SPN FIC - Hopely - Mal, 1984
Entry #3 in my small-town project, which began with Eddie, 1984 and Faye, 1991. Outsider POVs, a collection of portraits of the residents of a small town that John brings the boys to three times: 1984, 1991, and 1998. Every seven years, because there's something going on and he's determined to ... you know. Kill some evil sons of bitches. Some of these OCs will know there's a problem and some won't. All of them (and the places they live and work) are borrowed from my own life, with some literary license.
He’s new, Mal thinks as he boosts himself up onto the stool and accepts his beer with a nod and a smile for Debbie. Young guy, shoulders hunched up underneath a heavy denim jacket, attention glued to his drink.
CHARACTERS: John, OMC, OFC
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1976
HOPELY - MAL, 1984
By Carol Davis
The wind’s blowing hard against his back when he wraps his fingers around the tarnished metal doorhandle. He’s got no gloves on - couldn’t find them, and anyway, it’s too early to give in to gloves and hats - so the metal handle burns, enough to make him yelp at the cold and mutter a string of curses under his breath. It’s too early for this, way too early. He can remember Halloweens that were mild, pleasant enough for the kids to run around without coats on top of their costumes, or sweatshirts and long pants underneath. One year the 31st fell smack in the middle of an Indian summer, golden and sweet and sunny, and he and Ruth kept the front door open so the trick-or-treaters could see the setup in the foyer from out on the street.
There’s no setup this year. Ruth’s down at her sister’s, won’t be back for another few days, and he didn’t feel like handing out candy without her.
Doesn’t feel like doing too much of anything without her, really.
The bar’s pretty crowded, each one of the stools occupied, and most of the little round tables lined up against the wall. Debbie, behind the bar, is wearing a costume, although who she’s supposed to be, he’s not sure. She waves and smiles as he hangs his jacket on top of three or four others on the coat rack near the door, and as he steps away from the rack he imagines the crowd calling out “Mal!” like they do for Norm on Cheers. Everybody here knows his name, for sure - he’s been delivering their mail for the best part of three decades - but the best he can get out of them is a nod, a “Hi” or a “How ya doin” as he walks past.
Football’s playing on the TV. He glances at the score, then at Debbie, who’s pointing down toward the far end of the bar, near the kitchen. Joe Henks and his brother have got the last two seats, then there’s an empty.
“Beer?” Debbie yells out, over the noise.
He nods a yes. It’s going to be some kind of a maneuver, getting up onto that stool, because everything’s been shoved down the line a little and in between Joe Henks and the guy to the left of the empty there’s about enough room for a broomstick., and Mal hasn’t been that size since…well, never. Even as a kid he packed some weight on him. But a look around tells him it’s this or nothing, because Rose Allard came in behind him with two gals he doesn’t recognize, and they’ve taken that last empty table along the wall.
Maybe he should go home, he thinks. Grab a soda out of the fridge and make do with that.
“You okay, Mal?” Debbie calls out. She’s got his beer in hand. Doesn’t take her more than a second to figure out the problem, and a second after that she’s barking orders to the whole lineup along the bar, telling them to move their dumb asses down a ways. She gets a bunch of “Yes, ma’am!”s in return, some laughter, a question or two about whether she uses that tone of voice in bed, but they all do as they’re told, and a space wide enough to sit down in opens up around that empty stool.
One thing’s funny, though: the guy sitting to the left didn’t seem to move at all.
He’s new, Mal thinks as he boosts himself up onto the stool and accepts his beer with a nod and a smile for Debbie. Young guy, shoulders hunched up underneath a heavy denim jacket, attention glued to his drink.
Or…no. Not on the drink at all. Just not on anything else in the room.
“Ya think of this weather?” Debbie asks, swiping a rag across the bar, moping up the rings (and some ketchup, looks like) left behind by whoever sat here last. “Every time somebody opens the damn door, it’s like the friggin’ wind off a glacier blowin’ in here.”
“Supposed to warm up tomorrow.”
“Warm up? Forty-eight, they said. Ain’t my version of ‘warm’. You want somethin’ to eat? Ruth’s still gone, right? You get any dinner?”
He did, but it was just a can of soup. “Sandwich’d be good.”
“Do you one better. We got some chili on the burner.”
She’s quick and efficient - so much so that he often thinks she belongs somewhere else, somewhere she could make a difference, though where that would be, he hasn’t tried to figure out - and barely a minute after she made the offer he’s got a steaming white bowl of chili in front of him, and a couple of slices of bread and butter. Bakery bread, not grocery store fluff. Things like that are why this place is packed more often than not. Beer’s beer, ditto for the stronger stuff. You can get a drink anywhere. They take care of you here.
Even if nobody yells out, “Mal!”
