The Saloonkeeper's Rules

Fiction

When the plane landed and his oldest nephew walked out of the doors of the arrival gate Big Rick Durford had to bite a chunk of his cheek the size of an orange to keep from crying.

Big Rick and Reggie never got along that well, but Reggie kept his promise because Big Rick had kept his.

“I’m gonna keep Pop’s bar open so Marshall can have his first legal drink in it. You make sure that young man gets on the plane back to Detroit.”

Reggie grumbled because grumbling was Reggie’s super power, but his oldest son walked through that gate and Big Rick’s first thought was That kid is too good looking to have his first drink in my shitty little shoprat bar.

But there was no other destination. Rick and Reggie’s grandfather would be so damn proud to have Marshall, the great-grandson he hadn’t lived to meet, in his bar for his first one. 

Pasmore Tool and Die, the big red brick building that shadowed most of the neighborhood between Fort Street and the freeway switched to building cubicle partitions when corporate America started downsizing, then computer desks and assorted office products. Managed to do okay when the rest of the southwest side neighborhood crumbled. 

The Taurus Lounge managed to serve first legal drinks to any 21-year-old kid hired in at Pasmore, and Big Rick had long envisioned Marshall being served too, even though he lived in Oakland, California.

And here they were, on the way to their family’s bar in Big Rick’s Charger, sheets of snow cascading out of the sky, storm of the century warnings on TV that usually turned out to be eight inches, just a little messy, maybe some school closings, and half of ‘em are closed anyway.

Rick had one eye on the road, and one on his nephew, driving lefthanded.

“You’re really gonna go to law school, huh?”

“Yessir. I’m black and my parents named me Marshall, you don’t think that was the plan all along?”

They laughed hard, talked some sports, Big Rick the Lions fan catching hell from his Niner fan nephew.

Stopped laughing when sludgy slush from the wheel of a flatbed hit Big Rick’s windshield.

He slapped his signal, tried to get in the right lane, caught a rut of snow, punched the gas, and lost the ass end of the car altogether.

Marshall and Rick’s unison, similar shouts of fright might have been almost comical if the car wasn’t hopelessly headed for the gulley-like ditch between 1-94 and the industrial road.

Big Rick punched it one more time, almost afraid he’d catch dry pavement and slingshot across traffic, but he did manage to keep the front wheels out of the partially frozen grass. The car slid sideways to a halt, headlights pointed at an angle to the sky and a plane that had just left Metro.

“You okay?” Big Rick asked his nephew.

“Yep, you? “

Big Rick nodded. “Fine. Fuck. Towtruck’s gonna be a million hours in this snow.”

“You own the bar, don’t you? We can drink in there any time.”

Rick scowled. “Your daddy made me promise it would be a legal drink. Can’t be after hours. That don’t count. Maybe we can give it a push ourselves. “

They hopped out of the car, a steady hiss of cars passing on snowy pavement, an unwanted concert of headlights, cars occasionally sliding off-center. It wasn’t terrifying, but it was unpleasant and disconcerting at best.

Marshall took the driver’s side, closest to oncoming traffic.

His uncle shooed him off.

“No, fuck no. You’re more likely to get hit on this side if another car slides off the road. That would destroy your Mama and Daddy. If I get hit, shit, if I get hit and you’re okay your daddy would probably laugh.”

Marshall hung his head. “Don’t say that. I know he can be a little emotionless, but…Fuck!”

Headlights were headed straight for Big Rick’s car. Rick backpedaled, slipped a bit, Marshall ran toward him, then realized the headlights belonged to a vehicle that was braking, almost to a stop.

Four guys hopped out of a truck.

“Need a hand?” One of the guys asked.

Big Rick, chest pounding, could only nod.

Marshall assessed the situation.

“Why don’t you get in the car and steer, Uncle Rick, the five of us will push.”

Big Rick agreed, got in the driver’s seat, door open, one foot on the pavement.

They rocked the car at first. On one of the trips rearward the car almost slid all the way into the small ravine.

“All the way forward, no reverse,” one of the guys yelled.

The four men from the truck and Marshall lowered their center of gravity and shoved. 

Big Rick hit the gas, spewing exhaust-covered snow behind the vehicle, splattering the ankles of his nephew and the four men. The car lurched forward. One of the men fell. Rick yanked the wheel to the right, and the car slid--spun like a drifter, and shot out onto the shoulder.

Marshall grabbed the fallen man by the forearm and helped him up.

Big Rick slapped his hazards on and exited the vehicle.

He embraced the closest man, who seemed a bit shocked.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for your kindness, support and your brawn today. We would have been waiting on a towtruck forever. Thank you.

Big Rick repeated his thanks, embracing each man, all white dudes who didn’t appear to be quite the touchy-feely type.

He pulled a 100 dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the closest man. 

“Can I trust you guys to split that four ways?”

The man held a stiff arm out to Big Rick.

“No sir, we’re not taking your money. Our pleasure.”

The man turned to walk back to the truck.

Big Rick followed.

“Gentlemen, today is the happiest day of my life. My nephew is 21 today, and I get to buy him his first legal drink. You guys made sure our little mishap didn’t fuck those plans up. So please, take the money. I’m serious as a heart attack.”

The four men looked at each other, the closest to Marshall mumbling “Happy Birthday…um, bro, uh, dude.”

Marshall said “thanks.”

Big Rick walked past the men and put the 100 dollar bill under the driver’s side windshield. 

“I wouldn’t leave that there while you drive,” Big Rick said with a smile. He waved at Marshall to get in his car.

They pulled out into the sporadic traffic, Rick patting his nephew on the leg.

“Watch the road, Uncle Rick.”

“Yes sir, Johnnie Cochran.”

Marshall was silent for a minute, but fidgeted.

“You nervous about me driving in this shit?” Big Rick asked.

“You own a bar,” Marshall said, “how come you didn’t just invite those guys to come have a drink with us?

Big Rick wiped loose snow from his thinning hair, exhaled.

“Two reasons,” he said, now fidgeting himself.

“I’m proud of one, and ain’t so proud of the other.”

Marshall turned to face his uncle more directly, patiently waiting for the answer.

“One,” Rick said after a long pause, “I kept your great grandaddy’s place alive partly because no one ever drinks in my bar free. Ever. You are gonna be the first exception to that rule. “

Rick got a lane over to avoid another car that was weaving in the snow.

He remained silent long after they were safely in the lane.

“And number two?” Marshall asked, patience worn away.

“Number two, It would have broken my heart to invite them to the bar and have them turn me down after I told them where it was.”

Big Rick couldn’t see his nephew’s face, but it was a mask of thoughtfulness and concentration.

They exited 94 at Livernois and headed south.

Marshall spoke quietly.

“You would have invited those men to your bar if they had been black.”

Big Rick took his foot off the gas and looked at his nephew.

“Objection,” he said. “Conjecture.”

***

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