One a Day

The sunlight that bled through the translucent curtains and crept past the drawn shades mixed with the luminescence of the television screen, barely providing enough light for Frank to read. Holding the paperback open with one hand he grabbed a sweating bottle of beer from the coffee table. He took a swig, being careful not choke in his horizontal position, and returned the beer to the table all without missing a word on the page. The hum from the window unit mellowed the volume of the radio buzzing in the background. Both provided a soundtrack for the silent television focused on a program about string theory.

Frank flipped the page. Lacking the desire to read anything of worth, Frank had recently resorted to reading the bestseller pop fiction of his teenage years. Lacking the desire, well, to do anything, Frank was on his 4^th paperback that week. He figured reading was better than not reading and currently Frank was captivated by the rant of a psychopath as he held a knife to the throat of an eight-year-old girl. The heroine was about to plug the psychopath in the head when Frank’s phone rang.

Expelling a hasty sigh, Frank glanced at the blinking display of his cell phone. It read, “Roland.” Frank quickly finished the sentence. The bastard had been put down by a bullet before he’d sliced the kid’s throat open. Satisfied, Frank snatched the phone and flipped it open.

“What’s up, Roland?” Frank answered.

“I’m just watchin’ the ballgame and the Cubbies are gettin’ their asses kicked. Game’s pretty much over. What’s say you come over and watch the last two innin’s with me?”

Frank wasn’t a Cubs or a baseball fan, but he liked Roland. That and he hadn’t left his house all weekend. “Sure thing, Roland. See ya in a few.”

Frank tossed his phone aside, dog-eared the page he was on, and then tossed the book aside too. He slugged down the last quarter of his Fat Tire while he searched his living room for a shirt. After slipping on flip-flops, Frank exited his house leaving all appliances on, all personal belongings behind and without locking the door.

The drastic contrast in his surroundings: going from dark to bright, cold to hot, briefly stuttered Frank’s movement. The last chug of beer did little to help the adjustment, but soon enough he trotted down the cement walkway to the carport, beads of sweat already accumulating where his scalp met his smooth forehead.

Despite the sun swept clear blue sky and the classical quality of the birds’ song, the beautiful day deceived. The breeze that hinted at relief from its water-saturated air, blew as cool as an oven. The clear sky that proclaimed a limitless horizon, disfigured and rippled in heat distorted mirage fashion. After passing through the shaded safety of the carport, Frank took a corner along the cement sidewalk that ran symmetrical to his side of the duplex.

Without even pausing to think about knocking, Frank opened the door and his senses acclimated to the lazy cool life he was used to leading. “Roland, I’m here.”

“Dammit, Frank, I know you’re here. Don’t think I can’t hear my own damn front door open?” Roland shouted from the living area.

“No reason to startle an old fart,” Frank said flipping the deadbolt, “you dropping dead of a heart attack would just really kill my beer buzz.” Frank turned the corner to see Roland’s gap toothed grin. “That’s a hell of a smile for a guy whose team is getting their asses stomped.”

“Ya know where the beer is. Help an old fart out and grab me one.”

Frank headed for the refrigerator.

“Ya know what their problem is?” Roland hollered to Frank.

“Whose problem?” Frank shouted from the kitchen.

“The damn Cubbies.”

“Oh, they suck!” Frank suggested.

Roland ignored Frank’s taunt and replied, “They’ve given up. Their lazy asses aren’t even tryin’. Almost like they’re scared to win.”

Frank returned to the living room with two ice cold cans of Budweiser. “Ah, Roland, you know what they say, it’s not about whether your afraid to win or lose it’s about how much you’re getting paid to play the game.”

Roland swatted the air. “Ugh, they’re just lazy bums who’ve given up,” he complained, as he reached for his beer. His hands shook as he popped the tab, a little foam spraying his neatly pressed slacks. “Damn hands,” Roland muttered. “Ya know, Franky, you should drink one beer a day, just one,” he said and took a long draw off his beer. “Damn, that’s good.”

Frank had heard this sage advice before. Often, he felt bad drinking three or four beers to Roland’s one, but whenever he brought beer over to replenish the stock, Roland either chastised him, made fun of his beer selection, most of the time, both.

“I hear you, Roland. But I still say if you’re only gonna have one, it might as well be the biggest, highest alcohol content damn beer you can lay your hands on, not a watered down 12 oz. Budweiser,” Frank replied, leaning back into the couch and guzzling his own beer.

Roland guffawed. “You’re a good boy Frank, a good boy,” he praised, leaning back in his recliner. His crystal blue eyes twinkled as if in deep contemplation. After a short pause his eyes blinked then refocused on reality. “So what you doin’ hangin’ out with an old man like me on a beautiful day when you should be chasin’ skirts?”

“Ah, Roland. The ladies are overrated—more trouble than they’re worth. Besides, it’s fucking hot out there.”

“You don’t know what hot is. Try a day like this without any damn air conditioner. No runnin’ water either. Then you’ll know what fuckin’ hot is.”

“Roland,” Frank sighed, “we’ve been through this before. I told you. I concede. My generation is nothing but unappreciative, spoiled little fucks. So, please save me the lectures.”

Roland leaned back laughing then shifted his position forward. With mock sternness he yelled, “Now listen to me, son. You’re gonna listen to any goddamn advice your lucky enough for me to give. I’ve seen and screwed things you can’t even dream of.”

"Listen, I know you grew up on a farm, so please, spare me any stories about the things you screwed during those days,” Frank replied, tipping back his empty can. “You mind if I grab another?”

