Sick Man Read online

  Sick Man

  Paul Spencer

  For Molly, Malcolm, and Kim. They know why.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Bad Friday

  Chapter 2 – A Walk in the Park

  Chapter 3 – Saturday Blues

  Chapter 4 – New Best Friends

  Chapter 5 – Team Talk

  Chapter 6 – Going Home

  Chapter 7 – Why Always Me?

  Chapter 8 – A Time For Friendship

  Chapter 9 – Getting Serious

  Chapter 10 – Working the Plan

  Chapter 11 – Friends Old and New

  Chapter 12 – Holy Man

  Chapter 13 – Next Steps

  Chapter 14 – Playing the Fool

  Chapter 15 - Setback

  Chapter 16 – Pillar of the Community

  Chapter 17 – Customer Service

  Chapter 18 – Strange Times

  Chapter 19 – Never Believe What You Read

  Chapter 20 – Back to the Grind

  Chapter 21 – When It Rains, It Pours

  Chapter 22 – Back in the Day

  Chapter 23 – Bad News

  Chapter 24 – Weekend Vacation

  Chapter 25 – Breaking the Fast

  Chapter 26 – He’s Back

  Chapter 27 – I Don’t Like Mondays

  Chapter 28 - Headache

  Chapter 29 – No Going Back

  Chapter 30 – Gardening Leave

  Chapter 31 – Back Door Man

  Chapter 32 – Dinner Time

  Chapter 33 – Just for a Moment

  Chapter 34 – Energizer Bunny

  Chapter 35 – Into the Woods

  Chapter 36 – The Best Laid Plans

  Chapter 37 – And Breathe

  Sick Man

  by

  Paul Spencer

  Chapter 1: Bad Friday

  I shuffled off the bus at 28th and Burnside. Eight o’clock on a wet Friday in January, and I was exhausted. The rain came down hard and steady, so I put my hood up and started walking. I took a look at Laurelhurst Theater. The “S” in the neon sign had been out for a month, and they still hadn’t fixed it. I thought about stopping in – beer, pizza, and a movie sounded good – but most of the shows had already started, and the two that were left didn’t catch my eye. So I went to Holman’s instead. Jeremy would probably be behind the bar, and their burgers were okay.

  I stood at the street corner in the rain, waiting for the lights to change. Water seeped inside my jacket, running down my neck. At least my work boots kept my feet dry. The light changed, and I hurried across the street. Holman’s was only three doors down, and I was happy to get inside. I shook my jacket off, hung it by the door, and parked myself at the bar.

  Sure enough, Jeremy was working tonight. The bar was crowded, but he came over as soon as he saw me. He spread his arms, and his face lit up with mock surprise.

  “Mick Wray! Long time no see!”

  “Very funny,” I said. I was a regular, and I’d been in the night before.

  Jeremy smiled and shook my hand. “Do you want the usual?”

  “Yes. And keep them coming.”

  “You got it.”

  Jeremy threw some ice in a glass and started pouring. I called him Jeremy Jesus. He was a young born-again Christian with a ponytail, an unkempt beard, and neck tattoos, and he poured some of the strongest drinks in Portland. I’m an atheist, and some nights we got into it pretty good. It all went down with a smile, though. He’s a good kid.

  Jeremy put a tall glass of clear liquid in front of me, a faint pinkish tinge visible in the dimly-lit bar. Vodka cranberry, just the way I liked it.

  “So what’s new?” he said.

  “Not much. I got the weekend off for a change.”

  “Nice. Do you want something to eat?”

  “Yeah, a burger would be good.”

  “Fries or a salad?”

  “Have you fixed the fries yet?”

  “They’re not broken, Mick. They’re hand cut.”

  “They’re shit.” But I wasn’t in a salad mood, so I went for the fries anyway.

