A frightened look spreads out across Carl's face. He looks at the clock above the bar and begins counting. "Hurry," he says. "Just go fast." He watches her walk away, her hair moving both ahead of and behind her. Anderson stares at Sharon's backside as she walks past him and out of sight. He points toward her and makes a loud sucking noise with his lips. The bartender laughs.
Carl sinks down in his chair. He considers pretending to drop something so he can hide under the table. Anderson twirls from his stool and approaches. His face presents itself to Carl, his head as if sculpted from stone and plopped awkwardly down on his neck. Carl tries not to focus on the scar but of course he does. It certainly is a big one.
"The cat's been doing some dragging and look who he dragged in," Anderson says, taking Carl's hand in both of his.
"Hello, Anderson." Carl tries to withdraw his hand but Anderson takes him tightly by the wrist.
"I'm a mailman now," Anderson says through a hole in his facial hair where a mouth should be.
"Yes," Carl says. "I can see that. I was just telling my wife. 'That's Anderson,' I told her. 'He's a mailman.'"
"I deliver the mail."
"Yes. You just said that. A mailman. The uniform looks nice."
"Thank you." Anderson says, letting go of Carl's wrist. "And the benefits. Who would have ever thought? I have benefits."
"Benefits," Carl says. "Yes.""Yes?" Anderson says. "You know about my benefits?"
"Of course," Carl says. "A man like you. A man like you, Anderson. Benefits. Of course that's what you have. Of course you do." Carl tries to look past him and through the crowd for Sharon, but Anderson is so large he blocks the view. "Nice going, Anderson," he says and, for lack of anything better to do, attempts to give Anderson a high-five but the attempt goes unreciprocated and Carl simply slaps him on the shoulder.
"A wife? So Mr. Big Shot has himself a wife. The little squirt went and got himself a wife."
"Sharon," Carl says. "She's my wife."
"Sharon," Anderson says. "Nice name. And keep your hands off of me. It's a federal crime to strike a uniformed government employee. I'd be within my rights to mace you here and now. Touch me again," Anderson says. "Go on. Try me. Take your best shot."
"Sorry," Carl says. "I really am. It was an accident. I was just trying to . . ."
Anderson lets loose with a chortle. "I was kidding. Lighten up, why don't you. You lose your sense of humor somewhere along the way? You used to be a funny kid."
"Oh," Carl says, smiling weakly, trying to remember a single moment in his life when he was funny. His father used to chuckle when Carl wet his pants at the sight of the baseball bat, but that was not quite the same as being funny. Sharon used to laugh constantly when they first met, but it was so long ago it now seems to him that she might have been laughing at something on the television and he just happened to be sitting nearby.
"A regular barrel of laughs," Anderson says.
"Anderson, can I buy you a beer?"
"Beer shmear," Anderson says and turns toward the bar, waving his hand at the bartender. "Sit," he tells Carl. "Sit." He half shoves him back down into his seat.
The bartender brings a tray with eight shots on it. She smiles at Carl and sets the tray in front of him. She lifts Anderson's cap from his head and tousles his thick hair. He slaps her on the behind and she gathers the dirty plates.
"Drink," Anderson says "Drink up, for old times' sake. To times past. To the years piled one on top of the other." Anderson lifts a shot to his mouth and drinks, a dribble of gold glistening his beard. "Nice to see one of the old crowd."
"Yes," Carl says, wondering who, other than Anderson and himself, the old crowd consists of.
"Drink," Anderson says, tracing a finger along his scar. He tilts his face upward and knocks back another shot. "Come on. What's the hold up?"
Carl looks toward the back of the bar and then slumps low in his seat. He grabs at one of the small hard glasses so quickly some of the liquid slops out. The rest he dumps into his mouth, rinses it about like mouthwash, and then swallows. It tastes terrible but still it is as if a coat of rust has been stripped away from his tongue.
"Where are you now, Carl?" Anderson asks. "No, wait. I got a trick. Just give me the zip and I'll tell you where you're at."
Carl tells him the zip code and Anderson correctly says the name of the city. He then tells Carl the name of the postal station and the route number, though Carl has no way of knowing if this information is accurate. "High dollar, Carl. High dollar," Anderson says. He reaches over and strokes Carl on the arm, one time, then twice.
"Jesus," Carl says. "Right on the money. You knew all that."
"More than that," Anderson says, again running a finger along his scar. "I know more than that."
By the time Sharon returns, a fresh coat of make-up smeared over her face, all the shot glasses are empty and Carl is smoking a cigarette from Anderson's pack. She pushes in next to Carl.
"You're the mailman," she says. She points at the empty shot glasses, four in front of Carl arranged in a zig-zag pattern, four lined up straight like a firing squad in front of Anderson, and says, "Are these glasses yours? Do they belong to you?"
"Mine? Hell no. I don't own anything in this place. We're just guests in this world. Me and my mailbag. Guests." He points over to the empty barstool where his leather sack dangles by its long straps. "I'm Anderson," Anderson tells her. "I knew Carl when he was still in Batman underwear." He reaches into his pocket and slaps a janitorially large sets of keys down on the table.
