Playing Without the Ball by Rich Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

at the register is giving me a look.Maybe that’s her father, I don’t know. But he doesn’t like the way I’m looking at her, and he’s probably right about that.
    I ought to tell her that I work at Shorty’s. Maybe she’ll come by. Spit’s playing tomorrow night; it would be fun, even though I’ll be working.
    She comes over and asks if everything’s all right. I say it’s great. “You’re new, huh?” I say.
    “Yeah. We just moved here. So I’m stuck working the holiday.”
    “I know the feeling.”
    “You too?”
    “Not today. But all weekend. Over there,” I say, pointing across the street. “At Shorty’s.”
    “What is that, a bar?”
    “Yeah. Good place.”
    “You tend bar?”
    “Uh, no. I cook.”
    “Oh. That’s what my boyfriend does. He made that sandwich.”
    Shit. “Oh,” I say. “He works here?”
    “Yeah. We both do.”
    So much for that idea.
    “I’ll get your check,” she says. “Unless you want some dessert or something.”
    “No. I gotta get out of here. But thank you.”
    “All righty.”

Sprawling On a Pin
    F riday night Spit comes in during a break. Shorty lets her keep wine and beer for the band in here so they don’t have to go up to the bar. She takes a wine bottle out of the refrigerator and pours a big glassful.
    “What’s up?” she says.
    “Not much. Good crowd.”
    “Definitely.” She reaches into her pocket and takes a fat white pill out of a prescription bottle. “I still got that crappy throat from this cold,” she says.
    “What’d you do, go to a doctor?”
    “No. I found these in my mother’s medicine cabinet.”
    “Oh.”
    “I better take two,” she says. “This cold sucks.” She chases them down with half the glass of wine and wipes her mouth. She punches her chest with a fist, her bracelets bouncing on her bare arm. “Righteous,” she says. She shakes her head and gives me a goofy smile.

    I keep getting visitors. Bo sticks his head in around midnight and gives me that faintly theatrical look, wide-eyed, like he freezes for a second, expressing mock surprise at finding me here. That’s how he greets everybody.
    Bo’s maybe twenty-two, but he’s a comfortable regular. He’s small, with long curly hair and a little blond beard. He’s always wearing a Harley-Davidson painter’s cap, and he’s an expert with a cigarette. Everybody likes him, the way he nurses a beer. Even the old guys who’ve been coming here forever and won’t change their routines for nothing. They’re out there tonight, on their regular stools. They don’t care if Spit’s on and it’s wall-to-wall kids, or it’s a weeknight with the TV and three other old guys.
    “Bo,” I say.
    He nods. “Keeping busy?”
    “Not too right now,” I say. “What’s going on out there?”
    “Take a look.”
    I come to the door. It’s the regular scene. At least the regular scene when Spit’s group is playing. Lots of denim and bare navels. Navels and those little green bottles of Rolling Rock seem to go together. Along with Marlboro Lights, I’m afraid.
    I clean up the kitchen about 1 o’clock because there’s not likely to be more orders. The band is still on when I finish, so I lean against the doorframe to catch the end of the set. The room is still pretty full; a few girls are dancing, and a few couples. The frenzy level is high, and the noise, but Spit is gyrating veryslowly, eyes closed, furiously singing “Ironbound” in the bright white light:
    I walk these streets like litter
    I walk these streets like rain
    He talks, he cheats, he hit her
    He makes me share her pain
    Julie the elbow-icer is one of the ones on the floor, dancing with her girlfriends. I melt a little more. A scruffy guy in a loose flannel shirt with brown and black squares moves over and motions something like “you want to dance?” She grins and shifts her attention toward him. They dance until the song ends, then he asks if he can buy her a drink. She smiles and says, “no