Misforgotten

“Man’s first faculty is for forgetting.”

--- Albert Camus

The Hi-Note never opened before eight, so Sully had nearly an hour to kill. Sleep had deserted him at last, having crept away furtively and come slinking back like a dog a dozen times during the night. His head, fragile as an egg, rested on the back of his tingling hand. A single shaft of light impaled his pillow. He turned halfway over, fumbled for the alarm and forestalled it, and gently pressed the tips of two fingers to his brow. He threw back the covers then and got up, gingerly, knees crackling in protest, and awaited the onrush of vertigo. Mooring himself with one hand to the bedpost, he snapped the blinds tight. The light withdrew but crouched outside.

“Move along, now, move along,” he rasped.

A cracker might help his head. Or a doughnut? He lurched into the kitchen, barking his shin on a footstool that never seemed to stay put, and opened a cabinet. As he squinted, something scuttled.

“So sorry. As you were. No sense in both of us getting up.” He closed the door gently, turned away and surveyed the room.

“Little son of a bitch must have eaten everything,” he muttered.

In the bathroom, a little lamp--the overhead bulb was burned out--revealed a toilet and sink. He ran water, made a cup of his hands and doused his face, then searched the mirror for traces of last night. The bump above his eye from last week—a fall, a fist?—was just about gone. A bit of stubble—could he go without shaving? No, he was on the front desk today, and besides, Bookwitch had been on his ass lately.

He caressed the pouches under his eyes. Christ, you could fit a couple of beer mugs in there.

He still had his pants on, he now noticed. His fly was down all the way—had it been like that at the Note?—and he fumbled inside while straddling the bowl.

“Take your time, no hurry,” he croaked as a trickle arrived, dribbling onto his trousers; then there was an encouraging stream. Sully sighed. Now if his head would quit throbbing.

He lowered the lid and sat down, removing his trousers and shorts. The shower curtain popped a ring as he parted it. While the water ran from icy to lukewarm he peered at the watch on the sink.

He lingered in the shower, leaning into the spray with his hands against the wall, letting the water pummel his back. Toweling himself off, he felt a twinge. Jesus, what now? Did somebody kick me?

He sat again and examined his groin. Nothing there that he could see. He sighed and shut his eyes. His stomach rumbled but not his bowels.

I’ll take a dump at the Hi-Note if I have to, he resolved, struggling to his feet.

It could be that he’d kicked somebody, he considered as he dressed. The clock on his bureau had stopped. He scooped up his change and keys and unfolded a scrap of paper in among the coins. He read the word “Jane” and a phone number. He studied the writing, which couldn’t be his: On the one hand it was legible and on the other the name had quotation marks framing it. No recollection stirring, however, in his buzzing brain, he folded it again and put it in his pocket. He went into the bathroom to fetch his watch, but forgot what he’d come in for. He checked his tie in the mirror and went out.

Outside, the day was unnecessarily bright already. His car was there against the curb, only slightly atilt. He reached inside to pull open the door, swept a handful of fries off the seat, and got in. The smell of grease and cheese was still pungent. That explained the headache.

Another day, another dolor, he supposed.

Pulling into the Hi-Note’s parking lot, he swerved to avoid the pothole that had been there for weeks. (Now he remembered; leaving the Note the other night he’d run into this, and banged his head against his steering wheel.) As usual, Muldoon was there before him. Billowby’s van was backed up to the door. Muldoon, hunched over and stamping his feet, had his hands jammed into his windbreaker pockets.

Jesus, Muldoon, it’s just September,” Sully called out his window.

“Fuckin’ breezy, though.”

Sully parked next to Timmons’s Camaro—he must have gone home with Rae Ann last night—and got out, tugging at his pants seat.

“You got a turd in there?” Muldoon’s own trousers looked like he’d slept in them too.

“Give me a ciggie,” Sully said. He wondered for the dozenth time about Muldoon, who must have gone through fifty dollars of beer and four or five packs of smokes a day, spending all day every day at the Note. Even though he’d only known him a couple of months Sully couldn’t picture him ever holding down a job. Where’d the money come from?

Muldoon frowned, fished a cigarette out of his pack and flipped it to him.

“You got a light?”

“God damn. Anything else?” He coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat as he handed him the lighter.

“What time is it?” Sully asked.

“Time for that sumbitch to open up.”

On cue, the door opened and Billowby emerged. He rolled his eyes and popped the rear hatch of his van.

“Not time yet,” he said.

“Can we at least come in?”

Billowby tucked a box of hamburger patties under his arm and lowered the hatch. He went back in and stood in the doorway.

“Well, come on, then.”

Sully and Muldoon squeezed past him and walked through the kitchen out into the bar.

Sully perched on his stool, lit up and reached for an ashtray. What in the hell was he doing smoking? His head was thumping like a bass drum. Muldoon cocked his head at the cigarette machine, as if he’d never seen it before.

“Hey, bartender, I need some change,” he piped, plopping down beside Sully and waving a five-dollar bill like a pennant.

“I’m busy, goddammit,” Billowby called from the kitchen.

“It’s eight.”

“Hold your fuckin’ horses.”

“Come on, Billowby. I got to be at work in an hour,” Sully entreated.

