Dennis Barton Is A Bastard And Other Stories

By Kelley Baker

The characters have traveled with me for a long time.

Dennis Barton knows what he's doing is wrong; it's just that the sex is so good.

A writer watches a personal hero age and become a cranky shadow of his former self.

Three drunk college students stumble upon a broken parking meter and decid

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angry Filmmaker
• Release date: Aug 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578899312

Kelley Baker

Kelley Baker is the Angry Filmmaker. He's written and directed three full length features (Birddog, The Gas Café, & Kicking Bird), eight short films, and quite a few documenta-ries. His films have aired on PBS, Canadian and Australian television, and have been shown at Film Festivals including London, Sydney, Annecy, Sao Paulo, Sundance, and Edinburgh. In addition to his own films he was the sound designer on six of Gus Van Sant's feature films including, My Own Private Idaho, Good Will Hunting and Finding Forrester. He's the author of Road Dog, and The Angry Filmmaker Survival Guide: Part One & Part Two. A Portland, Oregon native he spent seven years touring America in a used mini-van with a giant Chocolate Lab named Moses, showing his films at art house theaters, universities, and even biker bars. He is a sucker for rescue animals that seem to appear on his doorstep thanks to his daughter, Fiona. You'll find him hanging out at www.angryfilmmaker.com.

Book preview

Christ, Richie, what happened last night? Stefan says as he staggers into the shop at the crack of 11 am, his hands badly scarred. My hands are killing me. Like they’ve been through a meat grinder.

Stefan comes behind the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee from the Bun-o-matic. Picking up the ceramic cup, I see him grimace.

Nothing is going to bother me today. It’s my birthday and I’m now eighteen. A man of the world. Sure, I can’t legally drink, but my friends are throwing me a party, we’re getting a keg, and I even have a date.

What’d I do?

You beat the hell out of some guy who was peeing in the doorway.

Stefan thinks hard for a moment. I did?

"Yeah. I’d just closed and was cleaning up when some drunk bum staggered past the front window then spun into our doorway, whipped it out, and started peeing. You came up a few moments later and stood there watching him. You looked inside at me with a what-the-fuck look. When he stopped peeing, you guys exchanged words, and then you started punching him."

What were you doing?

Filling a bucket of hot soapy water so I could clean off the doorway when you guys were finished.

You didn’t try and stop me?

I know better than that.

Stefan nods. One of the first things he told me when I started here is, if he or his brother ever come in and they’ve been drinking, let them take whatever they want.

When sober the brothers are pleasant, generous, and very funny. When they’re drunk, get out of the way! They’re both in their mid-forties, but on days like today Stefan looks a lot older.

____________________________________

It was his brother, Viktor, who hired me back when he was co-owner and sober at the time. I was a sixteen-year-old high school kid who loved their submarine sandwiches. I was always pestering them for a job. One day, someone neglected to show up for their shift. I walked in, Viktor asked if I still wanted a job, and that was that.

I was the second employee they ever hired that they didn’t meet in a bar.

Viktor quickly showed me where the cheat sheet was to make sandwiches, run the cash register, and where things went at the end of the day. He gave me a quick lesson using the meat cutter, then said he’d be right back.

Four hours later Stefan came in.

"Who the hell are you?

Victor hired me. He said he’d be right back.

He’s at The Fox.

I learned that first afternoon that the sub shop was equidistant to two bars. Step out the front door and go to the left, The Fox was four doors down, just on the other side of the parking garage. If you went to the right, The Rainbow was just around the corner. If I ever needed to find either of them, I should check those two places first.

I also learned I really had to need them if I went to either bar, as they both enjoyed their time, their friends, and alcohol, and hated to be bothered with the running of the shop.

Stefan reached into his pocket, pulled a key off his key ring and handed it to me. "

You’ll need this to lock up. Did Viktor show you where to put the cash when you close?

I shook my head.

Without skipping a beat, Stefan showed me where the safe was, on top of the ancient freezer in back, next to the restroom, which was off limits to customers because the restroom was used to store the garbage. The garbage was only picked up once a week, on Saturdays. Sometime around Wednesday evening you had to keep the restroom door closed and run the fan constantly as the air got really thick back there. 

And for Christ’s sake don’t lock the safe! I have no idea what the combination is. Just put the money inside for Floyd on Monday.

I nodded. I found out later Viktor won the safe in a pool game and they never did have the combination.

You need anything else?

Viktor never told me what he was paying me.

Do you want the job or not? Stefan sounded irritated.

Yeah, I do.

Then we’ll take care of that next week.

Stefan headed for the door.

When should I come in?

Check in with Floyd. He’s here Monday through Friday.

