Right Twice
by Dylan Haughton
Marie lived in Jack’s pocket. Her portrait rarely met the likes of dead presidents, but rather shared its abyssal plain with a dozen dollar-store receipts. Jack couldn’t pay with a picture in this place he’d never been, so out came his coins. He waited atop his stool, examining the walls, shelves, liquors, and nozzles behind the glossy worn wood. The old man beside him played with half a steak, a different world in his eyes. Far above, a broken clock was frozen at ten-to-four.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, working a wet cloth into the counter.
“Whatever’s cheapest,” Jack said as he slid his laminated menu away. He recited those words but didn’t know what they’d buy him — the curse of paying with a bag of change. The bartender mixed his worst rum with some cola, heavy on the ice, and pushed it to Jack in a flimsy plastic cup.
He eyed Jack’s change; money was money. “Three-fifty for that.”
“Funny coincidence, ain’t it?” the steak-eater sputtered, like a car on startup. “I’ll be damned if it don’t mean somethin’.” To whom this man spoke, Jack was unsure, so he kept his eyes straight and his mouth in his drink. The bartender seemed set to ignore the rambler until his bill was settled, but the old man persisted. “What’s it mean, Tom?”
Tom Fulgrum set down his pitcher and planted his huge hands on the counter. Bear-like in stature, he leaned toward his customer. “What do you mean, Robert? No one understands a thing that comes outta your mouth.”
Old bearded Robert gasped then cackled to himself. “Is everyone blind?” He sighed and wiped a tear from his eye, then some grease from his white beard. “I don’t reckon it’s happenstance that your cheapest beverage costs three dollars and fifty cents, and that that clock above the lavatory’s been stuck at three-fifty o’clock since your daddy owned the place.”
“You tellin’ me to fix my clock?”
“It’s about time!” Robert snickered. “What’re you tryna tell people? Time’s cheap? I’ll tell ya, broken clocks and watered drinks make nothin’ look cheaper’n you.”
“You’re digging too deep, old man,” said Tom with a creeping smile. “You want the damn clock fixed, grab a stool and tinker with it yourself.” The rusty bells above the entrance rang, returning him to his duty. Robert grumbled, and Jack sipped his drink while he watched the incoming locals multiply like bacteria. He pushed another three-fifty forward.
Now devoid of a social buffer, Robert turned his speculative gaze toward Jack’s pile of coins. “What’s that mean?” he asked, plunging his knife through his steak and wrenching it back and forth till the metal screeched on ceramic. Jack winced at the sound. Robert skewered the slab of meat with his fork and held it beside his head like an upturned finger of declaration. “I know. You’re a trickster. Ya don’t carry cash because you’re always doin’ coin tricks. Show me some sleight of hand!” He leaned back and laughed in his smugness, popping the severed steak into his grinning mouth.
Jack finished his cup, the bitterness at the bottom rattled through his body and left him an open book. “No tricks. Just broke. And in more ways than one,” he said.
“Don’t spend it all in one place, fella,” Robert said, pity dawning in his wild eyes.
Jack signaled down to Tom for another. “I intend to.”
“What’s got you in such a mood?”
“Girl I love kicked me to the curb and now I’ve got nothing — no job, no bed, no warmth to share.”
“The house ain’t yours?”
“Was gonna be. We’re getting married next summer.”
“Not by the looks of it.”
“I’ll get her back.” Jack slid Marie’s photograph out from his hollow wallet. “Here she is.”
Old Robert hummed in lamentation. “What d'ya do to piss off such a beauty?”
Jack shrugged. “I’ve got no ambition. Played around with her daddy’s money for too long, I guess. One day she got fed up and I walked in on her with another man.” He stroked the portrait with his calloused thumb before gently tucking it away.
“She don’t sound like much of a saint ‘erself if you ask me,” Robert grumbled.
“Well, I didn’t ask. She’s the closest thing I've seen to an angel. That’s why I’m goin’ back when I get myself together.”
“Whatever ya say, kid.” He shifted his attention back to his food.
As Jack’s quarters dwindled and his inebriation swelled, dimes became his life-source. He exchanged mixed coins for mixed drinks as the twilight faded, while Robert finished his meal and slouched with a look of glazed satisfaction. The surrounding stools filled with local revelers, the nearest being a tough guy with a young woman on his lap. Jack dizzily strove to reignite conversation.