Billowby came out presently, carrying a cash drawer. He popped the register, dropped in the drawer, and made an elaborate show of reading the notes stuck to the counter.

“Come on, Billowby, set us up.”

Billowby scrawled something on a stick-it pad and squinted at it, then peeled it off and stuck it to the register. He strolled to the end of the bar, straightening bottles.

“Billowby, goddammit.”

Billowby pointed to the clock overhead. “Seven forty-five,” he said.

“You asshole, you know that clock’s not right.” Muldoon pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and tapped his watch. “It’s eight-oh-three.”

Billowby scowled and yanked open the cooler. He fished out a couple of bottles and slammed them on the bar. “Four dollars,” he said.

“Here’s for me,” said Muldoon. “And gimme change for the machine.”

“Sully?”

“I got a tab.”

“Like hell you got a tab.”

Sully clutched his beer. “I have a tab, Billowby. You said it was okay, if you recall.” He snapped off the cap off his beer and took a long swig, and reached for his cigarette. Billowby sighed, took Muldoon’s five and rang it up. He slapped the change on the bar.

“How much you owe me now?”

“I’m good for it. You know that.”

Billowby went back to the kitchen, shaking his head. Muldoon carried his beer to the cigarette machine, purchased a pack, and settled into his regular chair. Sully took another long swig, set his beer down, tamped his cigarette out and leaned back in his stool, rubbing his chin.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud. Forgot to shave.

Billowby was throwing pots and pans around in back. Sully eyed the clock. What kind of a moron bar, he mused, would have a clock that ran slow instead of fast? Typical.He wondered if he could steer clear of Bookwitch today.

He finished his beer and set it down with a thump. “Oh, barkeep?” he crooned.

Billowby took a minute to appear, and when he did Muldoon arose and handed him his bottle. Billowby tossed the two empties and, frowning, drew out a pair of fresh ones.

“Hey, Muldoon,” Sully said. “You ever hear of a bar owner who tries to run off his regular paying customers?”

“Who’s paying?” Billowby glared.

“Hey, I told you I’m good for it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Billowby went back to the kitchen, Muldoon returned to his seat, and Sully opened his beer and tried to reconstruct the events of last night. Had there been a fight? He massaged the inside of his leg, feeling the same twinge. He swiveled on his stool.

“Hey, Muldoon, was I in a fight last night?”

“You were?”

“Was I. I’m asking you.”

“Fuck would I know? I left about six.”

Jesus, how could I not remember? At least his head was starting to feel better. He figured he’d have to have left the Note before eleven, since that’s when the Burger Boat closed. I’ve got to quit eating that shit. He wondered if he’d been in a card game. He couldn’t recall how much money he’d had when he came in. He couldn’t recall even coming in.

“You know when I showed up, Muldoon?”

“When, last night?”

“Yeah.”

“No idea.”

“Hey, Billowby, were you in last night?”

Billowby had come back out. He opened the register and took out a key. “Just for a minute,” he said.

“You see me?”

“When? Last night?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess so. So?”

“What was I doing?”

“What do you mean what were you doing?”

“I don’t know. Give me another beer.”

The back door swung open and Jimmy, the day bartender, came through the kitchen.

“Hey, Jimmy, were you here when I came in yesterday?”

“Yesterday morning?”

“No, last night.”

“I don’t think so.”

Not the most reliable source, Sully noted, seeing as how Jimmy was invariably hammered by five o’clock, when he, Sully, usually showed up.

“Open the front door, Jimmy,” Billowby said, handing him the key. He set another beer in front of Sully. “And put two beers on Sully’s tab. Where is his tab, anyway?”

Jimmy rummaged in a shoebox by the register and pulled out a four-by-six notecard. He handed it to Billowby and went to unlock the door.

“Jesus Christ, Sully, this is almost two hundred fucking dollars! What’s the fucking story, Jimmy?”

“Relax, Billowby, I get paid Friday. I’ll settle up then.”

“God damn right.” He took off his glasses and massaged the top of his nose. “Jimmy, who are the other deadbeats around here?”

Jimmy came back behind the bar as Sully was finishing up his beer. “I can go through the box today.”

“Make me a list. And God damn it, you can’t let these tabs get out of hand. Jesus Christ, I’m not running a fucking charity here.”

“Hey, that’s an idea,” Sully said. “You could start a charity. Beers for Breakfast. Get a load on first thing in the morning, and then go back to bed.”

“That’s brilliant,” Billowby said.

“Sure. You’d be doing a real service. There’s entirely too much work done in this country.”

“In some parts, maybe.”

“You’d be tax-exempt. You could probably get a grant.”

“I’ll give it some real thought.”

“You might start a movement. You’d be famous.”

“Your mind is a movement. A bowel movement.”

Sully tilted his bottle in Billowby’s direction. “Now that you’ve hit the big time, Greg, would you like to say a few words to the fine folks back home?”

“You’re one funny son of a bitch, Sully.”

“Thank you very much, testing, testing.” Sully tapped the top of the bottle. “Thank you so much for your kind words. I’d stay and chat, but I must depart. The great world awaits. Good-bye and farewell.” He felt another twinge as he got up and strode toward the door.

“Yeah,” Billowby called after him. “Be sure and come back again, whenever we’re closed.”