Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 2

Chapter Two

House of Pain tip-toed gingerly down West Main Street at a pace that was almost negligible. Many years before, the youth of Serena, Ohio had bestowed that title, House of Pain, upon Marvin Payne precisely because of this excruciatingly slow manner of walking. And because he was as big as a house.

Phil Rowley was stopped at the light where Main intersects with Church. Spotting him as he was about to step off the curb and cross in front of him, Phil bet himself that the light would change to green just as House arrived at the bumper of his truck. At this pace, by the time he was clear of Phil's rusty green Ford pickup, the light would have changed again.

"Can't you move any faster than that?" he called out his window when House finally did step in front of the truck. Phil immediately realized his mistake.

House stopped and turned to face Phil's vehicle, apparently noticing it for the first time. The light over his head turned to green. He smiled in recognition of the driver as if the light had actually gone on inside his head instead of above it.

Am I in a goddam cartoon? Phil wondered. In his dirty green and white Oakland A's cap, his long-sleeve black and white vertically striped shirt, buttoned up to the neck, except for where a button or two was missing in the area of his considerable belly, his loose fitting, dirty gray sweat pants and his fuzzy red house slippers, House, indeed, resembled a bizarre Disney-like rendition of Tweedle Dum, or perhaps a Tweedle Dee who hadn't shaved in two or three days.

"Damn, House, ain't you got no sense at all? This is the hottest day of the summer!"

"Mama says..." House seemed to forget what she said, but he knew she said something and it had to do with his outfit.

A car horn sounded behind Phil's truck. "Get in!" He figured it would be the fastest way to get moving again.

By the time the big man climbed into the truck, the light had gone red again and a whole line of cars and trucks was honking behind him.

"You reffing somewhere?" Phil kidded, examining House's shirt.

The younger man was almost Phil's son's age, a few years younger. Phil had known him all of his thirty-two years. If he didn't understand something, and that meant most things, he wouldn't respond at all. He stared forward, that same dumb smile frozen on his face. The story around town was that his Mama had dropped him on his head the day she brought him home from the hospital and he was never right after that. The very next day, his father, Marvin Payne, Sr., moved out West to work on the pipeline and was never heard from again. Phil had his own ideas on the subject. House's mother probably should have sued the hospital. He'd seen the anesthesiologist in the Blue Moon Tavern, earlier on the day House was born, three sheets to the wind.

The light changed. Phil ground the Ford into first gear and continued straight ahead on Main. "Where you headed, Marvin?"

House looked at him quizzically. No one ever called him Marvin. Even his mother had taken to calling him House.

"So, where's it gonna be?" Phil asked, again. "The library, the college...?"

"Damn, Phil. You know I don't read." House had finally gotten one of Phil's barbs. Phil was pleased. "You going plumbing, Phil? I could go with you..."

"I'm retired now, Marvin. Don't you remember?"

Five years before, Phil had turned his modest plumbing business over to his son. He had envisioned functioning as a sort of unpaid advisor until his help was no longer needed. But his son had had other ideas. Soon the business had begun to thrive as it never had. Whereas Phil had limited his clientele to town and had usually employed but one helper, his son expanded throughout the entire county and now had a half-dozen licensed plumbers scurrying about in neat red and white vans with a snappy logo painted on the sides. He had a half-page ad in the yellow pages and two thirty second spots a day on the radio - and no time for his old man. As the business had grown, inside Phil, there had grown a mixture of pride and abandonment. There was never anything for him to do when he stopped by the shop. He even had to go through a receptionist to get to see his son, if his son had time to see him, that is. Sometimes he felt as useless as tits on a bull.

They were at the center of town where Main crosses Toledo. Phil stopped for the light and, as he always did when he passed through town, he surveyed the damage. In the spring of 1975, three twisters had crossed paths and linked up, forming one large unusual tornado with winds that behaved contrary to the science of the times. It leveled much of Serena. The courthouse, the bank, the post office and a dozen or so of the two and three story brick and stone buildings were still standing. The only new buildings were in a strip-mall which, by some developer's twisted imagination, had been named Serena Towne Square. The rest was parking lots, small municipal lots, here and there, free parking, where buildings had been destroyed by the big tornado twenty-five years before and never rebuilt. The town had taken the land for taxes and paved it over because there was nothing else to do with it. No one wanted to pump money into a critically wounded town. Only that one developer had taken a chance and he'd gone under because of it. Half the stores in the new strip mall remained unrented.

"This is where I turn." Phil said.

"You want me to get out?"

"Lest you want to go to the Blue Moon..." Phil was counting on him saying no.

"Ain't never been to the Blue Moon." House made no move to budge from the truck.

"All right, come on along then." This ought to be interesting, Phil thought. "I'll buy you a beer."

