Catterly never pictured himself going out this way; standing in some god-forsaken heat sink, clad in the official old man’s uniform of big-butt cargo shorts and a Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt, guzzling white wine—probably Pinot Grigio, for Christ’s sake—and surrounded by a bunch of other wrinkled codgers; an entire community playing footsie with the gravedigger.
No, his retirement was supposed to be a pleasant extension of the first seventy years of his life. A payoff for decades of waking at 3 a.m. to rush to the barn, where he’d shove his arm elbow-deep into a bovine’s poo-tang to extricate her slimy calf. A bonus for the bones he’d shattered while herding all manner of belligerent beasts. Recompense for the mutilations he’d accumulated while stringing fence and clearing brush, including the four-inch violet scar tattooed across his left thigh, a painful memento of the Husqvarna chainsaw that bucked in 1984. He’d had to duct-tape his leg to keep from bleeding to death before making the forty minute drive to the Bozeman hospital, the seat of his F150 permanently stained bloody. Jesus, he missed that truck.
He’d worked his ass off making his spread damn near perfect, and intended to enjoy it until they celebrated his passing by dumping his ashes into Shy Creek. Transform into a gentleman rancher—like Ben Cartwright on Bonanza—and let some other buckaroo do the hard lifting. Deliver sage advice to young cowpokes intent on living off the land, though that proposition grew more difficult every year. Take his granddaughter on evening rides through soft yellow pastures. Amble the lowlands with a 20 gauge crooked under one arm, his black lab Belle whimpering at the scent of pheasants. Drive into Livingston once a week to hoist a few at the Murray Bar with Eric and Dave, while laughing at the citidiots in Resistols buying overpriced western art in the galleries. Fling a fly into the Boulder River when the hoppers were thick. That all sounded like a damn fine way to spend your golden years.
But Gracie put a quick end to that fantasy. “We can’t stay here in the winter,” she’d announced. “Too damn cold. I’m done driving any vehicle that needs snow tires, and I’m too feeble to pick your old bones off the porch when you slip on black ice and break your hip.” Of course, Catterly knew that wasn’t true. His wife might be pint-sized, but she had the temperament of a mama grizzly, and if push came to shove she’d find a way to get his ass to a doctor. But the decision had been made, and that was that. Gracie law. Case closed.
So here they were in Oro Valley, Arizona, relocated to a stucco cracker box with a bunch of other AARP members equally terrified of a little precipitation. Vista View, marketing-speak for: neighborhood of old farts living in identical huts in the middle of the desert. Their little house came with a golf cart, and a long list of rules. Catterly decided that retired folks must be aspiring Mussolini’s, spending their time developing new regulations. No parking on the street after 7 p.m. Garbage cans must be removed from the curb by 11 a.m. Visitors are required to display a pass in their windshield at all times.
Why’d people get so damn ornery as they aged?
When he’d replaced his old rusty mailbox with a beautiful new aluminum number, the first correspondence he’d received was from the architectural committee. “Your mailbox does not conform to neighborhood guidelines. Please consult section D, paragraph L of your resident’s manual, and replace with one of the three authorized models. You have thirty days before a fine will be levied.” Jesus, were they living in Arizona, or 1939 Berlin?
Old Mrs. Weekly, the chairman of that group of knot heads, would drive by every morning in her bright blue Cushman to remind him what a sinner he was. “Don’t forget, you need to replace that mailbox,” she’d warn, wagging a finger while he walked Belle.
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” he’d mutter, and defiantly flip the bird once she was out of sight. He missed the freedom of five thousand acres, with his nearest neighbor a thirty-minute drive.
