For Keepsies

64 the minnesota review Gary Fincke For Keepsies "Baker, baker!" Crumley was listening just like I was, but I didn't have to do anything because it was Crumley who was being paged. "Baker, baker!" I wanted to say something like "Let's drag the dumb jerk inside before he freezes," but I was afraid of Crumley's silence, how he judged everything without talking. "I got the rolls made up," I said. "You want 'em in the oven?" "Give 'em a minute," Crumley said. Otis Redding was on the radio, but it was turned down low from the first time we'd heard the drunk shouting from outside in the snow. "She may be weary," Otis started, "and young girls they do get weary ..." "Baker, baker!" the drunk shouted again, sounding as if he were yelling through a crack in the foundation, and Crumley snapped Otis Redding off. For a second I had the first pan of rolls up and ready to flip over in a rage, but that would've been too stupid, even for a nowhere nineteen year-old like me, waiting around for a draft notice while doing baker's help. I slid the pan into the oven where I'd taken out a rack of bread. I started back for a second pan and Crumley shoved by me for the door. "Dumb ass'll die out there," he said, "and then what'll we have." Crumley had the drunk inside before I'd finished with the rolls. "Dead weight," he said, dragging the body to a chair by the space heater near one of the display cases. The drunk looked to be about 45, maybe 50, Crumley's age; he had vomit stuck on one side of his face, so I didn't want to look at him too long. "Nobody cleans him up," Crumley said.. "No problem." "We keep him alive, but we don't have to be nursemaids." I wasn't arguing, but I wasn't sure whether or not we were keeping him alive. He slumped back by the space heater with his mouth open, and it sounded like he was gargling salt water for a sore throat, like that throat was full of snot or he'd inhaled some of that vomit. "Bob Case," Crumley said. "You get to know everybody in a place Fincke 65 like this." I stood around waiting for him to get it over with. "This guy used to play third base for Miller's. You believe that? Bob Case." Crumley sat him up a little, unbuttoned his coat. "Soft, quick hands. You gotta have quick hands at third and now look at him." "Yeah," I said. Crumley snorted. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah is right." We went back to work. The rolls got themselves ready, and Crumley had me haul them to the storefront. The drunk was still there. He had his mouth closed now, so he'd been doing something while the rolls baked , and I stood behind the counter waiting for him to look up and notice me. I wanted to hear what he had to say about pitching into the snow at three a.m. and forgetting how to get up, but he didn't look like he was ready to tell stories. I went back for another pan of rolls, then another, and waited again, watching the drunk named Bob Case getting all he could out of that space heater. His face, because his body was hunched over so far, was maybe six inches from the surface. When he finally glanced up at me it was as if he'd had enough of inhaling something from the coils. "Hell of a night," he said. He probably expected me to agree with him, get something in common going between us, so I started arranging rolls in the wall-length case. "Hard to tell from in here," I said. "Hell of a place to work," he said. "All this stuff's gotta get to you. Like being a goddamned bartender or something." "You want a roll?" I tried. I held out a bear claw, figuring Crumley wouldn't mind, but Bob Case wasn't ready...