Summer’s End

by John Bukowski

The cigarette fell like a shooting star from a summer night long ago. Carl Barnowski snubbed it out with the toe of his workboot. Frost haloed about him as he said, “I’ll tell ya, the Tigers were different in those days: better different.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You mean better than now, when they don’t play at all?”

Carl ignored him. “Back in eighty-four they were unbelievable, unstoppable. I was just a kid, but even I knew that a thirty-five and five start was unheard of.” He favored his young friend with a wise, condescending squint. “I was maybe a couple years younger than you, and I used to skip afternoon classes to bike over to Michigan and Trumbull for the 1:30 start.”

Carl slung the 30-30 over his left shoulder, the better to snake out another Camel and light it with the zippo he’d had since Kuwait. Uncle Sam had taken the taxes off tobacco in an effort to soothe savage breasts, so you could afford to smoke again. They figured lung cancer, stroke, and heart disease were better than arson, rape, and murder. Not that it helped much. In ceremonial fashion, he ran his calloused thumb over the inscription embossed on the lighter’s stainless surface, ‘Hellcats of the 401st.’

“Tiger Stadium was where I met Jocie,” he said.

Carl’s younger companion shrugged his collar against the autumn chill, tucking the shotgun butt into his armpit so he could put his hands in his pockets. It was part of the kid’s routine, one Carl had observed many times. Next, Jimmy would stamp his running shoes to keep his circulation flowing, then scrunch his shoulders higher into his letterman jacket. Then his eyes would take on a bored, elsewhere stare. It was the same every night. Carl thought of it as Jimmy’s “putting up with the old dude” ritual. Carl didn’t mind; he liked the kid.

It had been over three summers now since the debt bomb exploded and true austerity measures were imposed. People who’d considered everything from healthcare to big-screen TVs as entitlements were asked to stand in line for rationed corn flakes and government cheese. Flash mobs coalesced into riots that merged seamlessly into societal breakdown. The shrunken police forces couldn’t handle it. It was every neighborhood for itself.

Standing in the umber glow of the last remaining streetlamp on the block, the air thick with the aroma of autumn leaves and woodsmoke, Carl exhaled a steel-blue cloud and recalled the smells of springtime. Earthworms brought up by April rains. The scent of tree blossoms so strong your eyes watered. Ballpark franks sizzling in the steam of beer. And the perfumed smell of Jocie’s hair when he bumped into her in the hot-dog line at Tiger stadium.

* * *

Carl had been scanning the crowd for his friend Ozzie and hadn’t noticed the girl step back to let a vendor through. Striding forward, Carl’s lip butted the top of her head and his full beer sloshed onto the long strands of hair covering her nylon windbreaker. He’d felt shock, embarrassment, and pain in his lower lip, but mostly he’d felt intoxicated by the smell of coconut wafting from a silky brown nest as soft as spider web.

“Hey, gosh, I’m... I’m really sorry.”

She stopped short and reached back to feel the suds soaking her.

“It was my fault,” he continued. “My klutzy fault. Let me buy you, um... let me pay...”

She turned, slowly. It was the way people turn when the rude intrusions from a drunken boor have finally topped the limits of their dignity. Carl was prepared for the look, that sneer that said, “Why do all the assholes bother me?” Instead, he saw a stunned expression in large, dark eyes. Milky smooth skin stretched between two deep pools, passed atop a freckled bit of nose, then skipped tautly over high cheekbones guarding full lips pressed together in a grim line of surprise.

Her eyes stared into his, mesmerizing him. He tried to think or speak, but couldn’t, his thoughts and voice captive to her shadowy orbs. Then the shadows lifted; the dark eyes twinkled. The corners of the full, red lips turned up. Then she laughed. It was musical, quick and dancing like an Irish jig. Her voice was soft and just a tad husky. “Beer shampoo. Just what I needed.”

That’s when Carl laughed too, their mirth ringing off the concrete and steel of the former Briggs Field. She shook out her silky mane, smelling now like a Hawaiian brewery, smelling better than anything he could remember smelling since God gave him a nose.

She held forth a hand. “Jocelyn Reidy. Jocie.”

Her smile struck him dumb. Then her brows rose in a question that sent a crooked crow’s foot above her nose.

“Um, Carl. Carl Barnowski.” He reached out to take her hand, drenching it with more beer from the cup he was holding.

She laughed again. “You’re quite the klutz, Ski. Okay if I call you Ski? My dad said that all the polocks in the army were called ski. Just like all us shanty Irish were called Mic.”

Again, he couldn’t speak. Again, she stole away his voice and thoughts, replacing them with her, just her. Again, the crow’s foot rose above her nose, the large, round eyes losing their merry dance.

“Hope I didn’t offend you.”

