Rodman

Rodman - David E. Malone - July 17, 2006

Every Friday night for the past two decades, big Jerry Bailey and I take a walk down to Hagerty's Bar and Pool for a bacon-burger and a few games of pool.

Hagerty's is your typical small town Ontario bar with a coupla dozen bar stools, a few dining tables and chairs, and three or four worn Valley Cougar bar-tables. Everybody knows us there, including the bartender and the owner, and apart from the odd friendly greeting everybody pretty much leaves us alone which is how we like it.

Both of us are pretty handy pool players if I say so myself, but not shortstop material by any means. We don't take it all that seriously and, although some cash is known to change hands from time to time, it's a pretty relaxed sort of affair when we play. Sometimes I win. Sometimes Jerry wins. The winner has to pay for the table and the drinks, so it all works out about even most of the time. In fact, the 'loser' often comes out ahead because the two of us have been known to consume remarkable quantities of beer in a given evening. Because we don't have to worry about drinking and driving we feel free to indulge and besides, Friday is singles night and the beer is half price. Can't beat that.

So it wasn't unusual that this particular Friday, we found ourselves pushing open the heavy brass door and walking into the bar at about 8:00 o'clock. Jerry is a loud, overweight, cheerful guy with sparse white hair on a slightly balding head and a penchant for ribald humor. His love of flowery waist-coats (he calls them vests) makes him look a bit like W.C. Fields on an off-day. I myself am slightly heavy, and maybe somewhat bald on top too, and, yes, I have occasionally been known to tell the odd off-color joke myself. But I'm considerably more refined and restrained than Jerry. I have to admit we do look somewhat alike although I'm far better looking - ask my wife. Someone once called us "Tweedledee and Tweedledumb"... and we both laughed, but only because we both knew they were talking about ol' Jerry when they referred to Tweedledumb.

Anyway, we made our way to our usual table and frowned at the couple of leather jacketed teenagers who were playing on it. I looked over at the bartender, Henry and gestured pointedly at the table. Jerry just stood there glaring at them, arms akimbo.

"Sorry guys..." Henry said apologetically to the kids. "That table is reserved for eight o'clock every Friday night by these two fine gentlemen here..."

I won't tell you what they called us, and it wasn't fine gentlemen to be sure, but after some discussion they did finally vacate our table and we started screwing together our cues for the fray. There was an unwritten law in Hagerty's that this was our table. On a similar note, I can recall visiting my dad in his pub in England one year, and as soon as we walked into the bar, the people sitting at his usual table got up and moved.

"It's my table..." he explained answering my question. "Of course they had to move..."

"That's unlawful discrimination, that is..." said a slurred voice at the bar. It came from one of those fixtures that you seem to see in every bar - the resident drunk. Although this one was new - never seen him before. He was thin and sandy-haired and had a sour expression that made him look like he was permanently sucking on a dill pickle.

"It's not discrimination..." explained Jerry, patiently. "It's just a fact of life... it's OUR table. We're here every Friday night at the same time."

"The kids got there first..." the drunk said doggedly.

"And now we're here." I said pugnaciously. "So what? Are you a goddamn lawyer or something?"

"Shouldn't be allowed." he said emphatically, and went back to his drink, although he continued to regard us intently.

"Somebody needs to mind his own goddamn business...", said Jerry, under his breath. "What a Putz..."

After that, we tried to ignore him and started our game. We tossed a quarter to see who got to break. I lost as usual and Jerry finished screwing together the old Palmer while I racked for 8-ball and nodded to him to break.

"Ten a game, ten ahead..." I said.

Not that I really had to say it, we'd been wagering exactly that for years now. It was understood. But saying it was as much of a ritual as the game itself like the way Jerry always waved his cue in a circle over his head, stretching, before he set up to break.

"Gambling is illegal in this bar" said the drunk immediately. "I'm telling the bartender... "

He looked up the bar to where Henry was polishing glasses and trying to look busy as usual. He waved a skinny arm to get his attention...

"Bartender..." he slurred. "These gentlemen are gambling on your plemishes... pwemises... plem... pool table."

Henry looked up with a twinkle and a mock stern expression and said in a shocked voice...
"Is this true, Jerry... are you gambling on my... er... plemises?"

Jerry laughed.

"You know us, Henry. Neither one of us has ever bet on a game in our lifetime... I think the asshole... I mean the gentleman here, must have misheard us."

