Chapter 3

So there I was, walking home in that great weather. The sun was warm on my back, and the breeze was blowing the perpetual stench of the dog food factory away from town. Usually that was all you could smell in Troy, but not on this day. I whistled a happy tune as I approached the Fill-In, mostly because of my weather-inspired mood, but also to warn Crackhead Joe that I was coming. He was rummaging in the dumpster by the side of the gas station, and I didn’t want to scare him into a begging frenzy. He knew my whistle.

As I pushed open the glass door I was greeted by the familiar sound of the tin bell hanging on the inside and the smell of Cool Freddy’s cigar smoke. Cool Freddy never spoke, ever, but I knew his name because it was right there on his nametag: “Cool Freddy,” written in blue marker. I gave him a perfunctory wave and headed down the aisle toward the beer cooler. I smiled at the collection of cheap beer as a wave of cool fog washed over me. Things were just going right, now that I was off work. Usually something was wrong with the refrigeration system at the Fill-In, and Adam and I had to settle for a few tepid beers while we waited for our freezer to do the proper job. But today we could enjoy the cold that turns low-grade alcohol into a taste that is almost enjoyable.

I grabbed a case of Southpaws and headed for the counter. The sun was shining in through the window behind Cool Freddy, creating a kind of dusky smoke halo around His Coolness. Ol’ Fred was a very tall, very thin, older African American guy. He wore these round rimless spectacles that gave him a distinguished look, and he was always reading. And I’m not talking Jet or Ebony or anything like that. I had seen him with Voltaire, Nietzsche, Hesse, and Hemingway, just to name a few. It was actually because of him that I started my newest office-book: For Whom the Bell Tolls. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I kept meaning to thank him, but he always had my cigarettes ready for me and the total for the beer and cigs displayed on the register by the time I got to the counter. He probably would’ve thought I was patronizing him anyway. So we made our daily transaction in silence and I made for the door.

The house was just a short walk from the gas station, on the same street and everything. Our address was 1022 S. Brundidge St, and the number 1022 was known to probably half of the students at the university in Troy. We threw the undeniably best parties in Troy, and our home was affectionately known as “The 1022,” or sometimes “The Ten and Two Deuces.” I hopped the curb onto our yard and kicked the little girl’s bicycle that always seemed to be in the way to the side. No one knew the unfortunate little girl that had lost her bike; our friend Teddy P. had shown up with it at the Halloween Party last year.

I opened the front door with my non beer-carrying hand and stopped. The living room looked and smelled normal; same smoky haze, same mildewy funk coming from the giant wet spot on the carpet that never seemed to get any dryer, but the house was unusually quiet. There was almost always some kind of music playing throughout the house, either from the dinky little radio we kept on the bar or from one or more of the residents jamming on the instruments set up in the corner.

The bar and the full setup of drums, bass, guitars, amps, microphones and PA system were some of the main reasons our parties were so renowned throughout Troy. The band equipment belonged to the roommates, past and present, who were all musicians of varying degrees. Adam’s brother Britt had built the bar one day after ransacking the scrap piles at the hardware store across the street, and although it definitely looked homemade, it served its function perfectly. Stretching the length between the two bedroom doors on the left wall, it was equipped with the aforementioned dinky radio, three stools set up in front, and some stolen neon beer signs on the wall behind the bartender’s spot.

This bar had made its debut at the Halloween Party last year, which was one of the best we ever had. Adam and I had picked up two kegs from the Kold Keg in a neighboring town, where draft beer was much cheaper, and we borrowed a tap and a giant garbage can from some guy Britt knew from Montgomery. The garbage can was meant to hold the keg and a bunch of ice to keep the beer cool, and there were little holes drilled into the bottom to let the water drain as the ice melted. The holes we didn’t notice, and their function we did not forsee. So we set up the keg-can behind the bar before the party started, and by the time people started showing up and the first keg was almost empty, Weaver noticed that the carpet was soaked all around the bar. He was always barefoot when not at work. We figured it would dry out eventually, so no one really cared.

It was about this time that Teddy P. showed up with his new pink bicycle, complete with streamers frilling from the ends of the handlebars and little glittery star stickers all along the frame. The front door was open, so he rode on in, chasing down partygoers and screaming, “Yeah bitches! Yeah!” Ted used to be in the Navy, and he was pretty easily excitable. I offered him a beer to get him off the bike, and we made our way to the bar. Britt was currently dispensing drinks, so I caught his eye.

“Britt, get this man a beer. He’s thirsty from cycling.”

“Can’t man. Keg’s tapped.” This was when things started to get out of hand.