He wanted to say, “No.” He wanted to say, “you have beautiful eyes.” He wanted to say, “I think I love you.” But instead, he shook his head and laughed. How she made him want to laugh.

Her smile returned. “Where are you sitting?”

“Um, first-base side. Upper deck. Me and Ozzie are up there.” He pointed with a cup, spilling more beer, making her laugh again.

“Mind if I join you guys. Right now, I’m seated behind a pole. I’d rather sit beside one.”

“Next,” the vendor said. “Who wants a dog?”

Jocie held up two fingers, her eyes still boring into Karl’s, still dancing their merry jig. “My treat,” she said, laughing. “Payment for my beer shampoo.” She shook her hair, adding Stroh and coconut to the aroma of grilled dogs and possibilities.

* * *

“Somebody coming,” Jimmy said, stamping his feet against the cold.

Carl jerked sharply to the present, his nose picking up the acrid stink of exhaust tinged with burning thirty-weight. He saw glowing headlights turn onto Spencer about a half mile up.

“Yep. Heads up, chum.”

“No worries,” Jimmy said. “It’ll probably turn off on Packard.”

But the bopping beams didn’t turn. They came closer. Then closer still. At about two football fields, the lights went off all together and the engine roared to a higher pitch.

The lit butt in Carl’s mouth plunged to the street. Before fiery sparks rose around the fallen cigarette, he’d racked the lever on his Marlin and shoved his partner to the left side of the barricade. “Look alive!”

Jimmy stumbled into the door of the old Buick that was skewed diagonally across the street, leaving room for only a single car to navigate slowly around the barricade.

“Get behind the rear bumper, Jim,” Carl shouted as he took up his position behind the right front tire. His thumping heart muffed the din of rap music and engine noise from the onrushing Caprice.

The engine wailed louder as the big boat rushed on, its grill like the maw of a shark in the dim glow of the single streetlight. It was clear it wasn’t going to stop, so instead of shouting a warning, Carl picked up the front sight in the lamp glow and fired. A half-dollar sized hole and spider cracks magically appeared in the Chevy’s windscreen. Racking the lever again, he heard Jimmy yell, “Shit!” as he fumbled with his twelve-gauge. “Safety,” Carl shouted back, causing the rookie to hit the button on the side of the receiver and boom a round into the oncoming radiator.

That’s all the time they had before the behemoth slewed into the Buick like the Titanic on an iceberg. Carl jumped to his right as the Caprice’s massive front end collided with the old Buick, straightening the latter almost parallel to the roadway. Jimmy fell backward, his Remington skittering several feet across the pavement. The rest was in the slow motion of a bad dream.

A firebomb from the back seat of the invading car arced over their Buick like a lazy lightning bug. An orange ball of flame erupted from the center of the pavement, lighting up the night and the right arm of Jimmy’s high-school jacket. The rustle of branches and the smell of autumn leaves changed to gunshots, screams, and the stench of burning gasoline.

Just like that, Carl was back in Iraq; a rocket-propelled grenade killing his best friend, Chichi Alvaro. He didn’t like the journey down memory lane, but he welcomed the training that came along for the ride. He let that training take over.

Pigeon-holing the distraction of Jimmy beating out the flames, Carl dropped to one knee and took a bead on the figure holding a second Molotov, his arm pinwheeling out the window, ready to heave. The Marlin spoke and the glowing bottle crashed to the road surface, spattering flames against the big Chevy.

Levering number three into the chamber, Carl targeted the driver. A fist-sized hunk of windshield burst into the interior, followed by a grunt of pain that was barely audible above the raucous music and crackling flames. Then the inside of the Caprice blossomed into orange and yellow that gushed out the windows. A high keening scream rose from within the Chevy, just before the fuel tank exploded.

Carl’s 30.30 clattered to the street as he shielded his face. His mind briefly registered a burning sensation as the hairs were singed off his hands and eyebrows. Forced backward by the irresistible heat, he used the protection of their Buick barricade to angle toward Jimmy who was staggering back down the street, smoke rising from his singed arm.

Eyes stinging from cold sweat and greasy black smoke, Carl coughed out, “Hold on there, son.” He grabbed the kid’s right hand, then dropped it like a hot rock, rubbing the sticky residue of burnt flesh and melted letterman jacket from his fingers. Jimmy turned and stared right through him with a pale, thousand yards of shock. Carl thought again of Chichi, who must have been about Jimmy’s age.

Carl placed his arm tenderly around the waist of the injured boy and gently guided him to the curb. He hugged tighter as Jimmy’s knees gave out, easing the boy’s limp body onto the frosty grass, taking care to avoid the injured arm. He wiped soot from Jimmy’s face, which was as cold as yesterday’s catch. Then Carl zippered the kid’s De La Salle jacket all the way to the neck and placed his own coat over the prostrate form.

