He could not remember when he’d last packed a lunch. For a time he’d lived in a halfway house in the city, working in a furniture shop, and he’d eaten every day from a truck that came around and sold submarine sandwiches. But this wasn’t bad, packing a lunch. This was good. This seemed like the kind of thing you did when you had only yourself to look after and answer to.
Around eight o’clock there was a knock at his door. Mr. Yoon was in the hallway.
— How are you, said the landlord, flatly.
— I’m good, said Lee. Tired out. You know.
— You weren’t here today.
— I was working. First day.
Mr. Yoon nodded and said: Is everything working here?
— Everything’s working good.
— Okay.
After a moment Mr. Yoon nodded and left. Lee closed the door.
He got his tool belt and went back to the window, rubbing his sore shoulder. He sat there, watching the street. Indian summer evening-folks coming and going at the A amp;P across the way, a couple of high school kids acting like hoods on the street corner, boats out on the lake. While Lee watched, he cleaned the dirt from the tool- belt pouches and the hammer.
Bud had said he could drive him the next day as well, would pick him up in the morning. There was that. And it was good to be sore from a day of work, even if he couldn’t see the progress at Clifton’s job site the way he could see how a desk went together. It was good to not have much to think about at all.
Business was slow on Friday evening at the Texaco service station where Pete worked. The Texaco was on the highway bypass northeast of town. The sky above was turning dark and the night was going to be cool. Pete was sitting in a lawn chair, leaning back against the wall of the booth between the pumps, with a Louis L’Amour paperback-one of his Luke Short stories-open on his lap. A Ford Fairlane pulled in and drove over the bell-line and stopped at the pumps. Pete’s co-worker Duane was at the edge of the parking lot, engrossed in conversation with a shift worker from the chemical factory, so Pete put his book down and got up from the chair.
He went over to the Ford. A thin old man, bald-headed, got out of the car and stretched and regarded Pete wearily.
— What’ll it be, mister? said Pete.
— The unleaded, please. You folks have a washroom?
— Yes. Just go in the store and ask Caroline-she’s at the cash-out-for the key.
The old man went into the store. Pete lifted the nozzle off the pump and pushed it into the Ford’s gas tank. The smell of gasoline rose on the air.
— Working hard?
Pete was startled. He turned and saw a man of about forty who’d evidently been in the Ford’s passenger seat. The man standing there did not appear to be all put-together. He had a wide grin and vacant eyes and sweatpants drawn high over his waist. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it didn’t fully hide the edges of a scar near the top of his forehead. He was nodding his head in perpetual agreement.
— What can I say, said Pete. I’m keeping busy.
The man’s head bobbed up and down. He laughed.
— And you? said Pete. Plans for the weekend?
— Oh, not me! I take it easy.
The old man reappeared from the washroom.
— For godsake, Simon. Get in the car.
Simon shuffled back to the passenger seat. Over his shoulder he told Pete not to work too hard.
— I’m sorry, said the old man. Sometimes he wanders away. It’s frustrating.
— It’s no trouble.
The old man didn’t say anything. By way of something to break the quiet, Pete asked him if his car was the ‘79 Fairlane.
The old man blinked. He smiled, said: Yes, this is the ‘79. I was always a Ford man. I used to run a dealership. Do you have a car?
— I have a ‘73 Honda coupe I bought from my stepdad’s friend. It gets me around. But I always wanted a Mustang.
The tank finished filling. Pete hung the nozzle on the pump.
— It’ll be ten dollars.
The old man paid by credit card. As Pete took an imprint of the card, he caught sight of the man’s name:
— I had a son who really loved the Thunderbird. The Bullet Bird, they called it. I bought him a 1961 brand new, the two-door with the hardtop and the 390. It was one of five I ever sold and I sold it to myself and I gave it to him when he turned eighteen. He’d made the first-round draft pick, see, and I didn’t care what that car would set me back.
— How long did he have it?
— Not six months.
— Oh …
Arthur Grady flexed his mouth. He looked at the bypass and said: My son isn’t with us any more. Anyhow, I apologize for taking up your time.
He got into the Fairlane. He pulled his door shut and started the ignition, but then he slid his window down and gestured to Pete. There was a smell of cigar smoke and leather upholstery. Simon, in the passenger seat, was fiddling with the radio. Without looking, the old man gently pushed Simon’s hand away from the buttons.
— This is for you, said the old man.
He gave Pete a one-dollar tip. Pete thanked him. Arthur Grady slid his window up and started his car and drove back onto the bypass.
One by one the lights over the pumps came on. Duane had come back and was tapping Skoal tobacco out of a tin he kept in his pocket. He plugged the tobacco under his lip. He did this expertly, one-handed.
— Pete, man, I’m proud of you. You actually worked today.
Pete brushed past Duane and went into the store. At the cash-out, Caroline was working on a crossword puzzle. She smiled when she saw him. He brought her Arthur Grady’s receipt and she put it in the ledger and then asked Pete if he wanted his paycheque. They went into the office. Caroline owned and managed the Texaco, and her office was small and neatly kept. She did not allow smoking. A geranium was potted on the windowsill. Caroline dug into the filing cabinet.
— That old man, said Pete. You know him?
— What old man?
— The bald guy that came in to get the key for the washroom.
— Him? I’ve seen him around, I think. Maybe. But I don’t know him. Why?
— Just … kind of weird. Looked at me funny. Told me about his dead son.
— You’ll hear all kinds of personal crap from people. Last week a woman in the store got real personal with me about her divorce. All the legal details and so forth. Sometimes people just need other people to hear them. Even if it’s just a stranger. You know?
Following his shift at the Texaco, Pete changed and got into his Honda. He picked up his friend Billy at a low- rise apartment building where Billy’s older brother lived. Billy had a two-four of Labatt, which he toted around to the back of the car and put in the trunk. Then he came to the passenger side and got in.
— How’s it hanging, Pete, said Billy. What time is it?
— It’s seven, said Pete. A little after. What’s the plan?
— We’re going to church.
It must have been how Pete was looking at him. Billy grinned. He said: Music recital.
— What are you talking about?