  Jeremy went off to put in my order, and I took a long pull on my drink. Holman’s was busier than usual. There was an empty seat by me at the bar, but the rest of the joint was full. The rain had been coming down steadily since before Christmas, and people came to Holman’s to take refuge. All dark wood, red leather, and faded carpet. After a session here, you still went home smelling of smoke, even though the smoking ban had been in place for years. I’d been coming here often since my wife left, and I knew quite a few of the people in tonight.

  Thinking of my wife made me realize that it was almost time to send an anniversary card. She ran off with my best friend from law school four years ago. I sent him a thank you card every year to mark the date.

  I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My short brown hair was losing the battle against invading gray, and my stubble was even worse. I turned forty last year, but the face staring back at me looked ten years further down the road. I’d been working twelve hour shifts, six or seven days a week for the past month, starting before dawn and getting home long after dark. I built suspension assemblies at United Streetcar, the Clackamas factory that was America’s last streetcar manufacturer. We had contracts to deliver to six cities across the country, and we were behind on all six. A year ago we were the shining star in Portland’s green transportation revolution, and now we were on the verge of being a laughing stock. Even with everyone working overtime, we kept getting further behind.

  But tonight I didn’t care. I had the weekend off for the first time in forever, and visions of laying on the couch watching football were dancing in my head. It wasn’t two weeks on Maui, but it felt like it to me.

  I shrugged to myself and drank some more, content to let the warmth and booze bring me down a notch or two. I had just about finished my drink when Jeremy brought my food. He nodded at my glass.

  “Do you want another?”

  “Sure.”

  I took a bite of my burger. It hit the spot. A little overdone, but the meat oozed juicy fat, good and warm. The fries, as expected, were terrible. Jeremy came back with my drink. I held one of the fries up in front of him. It hung like a wet noodle.

  “Still soggy, Jeremy.”

  He laughed.

  “Are you really that bored, Mick?”

  “Actually, yes. All I do is work and come here. I could really use some change in my life.”

  “You know the old proverb, right?” he said. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  Jeremy smiled at me and went off to pour a beer. I ate the rest of my burger, and left the fries. Everyone raved about what a great food town Portland was. All these cool new restaurants, innovative chefs, and amazing food carts. I wasn’t interested in any of that hipster crap. I wanted a good comfortable bar, with big servings of gut brick food, and Portland had more of them than any place I knew. Even without the fries, I wasn’t going home hungry tonight.

  I was just about done when Aaron Jones sat on the vacant stool next to me.

  “Hi, Mick.”

  “Hi, Aaron. How’s it going?”

  Aaron shot me a look, then just nodded.

  Aaron worked in the vinyl section of Music Millennium, and he was the worst kind of music snob. We didn’t really get along. He liked to be called “J. Freedom Monday,” but I’d seen his driver’s license, and he was Aaron Jones. He hated it when I called him Aaron. He dressed like a picture out of the hipster manual, too. Tonight he had his usual uniform on. Flannel shirt, skinny jeans with the cuffs rolled up, moustache with the tips waxed and curled.

  He leaned on the bar and ordered a shot of bo
urbon and a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  “It’s been three months now,” he said.

  “What has? Since you trimmed your moustache?”

  “Since my sister died, asshole.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know she had.”

  “I’m surprised your old friend didn’t tell you all about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.”

  I could tell he wanted me to probe further, but I didn’t say anything. I meant it more than he could know when I said I was sorry about his sister, but I didn’t want to talk about it, so I changed the subject.

  “How’s work?”

  Almost immediately I realized my mistake. Nothing wound Aaron up quicker than the chance to opine on the state of the music industry. The last thing I needed tonight was more of Aaron’s self-righteous rambling, but he let rip right away with a tirade about how music streaming services were stealing the soul of rock and roll. I tried to ignore him, but he just kept on ranting.

  “I mean, they’re worse than CDs,” he said. “There’s just no depth to the sound. All the vibe is gone. Thank God some bands still release on vinyl.”

  “Really? I can’t tell the difference.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “But most people can, and it matters.”

  “It’s just music, Aaron.”

  “Just music? Is the Mona Lisa just a painting? It’s no wonder real art is dying in this world.”