As Carl’s stiffening fingers fumbled to retrieve the cell phone from his jeans, a flash of headlights caused a moment of panic that faded as quickly as it took to recognize Stanley Rangle’s Green Toyota.

Stan was the self-appointed commandant of the east-side neighborhood watch, and a real a-hole. Carl winced whenever the swollen-headed little Napoleon referred to the group as Rangle’s Rangers.

The Corolla pulled directly up to Carl, blinding him with its high beams.

“For God’s sake, Stan, turn off your friggin’ lights.”

As Carl closed his eyes to re-acquaint them to the night, the engine and lights cut out. He heard two doors open.

A high-pitched, nasal voice said, “Looks like you’ve had a little trouble, Ranger.”

Carl ignored Rangle and spoke instead to the driver who had the unenviable task or hauling Stanley’s Ranger rump around the neighborhood.

“Mike, get on the horn for an ambulance. Jimmy’s in shock and has a nasty burn on his right arm.”

As Mike Harmon turned back toward the car, Stanley’s nasal shrill cut in again. “Hold on there, soldier. I’ll need to hear your report first.”

Carl gave the little schmuck an icy stare and yelled, “Today, Mike.”

Harmon jerked into motion, punching 911 into the cell he pulled off the Toyota’s dash. After a pause, he hollered, “No signal.”

“Keep trying,” Carl yelled, still staring at Stanley.

Stanly Rangle looked every bit the martinet, the kind of officer that might have been gifted a GI fragging in ’Nam. His impeccable khaki coat was cinched around the middle with a pair of white-handled Colt’s à la Patton, although these grips were plastic ivory, not the real deal favored by old Blood and Guts. Stan sported a similarly spotless OD fatigue hat with a black stripe on the back, ostensibly his symbol of command. Matching khaki pants with a crisp crease were bloused into a pair of black jump boots so new that Carl expected to see a price tag dangling off the back.

Their fearless leader tugged at his brown leather driving gloves and then removed the mirrored sunglasses that were another trademark. He took two steps toward Carl and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “You still have to go through chain of command, son.”

With both his patience and adrenaline wearing thin, Carl brushed the hand away and snapped, “I actually served in the Army, Stanley, and we knew better than to wear sunglasses at night. So, if you want to do something useful, why don’t you take Jimmy to Saint John’s. I think they’re still operating. I’m going home to wash up and get something to take away the chill.” He brushed past the startled Eddie Bauer manikin, but turned back long enough to say, “By the way: Patton wore the revolvers, and Macarthur wore the glasses; make up your mind.”

* * *

Hands in pockets and cigarette dangling, Carl trudged three blocks down Spencer and two down Lantz to the little ranch where he grew up. He didn’t notice the cold until the warmth of the foyer sent needles through his ears and shivers through his skinny frame. Heat’s on today, he thought. Thank goodness for small favors.

Opening the kitchen cupboard, he removed a bottle of Ezra Brooks and poured three fingers into a juice glass, upending the contents down his throat in an unsteady but practiced motion. The fiery bourbon surged warmth from his belly to his chilled limbs. Carl poured himself another and flopped into his old Lazy Boy, fatigue and post-traumatic crash leaching out his strength.

The family room was surprisingly clean and uncluttered for a bachelor flat, which was a tribute to Carl’s mom, the army, and his late wife. He took a sip of whisky as he picked up Jocie’s picture from its place of honor between his ashtray and Bible. She was dressed in the green skirt and sweater combo she’d worn to his service retirement dinner. That was five years ago; two years before he lost her to a drive-by shooting. What the papers called a random act of violence, when they called it anything. Now she was just a statistic, a historical footnote to everyone but him.

As he looked at his sweetheart’s photo, the tears came unbidden as they always did, running down his grizzled cheeks until he tasted salt. Carl set down his drink and pulled out his Berretta. As he continued to gaze at Jocie’s sweet smile, his arm took on a life of its own and moved the muzzle of the pistol toward his right temple. His finger eased back, trigger pressure gradually approaching the ten pounds needed to send him to his beloved.

Carl waited, every muscle tensed, senses heightened so that he could feel the round edge of the cold metal against his skin and smell the individual odors of gun oil, yesterday’s burger grease, and fried letterman jacket. All while the ticking of the mantle clock boomed in the background. Still, he waited, hand tensed, mind racing.

Then, he thought he saw a glint of disappointment in Jocie’s two-dimensional eyes. Smiling slightly, he nodded. He eased his finger off the Baretta and put it on the coffee table. He placed Jocie’s picture next to it, running his hand lovingly across the glass. “Right you are, old girl.” He kissed his fingertips and tapped them to the photo. “One day at a time.” He thought her smile brightened.

Grunting to his feet, he spoke to the empty room. “Time for a shower and a shave before I check on Jimmy.”