But her condemnation was nothing compared to the brouhaha he’d created with the “rattlesnake incident,” as it came to be known. Catterly had spent a lifetime interacting with dangerous creatures, developing a particular aversion to serpents. He’d read there were thirteen different species of rattlesnakes in Arizona, and the triangle-headed bastards loved to slither around the neighborhood in search of a little shade. Maybe cozy up in a window box, or lounge on the welcome mat. He’d been working in his driveway, vacuuming the Taurus, when he saw a big western diamondback slither into the open garage. He rushed to the wall to grab a shovel, and scooted the snake out the door and onto the front lawn (or what passed for a lawn, as there was no grass, only gravel). The snake decided to stand and fight, curling into battle position and striking at Catterly with dripping fangs. He jumped back, yelled a few strong expletives, and cleaved the tool down hard, extricating the rattler’s head from its body. Eyeing the thick tale of rattles, he looked forward to popping them off to add to his forty-year collection stored in a cigar box back on the ranch. But first he didn’t want the damn thing to bleed all over his perfect white pebbles—which was probably a violation of some statute—so he picked up the beheaded snake and was heading towards the backyard to bag or bury it when he heard the gasps. There was Mrs. Weekly, with what appeared to be most of the ruling elite of Vista View perched in her golf cart, watching in horror.
“Oh my god,” she screamed, “You killed that poor animal.”
Catterly was confused. Slaying rattlesnakes was a public service where he was from. “It’s a rattler,” he said, thrusting the corpse towards them. “Damn near bit me.” Reptile gore drizzled down his arm.
“You can’t murder the wildlife,” a boney drink-of-water by the name of Alfred Upman piped up. “This is their home too. It’s against the rules. You should have called animal control.”
“I sure as hell am not waiting around for animal control, and neither would the snake,” Catterly hollered, as the rattler, in the throes of some post-mortem death dance, spasmed in his hand, oozing more blood and coagulum, and eliciting horrified moans from the crowd. Two more golf carts pulled up, entertainment of this caliber being rare in Vista View.
The next day his illegal mailbox was the repository of hate mail from the Homeowner’s Association, and a few offended residents of the PETA persuasion. He was warned that he was in violation of Section C, paragraph B, and the killing of wildlife would not be tolerated. Catterly contemplated gathering up a big bag of rattlesnakes and dumping them on the committees’ gravel lawns to see how they’d react.
But he swallowed his anger, and decided to grin and bear it, intent on doing a little penance to please his wife. Gracie had never enjoyed ranch life like he did. Sure, she’d had a love affair with a few of the horses—and who could resist a pink Montana sunset—but he knew the isolation had gotten to her. She was a social type; loved gossiping with her girlfriends, enjoyed dinner parties and seeing the latest movie. Back home, Thursday had been her favorite day of the week. She’d head into Livingston to have lunch with the gals, then spend the afternoon volunteering at the library. Now she loved Vista View as much as he detested it, and Catterly figured that given the forty-five years she’d dedicated to him, it seemed the least he could do to spend four months a year living in a place that made her happy.
“We just need to get out so you can make a few friends. Take advantage of all the good stuff this place has to offer,” Gracie said.
So here they were, sipping white-goddamn-wine on the deck of the community center, after enduring an afternoon concert by Mr. Pat Boone. The entire affair posed three big questions in Catterly’s mind:
1. Who goes to a concert at 3 p.m.?
2. Didn’t Pat Boone die twenty years ago, and if so, who was the tight-skinned old man singing Moody River?
3. Why not Willie Nelson?
But Gracie was enjoying herself, happily surrounded by her new book club near the pool, so he slipped off to explore the bar and find a real drink. Scotch in hand, he watched a group at the card table play Gin. He’d spent a fair amount of time with the game while stationed in Vietnam, and played in a monthly soireeat the Elks Club in Livingston, so he was pleased to find an endeavor he might enjoy.
After about five minutes, one of the players, Joe Whitworth, rose and threw his hands up. “Sorry gentlemen, I’m done. Hey, Rattler,” he smiled, thrilled to have an opportunity to kid Catterly with his new nickname. “Care to take my seat? Be careful, these guys are real snakes.”
Catterly forced a smile, shook a few familiar hands, and took Joe’s chair. There was an alpha dog he didn’t recognize who’d clearly been winning, and he rose again to introduce himself. The man looked out-of-place; doughy fat, wearing a rumpled linen suit jacket. His hair and mustache were dyed dark burgundy; an unnatural shade that could only be created with the aid of strong chemicals. Color-corrected tresses, or obvious cosmetic surgeries were a serious faux pas in Vista View, where signs of aging were a badge of honor. The man stayed seated and tentatively offered a chubby paw, with a look Catterly read as disdain. His handshake, limp and rubbery, was delivered palm down, as if he were European royalty. The player to his right, whom Catterly knew only as Stan, did the introductions: “Catterly, meet Thomas DeVito. Thomas, Catterly is a great guy to have around if any rattlesnakes show up,” he laughed.
