Fake I.D.

I asked the two girls if they were okay with their screwdrivers. One of them asked for a refill. I made the drink, got her change, thanked her for the buck tip, then went back to reading the newspaper. Debbie stood there for a while, staring at me, then she sat down on the stool next to the blonde. The Meat Loaf song ended and now The Romantics were singing, “What I Like About You.”

“I’m still waiting for my drink,” Debbie said.

“The bar’s all yours,” I said. “Want a drink, make one.”

“All right,” Debbie said. “I think I will.”

She came behind the bar and made herself a drink. I wasn’t watching, but I knew she was making her usual Scotch and soda. I started talking to the two girls. Then Debbie came and brushed up against me. She interlocked her arm around mine and said to the two girls, “Sorry, he’s coming home with me tonight.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her,” I said.

“What?” Debbie said. “You forgot about our date tonight? Shame on you.”

Usually, I didn’t care what Debbie said to me, figuring she was just a drunk who didn’t know any better, but with the girls there I felt like I had to say something.

“Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

“I will,” she said, “if you come with me.” She pinched my ass.

“I’m serious,” I said, wanting to hit her. “Just get the hell out of here.”

“I love angry men.”

She tried to pinch me again. This time I grabbed her wrist before she could squeeze.

“Let go of me.”

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“Let go!”

“You gonna leave me alone?”

“Just let go!”

Her face was turning red. I let go.

Rubbing her arm, she said, “If I tell Frank about this you know what’ll happen, don’t you? You’ll get fired. You’ll be out on the street.”

I tried not to look at her. The whole thing was so stupid—she was out-of-her-mind drunk and even if she did tell Frank on me I knew he wouldn’t care. He’d probably done the same thing to her hundreds of times, or at least he’d thought about doing it.

Debbie stood facing me for a few seconds, shifting her eyes with the dark blue eye shadow all around them, back and forth, then she stormed away, taking her drink with her, of course. She sat down in her original seat at the other end of the bar. I apologized to the two girls for the “disturbance,” but they seemed freaked out about the whole thing.

The girls stood up and put on their coats. As they were leaving, Frank walked in. Wearing a long beige trench coat and carrying two shopping bags, he looked like a tired old man. He was old, I guess, but not very old. He’d celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday last year, but he looked more like seventy. He was short, stocky, and he combed long gray hairs from the back and sides of his head to cover a big bald spot in the middle.

“There he is,” Debbie said, “my handsome, hardworking, sexy, irresistible, loser of a husband.”

Debbie continued to insult Frank and then she asked him for money—a hundred dollars. Frank said, “I’m not giving you any more money to get drunk with,” and then Debbie started yelling at him—cursing and calling him all kinds of names. As usual, Frank just took the abuse like a wimp. With everybody else, Frank was a take-charge guy, but he could never stand up to his wife. It was like Debbie had some weird power over him—he was Superman and she was made out of kryptonite. Whenever she was clawing over some guy or making a drunken fool out of herself he’d just ignore it, like it didn’t mean anything to him. Whenever I tried to talk to him about it—figuring the guy always helped me out, the least I could do was try and help him—he’d always just say “Forget about it” or “Who cares?” I never pushed him, figuring there are some things guys just need to keep to themselves.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” Debbie yelled. “You’re pathetic! Look at those clothes you’re wearing, like it’s 1972! When was the last time you went shopping? Face it, you’re an antique, a dinosaur, a pathetic time capsule of a man. I’m ashamed to be your wife!”

A few more customers—a group of guys in hockey jerseys, probably here to watch the Devil game later on— came into the bar. I asked them what they wanted, but when they saw Debbie yelling at Frank like a lunatic they put their coats back on and left.

Debbie had cost Frank a ton of business over the past few years.

Finally, Debbie put her own coat on, getting ready to leave.

“Maybe you’d like to know the name of the guy I’m fucking tonight,” she yelled at Frank’s back as he walked away toward the kitchen. “His name’s Jean-Claude. He’s French or Canadian or French-Canadian—whatever. Anyway, from what I understand he has a very big cock. Much bigger than yours anyway, although a five-year-old boy has a bigger cock than you!”

A couple of guys standing near Debbie started to laugh. I wanted to laugh too, because it was kind of funny, but out of respect for Frank I held back. Frank just shook his head, continuing to the back of the bar.

Debbie came over to me and said, “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to grab you like that.”

“Forget about it,” I said.

“I was watching you,” she said, slurring her words, “talking to those two girls. You know my offer still stands.”

I knew what her “offer” was. She was always inviting me to “stop by” at her apartment some afternoon when Frank wasn’t around for “a good time.” She was smiling, running her tongue across her upper lip. I noticed the way some of her lipstick had come off on her shiny capped teeth. I could also see some of her fake cleavage popping out of her black-and-gold blouse. I had to admit, for an old lady there was definitely something sexy about her. If she wasn’t Frank’s wife, I might’ve even thought about taking her up on her offer.

“You better get going,” I said. “You don’t wanna keep your French boy waiting.”

At seven-thirty, Gary finally showed up and took over for me at the bar. I ate a burger and some fries in the kitchen, then I knocked on the door to Frank’s office.

“Come in,” he said.

He was sitting at his desk, looking up at me over his reading glasses.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I thought it might be my delightful wife.”

“You got a second?”

“Sure. Sit down.”

I sat in a chair across from him. The office was a mess with file folders, newspapers and magazines piled up everywhere. Frank put down the papers he’d been reading and said, “What am I gonna do with her, Tommy?”

“That’s up to you,” I said. “You already know what I think.”

“It’s never been as bad as it is now,” he said. “Every night she’s like this. I try to reason with her—get her to go to A. A. or see a shrink—but she just doesn’t think she has a problem.”

“That’s because she is the problem.”

“You’re right—I know you’re right—believe me. You know she’s placing ads in newspapers now? I heard her on the phone calling one of the neighborhood papers, I think it was Our Town. She was reading the ad to them over the phone: ‘Lonely married woman looking for a good time and more.’ Then, last week, I come home early from work and she has a guy over at the apartment—our apartment. I can hear them going at it from the living room, so I go bang on the bedroom door, thinking I’m gonna kill whoever she’s in there with. Then the bedroom door opens and this big black guy—seven feet tall, like a basketball player— comes out.”

“Maybe it was a basketball player,” I said. “I hear those guys get around.”

Frank shot a look at me.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I was just trying—”

“I know,” Frank said. “If I were you I’d think I was a pathetic joke too.”

“I don’t think that.”

“I know it’s hard for you to believe,” he said, “because you didn’t know her until a couple years ago, but she used to be so much different. She was a warm, friendly, outgoing, generous woman. Then she started hitting the bottle and—well, you’ve seen her. I keep telling myself that it can’t possibly get any worse, she’s definitely hit