Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [4]
—So, your condition is chronic and brought on by the amount of time you spend on your feet at work.
I’m a bartender. I work a ten-hour shift five nights a week. Sometimes six or seven nights.
—You could buy a lifetime supply of Dr. Scholl’s and get your feet massaged every night and it would not help. If you want the pain to go away, you are going to have to get off your feet.
—What if I?—
—Off your feet. You’re like a computer worker with carpal tunnel: if you want it to go away, you are going to have to change your work habits forever.
—Wow.
—Yes, wow. Furthermore, the pain in your feet has been exacerbated by poor circulation, which I would say is related to excessive alcohol consumption.
—Wow.
—Yes. So stop drinking. Period.
—Yeah, sounds good.
And that was that. He told me good luck and was on his way out when I asked about the bill.
—When you get a new job and you’ve paid off your bill here, we’ll talk about money.
A great guy.
Booze and my kidney. Booze and my feet. A pattern emerging.
I called the bar and talked to Edwin, the guy who owns the place. I apologized for the lack of notice, but Edwin was cool and just told me not to be a stranger.
Would I have quit if it was just the booze and the kidney? If someone said, “Get away from the booze and the drinking life or you’re gonna die,” would I have quit? I don’t know, but my feet are killing me and that tears it.
I called my folks, made sure they knew I was OK and told them not to come out or expect me to come home to be nursed. Mom cried a little, but I made her laugh in the end, telling her the testicle joke. Dad asked if I needed money and I said no. We talked about Christmas a bit and how long I’d stay when I come out and then I told them I love them and they told me they love me and we hung up and I just fucking stared at the ceiling for a while.
I called one of the other bartenders from work. Her name is Yvonne, we used to see each other quite a bit, still do from time to time. So she’s a girl I see from time to time. She’s more than that. She’s my best friend. But I also see her from time to time. She has a key to my place, so I told her about the cat and she promised to check on it until I got home. She offered to come by the hospital, but I said no. I want to be alone. I need to figure out what the hell I’m gonna do.
So now I’m out. I walk up to the stiff on the street and tell my kidney joke, and then I’m taking a cab home. They wanted me to stay for ten days so they could keep an eye on me and take out my staples before I left, but my lack of a) cash and b) insurance encouraged them to let me go. I’ll have the staples out in a few days and just take it easy until then. I have one kidney, I’m being forced to go cold turkey, I have a hospital bill that makes the ten grand I carry in credit card debt look like a bad joke, and I have no job. On the other hand, I pick up a paper and the Giants are on a four-game winning streak and have picked up two on the Mets, who split a four-game stand against the Phillies. I lean back into the cab seat and feel a sharp stab in my former kidney and wonder what the hell was eating those guys who beat the crap out of me.
This is how I got the cat.
The guy’s name is Russ and he has this cat. Russ lives in the apartment across the hall from mine and hangs out a bit at Paul’s, the place I tend bar. I know him OK and I like him. He’s never any trouble and the few times I’ve had to float him, he’s paid his tab right away. He brings me sandwiches at work sometimes. Now, one night, a couple weeks or so back, he’s outside my door holding one of those pet carriers and I can smell what’s coming. I take my eye away from the peephole and lean my forehead against the door. Russ knocks again. I take another look and he’s still there, bouncing up and down on his toes like he has to go. I let the peep snap shut and unlock the door.
Russ has a problem. Russ has a problem