Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

surveyed the restaurant as he made his way to the door and spotted John. He headed over and sat at John’s booth.

“Watching my show were ya?” asked Frank. “Don’t be afraid he’ll be back in your store in a few days, I figure I can dine out for a week on him.”

“Are you teaching him yoga?” asked John.

“Yoga my ass. I am selling a tall tale to him for a few meals. He comes out much the better on the deal if you ask me.”

The waiter had come over and asked if John needed anything. Frank ordered a hot tea and a slice of chess pie.

“What tale are you selling him?” asked John.

“I don’t guess it would hurt you to know. I know you despise him.” Said Frank.

“I have no such feelings. Jeff is one of my most loyal customers.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But I see you there looking at him with disguised hate behind your coffee cup. Did you know you only drink your wretched coffee when you’ve got a customer you don’t like? You’re thinking about the fact that the guy is nearly thirty and his folks send him money to keep him from coming home.”

“I didn’t know he was that old.”

“Faggots look much younger than their age. It’s why I’ve always thought there was a gay gene. His folks sent him off to Austin to go to college and never come back. They have trouble dealing with his sexual preference up in Shamrock. His partner wasted away and that’s a big deal in rural Texas. You and I don’t have any trouble with that, but we have trouble with someone that can lay in a soft bed with a nice comforter when our alarms are going off at 7:00 and our heads hurt and we don’t know if our checks might bounce and we have to figure how to pay for our medicine and so forth. How much does he drop in your store every month?”

John shrugged and then said, “I figure about eighty bucks a month. He’s always got something he’s interested in. One month he was going to write detective novels so he bought all my books on writing and a dozen classic detective novels. Another month he was going to be a fashion designer. So what is going to be now?”

“Most of us really don’t get to choose what we want to be when we grow up. I didn’t. My choice was to be a Hollywood star, the next Clark Gable. He doesn’t know who Clark Gable was.”

John nodded and then realized that at forty-eight, he had never actually seen a Clark Gable movie except clips from Gone with the Wind on YouTube.

The pie arrived and Frank dug in. Although he still had the gift of gab, John could see how frail he had become. His breathing was shallow and irregular; his hand shook.

Frank continued, “You know twenty, thirty years ago there were some great underground papers in this town. The Austin Free Voice asked me to write for them, tell them stories of being a Wobbly or romantic nonsense about the Depression. Yep, we were starving then, it was dang romantic. But I tried to get something going. I took a Left Wing agitator that I really knew named Cassutto, and said that he had learned a deep magical secret from an Indian shaman he had met in a chain gang. This old Indian had told him how to control his dreams. It was going to be the secret of communism. See at night you could be anything you wanted to be, dreams would no longer be a land without freedom of choice and absence of will. You could be the Emperor of China at night, and then you would be willing to be a hard struggling comrade during the day. The Castaneda books were coming out and Chief Gray Eagle, and I figured I could sell Yoga for Bolsheviks by Cassutto. Well nobody snapped at my little hoax then, but I’m selling it to wonder boy these days.”

Frank had a coughing fit. John waited till it was done, and then asked,” Are you OK? Should I help you home?”

Frank looked really angry, and shook his head no, but said, “Yes. That might not be a bad idea.”

John helped him up. The old man leaned heavily on John’s arm. He lived in a small apartment over a shop that sold cell phones. Frank had told him that he had lived there since 1950 “outlasting fourteen businesses.” John had to pause at every step.

“You got any family?” John asked..

“Buried ’em. Buried my youngest sister ten years ago. I’ve got some nephews, but I don’t how to get hold of them, and I’m sure they don’t want to get hold of me. I just get by being a son of a bitch.”

They reached the top of the stairs. Frank said, “Thank you for helping me home. I hate to be a burden to anyone.” He began fumbling for his keys. His palsy was worse than at the restaurant. John said, “I need to come in and use your facilities.”

“No you don’t. You just want to be sure that I don’t die here on the steps. Well that’s probably a good thing. I talked the landlord into giving me free rent fifteen years ago. I am an Austin institution like Leslie Cochran. The sucker that would be my last year. I want to keep annoying him for awhile.”

The apartment had a slanted ceiling and smelled like an old people’s home. The floor’s yellowish linoleum was worn through in a couple of places showing grime-blackened wood beneath. There was a bed with sheets that had not been washed in awhile with an army blanket on top of it. A roll-top desk was the single nice piece of furniture in the room contrasting with the two broken down orange plastic chairs clearly salvaged from some alley. A small nightstand had a hot plate on it with a rather disreputable looking copper teapot.. There was an open bottle of Benchmark bourbon and case of assorted can goods set next to the nightstand. Mixed veggies and Fancy Feast —so people really do eat cat food. Cheap overstuffed bookshelves covered the walls. There was no TV, no radio, and no phone. John went into the small bathroom, and closed the door behind him. The fifteen-watt bulb didn’t give much light, and given the filth inside John was glad of that. He heard Frank sit on the bed. He flushed and went back to the main room.

Frank said, “You can see that I don’t entertain much anymore.” He waved a shaky hand around the room. “Are you disappointed? Expected a pleasure palace after all of my stories?”

“I think wherever you live is a good place because it has a grand old man there.” said John.

“Oh Jesus save the mark!” said Frank. “I outlived everything and everybody. That’s why I can’t stand our young friend. He’ll miss all of his connections too. I am going to cure him of dreaming.”

“Did someone ever cure you of dreaming?” asked John.

“No. Dreaming’s all I got. At night I’m the emperor of China.” Frank stood up. His color grew paler and his steps were unsteady. He walked over to the roll top desk. He started to open it, and then said, “You’re a good man John. I think you’re good enough. I thought that when you let run-always live in your little shop and work the counter. You didn’t know I knew that, did you?”

“I try to keep it a secret so the shop won’t attract the wrong kind of people. One a year or so is all that Haidee and I can afford.”

“See? You are a good man. I wasn’t good enough, but I’m not bad man. I did one good thing in my life. I always kept ’em guessing—that’s the best thing you can do if you want to be a very old man.” Frank suddenly shook again and John helped him back to his bed.

“I think I should call someone.” said John.

“No, no I’ve got what I need here. I’ll take care of myself when you’ve left. You just remember what I said,” said Frank.

“Well, I’ll make you some tea at least.”

There was small box of Lipton’s Tea. John brewed Frank a cup. He spotted the tiny refrigerator by the bed and was gratified to find it clean on the inside and stocked with milk and margarine and a half a hamburger. John sat on one of the orange plastic chairs, and waited until Frank had drunk half of his tea. Frank’s breathing had become more regular and his color returned.

The afternoon was shot. He went home and waited for Haidee to get home from work.

He didn’t see Frank during the week. Jeff came in once, just at closing.

He didn’t seem himself at all. Rather than planting himself at the counter and telling John about his latest schemes, he moved quickly and quietly, picking up a couple books from the legal section. They were books on wills. He wouldn’t look John in the face.

“So you talked the old man into leaving you everything?” asked John. John couldn’t imagine there was anything, except the stories. You can’t leave anybody your stories.

Jeff looked up. “It’s not your business. Someone needs to take care of him. It should be someone that understands what he has to offer. I can do a very good job being a caretaker. My lover died of AIDS four years ago. I am very patient. I am very understanding.”