Resurrecting Royko

by Richard T. Hellinga

Clarity always came at night, Frank thought while hovering over his beer. Away from all the noise of the day he could hear himself better. With his thumb he rubbed some of the moisture on his foam-brimmed glass. “We should have one of them seances,” he said.

Tom, who was sitting on the bar stool next to Frank, turned his face to him. He had been contemplating the purchase of one more beer and then going home. “What’d you say?” he asked.

“A seance. You know. Get ourselves a psychic to talk to him for us.”

“Talk to who?”

“Royko.”

Tom frowned and scratched the back of his head, just below the bald spot. “Those psychics are full of shit.”

Frank pointed with his thumb up at the TV. "We need someone to exlpain this mess."

Tom stared at the TV for a bit. The sound was off. Carl the bartender also glanced up at the TV. Then he went back to drying the clean wet glasses.

"It is a mess," said Tom, finally.

“You got any better ideas?” asked Frank.

Tom’s eyelids drooped and then slowly rose again. “Where we gonna a find a psychic this time of night?”

“Mannheim. Where else?”

“We’re already on Mannheim, which means we should get ourselves a hooker instead. Then we could get somethin’ for our money. Psychics just talk.” Tom emptied the remains of his beer into his mouth, savoring the very last of the spittled-foam.

“They can talk to the dead and tell us what they say. Stuff that’s useful, to give us an edge. We could use an edge on things.”

The fingers in Tom’s left hand lightly clasped the empty glass as his right hand gave a dismissive wave in no particular direction. “Pfft. It’s all talk, just a bunch of words. You can’t hold’em. You can’t smell’em. You can’t taste’em. With a hooker you can actually do all that and a hell of a lot more.”

“No one ever got a disease from talk.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“Take the hooker!” shouted Jake from the table against the wall behind them. The cigar he was puffing provided the evening’s final source of smoke to the still air.

Tom pointed his thumb in the direction of Jake. “See?”

Jake put the cigar back in his mouth and returned to his own beer in its own perspiring glass.

“Eh, what does he know?” said Frank.

“He’s retired for one. Which puts him a step or two ahead of you.”

“I told you that as soon as I get enough saved up I’m gonna retire.”

“You been sayin’ that for forever.”

“For as long as he’s been sitting at this bar,” said Carl the owner and bartender. He was leaning against the back counter with his thick hairy arms folded, a small dry white towel hanging over his right shoulder. A scar ran diagonally across the outside of his left forearm. He liked Frank and Tom, and knew that they would have to leave soon before he was the one who had to call the cab, push their bodies into the backseat, and give the driver directions to their apartments; they once had homes, but had lost them when they lost their wives.

Tom laughed into his glass. With each chuckle, Carl’s shoulders bounced up and down.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Real funny.” Frank hunched over his beer and took a drink. He thought Tom was being too harsh. So what if he wasn’t retired yet? He was an American. There was no crime in working, as hard and tiring as it was. He’d earned this comfortable spot in the air conditioning of the bar on a comfortable stool, with a cold tasty beer that was his to enjoy. He’d also earned the right to find a psychic, if that’s what he wanted to do. Besides, in a situation like this, they were the only ones that could help. At the very least he had to try talking to Royko. That way no one could say he hadn’t made the effort. He didn’t want anyone saying he hadn’t made an effort to follow through on the things he said he was gonna do. “Carl, where’s there a psychic around here?” he asked.

“Tristine’s. Up past Fullerton.” Carl wiped a brandy glass with the towel until it was dry inside and out, and placed it next to the others hanging upside down in the rack over the back counter in front of the mirror.

Frank saw himself in the mirror. “Who?”

Carl picked up a clean, wet, beer glass from the automatic dishwasher. “Tristine. You know her. She’s in here every once in awhile passing out cards trying to get some business.”

Frank’s brow furrowed. In his mind he tried to form an image of a woman associated with that name. But no face appeared to his internal chant of Tristine...Tristine...Tristine...He only saw his own image dimly reflected in the mirror, just past Carl, next to a part of Carl’s back. “Have I seen her before?” he asked.

Carl nodded. “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

“Why can’t I remember her?”

“I have no idea why you remember some things and forget others. All I know is you’ve been in here at the same time she has.” He placed the dried beer glass on a shelf under the bar next to the cooler.