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Catterly said.
“Thomas, not Tom,” DeVito said curtly. “Or Mr. DeVito. We play for twenty-five cents a point. Are you in?”
Mr. DeVito? What was this guy’s problem?
Catterly tried to place the accent; Eastern; Boston or New York, with an Italian lilt. Made sense, the guy was dressed like a Sicilian immigrant circa 1952. He did some quick math. With four players, that put the potential stakes at somewhere around fifteen or twenty bucks a game, not bad for an old folk’s home. “Sounds great,” he answered.
DeVito dealt the first hand, which ended extraordinarily fast when he knocked for four on the first round. Catterly and all the players had high counts, and a collective moan emanated from the table.
“Thomas, you’re a hell of a player,” Stan said, in a sycophant’s tone.
As the winner, DeVito held the deal, and quickly gathered up the cards. The second hand went three rounds, but this time DeVito ginned, taking a huge lead. Catterly realized he would be way off in his calculations if the guy kept winning like this.
On the third hand he watched the deal a little more carefully. DeVito’s fat fingers were fast, but Catterly was sure he palmed three aces, moving them to the bottom of the deck and into his hand. Given the dismal eyesight and trusting nature of the other players, nobody seemed to notice. When it was Catterly’s turn to draw he pulled an ace, flipped to show it to DeVito, and said, “Care to make a side bet you have the other three in your hand?”
“You’ll soon find out,” he said brusquely.
DeVito won the hand—with three aces—which put him over 100 and ended the game. Since DeVito had been keeping score, he consulted a pad, and said, “That puts me at 109, and nobody else scored, so you each owe, let’s see, $27.25.”
“102,” Catterly said.
“What?” DeVito gave him a sharp look.
“Your score was 102, not 109. I was keeping track,” he said. “Not a big deal. An easy math error, but we each owe $25.50.”
DeVito snarled his bottom lip and pushed the pad forward. ‘It’s 109, as you can see right here. Unless you’re accusing me of cheating.”
“No, not accusing you of anything, except being really lucky where aces are concerned, and maybe not very good at math.” Catterly reached into his wallet and took out a twenty, a five, and a dollar, as he stood from the table. “But I’ll split the difference with you, or at least get close. Here’s $26.00. Keep the change.” He threw the money at DeVito.
“You owe $27.25,” DeVito barked. “You some kind of welcher?” The other players stared at Catterly open-mouthed. Where I’m from we have a way of dealing with deadbeats that you might not like.”
“Doesn’t sound like you live in a very friendly place,” Catterly said, “but this is Arizona, and $26.00 is all you get. It’s a damn sight more than you deserve.” Sizing up the fat man, he contemplated that he might about to get in his first fight in over forty-five years, which was alarming, but titillating. He figured he’d easily put DeVito down, and a little danger would be a welcome distraction at this point in his life. Then he considered the impact a physical confrontation would have with the Homeowner’s Association. There was undoubtedly something in the guidelines about old men rumbling. If “Rattler” progressed from killing wildlife to pummeling other residents, they might consider him unhinged, and the blue hairs wouldn’t stand for it. And while he’d personally love the opportunity to get ejected from Vista View, he couldn’t do that to Gracie. He reached into his pocket and counted out another $1.25 in quarters, nickels, and dimes. “Alright, if another buck and a quarter is that important to you, here you go,” pouring the coins on the table. “Use it to buy some better hair dye. Gentlemen,” he turned to the other players, “not only are this guy’s math skills off, but when he deals, he likes to palm low cards from the bottom of the deck, so I’d be careful.”
DeVito pushed back the table to stand-up. “You insult me, and accuse me of cheating? You made a big, big mistake.” He thrust a fat finger.
Catterly fought back the strong urge to laugh. DeVito was even less impressive standing than he was hidden behind a table. Probably five-foot-six, as wide as he was tall, he resembled a Super Mario Brother. “Hush up. You’re embarrassing yourself. If you really need to cheat, practice a bit,” Catterly said as he turned to walk away. “And I wasn’t kidding about the hair dye. Try Grecian Formula. It looks good in the ads.”