The following Monday I skipped school and went to the shop to meet Floyd.

Floyd was the only other employee they hired that they didn’t meet in a bar. With his graying dark greasy hair, pork chop sideburns, mustache, polyester shirt, and beer belly, he looked straight out of a porn film. Especially with his cheap drug store half-glasses pushed down his nose. He lived in a tiny basement apartment and was going to school on the GI Bill, something he’d put off for a long time.

He was prepping sandwiches for the lunch hour crowd, which meant pre-making a bunch of the best sellers and putting them on a shelf covered with butcher paper above the prep area so he could reach up and grab what he needed when it got really busy.

I heard they hired some guy on Saturday, but they couldn’t remember much about it. Can you stay for the lunch hour? Lucy hasn’t shown up.

I stammered something about having to go to school and the next thing I knew the counter was ten-deep with customers with a line running out the door. I was freaking out, moving too quickly, and forgetting things. Floyd was like Buddha. He moved slowly, deliberately, and got people taken care of much faster than me.

Every now and again he told me quietly where to find things before I realized I needed them. He pulled down the pre-made subs from the shelf and put them in front of me, so I didn’t have to do everything from scratch. Like a great warrior, he was quietly educating me in the ways of the sub sandwich.

Forty-five minutes later the shop was quiet and all the pre-made sandwiches were gone. 

Floyd came out of the backroom holding a greasy, tattered briefcase, and pulled out the paperwork for my employment. He started me out at the grand salary of $1.35 an hour. When I pointed out that minimum wage was $1.65, he politely informed me that any tips I got were mine to keep. He neglected to tell me that no one ever tips.

Satisfied, I asked him about hours, as I’m still in high school.

What time do you get out of school?

Two o’clock.

Good. You can work the three to eight closing shift and help Lucy on Saturdays for as long as she lasts.

On my first Saturday shift I learned that Lucy doesn’t do mornings well, unless of course she has been up all night. She was young (although older than me) and had mostly worked in bars. She confided in me that she was working here until she got another decent cocktail job and then she’d be gone. The following Saturday she didn’t show up and I was now working solo.

After two weeks I was working Monday through Saturday and still waiting for one of Floyd’s elusive tips. 

One of our most popular sandwiches is the meatball sub and we go through gallons of meatballs. The homemade meatballs are kept in five-gallon mayonnaise containers.  Six jars last us a week.

One evening a tiny old couple came into the shop and asked for Stefan. I hadn’t seen him. The woman asked if she could use the phone.

She dialed, waited a moment, and then spoke in a very accented foreign language. After a moment she hung up the phone and looked at the old man. He nodded and left. She turned to me.

Stefan said to give me sixty dollars out of the till and put the meatballs in the refrigerator.

I’m sorry, we’re out of meatballs.

The door opened and the little old man walked in carrying a box with three five-gallon jars of meatballs. He put them on the counter and exited again. I opened the cash register and start digging for the sixty bucks.

Can we have some coffee?

The coffee had been on all day and was thick enough to eat with a fork. I poured two cups and she took them to one of the booths. After dropping the second box of meatballs onto the counter the little old man joined her.

Moments later Stefan walked in. He’d been at The Rainbow all afternoon and was pretty hammered. He sat down and they talked quickly in some strange language. The old woman patted her purse. They finished the hideous coffee and got up. He kissed the woman on the cheek, shook hands with the old man, and they walked out.

Stefan came behind the counter with the coffee mugs. He saw the look on my face.

What? You’ve never seen parents before?

Your mom makes the meatballs?

Old family recipe she picked up while walking through Italy during World War Two.

He turned and headed back to The Rainbow.

Floyd told me later that the parents escaped Latvia at the end of World War Two. They walked across Europe to come to the United States. Viktor was a baby, so they carried him. Stefan was born once they reached here.

Some nights after closing Viktor would stagger into the shop and hit the cash register for spending money. Occasionally he’d scrawl an IOU and have me leave it for Floyd. Then he’d make a couple of sandwiches to take back to the bar with him.

A few months after I started, the IRS would come in twice a day, right after the lunch hour rush, and just before closing. I gave them money out of the till and they gave me a receipt. It seemed very questionable, but I knew better than to ask about it.

Later Stefan bought out his brother and became the sole owner.

Viktor disappeared for a few months and then returned and told me he was now a private detective, licensed and armed. Somehow the idea of him drinking, carrying a gun, and investigating anything was unsettling to me.

____________________________________

Three hours before closing my buddy Dave walks in.

What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be picking up the keg.

We have a problem. I have no place to put the keg. I’m afraid it’s gonna get warm. Can we put it in the fridge?