Frank put his heavy hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Do you know who he’s talking about?”

Tom winced at the soft blow, wishing Frank would drop the subject and drink up. “I’m not the one who needs to know.”

“Don’t you wanna help me find her?”

“Carl just told you where she is.”

Frank pulled his hand back, letting it fall to his thigh. “Right, right, right...All right, then. Off we go.” He stood from the stool, teetering back a step and a half.

“What about your beer?” asked Tom.

“Oh.” With one quick move of his right arm, he poured the rest of it into his mouth and set the empty glass on the bar. “There,” he said.

Tom waved at Frank. “See you later.”

Frank let out a diffused burp. “What? You ain’t comin’ with me?”

Tom faced his empty beer glass, his hands clasped around it. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m comfortable where I am.”

“Aren’t you curious about what Royko’s got to say?”

“I’m comfortable with what I know. And I know we ain’t gonna learn anything from a psychic.”

“I’ll be doing the paying of services. Come on. It won’t take long.”

“However long, it’ll be too long. Besides, I want another beer.” He held up his glass.

“What’s your problem? Don’t you wanna talk to Royko?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“You’re always saying stuff can’t be done.”

Tom thought that if Frank left, it would just be him, Carl, and Jake. Jake was at the point of the night where he generally stopped talking. Carl was getting ready to close up. At the far end of the bar were set the video poker and blackjack machines. Their screens twinkled but he didn’t feel like gambling. Without Frank, he would be alone. So Tom stood from the stool. “Fine, I’ll humor you.”

“Good.”

“Tell you what, I’ll even drive.” Tom reached into his jean pockets and felt nothing. “Where are my keys?”

“Hell if I know.”

Tom looked absently at the floor, his hands still on his empty front pockets. “How did I get here?”

Frank held the rail. “I was watching the game and then you came in.”

“I was watching the game, too.”

“I know. But you didn’t see all of it like I did. I was here before you.”

“Didn’t we say yesterday we were gonna meet up here to watch the game?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Carl, do you?”

Carl placed another dry glass into the rack. “No.”

“So how we gonna get to the psychic?” asked Tom.

“We can walk it,” said Frank. “It’s not far, right?”

“No. It’s just a block or so,” said Carl. “Just be careful, you two.”

“No problem,” said Tom.

“We will,” said Frank.

They walked through the door and out into the parking lot. The moist night air clung to them. With the street lamps above Mannheim Road it was brighter than it had been inside the bar, so they squinted their eyes a little. Even so, to Frank everything seemed to be a shade of faded asphalt; the parking lot merging with the street merging with the darkened buildings that lined it.

“This way,” said Frank heading towards Fullerton. Tom followed. They stumbled across two parking lots, one for the two-story Regal Deluxe motel that offered Siesta’s for $35 and one for Mike’s Auto Parts store, before reaching the lot to the American Liquor Store.

“How much farther is it?” asked Tom.

“Carl said it ain’t that far, just past Fullerton, right there.” He pointed to the intersection.

Tom stopped. “That doesn’t tell me anything. Do you see it?”

“No. But as long as our legs are moving we’re making progress.”

“While we’re here we should get something to drink.”

Frank stopped and looked up at the sign on top of the store. “Nah. On our way back.”

Tom headed towards the entrance. “It might be closed by the time we get done resurrecting Royko.”

“Psychics don’t resurrect nobody. They just talk to dead people.”

“Whatever they do, I think the store will be closed by the time we get done.”

“We can go back to Carl’s.”

“It’s cheaper than Carl’s.”

Frank looked at the window. Below the Illinois Lotto sign was a CASH STATION sign, and below that was an ad for Milwaukee’s Best at $7 a case, slightly more than what two beers cost at Carl’s. “Good point,” he said.

They went inside and bought a pint of J.D. because it would be easier to carry than an entire case of beer, and shared a few drinks from it in the parking lot. Then their slumping bodies made their way across the intersection with Fullerton, past daylight-bright Jerry’s Used Car’s, and through the parking lot to Vic’s Tile & Flooring store, until they reached a yellow brick bungalow. It was the only single-home residence on the East side of the street for a half-mile. The front window contained a neon sign with the green letters “Palm and Tarot Card Reader” arced above a pink circle.

