I live here.”
Malone sat in the chair nearest the door. It had a hard wooden seat and spokes for a back. It was a side chair, an early American reproduction, not meant for comfort. He felt blindsided. Yet as Shelly said, he couldn’t pretend.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Nothing. I can support myself. But I can’t live with you.”
“A separation, is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Up to now, Shelly had not given a name to it. “All I want is out.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“No, Dick. I was never able to stand up to you in verbal exchanges, so I stopped trying.”
“Tonight is different?”
“The end of the year is coming. Meghan is off to a good start at college. I owe it to myself to make a change. I want to make the best of the years I have left.”
“Well, bravo for you.”
“That’s all?”
“Now you want a discussion? You want to know what I think? I think you’re running away from a marriage instead of trying to fix it.”
“Marriage takes two, Dick. You checked out long ago.”
“Ridiculous. I come home every night. I pay the bills. I cut the grass in summer, rake leaves in the fall, and shovel snow in winter. I mulch.”
“You are not the man I married.”
Shelly heard this line somewhere and stored it for use. Said aloud, it sounded wrong. She tried again.
“Wait, that’s not true. You are. You have the same habits. You tell the same off-color jokes.”
“You used to laugh.”
“You wear the same clothes every day like a uniform.”
“When I find something that fits, I stay with it.”
“You oversleep and get dressed in a hurry and grab whatever is near to hand.”
“I don’t like to shop.”
“You’re still a twenty-year old at heart.”
“If I’m consistently invariable, no change from the man you promised to love and cherish forever, your point is?”
“There you go, Dick. I can’t argue with you. Real people grow and mature.”
“I suppose you’re a real person. No, wait! After twenty years, you’re still a shrinking violet.” He thought of the girl at the microphone, so shy and limp. “A dishrag.”
“What?” It was Shelly’s turn to be surprised.
“The modest young woman who never raises her voice but demands to be heard.”
This blow struck close to home. Shelly did not have a riposte ready.
“You could be more assertive. Instead of sneaking around behind my back, you could tell me to my face what’s wrong, what you want to see happen.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.”
“No, you’re walking out. Walking out of a house you are fifty percent responsible for. I don’t mean the mortgage, I mean the marriage.”
“A separation is not a divorce. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Is that what I’m doing? How likely is it after six months or a year you’ll want to pick up where we left off?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.”
“In the meantime, what am I supposed to do?”
“That’s entirely up to you, Dick.”
“Shelly, I don’t claim to be the perfect husband. Hell, I don’t even claim to be strong, kind, and graceful under pressure. I keep up with the news. I read. If people don’t like me, it’s because I’m intelligent.”
“It’s because you bore them.”
“I’m an engineer, and as you accurately noted earlier in this little heart-to-heart, the same man you married. Right now I’m tired, and it’s time for bed. Tomorrow is a work day.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“I totally get that, Shelly. Sweet dreams.”
Malone heaved himself up from the penitential seat and mounted the stair. A sleepless night awaited. Bad memories and unkept promises, his own and those made to him. He kept count. Here was another one to enter in the ledger.
***
Friday morning, the foundry buzzed. They talked about the snow. They complained the roads were poorly plowed. They predicted a hard winter. A few said the snow looked lovely as it fell through the still night air and covered the ground. The world changed from ugly to clean.
In the office building, where the engineers and product analysts had a floor, cubicles were vacant. The design department had shrunk. Manufacturing and sales were down, but not because of the business cycle. Active for more than a hundred years, the Hapsburg Iron Works had been sold for scrap.
Amalgamated Metals brought in a human resources consultant, an expert in letting people go. Lambert came from out of state. Aged anywhere from thirty to sixty, he wore a navy blazer, a dark necktie, a white shirt, and the somber air of a funeral director. Clean-shaven, his cheeks and chin were dark gray, as though smudged with charcoal.
Employees were summoned one by one to a small private office with no window. Lambert sat behind a bare desk, bare except for a pile of severance forms and a pen. He asked the employee to have a seat. In a smooth bass-baritone laced with concern he recited.