He sits spooning up his chili (and Lord, it tastes good going down, warms him all the way to his toes) and nibbling on the bread and butter, with a sip of beer or two in between, glancing at the game, listening to bits of conversation from these people he knows, whose mail he drops into their boxes six days a week.
He knows this fella sitting next to him, he realizes. Rolled into town about six, seven weeks ago. He owns that gleaming beast of a black Impala that’s usually parked over by Eddie’s little secondhand store.
“How you doin’?” he asks, and for a minute the guy doesn’t respond. Then he nods. One dip of his chin toward his chest.
“Name’s Mal. I do the mail.”
Something catches his eye. It’s Debbie, shaking her head. Telling him the guy wants to be left alone.
The guy has two little kids, Mal remembers: he saw them a couple of weeks back, down by the swings in the park two blocks from here. One’s just a baby, the other one maybe kindergarten age. The sun was out that day, and they seemed to be having fun, the three of them. They had the baby in the baby swing, and the guy, here, was pushing him (him? Mal didn’t get close enough to be sure, not that it makes that much of a difference) while the older one ran around them in circles. After a little bit the older one bellyflopped onto one of the empty swings and sailed back and forth like he was flying.
No sign of a mom, there. Just the three of them.
The guy hasn’t reacted to Mal’s meal, hasn’t even looked at it, but all of a sudden Debbie’s putting a bowl in front of him. He moves just a little bit, a flinch, like something bit him, or pinched him, and he shakes his head no, doesn’t want it.
“Eat,” Debbie says. Puts some bread and butter on a napkin near the guy’s hand, then walks away, answering somebody down at the other end of the bar.
“It’s good,” Mal offers, which is God’s honest truth.
The guy puts a fist to his forehead and leans into it, like he needs his arm for a tripod, to hold himself up.
“You all right?” Mal asks him quietly.
The guy doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. The wind does, though: heaves into the building so hard that it creaks. Which isn’t to say it’s going to give in; this place has been here since before the turn of the century. It’s seen a lot of history. Half a dozen owners. There was talk of tearing it down, once upon a time, when the street was lined with small businesses and somebody with big ideas thought they’d put up an A&P, but the A&P ended up down on Broadway. It’s gone now (the building’s split up into offices), and so are the barbershop and the gas station and the Laundromat that used to be on this block, but the Manor’s still here. Gonna be here for a long time yet, wind or no wind.
“You need something, son?” Mal asks, for no good reason he can think of. He doesn’t know this fella, really isn’t old enough to be his dad and doesn’t have any right to be butting into his business. But if there’s kids involved, maybe he can justify a question or two.
“No,” the guy says.
Mal thinks of that other day, when the three of them were laughing and playing. This guy loves his kids, he decides.
And…
If he pushes too hard, the guy will get up and leave. Walk right out of here, into the dark and the cold.
So Mal goes back to eating his chili and his bread and butter. Like he’s taking that “no” at face value.
He’s been a mailman a long damn time. Doesn’t see too much of the people on his route during the winter, but in the warmer weather they’re out, and he sees them come and go. Knows them pretty well, by what they get in the mail if they’re not the type to chat. When he started out, a little while after he got back from Korea, he felt like he knew the whole town. Went to school with a lot of ‘em, got to know the rest by talking, setting up a chain of “That’s the brother-in-law, came here from downstate after the war” and “She married into the Allens, not Davey’s side but the other one.” It’s like that game, he thinks, six degrees of separation. These people are all connected somehow. They look out for each other, gossip about each other, feud with each other, dig into each other’s business. The chain’s been loosened up a little, these past few years, because people are coming in from outside. From other countries, some of ‘em. That sense of community’s been rattled.
But still, people care. Even when they claim they don’t.
This guy’s been in town a little while, Mal thinks as he sops up some chili with a chunk of bread. If the little boy’s in school, he’ll be in the Collins girl’s class, or maybe Katie Brown’s. They’ll know if that family needs some help. Which isn’t to say this guy’s going to want it, even if it’s offered - but Mal’s lived in this town a long time. He’s delivered the mail for enough years that his feet and his knees and his back could tell you some tales.
He’s known about pride his whole life. Pride in what you do. What you are.
What you think you ought to be.
He finishes his meal and his beer without saying anything more, then slides down off the stool and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He lays a ten on the bar for Debbie and waves away her “You need change, Mal?”
As he steps away from the stool, he lifts a hand and pats the young stranger on the back. A simple gesture, one he’s made to any number of the people who are sitting in the Manor tonight, a simple goodbye, a “see ya around.” Maybe he ought to be leery of the guy swinging around to confront him, tell him to mind his own business, keep his hands to himself - but the guy doesn’t move, just sits, shoulders slumped, brooding over something that’s got nothing to do with this room.
