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By Root 465 0

of them up, holding it so that the glow of the neon sign picked out its details in a dull, red-orange. I looked at it closely. There was something vaguely, naggingly familiar about that metal face that stared up at me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Okay, Flick, I’ll bite. You’ve got me. What is it?”

“Pick up the other one,” he said.

Again a peculiarly haunting, familiar face, this time feminine. Again I could not identify it.

“Okay, you win.”

“That,” said Flick, “is a genuine Fibber McGee and Molly salt-and-pepper shaker set. You see, the pepper comes out of the top of Fibber’s head and the salt comes out of Molly’s hair. My Old Lady bought ’em at the World’s Fair in Chicago.”

He tenderly replaced them on the shelf.

“Seventy-nine Wistful Vista. …” I said.

“You remember that closet?” Flick asked. “Old Fibber would swing open the door and down it would come, all that stuff. Digger O’Dell, the only gravedigger I ever heard on the radio.…”

The jukebox was now in high gear.

“I’ll have to turn the heat up,” Flick said, “temperature musta dropped outside.”

He fiddled with a thermostat on the wall back of the bar. I swung around on my stool to look out at what little remained of the day. It was now almost dark. Darkness comes early in Midwinter in Northern Indiana. Kids shouted and shoved their way by the tavern front, going to the store, coming home from school, God knows what. Traffic had quickened outside on the street as the two lines of cars, one going to the mill, the other returning, crossed and converged.

I turned back to Flick, who was checking the cash register.

“Too bad Schwartz couldn’t have been here,” I said.

Flick grunted, busy with his change counting. We both knew that Schwartz had been shot down over Italy. They never found him.

A great crowd of Shift workers burst in. The day shift was home, and it was thirsty. They were going to hoist a few before heading home to the hamburger and the TV. Flick had galvanized into action, drawing beers and pouring shots like a man possessed. I called out:

“I hope they win tonight.”

“Hell, it’s a breather. They’ll murder ’em.”

I stood up stiffly, brushing a few crumbs of pretzel off my coat and slacks. Turning, I pulled my light New York topcoat off the hook. As I buttoned it, I called out again:

“Hey Flick, I’ll try to get back to have another drink with you before I gotta go back to New York.”

He was at the far end of the tavern now, carrying a tray of steins. Faintly, I could hear his reply:

“Okay, I’ll be seein’ you, Ralph.”

I glanced back over the mob of lumberjacketed, safety-shoed beer drinkers. Above the bar, under a Christmas wreath I noticed for the first time, a sign:

IN GOD WE TRUST

ALL OTHERS PAY CASH

How true. I swung the door open and stepped out into the bitter cold air. The refinery fumes, the aroma of a thousand acrid chemicals bit deep into my lungs. It was Home air.

I turned and walked against the wind that cut through my worsted topcoat as if it were cheesecloth. My stomach rumbled as the strong taste of beer welled up into my mouth. I fought it down. My conscience flared up. I had wasted a whole day. Well, what the hell. The company’d never find out. But I don’t like to waste time when I’m working. Far off in the sky I could see the faint glow of the steel mills. I peered into the gloom at the grimy Mill traffic.

Dammit, it’s gonna be hell getting a cab around here. Oh well.…

I waited briefly at the light and then turned left, toward the bus stop.