“The company thanks you for your valuable contribution over the years. World economic conditions have forced a re-evaluation of current needs in the number of staff. Good people will have to go. In accordance with state and federal labor laws, the company offers three options.”
The three options were calculated to shed payroll employees with as little cost to the company as possible. They resembled the options in a health insurance plan, where deductible amounts and percent of patient copay hung in an indecipherable balance. The employee checked a box and signed the form, then rose and left the windowless office. He or she returned shaken. No one knew who was on Lambert’s hit list.
This was also the date for the annual company holiday party. It took place in the afternoon in an open loft, a bare space with big windows and a plank floor in a former mill. Productivity normally suffered. This day was extra bad.
Malone had a hangover, but he coped. He could squeeze a productive hour or two from a day otherwise frittered away in staff meetings, phone calls, and group emails. Responsible for several projects, none of them urgent, he did year-end tasks. He saved a design detail from a project that was canceled. He archived files on completed projects. He updated files on current projects, their budget and timeline.
His own year-end review with the new department head Calloway started at eleven and lasted fifteen minutes. Calloway was fit and smartly dressed in suit and tie. About Malone’s age, he looked younger. Not an engineer per se but a corporate climber.
Calloway chided Malone for taking the maximum number of personal days. He admitted Malone met deadlines and produced what the customers wanted. The foundry was doomed, but Calloway was upbeat. He talked in clichés.
“We anticipate a first quarter rebound. Twelve months from now, the earnings outlook is substantially brighter.”
Calloway did not go into specifics. Malone suspected he knew more, but management told the executives to play dumb. He shook Calloway’s hand and left.
Malone used to drink coffee all day, but it soured his stomach. Now he stopped at lunchtime, filled the mug with water, and sipped that for the rest of the day. He took smoke breaks. He was often away from his cubicle.
At noon, Malone ducked out to the liquor store on Metzger Road. The snow had melted to slush, and the world was back to ugly. He bought a flask of vodka. Afraid of getting caught, he hid the booze in a desk drawer and poured it into his coffee mug.
A recent hire from Virginia Tech, John Shakewell also was an engineer. Shakewell was what Malone was twenty years before, minus the crudeness. On a toilet break after lunch, the young man stood at the urinal. He noticed scuffed shoes below a stall partition. Cigarette smoke wafted over the top.
“Dick?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Just checking. Are you okay?”
“Morale is in the toilet, and so am I.”
“It is hard to concentrate today.”
“For sure.” Malone’s speech was slurred. “Did you interview with Calloway?”
Shakewell disliked talking while relieving his bladder, and he disliked Malone, but the situation was social. “Yes, did you?”
“We chewed the fat. Everything is A-okay.”
“He hinted at a raise.”
“And you believed him?”
“Why would he lie?”
“Why do pigeons crap on the sidewalk?”
“At least we still have a job.”
“You and me, buddy.”
Shakewell flushed. When the rush of water subsided, Malone emerged. The two men washed hands side by side.
“Are you okay?” Shakewell asked again.
Malone looked haggard, on the verge of collapse. Then Shakewell noticed the flask in his pocket. He smelled alcohol. He hit the hand dryer with an elbow.
“You hear from Becky?” Malone asked over the roar.
The flight of Mrs. Shakewell soon after the wedding was common knowledge in Hapsburg. John deflected all attempts at prying and sympathy.
“Postcards.”
“From where?”
“Here and there.”
“How long since she left?”
“Four months.”
“You survived.”
Shakewell wondered what this was about. A conversation on his personal life with Malone in the toilet on Friday afternoon was low on his list of priorities. He left without looking back.
Malone saw himself in the mirror and grimaced.
“Way to go, champ. At this rate, you’ll be the life of the party. Cheers!”
He reached for the flask. It slipped from his hand and shattered on the tile floor. Malone fell to his hands and knees. He groped at shards of glass in a puddle of vodka. Cut and bleeding, he bawled like a baby.
Robert Boucheron is an architect in Charlottesville, Virginia, and the editor of Rivanna Review, a print quarterly and cable TV monthly, rivannareview.com. His short stories and essays appear in Alabama Literary Review, Bellingham Review, Fiction International, Literary Heist, Saturday Evening Post, and The Smart Set.