“Hell, no. That’s what they’re there for.” Roland paused, readjusting himself in his recliner. “You’re still a young man,” he spoke, taking a sip from his beer, then after a brief contemplation said, “more importantly you got yourself a young liver.”

Frank went into the kitchen. He always felt a bit odd when traversing Roland’s home. The floor plan was identical to his own house but the contents entirely different. Roland’s place was far tidier than Frank’s and while the furniture wasn’t elaborate or expensive there was more of it and it seemed better utilized and placed. But the distinct difference between Roland and Frank’s décor, were the pictures and personal mementos Roland had strewn and hung about the house. There were pictures of his deceased wife at different stages of their 50 year marriage, posed pictures in front of Wrigley Field, the EiffelTower, with Frank Sinatra, with Ernie Banks, candid pics at the beach, of siblings, in-laws, children, and grandchildren. Frank’s walls were bare.

“Hey, there’s a pot of Macaroni and Cheese on the stove. You should eat. You’re too damned skinny,” Roland hollered from the living room.

Frank untucked his shirt and moved back to the couch, his fresh beer popped.

“Dammit!” Roland spoke with unusual sternness, “I said eat!”

Frank’s crouch into the couch turned into a startled plop. “Chill, Roland, I ate a microwave burrito before I came over,” he lied.

Roland tore at the hair remaining on his grey head. “Chill…damn kids, don’t even know,” he grumbled while rocking in his worn recliner. After a moment Roland angrily got up from his chair and stumbled. Frank grabbed his arm only after Roland had steadied himself with the other.

“You alright?” Frank asked.

“I’m fine.! It’s just these damned old legs!”

“You need some help?”

“Said, I’m fine,” Roland snapped back, “just goin’ ta use tha toilet. Ya gonna hold my pecker for me too?”

“Not particularly interested, although it is the best proposition I’ve had in months,” Frank replied trying to lighten the mood.

Roland’s thin lips formed a faint grin as he methodically shuffled towards the restroom.

No sooner had the bathroom door shut than the telephone rang. Frank thought it refreshing to hear an actual ring of a telephone and not some poorly amplified top-ten pop song. When the answering machine kicked in, he tried to divert his ears from listening to the message. It reminded him of the awkwardness he often felt when strangers so casually shared intimate information while having a private conversation on their cell phones in public. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the Cubs abysmal uphill battle on the television screen, he just couldn’t manage to tune out the message.

Mr. Arnold, this is Sherri in Dr. Khan’s office. This is the third time I’ve called to schedule an appointment regarding the results of your liver biopsy. Please call me back.

Frank barely had time to process the meaning of the message before Roland shuffled back to his recliner.

Somehow Roland looked different. How had he not noticed the looseness with which his clothes hung from his body, the dark circles around his eyes, the grayness of his skin, and the even thinner wiry grey hair on his head?

“You alright there, Franky?” Roland asked as he fell into his recliner.

“Yeah.” Frank put down his beer, went into the kitchen, fixed himself an enormous bowl of Mac and Cheese then returned to the couch.

“There’s some Mexican cornbread in there too.”

Frank quietly went back to the kitchen, cut himself a thick slice then returned to his spot on the couch. Both men sat in silence. Frank mindlessly shoveled food into his mouth and Roland methodically nursed his beer, both with their eyes fixed on the television, both seeing something different flicker across its screen.

Roland broke the silence first. “Ah, Franky, Franky. I’ve got this doctor’s appointment,” he paused, “how long we known each other now, Frank?”

“Going on five years,” Frank said staring into his beer.

“That’s what I thought. I just wanna say thanks for keepin’ an old man company. Shit, I know you don’t like baseball, and you sometimes nod off when I go into one of my stories, but you’re a good boy, you put up with it and even eat when I tell ya to.

“You’ve done good puttin’ up with a crotchety ole son of a bitch like me. And, well, I think of you like a son. Shit, I’ve seen more of you in one week then I’ve seen Clay and Carl in the last three years combined. You’re better than any of my spoiled good for nothin’ grandsons. I lov’em, but, well, you know.”

Frank braved looking up from his beer and looked directly at Roland. He patted him on the arm and said, “Thanks.”

Roland’s eyes got glassy then he laughed, his whole body shaking. “Well that’s enough of that.”

Frank raised his can. “Here’s to you and me Roland and fuck the rest.”

Roland chuckled as the aluminum clacked. “Now, that’s my boy.” Roland took a swig and then sunk back inside of himself.

Frank combed his mind searching for the right words to say but his brain was clouded by his own grief. He looked up at the television screen and his eyes widened. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he began rapidly tapping Roland’s forearm, “Roland, Roland!” With his free hand, Frank jabbed a pointed finger at the television, already partially out of his seat.

Roland’s stare snapped back just in time to see the ball sail out of the park.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! In the bottom of the 9^th, down three runs with two outs, Reed Johnson knocks a grand slam to win the game!” the announcer yelped.

A mixture of glee and awe spread across Roland’s wrinkled face. “I’ll be damned!” He looked over at Frank. “Franky, you just might be good luck after all. That son of a bitch never knocks it out the park.”

“Guess I’m not completely worthless after all.”

“Now I didn’t say that,” Roland replied with a grin, “but if you get off your duff and get me another beer, we’ll call it even.”

“What happened to all of that one beer a day stuff?” Frank teased.

“Well, hotshot, since you’re such good luck, I just thought I might listen to your advice for a change. So why don’t ya just pretend that insteada me drinkin’ two beers I’m drinkin’ one big one like ya said. Call it a compromise.”

“Hell, fuck compromise. It’s a celebration.”