They walked to the Bullseye Tavern after work, left their cars in the Quality Tool & Fabrication lot.
Mike and Eggie would get so drunk they’d cab home, cars would still be there when Enright got to work.
Enright was walking slowly, re-wrapping the tape that held the gauze on his finger.
It had absorbed a faint hint of golden brown cutting oil, great color for a plate of fries in a restaurant ad, not something you necessarily wanted on a bandage.
Gorman was looking over his shoulder at Enright as though he had stepped out of a spaceship.
“Still can’t believe you stitched your own finger to stay at work. When Paulsey comes back from medical he’s gonna–”
“Who’s gonna tell him?” Enright asked. There was no edge to it. It was a legit question.
Mike looked back.
“Someone will. That’s crazy. You coulda been home on the couch eatin’ Oxy.”
Enright raised one eyebrow.
“Someone paying people to lay on the sofa eating Oxy?”
“You only woulda missed what, three hours? Plus got it professionally stitched.”
Gorman spit into Plymouth Road, hit a car going by about 40. Enright hoped the driver didn’t notice.
“You’re somethin’ else, Enright. Only guy in the shop that’s never told Baxter to go fuck himself.”
The finger was throbbing.
“Got child support, Enright said “can’t afford to get let go.”
All of ‘em, Gorman, Eggie, Mike, started laughing.
“Baxter ain’t firing anyone,” Mike said “ we’ve all done it. We’re all still here. He knows he’s a miserable prick.”
Enright looked at the bandage. Blood was showing on the outside of the brownish gauze. There was a weird tingle in the cut too, like some fibers from his gloves got in there. Wrecked a damn good pair of gloves on that old Bridgeport.
“Walk in tomorrow,” Gorman said, “look at Baxter, and say ‘Remember I stayed here and got my target number for you, you miserable prick’. Remind him he owes you one.”
“I guess I’m still running suicides,” Enright mumbled.
Gorman heard him, began to ask what the fuck, one of the servers on a smoke break outside the Bullseye called out, distracted them.
“Tigers hit for the cycle last night boys, 50 cent beers til 3.”
Mike and Eggie started running.
Enright laughed.
It was 2:42.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.