There’s no room. Plus, with no liquor license we can get into a shit ton of trouble …

It’s after four. No one’s gonna be coming around.

There’s no room. We got a milk shipment today. See.

I open the double refrigerator doors and show him. There are three cases of milk in the only spot that could accommodate the keg. The rest of the fridge is packed with meat and cheese.

What about taking the milk out and putting it in the back for a couple hours?

A couple of hours?

Turn on the fan, it’ll be fine.

It’ll go bad.

It won’t be out long enough.

And what if Stefan comes in? How do I explain that?

Do you want to drink warm beer at your party?

This is really a bad idea, I say as I pull the milk crates out of the refrigerator and take them to the back room. 

Dave runs out the door and in a few minutes is lugging the keg in.

We muscle it onto the bottom shelf and close the door. The door doesn’t close all the way. There’s a two-inch gap.

Close enough. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

And out the door he runs.

Great. now the refrigerator will get warm, the meat will spoil, and the milk is sitting on a table in the back next to the meat cutter. What next?

I remember I need to call Louanne to make arrangements to pick her up when I get off. She lives out in the suburbs, so I’m going to need directions.

I pull out the scrap of paper I have her phone number on and dial.

I met her two weeks ago at the shop. She and a friend came in and we struck up a conversation. She seems pretty cool, and we have a bunch of stuff in common. I don’t know why I asked her out, but I’m glad I did. She knows about the party at my friend’s house and sounds really into it. There should be about thirty people there.

Her father gruffly answers the phone and I politely ask for her. When she gets on the phone, I identify myself.

I hope we’re still on for tonight?

I can’t go.

What?

I was out really late last night, and my parents won’t let me go out, especially all the way to Portland. I’m really sorry. Maybe another time.

You know it’s my birthday, right?

Oh yeah, Happy Birthday. Listen, I need to go. My dad’s not in a good mood.

And with that, she’s gone.

Dejected, I slowly place the receiver back on the phone.

Great! What a birthday! What else could go wrong?

I hear a noise and look up at the front door.

Stefan is walking in. And he’s drunk. And there’s a keg in the refrigerator.

Vera sits in her car with a hand mirror nervously checking her make up. All she sees are the lines around her eyes. Another stressful day.

Vera’s life is a series of first dates.

Even after all the let-downs and bad situations Vera still believes in love. She believes there is a good man out there for her.

Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe this guy will be the one.

All she has to go on are three emails and a single phone call.

Vera wants a second date. Is that too much to ask? She knows she looks good. She works hard to look good.

For the last fifteen years Vera has worked at an assisted living facility.

Oh God, has it really been fifteen years?

She uses a dating app but no longer responds to all the men who comment on her profile. At first, she was flattered by all of the attention but after a few early encounters she’s much more particular about the guys she actually meets.

There were older guys just looking for sex. Recently divorced guys who are still angry at their exes. Young guys wanting to date a cougar. Weird guys still living at home with their parents. And widowers looking for someone to take care of them.

She has done enough caregiving.

How about someone wanting to take care of her for a change? Not that she’s looking for that. She’s tired of being alone and making all of the decisions. It would be nice to share things with someone.

____________________________________

Being a single mother of two was hard. Kevin never contributed anything after he left.  She got a part time job waitressing at a small café. The tips weren’t great, but the regulars were nice and that made a difference.

Vera started at the assisted living facility as an aide after her divorce. Her second. She should have learned after the first one. She and Kevin were so young. It’s what happens when you get married right out of high school. You think this is it and it’s going to last forever. Then you wake up one morning with two kids and an empty bed and you realize nothing lasts forever.

____________________________________

This guy, Roger, seems promising. He’s younger than she is but that’s not surprising. Most guys her age want younger women.

Vera turns off her phone as she gets out of the car. The real world can wait a couple hours.

The first date is always at a small hotel bar near her home. It’s well-lit and safe. She knows the bartender, a woman, has her back if there’s ever a problem. She feels comfortable here even though she knows meeting at a hotel probably sends the wrong signal.

It’s a cool fall night and the fire in the fireplace makes the bar feel homey. He is seated at a table near the fireplace.

Roger?

Vera. So nice to meet you.

Roger stands to shake her hand. He’s shorter than she imagined. His hair is dark and he’s clean-shaven with very stylish glasses. In a short sleeve T-shirt over a long sleeved one, he looks like a runner, lean and muscular.

He continues standing while she takes off her denim jacket and puts it on the back of her chair. In her late fifties, Vera keeps herself in shape. Roger’s eyes are checking her out, and like most men the first thing he notices after her long thick red hair is her breasts. They are large without being huge. She is slender, wearing jeans that hug her body, with a low-necked tank