Whiskey Bob
II. The Mozza-Maniacs
If anyone else had been in the room they’d have hardly made out Bob’s silhouette as he slouched in one of the old plastic arcade chairs. With a twenty-four pack of Icehouse, already a third of them gone, he sat at the edge of the glow of the stage. His features blurred in the fading red hues of the string lights. He pulled a bottle to his lips, tilting it high to get the last drop before he reached into the box for the next, never taking sight off of the six bot band of animatronic forest creatures on the stage. Above them, on a faded banner “The Mozza-Maniacs”.
They hadn’t actually functioned since even before Bob worked there. Their furry coats were covered in dust while the once chrome drum rims had lost all shine, not spotted with rust. Despite them living here, they didn’t work here anymore, just like Bob.
“Oh my god! What’s the matter?” He remembered. Samara asked so sweetly as he seemed to reflexively stoop to him behind the dumpsters. Sweet sweet Samara. He thought, taking another gulp of beer.
“Why. . . Why can’t I see it that way?” He forced out as he stifled his tears.
“See what Bob?” Asked Samara, a special softness in her voice, just like one would use to soothe a child.
“I’ve seen the world for what it is.” Gasped Bob. “It’s cold and it’s cruel and it’s real. That boy in there today, he just . . hell none of them know that the heroes ain’t real.” Samara put a hand over his, resting them together over his knee. “That god damn moose was the most fun thing that kid was gonna get to see today, and I just fuckin’. . I just showed that kid that that damn moose ain’t nothing but a fifty five year old jackass in a costume.” Samara pursed her lips as she watched Bob fight back against crying more, doing his best to dry his face in front of her. “I mean there’s war and crime and bills and things and these kids today grow up so fuckin’ fast Sam.” He finally creaked his head up to meet her, his eyes stained red and swollen. “Those kids aren’t gonna believe in shit like this for long and I couldn’t even give him that.” She squeezed his hand, trying desperately to find words to help. “God damn it. Why can’t I see the world like that? All that wonder, all that magic. It’s just gone.”
Bob took another swig of beer, inspecting the aging mechanical band in the silence. “You know you boys are gonna end up just like me.” He said aloud, gesturing with his half-full bottle as he spoke. “Once the stitches fray out, and metal frame pokes from beneath those furs. The jig is up boys. The jig is up and you’ll be going in the landfill. Just like me.” Tears were welling in his eyes as he faced the band, and even at the brink of the arcades shadows, the lights felt too bright. He replayed Samara’s voice like an echo in his skull.
“Well you don’t know that.” She’d said. “What if it’s just a different, um, like a different sort of wonder? One that might just be a little harder to see.” A dismissing smirk flashed across Bob’s face.
“You're still young, kid. You ain’t really seen much. You’re still in the first half of life, where it’s all experience, and learning. I’m in the second half, where everything is just built to be compared to what it was before.”
Bob meditated on that in the hue of the red lights. He wondered what experiences did he even have to compare to? How did dancing around in a moose costume compare to being shot at in Iraq? How did dancing the YMCA for the twentieth time stack against being arrested for assaulting a waitress when he was on a four day binge. Samara was a sweetheart, but she didn’t know how bad it felt to only be able to look back at times that were losing something.
Bob placed the empty bottle next to the others, then reached into the box to grab the next one. “You know she used to love me.” He called out to the band. “Melissa, I mean.” He twisted the cap from the bottle and took a mighty gulp. “That was back when I was still in the Army.” He burped through his words. “God damn” He sighed. “I want a cigarette. How about you bear? You want a cigarette?” He crept up hazily from the chair, wobbling at the knees as he straightened out. He walked his way to the stage as he fumbled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. The lights were bright enough to make him squint as he stepped onto the stage, pulling two cigarettes to plant one on his mouth, and the other in open jowls of the once singing bear. “There you go pal. On me” He chuckled softly as he flicked his lighter, blowing a plume of smoke across the stage. His knees wobbled again as he stepped down from the stage. “Whoa there!” He laughed. “Did ya see that? I think it’s time to pack it in, folks.” He made his way to the collection of bottles by his chair, flipped up his shirt into a scoop and started to stack them in.
As he bent over to grab the last one, he noticed a piece of folded paper beneath the chair. He rushed to snap it up and into his pocket. Samara’s voice rang through his ears again.
“Well maybe you’re just waiting for the right people to show it to you?” She cooed. Bob grunted in denial. “This showed up for you a couple days ago. It got caught up in the office but it’s addressed to you.” She produced a folded paper from her back pocket. “I hope you don’t get angry with me. I took it off Russ’ desk. I didn’t want him to fuss at you for using this address.”
“I think the boat for getting fussed at has already passed.” He grunted again. He reached up and softly took the paper. It was a plain envelope. Bob’s eyes grew wide as soon as he set eyes on who it was from. Samara watched, a confusion growing her own mind. Bobs face drew tight, grasp tightening around the paper lightly wrinkling between his fingers. She couldn’t tell if he was happy, furious, or about to break back into sobs.
“Is everything ok Bob?” She finally chirped out. Bob’s face shook up to her again, as if he had forgotten her presence entirely.
“That name there.” He breathed heavily, like one does when stifling a cough. He pressed his index finger hard against the script on the paper. “R. Krowski. That’s my daughter.”
Part III coming soon.
