Tales of Block E

By William E Burleson

A man living in a flophouse tries to impress his long-estranged blind father by embellishing on what the old man can’t see. Two employees of a porn theater pick the wrong day to get stoned. A fragile young woman and follower of a street preacher witnesses a tragedy, setting her on a mission that may be beyond her abilities.

It’s 1979 on Block E, a woebegone Times Square-type district filled with characters of all stripes—hookers and the homeless, addicts and drug dealers. But the streets also belong to the hopeful—the many people wanting so much more. These are the Tales of Block E, three intersecting stories of people in a place and a time long gone but not forgotten.

The Tales of Block E is the collected stories of The Rand Hotel, American Adonis, and Jean Skirt, plus a short bonus story, China White. The Rand Hotel, American Adonis, and Jean Skirt are also available separately in e-book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flexible Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386008194

Book preview

The Rand Hotel

ONE

I HELD THE DOOR OPEN. Okay, Pop. Watch your step.

He tapped around with his cane, figuring out the door jamb, and in he went. I offered him my arm, and he held on lightly.

Dominic! I said to no one. Nice to see you. That’s okay, we’ll find our way to my usual table by ourselves.

Ruth, the cranky old manager, looked at me from across the room like I was crazy, shook her head, and went about her business.

Pop and me walked over to a booth. I put my hand on his shoulder and guided him down to the wood seat. I sat down across from him as he folded up the cane—who knew those things folded up so neatly?

You’ll love this place, Pop. This is the finest Italian restaurant in the city.

Thank you, Jack. You didn’t have to do that for me.

Only the best for my pop. I fiddled with a packet of Sweet’N Low.

It smells wonderful in here. He took a loud inhale and smiled. Garlic. He sat stiffly, head up, small, round sunglasses reflecting the light hanging above. Tell me what’s going on.

It’s quiet for Tuesday evening. What I saw were mostly the usual suspects: a half-dozen men alone with coffee, several older couples, and one table with four young men and women dressed in polyester and wearing platform shoes. Other than the disco kids, all the rest belonged at Little Brothers for the Poor. Everyone here is dressed to the nines, Pop. Suits for the men, nice dresses and high heels for the ladies.

Oh, I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so underdressed. I should have known. He sported an old brown suit worn with age and a striped silk tie. He was the best-dressed person in the restaurant.

I had on jeans, dirty tennis shoes, and a sweat shirt with holes on the elbows. I, too, would fit right in at the soup kitchen. Don’t you worry about a thing, Pop. I know these people, and they know me. They don’t mind.

What else? What else do you see?

If Pop weren’t as blind as a mole in an eclipse, he would have seen that the place once had class, both in its interior and in its customers. By ’79 it was worn linoleum, worn wood booths, worn everything. There’re candles in old wine bottles at every table, covered with wax dripped down the side. White tablecloths. Linen, I’m sure.

Pop felt around the booth. We don’t have a tablecloth, and I don’t think we have a candle.

That’s why this is my table, Pop. I asked them not to put down a tablecloth. It just gets stained with tomato sauce, and I hate to see that.

That’s very thoughtful of you, Jack.

And the candle, well, it makes me sneeze.

You always had allergies.

I never had allergies.

Gents, Ruth, the grizzled battle-ax manager, said. How are you doing tonight? Her lipstick was crooked, and the lines on her face were growing deeper—she was as worn as the restaurant. I wished we had gotten Sharon, the pretty one. She was nice, and sometimes she let me slide on paying.

Magnificent, Pop replied. I’m in town to visit my son here.

Isn’t that just wonderful. She obviously couldn’t care less, twirling a pen over her order pad.

My name is Bogdan Boguslaw. Please call me Dan. You, of course, know my son.

Oh, I know him all right. She gave me the skunk eye.

I hadn’t seen Pop in twenty years, since I was eight. Weird. I could see myself in him. The same square head, same big nose, same hairline. That’s where the resemblance ended though—he was a good four inches shorter and kind of stocky; my hair was to my shoulders, and he wore a flattop.

The manager turned to Pop. Pleasure to meet such a gentleman, Dan. My name is Ruth. Welcome to the Venice. Can I get you something to drink?

Give us a bottle of your finest wine. Merlot, I said. I showed her the wine list on the back of the menu, pointing at the cheapest bottle on the list.

She looked at where I was pointing, looked at me, looked at my pop and his dark sunglasses, and laughed. Yes, sir! A bottle of our ‘finest Merlot,’ right away, she said, cackling like a witch.

They’re pretty mellow here, Pop, for being a fine restaurant. That’s ’cause everyone knows me. I like it more real, anyway. Just because I have money doesn’t mean I like it all stuffy. I may be rich, but I ain’t no snob.

Good for you, Jack. Good for you. Never forget where you come from.

Indianapolis. That’s where I came from. I grew up in the Martindale neighborhood where my pop and my ma and me lived until Pop left. Then it was my ma and me living in the projects. A school counselor once said we were working class. I didn’t understand that since no one I knew worked.

Ruth came back with the wine and put two glasses down. Well, gents, here’s the finest Merlot California has to offer. She unscrewed the cap and poured our glasses full.

