Story Excerpt
Tree of Heaven
by Kevin Egan
Doonan’s Pub, owned by an Irish expat, observed a daily holy hour like the pubs back home. At two p.m., the bouncer strongly urged the white-collar lunch crowd to return to their fancy offices. He locked up, keeping the pub immaculately empty until three p.m. when the first of blue-collar guys—the true backbone of the pub’s clientele—scratched at the door.
And then there was Bobby Beck. For years, Bobby yearned to become a tradesman, though his manifold attempts to learn an actual trade came to naught. His grandfather had been a master stonemason; his father had been a finish carpenter. But the skills, the patience, and the work ethic needed to learn a trade eluded Bobby, as did most of the tradesmen who arrived at the close of Doonan’s daily holy hour. Still, Bobby affected a blue-collar vibe with work boots, jeans, flannel shirts, and, occasionally, a bandanna. And he burned with the fervent desire to take his place among the men who had fired him, refused to hire him, or simply laughed at the thought of him during those long years before he finally “made it.”
It was 3:05 when Bobby slid onto his regular stool at the corner of the bar, ordered his pint, and laid his cell phone on the polished wood.
“How’s business?” said the bartender, arching his eyebrows to signal an irony that Bobby found amusing.
“Too good,” said Bobby.
As if on cue, his cell phone buzzed.
“See?” said Bobby, wagging the cell phone.
The bartender nodded. Bobby palmed the phone while the name Ouchterlonie marched across the tiny screen. He let the call ring through to voicemail.
The regulars soon drifted in. There was Brigg-sy the plumber, Paddy the electrician, Joey the carpenter, Frankie the roofer, and Carl-O, the shop steward of the local ironworkers union hall. These were not their real names, but the diminutives Bobby privately assigned them long ago as a means of taking them down a peg. To a man they each took a shot at hiring Bobby and to a man they each found him to be constitutionally lazy, habitually tardy, and singularly clumsy. Now they greeted him with high-fives and back slaps, and he responded by buying them their first rounds, sometimes their second, and, when his mood was particularly buoyant, their third.
“Gave your number to one of my customers yesterday,” said Brigg-sy, raising his pint glass to acknowledge Bobby’s generosity.
“A Mr. O’Brien?” said Bobby. “I’ll be getting back to him soon.”
“He asked me to remind you.”
Brigg-sy winked. “He hopes you can get to him sooner rather than later.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Bobby.
If the many lessons of running his own business had taught Bobby anything, it was that he couldn’t afford to be too available.
His phone buzzed again, shuddering on the bar like a dying insect. He noted the number—prospective customers appeared simply as phone numbers, existing customers by name—then watched the call fade into voicemail.
The stools along the bar filled.
Bobby treated each new arrival to a round. His phone buzzed and buzzed. Phone number after phone number marched across the screen, an army of new customers seeking his services. This is what cornering the market looked like, he told himself. He would let all of them wait.
Bobby was deep in commiserating conversation with an expert wallboard taper when Ouchterlonie called again.
“Sorry, I need to take this.”
Bobby backed off his barstool and went outside to the heat of the sidewalk.
“Did you get my message?” The voice was reedy, like someone speaking while pinching his nose.
“Hello, Mr. Ouchterlonie,” said Bobby. “I saw that you left a message, but I haven’t been able to listen. That time of year, you know.”
“I know. You must be extremely busy.” Ouchterlonie coughed, cleared his throat, returned with his voice even weaker. “We have a real big problem.”
“Outside?” said Bobby.
“No,” said Ouchterlonie. “Inside.”