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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
February 20, 2011
Previously unpublished fiction.
© 2011 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Stella Glass, 2011
© 2011 by Bud Grossmann
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PERFECT CLARITY
ON A FOGGY WINTER’S DAY
F
rank Bianchi, a somewhat retired citizen of Fjord, Wisconsin, had not had a beer, he phoned to tell me, in what seemed several weeks, had not eaten bratwurst in what was for sure several months, when, at noon on a warm and foggy Thursday in January he discovered a half-dozen cooked-and-frozen local sausages in his freezer and decided, What the hell. He drank a Simpler Times from a Stella glass while reading the current double-issue of The New Yorker and enjoyed a warmed bratwurst wrapped in a toasted slice of home-baked rye with homemade mayo, Heinz ketchup, four slices of sweet pickle, melted chunks of cheddar, and no onion. This was lunch on a day on which Frank was still wearing, he said, only boxer shorts and a T-shirt well into the afternoon.
He finished the beer and poured himself another. Taking a gulp of the foam that threatened to spill over the Stella glass rim, Bianchi was momentarily transported by the aroma, he told me, to a particular night in the summer of must have been, maybe was, 1968, when he had guzzled mugs of brew at a place called The Roost in a nearby Galloway County town. Of all the beer foam he has enjoyed, why this whiff lifted him to The Roost he is not sure.
Bianchi had attended Fjord High School, as had I, but had moved with his family to another state before graduation. Each summer they returned to Fjord for a week or two. Frank was nineteen or twenty years old that night when he and a couple of pals drove to The Roost in a ’64 Impala convertible. They had no specific aspirations for greater mischief than the quick consumption of quantities of three-two beer. These many years later, the fragrance of foam caused Frank Bianchi to picture with astonishing clarity, he wanted me to understand, the beautiful black-haired Linda Eubanks, whom he has seen only once since high school, briefly on that very night (she arrived in the company of a slim, tall, jittery lad Frank had never met). “Hey! Hi! God, it’s so good to see you!”
A moment later Frank said or did something that seemed in the sour haze of smoke and beer no worse than playful, but whatever it was it prompted the aproned bartender to snarl “Bianchi, you have had enough!” and slam down a half-filled pitcher, rush round the counter to grab Frank by his shirtfront, dance him sideways to the door, and heave him, western-saloon style, out onto the gravel of the parking lot.
Frank rose to his feet, leaned against the fender of a Ford, and, by the dim lone light of the parking lot, picked small stones from his palms and the undersides of his bloodied forearms. His buddies were still inside The Roost. Frank lifted his hands to a starry sky and hollered triumphantly to an absent audience, “I am feelin’, feelin’, feelin’! I am feelin’ no pain!”
Hearing Bianchi’s insufficiently climactic reminiscences caused me to think of what was possibly the last time I myself saw the youthful and lovely, motherless Linda Eubanks, and her stern Jehovah’s Witness dad. If I haven’t yet shared with you that little story and you think you might be interested, perhaps you would consider buying me a beer. ♦
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This page was updated Sat, Feb 19, 2011, 2:39PM CST.
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© 2011 by Bud Grossmann
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