He’s halfway to the door when he glances back. Sees the guy slide the bowl of chili a little closer and spoon up a mouthful.
That’s a start, Mal thinks.
That’s a good start.
He closes his eyes against the wind as he shoves the door open and goes on out.
* * * * *
He’s new, Mal thinks as he boosts himself up onto the stool and accepts his beer with a nod and a smile for Debbie. Young guy, shoulders hunched up underneath a heavy denim jacket, attention glued to his drink.
CHARACTERS: John, OMC, OFC
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1976
HOPELY - MAL, 1984
By Carol Davis
The wind’s blowing hard against his back when he wraps his fingers around the tarnished metal doorhandle. He’s got no gloves on - couldn’t find them, and anyway, it’s too early to give in to gloves and hats - so the metal handle burns, enough to make him yelp at the cold and mutter a string of curses under his breath. It’s too early for this, way too early. He can remember Halloweens that were mild, pleasant enough for the kids to run around without coats on top of their costumes, or sweatshirts and long pants underneath. One year the 31st fell smack in the middle of an Indian summer, golden and sweet and sunny, and he and Ruth kept the front door open so the trick-or-treaters could see the setup in the foyer from out on the street.
There’s no setup this year. Ruth’s down at her sister’s, won’t be back for another few days, and he didn’t feel like handing out candy without her.
Doesn’t feel like doing too much of anything without her, really.
The bar’s pretty crowded, each one of the stools occupied, and most of the little round tables lined up against the wall. Debbie, behind the bar, is wearing a costume, although who she’s supposed to be, he’s not sure. She waves and smiles as he hangs his jacket on top of three or four others on the coat rack near the door, and as he steps away from the rack he imagines the crowd calling out “Mal!” like they do for Norm on Cheers. Everybody here knows his name, for sure - he’s been delivering their mail for the best part of three decades - but the best he can get out of them is a nod, a “Hi” or a “How ya doin” as he walks past.
Football’s playing on the TV. He glances at the score, then at Debbie, who’s pointing down toward the far end of the bar, near the kitchen. Joe Henks and his brother have got the last two seats, then there’s an empty.
“Beer?” Debbie yells out, over the noise.
He nods a yes. It’s going to be some kind of a maneuver, getting up onto that stool, because everything’s been shoved down the line a little and in between Joe Henks and the guy to the left of the empty there’s about enough room for a broomstick., and Mal hasn’t been that size since…well, never. Even as a kid he packed some weight on him. But a look around tells him it’s this or nothing, because Rose Allard came in behind him with two gals he doesn’t recognize, and they’ve taken that last empty table along the wall.
Maybe he should go home, he thinks. Grab a soda out of the fridge and make do with that.
“You okay, Mal?” Debbie calls out. She’s got his beer in hand. Doesn’t take her more than a second to figure out the problem, and a second after that she’s barking orders to the whole lineup along the bar, telling them to move their dumb asses down a ways. She gets a bunch of “Yes, ma’am!”s in return, some laughter, a question or two about whether she uses that tone of voice in bed, but they all do as they’re told, and a space wide enough to sit down in opens up around that empty stool.
One thing’s funny, though: the guy sitting to the left didn’t seem to move at all.
He’s new, Mal thinks as he boosts himself up onto the stool and accepts his beer with a nod and a smile for Debbie. Young guy, shoulders hunched up underneath a heavy denim jacket, attention glued to his drink.
Or…no. Not on the drink at all. Just not on anything else in the room.
“Ya think of this weather?” Debbie asks, swiping a rag across the bar, moping up the rings (and some ketchup, looks like) left behind by whoever sat here last. “Every time somebody opens the damn door, it’s like the friggin’ wind off a glacier blowin’ in here.”
“Supposed to warm up tomorrow.”
“Warm up? Forty-eight, they said. Ain’t my version of ‘warm’. You want somethin’ to eat? Ruth’s still gone, right? You get any dinner?”
He did, but it was just a can of soup. “Sandwich’d be good.”
“Do you one better. We got some chili on the burner.”
She’s quick and efficient - so much so that he often thinks she belongs somewhere else, somewhere she could make a difference, though where that would be, he hasn’t tried to figure out - and barely a minute after she made the offer he’s got a steaming white bowl of chili in front of him, and a couple of slices of bread and butter. Bakery bread, not grocery store fluff. Things like that are why this place is packed more often than not. Beer’s beer, ditto for the stronger stuff. You can get a drink anywhere. They take care of you here.
Even if nobody yells out, “Mal!”
He sits spooning up his chili (and Lord, it tastes good going down, warms him all the way to his toes) and nibbling on the bread and butter, with a sip of beer or two in between, glancing at the game, listening to bits of conversation from these people he knows, whose mail he drops into their boxes six days a week.
