The Driver, Pt. II

“Like I said.” Lou turned and made like he had busy work to do leaving Boone to cover the conversation. “But the driver isn't in the story.”

I tried another swig and answered in the affirmative mid-wince. Jose was still fending off his hiccups. “You don't know about the driver...unless he doesn't...do his job...” Jose threw up in his mouth a little.

“I don't know whether to be flattered or not, Jose.”

Boone for some reason loves to watch people vomit. He started rubbing Jose's shoulders, telling him to just let it out, like your mom used to. Lou said something sarcastic thinly veiled as a joke and that he'd be right back with some more god-damned rags.

“He just drank too fast, that's all.” Boone finally stopped the rubdown and let the poor bastard make his way to the bathroom. After the door closed Boone turned and started tapping his Newport on the bar. “Ain't no way in hell I'm goin' in there with him.”

Lou arrived with more rags and a can of sawdust. Can you believe that? A coffee can of sawdust. Haven't seen that since I threw up in the cafeteria in third grade. Turkey gravy over mashed potatoes, so it was a Thursday. He got to the other side of the bar and saw nothing. No Jose. No vomit. “He didn't yak?” Boone pointed to the bathroom. “Ah shit. I'd rather he done it out here. Now I gotta do the whole toilet.” Lou sat and leaned against the bar and slowly crossed his arms, staring at the bathroom door. For the first time, we were all on the same side of the bar. “He only had two beers. Grainbelt, but still.”

Boone asked about the driver again just as the juke went on random.

“See the thing is...” I had no idea where to start.

Over the over the years, those rutted out paths that olive oil cart has to take have become common, and alpenglow has lost its luster. The olive oil eaters have no idea about everything that goes in those precious vessels. If they did, plenty would balk, a handful would be even more grateful, the lion's share would buy Bertoli if it was on sale. All this is pondered perched at the point of this parade, on wood wear-worn wide as the wagon, pining for pardon and carrying a torch for someone he hasn't met. Thinking about how maybe after this next delivery, he might take the cart in another direction. Just to see...ignoring that he knows those horses are going to head straight back to the barn.

“The thing is the driver is just pleased as shit to have a job in this economy. Am I right, or am I right?”

They both agreed and mumbled something motivated by their own individual politics.

“People tell stories everyday over dinner. I tell stories to sit at the table. I can convince you that bullshit is fact, and fact, bullshit. The fact of the matter is...you'll never really be sure. You don't know me outside this bar, and I doubt you'd ever swing by my place for beer and a burger some night to find out whether I'm full of shit or not.”

Boone stopped tapping his Newport. Lou stared at the bathroom door over folded arms. Jose was quiet. We were all quiet.

“I'd come drink your beer. I'm free next Tuesday.” Boone said finally.

Lou said “I like hamburgers. Big fan.”

“You have a bar to run. Boone, you've got kids.”

Lou said that if Boone was going to my place on a Tuesday night, he might as well go too. He would rather sit on a deck with a burger than sit by himself in a dimly lit bar. “I haven't closed early in ages. It'll be good, blow the stink off me.”

I didn't know what to say. It happens from time to time. Usually when the time is inopportune, as it is now. There was no way to take back my left-handed invitation. So. Next Tuesday night Lou and Boone are coming to my place for beer and burgers. Jose has yet to RSVP.