“Screw you!” DeVito yelled, spittle flying. “You’re going to regret that.”
Catterly felt it best to move on and headed towards the opposite end of the bar to order another cocktail, the adrenalin rush providing a pleasant buzz. Gracie spotted him through the open door, and unaware of his situation, gave a happy wave. A few minutes later Joe Whitworth sidled in next to him and ordered a gin and tonic.
“Well, you like to live dangerously, don’t you?” he said.
“Meaning what?” Catterly replied.
“You do know who you just offended?” Whitworth dropped his voice.
Catterly motioned at the card game, which had resumed. “You mean Luigi Mario over there?”
“Jesus,” Whitworth said. “I guess you don’t know who Thomas DeVito is. You made a big mistake, and I suggest you go apologize. DeVito’s Mafioso. A Made Man. He was a big-shot in the Genovese crime family. Some kind of enforcer. Word is, he’s killed a dozen men or more. I heard he likes to beat guys to death with a baseball bat.”
“A Made Man? You’ve been watching too many De Niro movies,” Catterly said. “Him a killer? The only thing he’ll kill is himself, with high cholesterol.”
Another man pushed in next to them. Catterly thought his name was Brian or Bill. “Did you tell him who DeVito is?” he asked Whitworth.
“I did, and he doesn’t care,” Joe answered.
“Well, then you’re out of your mind. You don’t want him coming after you. You’ll end up in a shallow grave somewhere in the desert. I heard he beat a guy to death with a tire iron.”
“Tire irons, baseball bats….” Catterly smiled. “What happened to the good old days when you used a gun or knife to kill somebody?”
“Quit joking around. I tell you, he’s the real deal,” Whitworth said. “If I were you I’d make amends.”
Catterly glanced at DeVito, and the two made eye contact. DeVito scowled, raised a hand formed into the shape of a pistol, and cocked his thumb as if firing. Catterly smiled, held out his hand as if accepting an air kiss, brought two fingers to his lips, smacked the tips, and flung a hand at DeVito, leaving a middle finger raised.
“Jesus,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to be you. I’m telling you, that’s not a guy you should screw with.”
“Yeah,” Catterly laughed. “I’ll probably end up with a bloody horse head in my bed.” Slapping his forehead as if he’d forgotten something, he added, “Wait a minute, there’s a rule against that, isn’t there? Section B, paragraph L; no decapitated animals allowed in the bedroom.”
Whitworth and Brian or Bill frowned, opting to move away in search of safer space.
Two weeks later, Catterly and Gracie were back at the community center, this time to celebrate a birthday. Terry Walton was Gracie’s new BFF, inspiring her to act with a girlish delight Catterly had not seen since the Reagan administration. Gracie had transformed from a churlish country gal into the belle of the ball. She kept her busy social schedule on a new iPhone 8, that she also used to FaceTime with their granddaughter, despite the fact she had once decried any mobile technology as “time-wasting horseshit.” Every afternoon she was off to meet with another group of friends: bridge or book club, Vista View Film Lovers; and several other organizations seemingly based on drinking vino in the afternoon. Catterly had to admit, as much as he hated Vista View, he was enjoying the impact it had on his wife. Their sex life, which had suffered the same doldrums as most couples who’d been married over forty years, had undergone a resurgence, beginning when the book club had read Fifty Shades of Grey.
Catterly worked hard to find his own desert delights, and had discovered a couple activities that made the area more bearable. He honed his shotgun skills at The Second Amendment Gun Club, shooting trap twice a week. He’d also discovered his own delightful afternoon libation. There was a tavern within golf cart range that specialized in daiquiris, a drink he would have never considered in Montana, but here seemed somehow appropriate. He understood why Hemingway reportedly downed fifteen per day, but limited himself to a couple per visit.
As the group celebrated the birthday girl with more wine, he excused himself to the bar to order his favorite frozen cocktail. He was immersed in the typical Vista View chatter—funerals, sports, and grandkids— with the ever-present Joe Whitworth, when Thomas DeVito walked in, flanked by two wrinkled flunkies.
