* * * * *
And in '53, on the day of our thirty-first anniversary, you might say,
he comes in and things are different. All different. I can feel it
when he opens the door and comes in at five-o-nine instead of
five-ten. There is plenty more different, too. He walks up to the bar
like it's his and roars:
"Two beers, Mike!"
I drop a glass I'm so surprised, but I give him two beers like he
wants. He gulps them both down, puts a foot on the rail and looks me
straight in the eye. His eyes are a sort of washed blue. I've never
noticed them before.
"Beer for the house!" he yells at me.
"Take it easy, Mr. Pettis," I says.
"Easy, hell!" he shouts and slaps a roll as big as his hand on the
bar. "And call me Rabelais, Mike. We're pals, aren't we?"
"You bet," I assures him. And I mean it. Not because of the dough.
That makes me sweat. I can't figure where this little guy gets such a
wad. And good money, too.
He sets them up three times. By now he's feeling fine. I suggest he
get going before he misses the last train home.
"I already missed it," he says proudly. "And I'm not going home. Let
the old battle-axe really have something to complain about. Beer,
Mike!"
[Illustration]
In a way I hate to see it, but then I figure a man has a right to let
off a little steam once every thirty-one years. Even so, I get a
little worried when he asks for the phone and calls up his wife.
He says, "Myrtle, this Rabelais. Rabelais, your husband, you old sow."
He takes a breath and says, "You're damned right I'm drunk. And I'm
staying that way. Go home to your mother.... Oh yes, you are. You're
leaving on the 12:05 tomorrow and you'll eat chicken a la king on the
train and fall asleep at Holt's Corner and snore all the way home. And
your mother will be mad because her left fender will get dented on the
way to the station." Bang! He hangs up.
"Beer, Mike."
"Now look, Mr.--Rabelais--"