"I'm sure it would be a pleasure if I took the time to find out," Sharon says. She shoots Carl a withering look, all the disparate folds and wrinkles and sags of her face coming together for one brief, shining moment before returning to a state of slackness.
"Sit," Anderson tells her. "Sit down like a good girl and have a drink with us."
"Maybe some other time, Mr. Anderson," Sharon says. "Carl, put the cigarette out and come on. Now. I thought you wanted to leave."
"Nice hair," Anderson says. "Carl, your wife here has nice hair. Beautiful, even."
"Yes," Carl says. "Thank you."
"I'm proud of you, son."
"Carl," Sharon says. "Sometime this century. Goddamnit."
"Language," Anderson says.
"Come on, Sharon," Carl says.
"You know what you get like, Carl. Let's not talk about it here," Sharon says. "In front of this person." She flashes Anderson a tight smile. "He doesn't want to hear any of this."
"The hell I don't," Anderson says. "Always willing to lend an ear. The stories people tell me. Everybody's always got a little something for the mailman." He leans over the table and whispers to Carl and Sharon alike. "I know it all. I got dirt on everybody."
"Put it in a letter," Sharon says. "Carl, pack it up."
"But this is Anderson," Carl tells her. "He's a friend of mine. See, Sharon, I have a friend and his name is Anderson. Sharon worries that I don't have any friends, Anderson. She even told me today I should get a dog so it could be my friend. But it turns out that I do have a friend, Anderson, and his name is Anderson." He tries to blow a smoke ring but he fails, the smoke coming out in a cloud and getting in his eyes. He takes his glasses off and puts them on the table. He rubs at his face. "I guess I don't need a dog after all."
"Woof, Carl," Anderson says. "Woof, woof."
"Carl, are you coming with me or not? I'm getting on that plane. You were the one, not me. You said you wanted to leave. You can come with me or I can take a shuttle."
"Shuttle?" Carl says, seeing six bodies cramped in a van, the heater on, Sharon's jacket coming off, five men in blue suits carrying briefcases, each falling over the other to help her with her bags.
Carl tries to get up but Anderson reaches across the table and plants a hand on his chest, shoving him back into his seat. "Settle your tits down, honey," Anderson says, and Carl, not sure which one of them Anderson is addressing, traps a laugh in his throat. "Have a drink. You're not going anywhere with this weather." Anderson waves again to the bartender.
Carl catches his breath and says, "Come on, Sharon. One drink."
"Yes, Sharon," Anderson says.
"Carl, goddamnit. You promised me. We didn't have to come here but you promised me."
"Oh-oh," Anderson says. "I guess our boy has a little problem. I can't be held responsible. I certainly can't be expected to know everything. I just deliver the mail, I don't know what's in it."
"Oh, really? I thought you knew everything, Mr. Anderson."
Anderson stretches his long arms way above his head and lets loose with fake yawn. His uniform strains against his chest and shoulders. He lifts his key-ring off the table but instead of leaving he selects a key and digs it deep into one of his ears and comes out with an gob of orange wax. "This fucking weather will kill you if you let it," he says. "Always have to be on guard against infection in my line." He wipes the key clean against the edge of the table.
"Okay, we'll go," Carl says. "See you around, Anderson." He makes another move to stand but Anderson places a hand on his chest and shoves him back down again, his head bumping hard against the window.
"Sorry, Carl," Anderson says. "When you're my size you forget how strong you are. I get enthusiastic sometimes. It's a curse I live with."
Carl rubs the back of his head. "My head," he says. "Okay, Jesus, I'll have a drink, he says. "Sharon?"
"Fuck," Sharon says. "Everlasting fuck. Soccer practice."
"Soccer practice?" Carl says.
"I just remembered something. I have to use the phone," Sharon says. "I am going to use the phone and then I am leaving. Then I will be gone from here. The phone, then the door. Start counting. You're on your own after that."
As she is walking away Anderson turns and stares at her ass and makes the sucking noise again. "Lucky dog, Carl. Lucky, lucky dog. Any kids?"
"Two. Two boys."
"Two? She's had two babies and still looks like that?"
"Yes," Carl says.
"She did have them, didn't she? The babies, I mean. She did have them, or did you adopt? Because with a body like that I'm saying you adopted. So slender. Always liked them skinny, flat chested and skinny. Tell me. Adopted, right?"
"They're ours," Carl says. "She had them. We had them." He is hoping the bartender comes to the table again. There is a small slick of ginger ale swimming in the bottom of the pitcher but he decides against it.
"And boys? Boys are the best. I've always liked boys."
"How many kids you have, Anderson?"
Anderson slams his hand down on the table, rattling the glasses. "Me kids? Be realistic. If I ever had any kids, though, I'd have boys. I'd teach them things with my hands."