“Ah, snake man,” he said with disgust. “I haven’t forgotten you. Don’t think you’ll get away with insulting me. I have a long memory, and your time is coming.”
“Hey, DeVito, how are you?” Catterly said brightly. “I was thinking about you. I saw an old movie last night. Throw Momma From the Train. It starred that little guy, Danny DeVito, and I realized you’re probably related. Maybe he’s your younger brother? Shame he got all the looks in the family. And the height,” Catterly added.
DeVito’s fat face flushed red. “You’re a dead man. Dead. You won’t know when or where, but it’s coming,” he said as he strutted off.
“Did I mention how nice your hair looks?” Catterly yelled after him. “What do you call that color? Magenta?
“You know that one of these days they’ll be a knock at your door, and some big goombah will cart you off to forest and shove you into a wood chipper,” Whitworth said.
“Nonsense. There’s no forest around here,” Catterly answered, ordering another daiquiri.
Once a month Catterly made the pilgrimage to Tucson, a voyage he complained about to Gracie, but secretly enjoyed. The stated goal was to visit big box stores and stock up on low-priced cleaning and paper products, and bags of frozen shrimp from Trader Joes, but to Catterly it was his musical road trip. He’d plug his phone into the jack in the Taurus, and crank up the volume to sing along with the Bee Gees, Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor, and the other disco stars he’d never admit he enjoyed. Even Gracie didn’t know Saturday Night Fever was his favorite album, a secret passion he’d acquired in 1977 when they saw the film on a date night in Bozeman. Catterly had been lobbying for Smokey and the Bandit, but Gracie won a coin toss, and given her Travolta fixation made the obvious pick. Catterly complained before and after the movie, but had been secretly affected by the music, and on his next trip to town bought the soundtrack on eight track, nervously assuring the clerk it “was a gift for his daughter.” Expressing anything but complete disdain for that kind of music would have ruined his reputation in Montana, so he kept his growing collection of disco tapes in a locked box in the barn, only bringing them out when he had a long, solitary drive.
Technology had transformed his musical stash into a secret playlist on his iPhone, dubbed SNF, which made him nervous whenever Gracie grabbed it to make a call. Seeing his discomfort, she sometimes kidded him. “What’s the problem? You been texting a girlfriend, or watching a little porn?” Catterly mused how odd it was he’d rather be suspected of infidelity or perversion than admit he enjoyed the high-pitched genius of the Brothers Gibb.
During the drive he’d feel fifty years peel off his old frame, swaying in his seat and singing along. Even though he knew it could have serious legal consequences, a tiny cooler sat on the passenger seat, loaded with two cans of Budweiser; one for the trip to the store, and one for the return. He loved to sip slowly as he drove, the feel of a cold can between his thighs providing a nostalgic pang. While he could have found closer places to shop, he picked this destination for its long, straight drive.
Flannigan’s Classic Cars was on an acre near the main shopping district, and Catterly stopped on every trip. Flannigan specialized in old muscle cars from the 60’s and 70’s, the lot packed with bright Trans Ams, Chevelles, Mustangs, and other glossy American iron. On the ranch it was impractical to own any vehicle that couldn’t withstand the indignity of rock chips, broken shocks, and cracked windshields, and aside from the many beloved pickups he’d destroyed on rutted fields and washboard roads, Catterly never had particular affection for an automobile. But Arizona would be nirvana for a classic ride, and he was working up the courage to become a buyer. Cattle prices had been strong last year, so money wasn’t a problem. He knew Gracie would accuse him of another mid-life crisis, or perhaps now an “old-age” variation, but the fantasy of tearing down a desert highway on a steamy night with 400 HP roaring out loud headers haunted him.
He wandered the lot, running his palms down smooth hoods, until he saw it; a 1965 Pontiac GTO convertible, midnight gloss blue, with a white interior and top. This was the car. He stared at it as if seeing an old lover for the first time in decades. A salesman, recognizing tell-tale buyer signs, rushed to open the vehicle. Catterly leaned back in the wide bucket seat, wrapping a paw around the Hurst shifter, imagining running through the gears in bright moonlight, wind whipping what was left of his gray locks.
