13: Now don’t feel uncomfortable . . .

Little Follies, “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” Chapter 4 continues

May 28, 2021

     “Now don’t feel uncomfortable just because everyone’s looking at you, Dudley,” said my mother. “It’s just that they don’t know you and they don’t see that many people in here that they don’t know.”
     “And isn’t that my problem?” asked Mr. Beaker. He sighed a long sigh, an invitation to commiseration. “I just don’t know this Jack Simpson.”
     “It’s not really the same thing,” said my father.
     “Oh?” asked Mr. Beaker. “Don’t these people know you? When they see you walk through the door, don’t they say to themselves. ‘Ah, it’s Bert Leroy. I know what to expect from him. I don’t have to worry.’”
     “Oh, sure,” said my father. “Ella and I come here pretty often.”
     “I would say regularly,” said Whitey, grinning across the bar.
     “You see,” said Mr. Beaker, “that’s my point —”
     “Well, it depends,” said my father, responding to Whitey. “I would say regularly on Sunday afternoons.”
     “And often on Friday nights,” asserted Whitey.
     “Oh, no,” May Castle corrected him. “Frequently on Friday nights.” She turned on her stool and crossed her legs. She smiled at my father and then at Mr. Beaker, waiting for an introduction.
     “Well, yeah,” said my father. He chuckled. “Frequently on Friday nights.”
     “And on Saturday nights,” added my mother, inserting me between May and Mr. Beaker and setting me on the bar.
     “Noooo, Ella,” scoffed May, giving my mother a playful push. “You’re not here frequently on Saturday nights. I’m always here on Saturday nights, and I frequently don’t see you here. You’re only here sometimes. Now you,” she reached around my mother and patted Mr. Beaker on the shoulder, “you’re never here. That is, you’ve never been here before. I’m May Castle.”
     “I,” said Mr. Beaker, “am someone you know nothing about. I am a stranger, a mystery. I’m Dudley Beaker.”
     “Oh, you are?” May gave my mother a look.
     “Are you going to buy me a beer?” my mother asked my father.
     “I’ve heard your name, Dudley,” said May. She looked at my mother again. “Frequently.”
     My father whispered in Mr. Beaker’s ear: “Her husband disappeared about a year ago. No, it must be two years. As soon as people started noticing that he wasn’t around, May started saying that he had passed away on a business trip, and she’s been playing the merry widow ever since. You could do worse, Dudley.”
     Mr. Beaker turned toward my father with his eyes wide and his mouth open. “Listen, Bert,” he said, “I came here to talk—”
     May tugged on his sleeve from the other side. “Come here a minute, Dudley,” she said. “Did you dress yourself, honey? Your mommy must be on vacation. You’re a mess.” She began straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. Mr. Beaker looked uneasily around the barroom. He couldn’t find the door.
     “So,” said Whitey. “You people going to drink something, or do you just want to rent these stools?”
     May pushed her glass toward Whitey, and Whitey began drawing beer for my parents.
     “I’ll have a Scotch,” said Mr. Beaker. “With a little water.”
     My father raised his eyebrows.
     May had improved Mr. Beaker’s hair and tightened his tie. She smoothed his shirt and tucked it into his slacks a little better; then she gave his pants a hike and tugged at his lapels to straighten his jacket, tipping him toward her.
     “You don’t look happy, stranger,” said May, brushing at Mr. Beaker’s shoulders. “You look like a man with a problem.”
     “He is,” said my father, smiling.
     “Oh-oh,” said Whitey. “What’d you do, buy a car from Herb?”
     “Yes, but that has nothing to do with it. I’m quite satisfied with the car,” said Mr. Beaker.
     “Dudley’s having trouble writing a letter,” said my father, nodding and acting mysterious.
     “Ho-ho,” said Whitey. “That’s something I stay far away from. Letters can get you into a lot of trouble. My father always told me, ‘Don’t write anything down.’” He called the words across the room, so that Porky, who was refilling bowls of pretzels, would hear them, and so that everyone else in the room would hear them too. It was an old joke, but it got the old laugh, which was all Whitey wanted.
     Porky blushed. He was having so little success in getting his hands on the girls at Babbington High that he couldn’t imagine what he might write down that could get him into trouble, but every time his father made the joke Porky blushed, and that convinced Whitey that his son was enjoying youth to a degree that he had not.
     “I just don’t understand this Simpson,” complained Mr. Beaker, shaking his head, looking to either side of him to see who was listening. He swallowed the last of his Scotch. My father immediately signaled Whitey to bring him another, which Mr. Beaker began drinking without noticing that it was a new drink.
     “You tell me about it,” said May.