Thank you, yes, that’ll do nicely, I said. We placed our orders: mine pasta primavera, Pop’s chicken-mushroom linguine.

Pop took a sip of wine. Mmmm, just wonderful, Jack.

California makes the best wine these days. It’s better than French.

Better than French! I drank a lot of wine when I was in France during the war. Brings back memories.

We sat quietly, Pop still stiffly facing forward behind his glasses. I lit a Kool and wished there was music. There was so much to talk about, but nothing came to mind. Then, inspiration: So, Pop, tell me all about Flint.

He told me about working for Fisher, welding auto bodies for Chevy. He said Body by Fisher was something to be proud of.

Officer Penna, the beat cop, came in the door. I shivered. He looked around and spotted me right away. The big, ugly bastard walked slowly to our booth and stopped, standing above me, giving me a cold stare as Pop told me about Flint. The big cop looked at Pop and then back at me. I never looked up. Ever. Eyes forward. He shook his head and went to a table in the corner, sitting down facing us. Pig.

Pop never stopped. Since my vision finally went completely two years ago, I haven’t been able to work, and hell, I’m sixty-two anyway. Nowadays I watch—well, listen to, you know what I mean—TV most of the time. My cat, Merlin, keeps me company.

Ruth walked by and dropped a basket of garlic bread on the table without breaking stride. I took a drag off my square and set it in the ashtray.

Have some garlic bread, Pop. I picked a piece out and took a bite. I asked if he had anyone in his life, friends. A piece of bread flew out of my mouth and stuck to the catsup bottle.

He felt around and found the basket right away. Sure. I have some neighbors who come over. There’s one widow who helps me with the shopping. She’s the one who read me your letters and helped me write letters to you. The priest looks in, too. What, are you feeling sorry for me? His expression didn’t change, so I had no clue if he was mad or hurt or what. He took a bite of garlic bread.

I crushed my cigarette in the glass ashtray. No, Pop, no. Just wondering. Kind of pathetic, really. That’s karma, though. No one made him leave us and move to Flint. But, still, he was my pop. When he left, he left—as in never called or visited. Ma was hurt and angry. When she died five months ago, Pop went to the funeral. He told Aunt Doris that if I called to pass on his address.

But hell, who was I to judge? I was too much of a fuck-up to even go to my mother’s funeral, or even know she died. Sure, we had our differences. Sure, she drank a lot. But she was still my ma. If only I could have said good-bye.

Now what about you, son? Tell me about what you’ve been doing with your life.

I looked out the window. The theater marquee lights next door lit the people walking by in reds and yellows. Not going to my own ma’s funeral, for one. Hard to know where to start.

Did you serve?

Yup, I went in the army in 1970. ROTC. I got as far as captain. I did two tours in ’Nam. We were part of an elite company of commandos. We would work at night, fighting the VC in their tunnels and shit.

That must have been something.

Yup, I don’t like to talk about it too much. Classified shit, ya know? Still is. Some of the techniques we used we learned from the Israelis. I leaned back into the corner of the wood-backed booth and grabbed another piece of garlic bread.

Pop nodded, as if impressed. The Israelis—now there are some tough soldiers.

Damn right. I think we could have won that war if they’d have let us.

That’s what people say.

Sure, stupid bureaucrats.

Go figure.

Ruth carried the two plates from the kitchen pass-through to our table. One pasta primavera and one chicken-mushroom linguine, she said, putting the plates down. She licked her thumb.

We ate in silence. Pop seemed to be doing pretty good for being blind, rolling the pasta into a huge ball on his fork and stuffing it in his face. I poked at mine. I didn’t know what pasta primavera was when I ordered it; it just sounded classy. There were a lot of weird vegetables and no meat.

Pop leaned back, pushed the cleaned-off plate away, and said, Delicious, son. Best chicken-mushroom linguine I’ve ever had. He pulled a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket and took out a smoke.

I kept poking at my food. Told you so. While you’re here, only the finest.

Tell me more. So how come you’re not married? He took a Zippo out of his jacket and lit up.

Well, I’ve been close, but I’ve never sealed the deal. I guess I’m married to my career. It ain’t easy being a lawyer. Long hours.

I can only imagine. So you got out of the army and went to law school?

Sure. I graduated from Harvard in 1977. Top of my class. Since then, I moved here, joined one of the top criminal defense firms in the country, and made partner. I’m the youngest partner they’ve ever had.

Pop felt around the table for the bread basket and pulled out another piece. That’s great, Jack. You have no idea how happy I am that you turned out so well. Real credit to your mother. I was sad to see her die so young. Only fifty-five.

I looked out the window at the dark neon street. Well, hard living takes a toll. Ma drank. Vodka. She had the idea that with vodka no one could smell it on her breath. Maybe yes, maybe no, but the staggering usually gave her away.

I knew a lot about hard living. Maybe I got it from my ma. Not that I blame her; I’d made choices. I had no one to blame but myself for being a loser. A bum. That’s what I had become. A bum. I knew that. It’s not that I didn’t want more from life. I did. It’s just that sometimes life gives you lemons, and you make lemonade. Sometimes life gives you lemons, and you make crap. I could think of some