  I couldn’t keep ignoring him, so I drained my drink and looked his way. “You know,” I said, “if that’s your biggest complaint, you’ve got a fucking good life.”

  Aaron sat up, all wide eyes and forced indignation. “How can you say that to me? You have no idea what I’m going through!”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I’m just trying to make conversation here. I thought you’d care.”

  “About what? Streaming music? It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, right. It doesn’t matter that art is dying. That great musicians can’t make a living doing what they love. Where’s your compassion?”

  “I think I left it on my nightstand. Now will you give it a rest? I’m trying to get drunk here.”

  “You’re such a dick. I’ll bet that’s why your wife left you.”

  I put my empty glass down and took a deep breath. I knew I should ignore him. I knew he was just a smartass prick of a kid. But tonight I was beyond tired, and the vodka was kicking in.

  If I’d known what was coming next, I would have hit him harder.

  Chapter 2 – A Walk in the Park

  I left Holman’s and turned right on 28th. The rain hammered down harder now, loud staccato drumming on my hood. My jacket kept my upper body dry, but my jeans were soaked before I’d gone a block. I hunched forward, hands in my pockets, heading over the hill towards Stark Street.

  My right hand didn’t hurt much, so I couldn’t have hit Aaron hard enough to do serious harm. I still felt lousy for punching him, knowing what I’d put him through. Sure, he was an annoying prick, but that didn’t give me the right to do what I did. I’d been in plenty of fights over the years, usually for stupid reasons forgotten in the morning. I won my fair share of them, especially once I learned to fight dirty. I got beat up a few times too, and I got used to it after a while. But the first few fights, the first few times I stopped a good punch, scared the living crap out of me. Aaron wasn’t a fighter. Getting punched would have hurt like hell, but worse still, it would have absolutely terrified him.

  When I came to the light at the corner of 28th and Stark I stopped, trying to decide where to go next. I could go left and get another drink or three at one of the dive bars down that way, the Bonfire Lounge or the Goodfoot. Tempting, but I wasn’t in the mood for either place. The Goodfoot would be a mob scene, with a young crowd and some band that was too loud and whiny for me. And even though dive bars were like a second home to me, the Bonfire and I never got along. I’d been in there a few times, but the Spartan décor and condescending servers left me cold. It was like Holman’s without the charm.

  So I turned right, and headed for the place I’d found myself in far too often lately. Lone Fir Cemetery. Straddling close to twenty city blocks, Lone Fir was Portland’s oldest operating cemetery. It sat across Stark Street from the prestigious Central Catholic High School. I liked the fact that Portland’s rich Catholics sent their kids from all over town to a school opposite a blunt reminder of the eternal hellfire supposedly awaiting them. Maybe that’s why Central Catholic kids were surprisingly well-behaved for teenagers.

  I turned down 26th to the Cemetery’s east entrance. The gate was locked at this time of night, but it was only six feet high, and the chain link fencing made it an easy climb. I jumped down on the other side and wiped my hands on my soaking jeans.

  Even though it was a dark night, the streetlights along Morrison and Stark were enough to navigate by. They picked out the headstones like way posts amongst the long shadows of the tall fir trees standing silent watch.

  I wandered amongst the graves, staying on the paths to avoid tripping on one of the smaller stones. People had been buried here since the mid-1800s. The grave markers ranged from simple tablets to tall granite monuments with ornate carvings, covered in moss and weathered by decades of Portland rain.

  Lone Fir was usually silent at night, which was one of the reasons I came here. But tonight I could hear noises coming from somewhere around the Asa Lovejoy Gravestone. I walked over that way to see what was happening. Sure enough, three guys were using Portland’s founder’s grave as the venue for an impromptu party. They were drinking forties of Pabst Blue Ribbon and head-banging to Motorhead on an eighties-style boom box, their long hair flailing in the faint streetlight glow. They looked nineteen at most. Shit, kids these days.