"Mama said..." A dark look crossed House's face. It wasn't so much that he couldn't remember enough to finish the sentence this time as it was that what he did remember was along the lines of a warning. It quickly passed, however, replaced by the same confused smile. House wasn't used to folks being nice to him, although Phil had always been kinder than the others. And Phil must have passed that on to his son, too, because young Philly had never teased him like the other boys had when they were growing up.

The Blue Moon Tavern was a white stucco cinder block road house out by the by-pass. Inside it was cool and dark. House had heard of the Blue Moon, seen it from the road, but he'd never been inside. Now he understood why they called it the Blue Moon. It seemed like it was always night time here. A blue haze of cigarette smoke hung low over the bar like clouds back-lit by a blue neon sign, the meaning of which House couldn't understand. The letters looked like this: L I T E.

"Who's this you got with you?" the bartender, Freddie Edwards, asked Phil as he wiped the bar in front of the two stools the men had taken.

"This is House, Mona Payne's boy," Phil said.

"How're the A's doin' this year?" Freddie tried to be polite.

"Huh?" House didn't have a clue who the Oakland A's were. His Mama had picked up the hat for a buck-and-a-half at a flea market along the interstate outside of Cincinnati.

"Give us a couple of Gennys," Phil said, trying to sidetrack the confusion. "You seen Hank Pitts yet, today?"

Freddie set two large drafts in front of them. "He was in here earlier. Said he had an errand to run and to tell you he'd be back in awhile. Your boy was in here, too. He had a couple of his fellers snaking out my drain out back."

"What'd he charge you for that?"

"Dunno. He said he'd send me a bill. I trust him. After all, he's your boy, ain't he?"

"Hell, why didn't you ask me, Freddie? I'd a done it for nothin'. What're friends for? I'll talk to him."

"Dontcha be doin' that. A man's gotta make a living.."

"Hah! You notice what he was drivin'?"

"Dammit, Phil, you know I ain't got no windows in this place."

"He's got him one of them big yuppiemobiles. Flat as it is around here, what the hell's he need something like that for? Goddam status symbol, that's what for..." Phil drained his glass and looked over at House to see how he was making out.

House's glass was empty and he was staring straight ahead. He seemed to be smiling at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Phil wasn't sure if he had been paying any attention to their conversation, or, if he had, if he had understood it.

"What say, House? You ready for another one?"

"I gotta pee."

"You go right ahead. I'll order us a couple more."

The two men watched him tip-toe to the men's room. "Ain't he the one whose mother dropped him on his head?" Freddie asked, once House was finally gone.

"That's what they say. A goddam shame, eh?"

"What's he doin' hanging around with you?"

"To tell you the truth, neither one of us has anything better to do. He never hurt nobody. It's a shame the way folks treat him."

"Uh huh..."

The front door opened letting in a blast of heat and sunlight. The silhouette of a man limped through the door.

"You know how hot it is out there?" Hank Pitts gasped as he slid onto the stool next to Phil.

"Pray tell," Phil said.

Hank was retired from the Post Office. He had ended his career as the Postmaster in Serena. When he wasn't in the Blue Moon, he'd be sitting on his back porch, listening to the wind rustle through the corn in his large garden as he painted with water colors and worried about his two grown children. His daughter moved to Chicago after attending the local community college and, last he had heard, was doing something with computers. His son went to college and law school out of state and was working as a Public Defender in L.A. Neither of Hank's children were married, but each of them was living with someone: his daughter, with another girl from town - they moved away together to avoid small town scrutiny; his son, with a woman who had a young son from a previous relationship - he had represented her on a drug possession charge. Hank's wife, Emily, died of complications from a stroke while the two children were still in college and, thus, had been spared the hand wringing and second guessing, the uncertain Morse code of the dry leaves of the corn stalks rat-a-tatting against each other under an angry red sun.

"I was over to Morely Stevens' place just now to water his garden and feed his animals. He and Sue are up in Michigan, visiting their son. You know that goddam crazy hound he keeps chained up in his yard?"

Phil flashed a broad smile. "Godzilla?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Every time I go over there, that mutt comes after me full bore, snarling and barking like he'd like to rip my throat out. Then he hits the end of his chain and almost strangles himself. He never learns. Well, today he looked up from where he was sleeping in the shade and never even bothered to get up, put his head back down, let out a big sigh and went right back to sleep. That's how hot it is!"

Freddie set a Genny in front of him and Hank immediately guzzled it down. He handed the mug back to Freddie without ever putting it down on the bar. "I'll have another, my good man."

Hank turned to watch something that had caught his eye. House was tip-toeing back from the men's room. "It's so hot, I think I'm hallucintin'. Right now, I'm imagining that I'm seeing the House of Pain coming out of the men's room."

"That's him, alright," Phil said, "and I'd appreciate it if you'd take it easy on him."

"He come in with you?"

"Yup. And I just bought him his first beer."

"Damn, it's hotter'n I thought. You must be losing it, ole Hoss." Hank turned to House. "How ya doin' young man?"