$41,000. Well past his budget, but perhaps they’d take less? What would Gracie say? Would it make him look like a foolish old man intent on reliving his youth, like the codgers he saw tooling around in Corvettes?
Catterly shook his head, told the disappointed salesman he’d give it some thought, and returned to his Taurus, suddenly feeling the weight of seven decades. The very idea of spending so much money on a childish purchase suddenly seemed ridiculous.
Shell-shocked from the car, his next stop was Costco, a nine-block drive from Flannigan’s. Though there were two Costco’s closer to Vista View, he preferred coming to this one, a mega-store that was the Disneyland of shopping. Grabbing a roller bed cart, he entered the store from the east, intent on exploring every aisle. He loved the surprise; the adventure of discovering huge quantities of stuff you absolutely didn’t need, and sometimes didn’t know existed, at 30% off MSRP. A month earlier he’d purchased a thirty-six pack of LED lightbulbs, overjoyed with the purchase until Gracie pointed out they only had twenty light fixtures in the entire house, and since the bulbs lasted seven years, he’d be almost ninety before they used them all up.
Hungry, he worked his way towards the food section, intent on grazing at the many tasting kiosks. It was there that he spotted DeVito. At first he didn’t recognize him without his rumpled suit. His Italian nemesis was working at the Captain Nemo Seafood booth, handing-out fish sticks in tiny paper cups.
“Line caught and really delicious,” he smiled at a passing couple. He was clad in a pirate’s hat, ruffled shirt, and buccaneer pants, which made him appear even more dwarf-like. Catterly stayed out of view and moved behind DeVito. “Tender haddock. Healthy for kids,” he said to a family pushing a baby cart. Catterly noticed he no longer spoke with the East Coast accent, instead projecting a Midwestern, grandfatherly voice.
Moving into DeVito’s sight, Catterly said, “Ahoy, Tommy Boy. Looks like that mafia thing didn’t work out. Decided to become a pirate instead?”
DeVito went pale. “Catterly. I’m just…..” He searched for an explanation, but couldn’t find words.
Catterly picked up a packet of the fish sticks, inspected the label, and threw it on his cart. “These look great. I’ll take them over to the community center tomorrow. Have the kitchen heat them up, and we can serve them at the Gin game. You should wear your outfit,” he said, motioning at the hat. “It makes you look younger. Like you just kissed Peter Pan.” He smiled and started to push the cart down an aisle.
DeVito yelled after him. “Catterly, wait. Can we talk?”
Catterly stopped.
“Finish shopping, and I’ll close up here. There’s a Starbucks next door. Meet me there in thirty minutes. I’ll buy you a coffee.” DeVito looked desperate. “Please.”
Mysteriously feeling sympathetic, Catterly nodded. “OK, thirty minutes. But promise me you’ll wear the hat. It makes you look taller.”
DeVito was waiting when he entered the Starbucks. “I got you a large latte,” he said to Catterly, motioning at a seat. “That OK?” He’d changed into chinos and a white shirt.
“Perfect,” Catterly answered. “I can’t help but notice you don’t sound at all like the Italian guy I met at Vista View. Where are you really from?”
DeVito looked embarrassed. “Denver.”
“Denver? Are you even Italian?”
“Nope,” he answered. “Jewish. My name’s not DeVito, its Greenburg. The Tom part is real. Tom Greenburg.”
Catterly laughed. “Jesus. Why the tough guy act?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “It just happened. My wife and I had bought the house at Vista View to retire. Three months before we were supposed to move-in she got sick. Cancer. She was dead in a few weeks. We’d already sold our place in Denver, so I moved here by myself. I was grieving. Pissed off. We’d planned for thirty years to retire here, and when it was all about to happen, she dies. We’d lost our son in Iraq a couple years earlier, and there was nobody else. Nobody that gave a shit about me, anyway.” Tom leaned back in his chair and stared at his cup.