“Here we are,” said Frank. “This must be it.”

“This better work.”

“’Course it will.”

“I gotta pee first.” Tom set the pint on the top step of the cement stairs that led up to the front door. Then he went over to the bushes under the front window.

“You can’t pee on a psychic’s house. That’s like pissing on a church. She could put a curse on you for that.”

“Not one drop’s gonna hit the house. I’m watering the bushes. Call it recycling.”

“Then hurry up.”

Frank looked across the street and heard the zipper and then the hard trickle on the dirt. The Pizza Hut across the street was dark except for the sign on top of the roof. His stomach rumbled and he thought that afterwards he would have to get something to eat and that it was a shame the pizza place had already closed like everything else, except the liquor store. Things were always so dead at night.

“That feels better,” said Tom.

Tom grabbed the pint and they climbed up the front cement steps, all five of them, while holding on to the black metal railing.

Hanging on the inside door was a sign that read, “Seek and Ye Shall Find.”

“See,” said Frank, pointing to the sign, “This is definitely the right place.”

“We haven’t found anything yet.”

“The night’s not over yet.” Frank felt along the warm brick next to the door for the button to ring the doorbell. He found it and pushed it once. They heard the bells’ deep clanging.

The light changed at the intersection with Fullerton, and a small pack of cars streamed by, filling their ears with shooshing and gently pushing them with a warm sticky breeze.

No sound inside the house was heard, nor was any light turned on. Frank pushed the doorbell twice quickly and sat against the railing, looking at the door. Tom sighed and put his left hand in his empty left front pocket. Again, no sign of life inside. Frank hit the button again. “She’s gotta be here.” Then he pulled on the aluminum storm door. It was locked, so he stood on his tiptoes in an attempt to see in through the small dark window in the main door, his nose pushed against the screen. He couldn’t so much as make out a shape. “She’s not answering,” he said.

“What should we do?” asked Tom.

“The sign’s on.”

“Maybe she likes to advertise all the time.”

Frank rested on his feet and frowned. “That don’t make sense. Why advertise what you can’t provide?”

“Told you we shoulda got a hooker.”

Frank turned to Tom. “We need a psychic.”

Tom unscrewed the cap on the pint. “There’s nothin’ we can do about it.” Then he took a gulp from the pint.

Frank nodded, thinking that maybe he should have gone for the hooker.

Tom put the cap back on. “We can always come back tomorrow.”

“You mean, you’d be willing to try again?”

Tom shrugged. “Sure. Why not? You’ll still pay, right?”

“Of course. Then we should try to get here early, before she closes.”

“Where should we meet? Carl’s?”

“No. Here. We should meet here. Will you remember?”

“’Course I will,” said Tom.

“You sure? You didn’t even remember your keys.”

Tom felt nothing in his pocket. “That’s a low blow.”

“All right, I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

Frank put a foot on the step below. “Maybe we should make it Carl’s, just to be on the safe side so we don’t get confused.”

“Good idea,” said Tom.

Frank took another step. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“What time?”

“Before the game.”

“Do you wanna watch the game first?”

“Nah. She might close early like tonight.”

“Gotcha.”

They both descended to the pathway that led to the sidewalk.

Frank reached out a hand towards Tom. “Gimme the pint. I wanna have one more drink before I take off.”

Tom handed it to him. Frank unscrewed the cap and took two gulps. “Ahhh,” he said. He put the cap back on and handed the pint to Tom. They headed down the pathway to the sidewalk, where they turned in the direction of Carl’s. At Fullerton Tom said, “See you tomorrow.”

“How you gonna get home?”

“My feet.”

“Okay. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Tom walked East. The light changed and a lone rusty black ‘78 Cadillac turned right onto Mannheim. Frank thought Tom was a good guy to go along with him even when he didn’t believe that what Frank had wanted to do made sense. And that it would be nice if tomorrow the psychic would answer the door and let him and Tom in and sit them down around her crystal ball and get a hold of Royko and get a few words from him about a few things no one else was living up to the job of getting in the final word on, to straighten it out in people’s heads. It was hard to keep it straight. He needed to get it straight. If even Tom was willing to go along, he had to try again. He couldn't give up.

© 2005 Richard T. Hellinga. All Rights Reserved.