“Robert. Name’s Jack. I didn’t mean to snap at you — got a lot on my mind,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Robert smiled at the offer. “I’d rather ya treat me at the laundromat. Save your dollars.” He paused to reexamine the poor man. “Better yet, I’ll treat you. Maybe it’ll turn your luck around. Mr. Fulgrum! Now — what’s that look mean? Your father’d be ‘shamed if he saw the way ya treat your best customer. Get this gentleman a nice glass o’whiskey and put it on my tab.” Tom muttered a response from down the bar, but his resentment drowned in the rising tide of tipsy murmurs.
“Thanks,” Jack said, fidgeting with his coins. “Robert, you seem well-connected. You know where a man can get some work in the next town over?”
“I know every face in this town, ‘cept yours. We ain’t good enough for your labor?”
“Well, now you know me,” Jack said with as charming a smile as he could muster. “And I've been around. Can’t find a day’s honest work.”
Robert grunted and raised a suspicious brow. “All I can tell ya ‘bout is what business we got here. Mr. DiMorgan up the block owns most the businesses ‘round here, the real cutthroat he is —”
“Most generous cutthroat I ever dealt with,” interrupted Tom, serving Jack his whiskey. “The man has good practice, gives me a discount anytime someone or something goes crashing through my window—”
“Eh, the man’s a crook.” Robert rocked in his chair. “I can smell it on ’im.”
“He’s a pillar of the community,” Tom said, mostly to Jack, “small as it may be. He may as well be the mayor.” The bartender turned to serve another patron, leaving the old man’s face reddened with the brewing eruption of unfathomable conspiracy. He stuttered, beginning several thoughts before formulating one of coherence.
“Tell me: What kinda man runs a window shop without any windows to see what’s goin’ on inside?” His voice took on a steady crescendo. “It’s gotta mean something!”
“Like what?” Jack said, entertained.
“Oh, I dunno. The man’s been buyin’ up shops for years. Used to be he was just the window-man; now he’s the carwash-man, the book-man, the food-man, the electricity-man . . . I think he’s storin’ his earnin’s for somethin’ nefarious,” Robert said.
“Such as?”
“Experiments. Crimes.” Robert paused, his expression darkening. His voice trembled with righteous fury. “Traitorous activities. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I know I’m onto somethin’. I’ll be damned if—”
“Will you shut up, old man? I’m trying to enjoy myself here,” said a gruff voice from behind Jack. The man who took the adjacent seat now craned his neck away from the young woman on his lap to address the loud theorist, a pugnacious look in his weathered face. Robert muttered to himself in sudden embarrassment, avoiding the eyes of his heckler. To see such a flame extinguished was a pitiful sight, and one that Jack could avenge; after all, he owed Robert for the whiskey. He spun his stool to face the unfriendly neighbor, who had already returned to schmoozing his seated lady, and with a well-placed flick, sent a penny ricocheting off the back of his bald head.
“Are you shittin’ me?” the man growled, snapping around.
“You owe my friend an apology,” Jack said. Robert lifted his head to watch in wonder.
“You owe your life savings to a vending machine, you little prick,” he hissed.
“Put down your granddaughter and show me the nearest one.”
“Alright,” he patted the girl’s leg, prompting her exit. “Didn’t want to get into somethin’ like this tonight.” He stood. Jack stood to meet him, half a head shorter. Tom arrived like a spider alerted by a vibrating strand of its home.
“Gentlemen, take it outside.” His sternness did not disguise the plea.
The bald man finished his dark drink in a gulp, slamming the glass down onto the counter. He reached over and grabbed a handful of Jack’s change and pushed it toward the bartender, but not before picking out a nickel. He eyed it for a moment, grinning, then flicked it into Jack’s face. That was good enough reason for Jack’s first swing, which connected with the taller man’s jaw, sending him reeling back into his stool. A second later, retaliation was upon him.
The entire occupancy of the bar watched in a combination of horror and amusement as the two tussled in place. Jack rounded his adversary, putting his back toward the door. He could see Robert cheering from his seat. Barely dodging a drunken punch, he tumbled backward, clearing a space in the huddled masses. The man followed with his fists raised. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish, you little runt,” he said, swaying as he approached. “I’ll teach you that tonight.” Jack backed away further. Once there was nowhere else to go, he initiated a grapple with the man, who laughed and snarled. “You’re a twig.”