Henry winked and went back to his polishing.

"Thought so..." he said. Good man that Henry.

"You're all in cahoots...", said the drunk indignantly. "Don't think I don't know what's going on here... I'm calling the police."

I gave him the finger and embellished it somewhat by some rather inelegant body language so he wouldn't miss the point. He obviously didn't have a cell phone to call anybody on and didn't look like going anywhere, so we ignored him again and got on with our game. But it seems the old sot apparently thought he was a pool playing expert as well as a freaking law enforcement officer...

"What kind of a feeble break do you call that!" he said, loudly. "My mother can break harder than that..."

"Get your mommy down here and tell her to bring lots of money..." I said, cheerfully.

"Yeah, we'll roll the old lady..." said Jerry.

It started to get annoying after that. The drunk had an opinion on everything we did and didn't do. He used to be really good, he claimed, and had beaten Fats in a grudge match for fifty dimes... Willie Mosconi was his bitch. He used to have to give Ralph Greenleaf fifty points ahead at straight pool, and Earl... Earl wasn't fit to shine his work boots... young whippersnapper.
We tried to make the best of it and named him Rodman for Really Obnoxious Drunk Man. A few times, I thought Jerry was going to walk over there and knock him off his stool, but I always restrained him in time. There's no honor in beating up an old drunk.

Finally, I had an idea.

"If I buy you a beer, will you shut the hell up and leave us alone?" I suggested.

"Thank ye kindly..." he said quickly. Maybe that's what he'd been angling for all this time.

And he did shut up for a while... now that we'd figured out his weakness, we simply kept on feeding him beers until he passed out on the stool and we had blessed quietness for the rest of the match. Jerry was having one of his good nights on the green and it was all I could do just to hang in there. He kept getting eight ahead and then losing one until eventually he prevailed (or maybe I got tired and let him win) and went to pay the tab. It was getting late.

"What are we going to do with old Rodman?" I asked. "We can't very well just leave him here because they're closing soon and he'll be out on the street."

It was as if we'd somehow gotten this responsibility because we had named him and given him beer. I don't know if that's ever happened to you. In a way we now felt responsible for his fate - a harsher pair of men would have simply left him there. Did I mention we were both men of principle? And more than slightly drunk?

"Yeah, someone will roll him and take his wallet... maybe worse." said Jerry. "He could get hurt..."

"When you're that drunk, I don't think anything is gonna hurt you. I'll ask Henry if he knows him..." I said.

"Nope... never seen him in here before." said Henry. "Tell you what, look in his coat and see if there's an address and I'll put him in a taxi..."

There was an address in his wallet... 176 Battle of Britain Blvd., Apt 3C, which was not too far down the road. He had a pretty good wad of cash which made Jerry a bit hot because he'd been paying for his tipple all night. A couple of twenties may... and I say 'may'... have found a new home in Jerry's pocket when I was looking the other way. His name wasn't Rodman, of course, but apparently John Peter Wiggan. There was also a picture of a nice older lady (called Helen according to the note on the back) whom we assumed must be his wife or significant other.

"Don't worry about the taxi, Henry..." said Jerry. "We'll drop him off - it's on our way."

So we picked him up and draped one of each of his arms over our shoulders and walked him out the bar. He was curiously light and fragile but had recovered somewhat by this time and muttered veiled curses at us as we dragged him along. Nothing intelligible. Since we weren't all that steady ourselves, it was quite an adventure and every once in a while one of us would stagger off the curb and we'd all end up in the gutter laughing like hyenas. From time to time we tried to make him stand up by himself but he always refused and just slid into a heap on the sidewalk. We had to carry the uncooperative son of a bitch all the way to his apartment.

When we arrived, it was a respectable looking old brownstone apartment building with stained glass windows in the doorway. No internal lights were evident. Jerry rang the doorbell and we waited. After a while, nothing had happened, so I banged enthusiastically on the door a few times as well. Eventually a light came on and a shadow appeared at the door.

"Who is it?" said a voice.

"That you, Helen?" said Jerry, nudging me.

The door opened a crack. A woman in a dressing gown and curlers, and looking vaguely like the picture although it must have been taken many years ago, peered out of the door. She was not in a very good mood having been apparently awakened by our ringing and banging.

"What do you want?" she said curtly.

"We bought home your husband, Rodman... I mean, John." I said proudly.

"I can see that..." she said.

"What have you two drunken assholes done with his wheelchair...?"