Dead Boys: Stories

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BIG MIKE INSISTS I TRY ON HIS RING. I TELL HIM THAT’S okay, but he’s a pushy bastard. He bought it in Reno or won it, which makes it lucky or something. I wasn’t listening; the guy’s stories go nowhere. He wears the ring on his pinky, but it slips easily over my thumb. He laughs to see that and piles lox onto a bagel.

“You’re going to miss me,” he says to the waitress.

Upon his retirement next month, I’ll inherit some of his accounts. It’s supposed to be an honor. This deli, for example. I’ll be stopping in once a month for the rest of my life, pushing flatware and dishes and, say, did I mention our special on toothpicks? Unless I screw up, that is. Which happens. Ask any salesman. Buy him a drink. Greek tragedies, man. One word too many, one wayward glance, and we are up shit creek.

The owner slides into our booth. My read is he’s a little skittish coming out of the box. His hand is soaking wet when Mike makes the introduction. I’m cool, though. I don’t grab a napkin or go for my pant leg. He and Mike pick up where they left off last time, and I put it on automatic. Not that I’m missing anything: golf, golf, golf. It’s a gift knowing when to smile or nod or raise my eyebrows without really having to listen, but I worry sometimes that it makes me lazy.

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