Blacky, Pt. 3

Morphine by Santiago Rusiñol, 1894

The girl to my right got her check and was digging in her purse.  I watched her as she got up and walked to the register.

"Damn," said the friend to my left.  He didn't say anything else about it.

"I got two kids.  Both of 'em turned out to be dopeheads.  My son lives up in Umatilla.  He won't last much longer.  He had some bones collapse in his neck and the weight put pressure on his esophagus so he couldn't swallow.  They gave him an operation, but I watch him and he still has trouble swallowing his food."

"How old is he?"

"He's sixty-one.  He's got a son, forty-something, who's an alcoholic.  He won't change."

I didn't say anything to that.  You don't comment on people's relatives.  The girl with the backless dress had finished paying and was walking back by us to leave a tip on the counter.

"I had prostate cancer a while back.  They cut it out and everything was fine.  Then I got this little bitty tumor in my brain.  Looked like the cancer came back, but they went in and took it out.  They cut the top of my skull right here," he said, drawing a line with his finger along the front and sides of his head.  "They couldn't get it opened up enough, though.  They tried prying it with some expanders, but they had to cut a hole right here.  After that, I was no good down there.  I don't have nothing no more.  I mean. . . I've got something, but it ain't no good but for passing water."

I didn't say anything to that, either.

"My wife passed away with cancer.  You smell that, you won't forget it.  She had liver cancer.  I nursed her through it but it finally got her.  She was the smallest little thing you ever seen.  Didn't weigh nothing when it was done with her.  That was my third wife.  I lost another to cancer, too, but I wasn't there for that.  That killed me.  I was running some stuff for these fellows up in Texas, driving a truck, and I run out of money and asked them to send me some so's I could eat.  The son of a bitches wouldn't send any, and I don't eat much.  So I parked the truck in a garage and started looking in the back.  I found these boxes of checks, about ten of 'em, so I wrote one.  I started writing checks every few days and people kept cashing 'em.  I couldn't believe it. . $300, $350.  Did it for about a month.  Then they caught me.  I turned myself over to the marshall up there.  Big Red.  Everybody knew Big Red.  You didn't mess with him, no sir.  I turned myself over to him and he was real polite and all, treated me good.  When he drove me and some other boys up to the prison, he had to put us in handcuffs, but he did it so as nobody could see him.  When we got outside the prison, he stopped and told us, 'Take a good look boys.  It could be a good long time before you see country again.'"

"How long did you get?"

"Six years.  I did four, but my wife got the cancer while I was there.  That was bad.  I learned, though, you don't steal another man's money."

"When was that?"

"I went in. . . let's see. . . ."  He was counting on his fingers.  "I went in in sixty, got out in sixty-four."

I looked around the diner.  It was standing room only when we came in.  The place was about empty now.  I'd been sitting with my buddy for couple hours and didn't know his name.  I stuck out my hand and said, "My name's C.S."

He took my hand in his, sort of.  His ring and little fingers were bent in so that they were inside my grip, like he was holding a gun.  Arthritis, probably, but maybe not.

"Nice to meet you.  My name is Bucky Black.  Everybody calls me Blacky."

"Well, Blacky, it was great talking with you.  No kidding."

"You, too, man.  I'm up here every morning at seven.  I drop my wife off at the bus stop.  She works out at the university and takes the bus right out there and I don't have to take a chance on bustin' up my truck."

"What does she do out there?" I asked, fairly amazed.

"She's a psychology counselor," he said.  What the hell is that, I wondered.  I was trying to picture all of this.

"Which wife is this?" I asked.

"Five.  No. . . six.  This is my sixth wife."

"Well look for me to come up and have coffee with you some morning," I said.  "I want to hear more stories."

"Listen, man," he chuckled, "I got stories.  Yes sir.  You just come up and ask for Blacky.  They all know Blacky."

"I will, I will."  I gave him a pat on the shoulder as I made my way outside.  Man, I thought, I'm coming back.  There's something there.  I don't know if I could do it.  But I know there's something there.