He knows this fella sitting next to him, he realizes. Rolled into town about six, seven weeks ago. He owns that gleaming beast of a black Impala that’s usually parked over by Eddie’s little secondhand store.
“How you doin’?” he asks, and for a minute the guy doesn’t respond. Then he nods. One dip of his chin toward his chest.
“Name’s Mal. I do the mail.”
Something catches his eye. It’s Debbie, shaking her head. Telling him the guy wants to be left alone.
The guy has two little kids, Mal remembers: he saw them a couple of weeks back, down by the swings in the park two blocks from here. One’s just a baby, the other one maybe kindergarten age. The sun was out that day, and they seemed to be having fun, the three of them. They had the baby in the baby swing, and the guy, here, was pushing him (him? Mal didn’t get close enough to be sure, not that it makes that much of a difference) while the older one ran around them in circles. After a little bit the older one bellyflopped onto one of the empty swings and sailed back and forth like he was flying.
No sign of a mom, there. Just the three of them.
The guy hasn’t reacted to Mal’s meal, hasn’t even looked at it, but all of a sudden Debbie’s putting a bowl in front of him. He moves just a little bit, a flinch, like something bit him, or pinched him, and he shakes his head no, doesn’t want it.
“Eat,” Debbie says. Puts some bread and butter on a napkin near the guy’s hand, then walks away, answering somebody down at the other end of the bar.
“It’s good,” Mal offers, which is God’s honest truth.
The guy puts a fist to his forehead and leans into it, like he needs his arm for a tripod, to hold himself up.
“You all right?” Mal asks him quietly.
The guy doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. The wind does, though: heaves into the building so hard that it creaks. Which isn’t to say it’s going to give in; this place has been here since before the turn of the century. It’s seen a lot of history. Half a dozen owners. There was talk of tearing it down, once upon a time, when the street was lined with small businesses and somebody with big ideas thought they’d put up an A&P, but the A&P ended up down on Broadway. It’s gone now (the building’s split up into offices), and so are the barbershop and the gas station and the Laundromat that used to be on this block, but the Manor’s still here. Gonna be here for a long time yet, wind or no wind.
“You need something, son?” Mal asks, for no good reason he can think of. He doesn’t know this fella, really isn’t old enough to be his dad and doesn’t have any right to be butting into his business. But if there’s kids involved, maybe he can justify a question or two.
“No,” the guy says.
Mal thinks of that other day, when the three of them were laughing and playing. This guy loves his kids, he decides.
And…
If he pushes too hard, the guy will get up and leave. Walk right out of here, into the dark and the cold.
So Mal goes back to eating his chili and his bread and butter. Like he’s taking that “no” at face value.
He’s been a mailman a long damn time. Doesn’t see too much of the people on his route during the winter, but in the warmer weather they’re out, and he sees them come and go. Knows them pretty well, by what they get in the mail if they’re not the type to chat. When he started out, a little while after he got back from Korea, he felt like he knew the whole town. Went to school with a lot of ‘em, got to know the rest by talking, setting up a chain of “That’s the brother-in-law, came here from downstate after the war” and “She married into the Allens, not Davey’s side but the other one.” It’s like that game, he thinks, six degrees of separation. These people are all connected somehow. They look out for each other, gossip about each other, feud with each other, dig into each other’s business. The chain’s been loosened up a little, these past few years, because people are coming in from outside. From other countries, some of ‘em. That sense of community’s been rattled.
But still, people care. Even when they claim they don’t.
This guy’s been in town a little while, Mal thinks as he sops up some chili with a chunk of bread. If the little boy’s in school, he’ll be in the Collins girl’s class, or maybe Katie Brown’s. They’ll know if that family needs some help. Which isn’t to say this guy’s going to want it, even if it’s offered - but Mal’s lived in this town a long time. He’s delivered the mail for enough years that his feet and his knees and his back could tell you some tales.
He’s known about pride his whole life. Pride in what you do. What you are.
What you think you ought to be.
He finishes his meal and his beer without saying anything more, then slides down off the stool and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He lays a ten on the bar for Debbie and waves away her “You need change, Mal?”
As he steps away from the stool, he lifts a hand and pats the young stranger on the back. A simple gesture, one he’s made to any number of the people who are sitting in the Manor tonight, a simple goodbye, a “see ya around.” Maybe he ought to be leery of the guy swinging around to confront him, tell him to mind his own business, keep his hands to himself - but the guy doesn’t move, just sits, shoulders slumped, brooding over something that’s got nothing to do with this room.
He’s halfway to the door when he glances back. Sees the guy slide the bowl of chili a little closer and spoon up a mouthful.
That’s a start, Mal thinks.
That’s a good start.
He closes his eyes against the wind as he shoves the door open and goes on out.
* * * * *