Carl takes another cigarette from Anderson's pack and lights up. "I'm sure you would, Anderson," he says. "I'm sure you would teach them things with your hands." Carl remembers one time when Anderson helped him fix the chain on his bicycle, how Anderson ran fresh grease over the chain and tightened the guard and even gave the spokes a shine with a cloth. Carl had a cast on his ankle from a bout with his father, the bat cracking through the bone, so Anderson rode him on the handlebars to an abandoned school bus in the middle of a field of rubble. Carl remembers lying on the metal floor, the rotting vinyl seats above them, wind tearing through the broken windows. Anderson's breath was full of milk and onions and Carl's good leg was twisted beneath him and his other leg was purple and throbbing under the cast. Anderson fell asleep afterwards. Carl was crying, he wanted to go home. His father had promised both his legs would be a matching set if he was late for dinner. He crawled down the stairs of the bus and tried to hop on Anderson's bike but could not do it. He crawled back up the stairs and tried to wake Anderson up, but Anderson just rolled over and told him to fuck-off. Carl crawled back outside. He found the brick behind one of the wheels of the bus. The first time he dropped it on Anderson's head, it just bounced right off, but still Anderson wouldn't wake up. He even seemed to go into a deeper sleep. Carl let rip again, this time the brick just sort of stuck there in Anderson's forehead for a second or two before hitting the floor. The final one made Anderson's nose not look like a nose anymore. It took Carl an hour to hop and crawl home, but he got there just in time. It wasn't until the next morning Anderson was found. Two vagrants were arrested and charged by that afternoon. Carl never visited Anderson in the hospital. Within weeks Anderson's family had moved out to a farm in the country where the crime rate was much lower and children could walk the streets safely at night, where there were no perverts and molesters and people like the people who had done this to their son.
The bartender clears the table, setting the old glasses and pitchers on a cart. She wipes the table with a wet rag and empties the ashtray. She sets down a fresh tray holding nine shots, winks at Carl, and leaves. He tries to ask her for a glass of water but she ignores him.
"Watch this," Anderson says. He holds a shot between each finger of his right hand, lifts the hand to his mouth and does a trick Carl has never seen before. All four glasses are empty with a simple tilt of the hand. Anderson swallows hard and lights a cigarette.
"My dad . . ." Carl begins to say.
"Oh, fuck. Don't go getting all weepy. Please spare me. Your dead father. I know all about him. I know everything that happens in this town." Anderson takes two of the empty glasses and holds one in each hand. "Just answer me this one question. Why the hell you marry that girl? The mouth on her. She could use a bar of soap the way she talks."
Carl drains one of the glasses into his mouth and chokes the liquid past his tightening throat. "She's perfect," Carl says. "Don't go too far, Anderson. She's perfect. You even said so before."
"I was being polite. Any man can see that. What's with all that hair, can you tell me something about that hair of hers?" He tightens his hands around the glasses and bangs his fists on the table. He laughs. "And those arms of hers? God, she's like a little ape. What's she carrying around under that skirt, a goddamn zoo animal?"
Carl starts to giggle, picturing Sharon with her clothes off. "That's one of my favorite things," he whispers.
"That shit's window dressing," Anderson says. "You ought to take a razor to her. Take a razor to her and she'll look like a ten year old boy. An ugly little boy. She'll remind you of you."
Carl wishes Sharon would come back, would hang up the phone and come back to the table. He brings his hand to the back of his head and rubs again. He thinks he feels a lump forming. "Don't push things," he says.
Anderson stands, the glasses hidden inside of his fists. "Push," he says. He makes a clucking noise with his tongue. "That sound you hear is me pushing things." He clucks again.
"Anderson," Carl says, craning his head to try and see if Sharon is on her way back. He can't see her, though, as Anderson is far too big for him to see around. "Come on, Anderson," Carl says. "Sit." But Anderson does not sit, so Carl stands up and still he can't see past him.
"She's not coming back," Anderson says. "Even if she does come back, she's not coming back for you. Don't even bother. I can tell just looking at her, looking at you. That one's been in the mail for years. Years." He licks his lips once, then twice. He scratches at his scar.
Carl stares up at Anderson's face, at his purple lips, wet and barely visible, peeking out from beneath his beard.
"Come on, Anderson," he whispers. Anderson is so close Carl thinks he can smell what he had for lunch; he thinks he can even smell what Anderson had for breakfast and for dinner the night before. He keeps looking at Anderson's lifeless mouth, the way it's like a narrow slot, a secret opening hidden behind a shrub.
"Oh," Anderson says, only an inch of space separating his lips from Carl's. "I will. Don't you worry about that." A few stray hairs from his beard brush against Carl's nose.
Carl knows how this one's going to end. He doesn't even bother looking for Sharon anymore. Even if she does come back, he's sure it will end in exactly the same way it will if she doesn't. He can already taste it in his mouth, feel it in the back of his throat. His knees are beginning to ache. Anderson, Carl thinks. Fucking Anderson.
Tom Bonfiglio's stories have appeared or are forthcoming in over a dozen publications, including Fiction, Northwest Review, The Florida Review, Lake Effect, The Literary Review, Wag's Revue, Mixer and Fringe Magazine. He won the Robert C. Martindale Prize in Long Fiction, and has received Special Mention in the Pushcart Prizes: Best of the Small Presses. He lives in Paradise Valley, Arizona.
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