Catterly could tell this wasn’t an act. “Sorry about your boy.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Tom gave him a nod and continued. “At first I just stayed in the house, didn’t go out. Then one night I was watching Goodfellas on TV. I always liked Joe Pesci in that movie. Maybe because he’s short too. There’s not many short tough guys. Don’t know if you remember, but his name was Tommy DeVito. People never pick up on that. Anyway, I just decided it would be fun to recreate myself in a place where nobody knew me.Become my own version of Tommy DeVito. I started going to the center, playing cards, building up the story. It was weird, but people were anxious to believe me. Everyone seemed to get a kick out of it. A couple times I even had a guy who works with me at Captain Nemo’s show up and act like he was visiting from New York. He’s a big, scary looking dude, and we pretended he was a hit man. Never said it, but people assumed. It made me feel special, but it made them feel good too. Like they knew somebody important. We all want to be associated with someone important. Seemed like a win/win for everyone.”
“Jesus,” Catterly said. “You went to a lot of trouble. Making up an entirely new identity. Must have been tough to stay in character.”
Greenburg was wringing his hands. “I’ve never achieved much. I worked as a controller at a car dealership. Got by, but not much of a living. Always had trouble making friends. My best friend was my wife, and suddenly she’s gone. Look at me,” he said in disgust. “All my life guys harassed me for being short and fat. But suddenly I’m a Made Man. Someone to be feared. Important. If felt good. I’d never felt that way. I mean, what’s wrong with feeling good about yourself? When you get old, people just want you to sit back in your chair and look out the window; forget about your dreams. Just be quiet and wait to die. I wanted to experience something new. Feel good for once. Be a Made Man.”
“And this?” Catterly motioned out the window at Costco. “The fish stick thing. Why?”
“Why do you think?” Greenburg answered. “I need the money. Janice’s medical bills ate up any savings. Luckily I’d put a good down payment on Vista View, but I need to work to keep up. I make a few bucks playing gin. I spend my weekends in Costco and Sam’s Club pretending to be a pirate, and talking people into buying processed fish parts.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Whatever you do, don’t eat those goddamn things. Anyway, it was just more pretending. I’ve gotten pretty damn good at pretending.”
“Don’t you worry about getting caught?” Catterly asked. “I mean, you’re on display in a busy store.”
“I just stay away from Oro Valley. There’s plenty of Costco’s between here and there. Old people hate to drive. They never come all the way to Tucson. Except for you.” He looked at Catterly. “Listen, I know I’ve been an asshole, and you don’t owe me a thing. But do you think we could keep this between us? If it got out I’d have to move, which I can’t afford. I’d be humiliated. Forced to start over. Not sure I could do that.”
Catterly sipped his coffee and considered the situation. It occurred to him that Vista View was more interesting with Thomas DeVito in the bar, as opposed to Tom Greenburg. Nobody needed another boring retired guy in their life, but a Mafia hit man that woke everyone up? And a friendly association with a faux mobster might offer certain advantages. Perhaps the nosy-bodies would cut Catterly some slack if they feared being dumped in the desert. And Tom was right. Were you supposed to give up on your dreams just because you had a few wrinkles?
“Promise to quit cheating?” he asked Tom.
Greenburg gave him a shocked look. “I wasn’t…” He stopped when Catterly shook his head. “Uh, yeah. No more cheating. I promise”
“So, you done selling fish sticks for the day? Want to have a little fun?” He asked Greenburg.
Ninety minutes later the two men were whooping loudly, Catterly piloting the Pontiac GTO at ninety miles per hour down the freeway, as Greenburg’s short arms thrust-up to catch the gust screaming over the windshield. At Catterly’s suggestion, Tom was wearing the pirate hat, which he’d strapped under his chin to keep from losing in the wind. They’d stopped to buy another six-pack, and with a can wedged between his legs, Catterly felt his balls shrink from the delightful chill.
Tom had been a big help with the negotiations. After working at a car dealership, he knew all the tricks, negotiating the GTO down to $35,000. Catterly knew there’d be hell to pay when Gracie discovered he’d traded in the Taurus, but he figured he’d swapped his truck for the golf cart, so it seemed fair. And here they were, Catterly and his new friend, two Made Men, barreling down an Arizona highway, Disco Inferno blasting out the speakers, both thinking how wonderful it was to be young and alive.
(This guy, Tim O’Leary, we swear. This is his third short story he’s graced us with. You can find it and some other GTO-like rides in his collection, Men Behaving Badly. He is also the author of the Corona Verses.)
Things Men Carry 