On any given night, evening passersby of Fulgrum’s Bar and Grill might see the swaying silhouettes of the drunken pugnants within or the lonely smokers without. But on this special night — this tri-monthly night — some lucky strollers witnessed the flight of a broken spirit through that storefront window, crashing down among shattered crystals into the empty street below. Onlookers rushed to see the damage and inspect the battered combatant, but it seemed that he had limped away before he hit the ground. By the time the police arrived, all that remained were some coins scattered about the broken glass.
Jack woke up with a stiff neck. Wet and cold with morning dew, he stretched his aching body from underneath a blanket of overflowing trash, revealing his bruised and scraped arms, imprinted doubly by the night-long pressure of a concrete mattress against his skin. Rising, he shook off the trash that clung to him, all of which fell away with the grace of an autumn leaf. With his sleeves rolled down, Jack looked as fine a gentleman as any. He patted his pockets and shifted in his boots, then departed from his alleyway cot with everything he owned.
Carefully he trod down the barren streets, avoiding the looks of stray morning joggers and dog walkers, while most deliberately circumventing the block on which Fulgrum’s Bar and Grill stood with its one blackened eye. The sun had barely risen, much to his pleasure. His transit would be peaceful, private, and — most importantly — punctual. Jack had no watch on his wrist, but by the cool blue heat of the dawning sun, he perceived his head-start on the Sunday morning workday. Eventually, he arrived at a blank building composed of small beige bricks, its only protrusions being the white front door and the black lettering above: DiMorgan’s Windows and Doors. Jack knew that the front end would be locked, so he traced the perimeter of the place, scraping open the colossal chain-linked fence that enclosed the warehouse’s loading dock. The side door budged open with a heavy-handed pull, as he expected it would. With a last glance behind him, Jack slipped inside.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to Mr. DiMorgan’s stockroom. Hundreds of upright windows leaned in rank and file in the weak light, facing in many directions, each containing its own glassy world of other windows spreading into a grey abyss — a funhouse mirror-room with no reflections.
“Welcome back,” a voice said, startling him. It sat so still, so quietly, with one leg propped upon its other knee. His pristine charcoal suit made him a stone statue against its pale environment, or a chameleon on a smooth grey bark. In the dimness of the room, Jack stepped straight past him, unable to perceive a presence of life with his most basic instincts.
Jack breathed to steady his pulse, a feeble attempt to shoo away the adrenaline that Mr. DiMorgan and his ominous stockroom injected into him. “Not the welcome I was expecting,” he said. “Thought we’d chat in your office like last time.”
DiMorgan lifted his arm like a judge with a gavel, only to draw back his sleeve and check his wristwatch. “No need,” he said. Jack imagined this was the tone he used with his clients when he couldn’t strike a deal — the lethargic ‘next’ of a bank clerk. “I’ve heard of a job well done,” he continued. “What more is there to discuss?” From within his jacket, he revealed a neatly stacked brick of cash. The question no longer had an answer. Jack took the money and skimmed it — all there. He noticed his bonus, a bus ticket out of town.
“Nice of you to give ‘em a discount before you rob ‘em blind,” he said.
Mr. DiMorgan stood and buttoned the front of his coat. “You’ll miss your bus.” And with that, he strode past Jack and disappeared into his army of windows. Jack had been employed by some cryptic gentleman in the past, but this one took the cake; ‘get yourself thrown through a window’ was now the strangest item on his resume. But as it was for Tom Fulgrum, so it was for him; money was, indeed, money.
And Jack stepped back outside with a fist full of it. The sun was up a little further and the wind was warmer. He sat beside the warehouse door, removing his boots with the quick hands and watchful eyes of a graverobber. His hand groped at the inside of the shoe until it procured a thin, raggedy insole. Jack split his earnings and shoved half in each boot, barely fitting his wealth as it combined with the rest of his savings. Once his feet were crammed back into place, he felt a little taller. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, shoving the bus ticket inside with such carelessness that Marie’s portrait was pushed aside, ejected onto a warm breeze that carried her softly onto the pavement. And there she remained, flipped by the wind, ever to watch the sky or ground, but never to see the road ahead.