  “Come on guys,” I said. “Show some respect. Take the party somewhere else.”

  All three of them jumped like startled cats. The one nearest me hit the stop button on the tape deck and peered in my direction.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said, unable to keep his voice from quivering.

  I stepped out of the shadow, drew myself up to my full height, and clenched my fists.

  “I’m the guy telling you to get out of here. Now go.”

  The leader glared at me for a moment. His two buddies watched him closely, ready to follow his lead. They’d wade in with him if he went for me, but I could tell they wanted him to back down. Time to help him make up his mind. I took a couple of steps closer.

  “Last warning. Get out of here, or I’ll kick you over the fucking fence myself.”

  He sneered at me, then grabbed his boom box and stomped off towards the western entrance. His buddies hurried after him, clearly relieved by the choice he’d made.

  I watched them go, relieved myself that there would be no more violence tonight. For a while I stood there, hardly noticing the rain pouring down on me. Eventually I gave in to the inevitable and wandered across to the Morrison Street side of the cemetery. Even in the darkness, I had no problem finding my way to the same plain, knee-high gravestone that I always ended up at.

  I couldn’t read the inscription in the dark, but I didn’t need to. I knew what it said.

  Ciaran Richard Wray

  December 1 2003 – December 13 2007

  Sleep well, little Champion

  Chapter 3 – Saturday Blues

  I woke to the shrill chirp of my phone ringing. It took a few seconds for the fog to clear enough for me to realize what was happening. I looked at the bedside clock. 7:17. Shit. I’d planned on sleeping at least a couple of hours longer.

  I grabbed my phone, looked at the caller ID, and groaned. This was all I needed. For a moment I considered not answering, but I knew she’d just keep calling back until I did. Better to get it over with.

  “Yeah?” I grunted.

  “Where’s my ali
mony, Mick?”

  “Good morning, Sarah.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. The check is late. Again.”

  “You call me this early on a Saturday to give me grief about something you don’t even need?”

  “Don’t try to turn this around onto me. You were supposed to pay me a week ago. I want the money, Mick.”

  “Jesus Christ. You’re living with a guy who just made partner at Miller Nash. You should be paying me alimony. Why don’t you just marry him? Then you could stop bleeding me dry.”

  “Maybe if you stopped drinking your way through your paycheck, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew she’d hit the bullseye.

  “Just send the check, will you?” Sarah said eventually. “I can hold off cashing it for a few days if you need me to.”

  I hung up before she could and dropped the phone on the bedside table. My head was pounding like a jackhammer. I’d had a few nightcaps after I got home from my pilgrimage to my son’s grave last night, so it was never going to be an easy morning. My ex-wife calling and bitching about alimony only made things worse. I’d been hoping to treat myself to a bottle of good single malt today, but now it looked like I was stuck with the cheap stuff again.

  I lay there and tried to go back to sleep for a while. One of the guys at the factory had been bending my ear about the virtues of meditation. He’d told me a couple of techniques and urged me to try them out. So I lay there, took deep breaths, and tried to clear my mind. That didn’t work, so I threw in a mantra, but then I just felt silly. Meditation never seemed to do anything for me, and this morning was no exception. Eventually I gave up and dragged myself out of bed. I found a clean pair of boxers and a T shirt amongst the mess on my floor, then wandered over to the kitchen and made some toast and coffee.

  I drank the first cup standing by the pot, then poured a second and used it to wash down a couple of aspirin. I took the toast and coffee over to the couch and sat down.

  Christ, what a great start to my weekend off. Nothing perks a man up like having his failings rubbed in his face. I genuinely tried to keep up the alimony payments, even though my ex-buddy Ryan made over half a million a year in base salary alone, with a big partnership bonus on top of that. Nothing burned me more than failing to meet an obligation. But it burned me just as bad that they didn’t get married. They’d been together for four years now, and I knew Sarah would have loved to hook him with a ring. Sometimes I thought he held off on asking her just to punish me for the anniversary cards. I was still going to keep sending them, though.