"Phil bought me a beer." House had dribbled urine down the front of his sweat pants. The wet trail matched nicely with the other stains, but was prominent just the same, even in the dim light of the Blue Moon.

"I can see that." Hank pointed to the wet spot.

House smiled, shrugged his shoulders and slid back onto his stool on the other side of Phil. He picked up the newly filled mug and drank from it, staring straight ahead, again.

Hank elbowed Phil gently. "I guess you brought him along for conversation, in case I wasn't here."

"Like I told Freddie, neither one of us had anything better to do. And now that you're done feeding Godzilla, I can see you're in the same boat."

"I wonder how his Mama's doing. I bet it's been twenty years since I've seen her." Hank kept his voice low so House wouldn't hear, not that he would have been paying attention.

"Why don't you ask him?"

Hank leaned over the bar to talk around Phil. "How's your Mama, boy?"

"Mama says I shouldn't drink beer."

Phil looked around at the source of that pronouncement. House's glass was empty again. "I can't see where it'll do you any harm. Besides, I'm sure it would be all right with your Mama, if she knew you was with me. Right?"

"I guess so. Okay, then. I'll have another."

Phil looked at Hank like he'd just heard a baby utter it's first words.

Hank leaned over and whispered in Phil's ear. "Let's get him good and drunk, then drop him on his Mama's front porch."

"Might as well. Too damn hot to go fishing. Hah." Phil turned toward where Freddie was, down the other end of the bar. "Bar-keep, another round!"

Freddie gave him the finger before retrieving their glasses and refilling them.

"How far you go in school?" Hank asked House.

"Third grade. I was twelve. They made me quit. Said I was too old."

"How old are you now, House?" Phil asked.

"Thirty-two, I think."

"I was right. It's been twenty years." Hank said. "Last time I saw his mother was when she used to bring him to the school." Hank bought the next round. "You know how to read?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember? What's that say?" Hank pointed to the blue neon sign.

House mouthed the letters, L I T E, then pronounced the word, "Lite."

"Hell, that's not bad." Phil sounded amazed. "Give that boy another beer!"

Freddie brought House another beer and a copy of The Serena Banner along with it. "What's that say?" He pointed to the headline for the lead article on the front page, smiling like he was up to something.

House struggled with it. He got through "Clinton" and "oral sex" okay. All the while the other three men were giggling like pranksters. He even knew that Clinton was the President. But "Monica Lewinsky" was more than he could handle.

"Give him, another beer!" Hank said. "I think I see how this works. We've just got to grease the skids a bit."

"Try it again," Freddie suggested, after House finished the new beer.

"Monica Lewinsky," House replied, smoothly.

By this time, the other men at the bar had noticed what was happening. When they heard Monica Lewinsky, they voiced their universal approval, shouting, whistling and clapping.

"Show him the sports page," Phil said.

"Reds win opener, drop night-cap to Mets," House read.

For every beer they had bought House, Hank and Phil had also consumed one. After awhile, they added up to a considerable amount. Phil was beginning to feel a bit tipsy. "Show him the financial pages!" he slurred.

"Why not? We got nuthin' better to do..." Hank slurred back.

"Dow Johns Industrial Average up one hundred sixty points. NASDAQ slides as investors move money out of internet start-ups and into blue chips," House read.

"This one's on the house," said Freddie.

"S'bout time, you cheap bastard!" Hank said as he slid off the stool and onto the floor.

House got up from his stool and helped Hank back onto his. He continued on to the men's room, striding like a Mummer in a parade. When he returned, Freddie handed him the sports section again. "How are the A's doing?"

"I think they'll probably win a hundred games this season," House replied without looking at the paper.

Freddie's jaw went so slack it almost dropped onto the bar.

House smiled. "Just kidding. I don't follow baseball."

Phil moved his face to within six inches of House's. He stared into his eyes. "Who are you?" He looked at Hank, who was resting his head on the bar. "Hank! Wake up! I think the boy's possessed." He turned back to House. "Who's in there with you, boy?"

"It's Marvin. Marvin's in here."

Phil backed up. A chill ran down his spine. When it reached his knees, it cut them right out from under him. He crumpled to the floor.

"Give me a hand, will you, Freddie?" House called to the bartender. "I think he's fainted."

Freddie came around from behind the bar and the two of them dragged Phil over to a booth. Then they retrieved Hank, supporting him with his arms over their shoulders. They slid him into the booth on the bench next to Phil. Freddie returned to the bar. House slid onto the bench opposite the two men.

"You alright, Phil?" House asked.

"I'm okay, Marvin."

"He's okay, Marvin," Hank snorted. Then he turned to Phil. "I think it's time we drop him at his Mama's," he chuckled as if it were some private joke.

"You think he's ready?" his conspirator giggled drunkenly.

"I think I better drive," said Marvin.