Greg Gifune: Night Work

She turned, pulled the cigarette from his lips and took a drag. "Just promise me, Frank."

"It's only a meeting."

"I don't understand why you have to do this in the first place." She returned the cigarette to his mouth. "You've already got a good job."

"Then I must be going to the wrong place every morning."

"It's not so horrible."

"Yeah, it is."

Sandy pulled on an attractive silk blouse, buttoned it. "It's a secure, decent paying career. That's a lot more than most people have these days."

"Selling refrigerators and stoves all day isn't a career. It's a job. There's a difference."

Her eyes found his. "Like the difference between being broke and having money?"

"We both work forty-five, fifty hours a week, for what? So we can drive used cars, go to the movies once a week and live in this shoebox?"

Sandy took the cigarette from him again. "I happen to like my job. I happen to like my car. I happen to like the movies. I even like this apartment."

"I hope so, because at this rate we'll be living here the rest of our lives."

"You're so dramatic. What do you think you're going to be, Frank? You think you can just wake up one morning and decide to be a big shot? Life doesn't work like that. You have to learn to settle for the blessings God gave you."

Frank shook his head, wondered how he and the woman he had chosen to spend his life with could be so diametrically opposed on such basic points. They'd been married for three years now, had it always been like this?

"I want to be happy."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're unhappy?"

"I love you," Frank said. "I just want to try to do something that'll make getting out of bed in the morning worth it."

"Then stay where you are and work as hard as you can. In another three or four years I'm sure Pearson will retire and they'll make you store manager."

"I'll try to contain my excitement."

"You've got a lousy attitude, Frank. That's always been your problem. You're bright, nice-looking, and you have a lot of talent. But you've got this huge chip on your shoulder, and it holds you back."

"I want us to have a better life. Now's the time to take a chance, while we're still young."

Sandy stepped into a pair of black pumps. "You're twenty-eight years old. The only thing it's time to do is grow up."

"Just because you go through life with blinders on, don't expect me to."

"Whatever," she snapped. "I've got to get going."

Frank nodded wearily. Sandy's heels clicked against the kitchen floor as she crossed the apartment, and he knew she'd leave without so much as a kiss or another word. When Sandy was fed up, she disappeared. Just like that.

The door slammed, and Frank's thoughts turned immediately to Providence.

Paulie Caruso had once been one of the most influential and powerful professional wrestling promoters in the country. From the late fifties to the late seventies he'd controlled all the action from the northern-most point in Maine, to the tip of Cape Cod. Known for being nearly as flamboyant as many of his wrestlers, Caruso was a squat, bulbous man who never left the house without his oversized fedora, steel-toed cowboy boots and remarkably cheap linen suits. Were it not for his wide, constant smiles and jovial manner, his fleshly face and deep-seated eyes would have been intimidating.

With control slipping to younger, better-financed rivals and his health waning, Paulie retired from the business in 1978 and turned things over to his son, Raymond, who managed to lose in two years everything his father had spent a lifetime building. Even once his heyday had come and gone, Paulie was still spoken of fondly and extended respect by those in the business. Raymond, on the other hand, considered useless, was shunned.

Frank was seven years old the first time he met Paulie, and had been even more impressed with him than he was with the show. Frank's father and Paulie were childhood friends who had grown up in the same neighborhood in New Bedford, and although they had taken vastly different career paths, they remained casual friends over the years.

Although Paulie's federation toured all over New England, his headquarters was a small building in Brockton he owned called the Caruso Sports Arena. Built like a tower, fans were hoarded in and seated almost directly on top of each other on cheap, portable bleacher-like contraptions unique to Paulie's place. To see the arena in person was to see the fruit of shady business dealings at its worst. Since the building had been hastily constructed and built with only jamming as many people into a confined space as possible in mind, it was clear the moment one stepped inside that even the most basic building and fire codes had been ignored. But Paulie had enough money and influence to make the local police and politicians look the other way. Any permits or licenses he needed, he bought. Riots were a usual occurrence, as were lawsuits from patrons who were routinely injured, but Paulie just kept rolling along, throwing money at those he could silence, using muscle on those he couldn't, and packing three to four thousand fans into a space designed to accommodate approximately half that number every Friday and Saturday night.

Every month or so Frank's father would take him to the arena to see the matches. There were always vacant seats at ringside set aside for VIPs, and Paulie would seat Frank and his father as close to the action as possible. Frank was delighted by the visits, and often got to meet and get the autographs of some of his favorites star, courtesy of Paulie. But even as a child Frank understood that such outings were labors of love for his father. He was an educated and learned man who was decidedly uncomfortable in both the arena setting and in the company of men like Paulie.

But for a young boy like Frank, Paulie Caruso was a god. One of the local television stations broadcast the bouts from the arena every other Saturday night, and Paulie was always right there in front of the camera along with his wrestlers. To be just a showman or just a businessman was commonplace. But to be both, it seemed to Frank, was the ultimate.

Years later, Paulie spent his time puttering around his modest home in Brockton. He was twice divorced, and his son had moved to Florida to pursue some new business scheme, so most of his time was spent alone. He was thrilled when Frank called.

The screen door opened to reveal a much heavier version of Paulie than Frank had remembered. The linen suit was gone, replaced by cheap, nondescript slacks, a T-shirt, dress socks and sandals. The fedora was all that remained. "Frankie," he smiled, waving him in. "How are you?"

"Hello, Mr. Caruso."

The old man slapped him on the back with more force than he appeared to have and laughed loudly. "Mr. Caruso? I known you since you was a kid. I known your father since we were dumping green. Leave that formal crap outside. You call me, Paulie, okay?"

Frank followed him through the kitchen into a small den. The shades on both windows were drawn. A console television filled one corner, a vinyl recliner and crane-necked lamp another. In front of the couch was a TV tray with a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal, a mug of coffee, and a copy of Hustler.

"You want a cup of coffee or something?"

"No, thanks." Frank smiled. "I'm all set."

Paulie motioned to the recliner. "Sit, sit."

He sat on the edge of the chair, waited until Paulie had positioned himself on the couch before he spoke. "I really appreciate you seeing me, Paulie."

"How's the old man doing?"

"Good."

"He still working?"

"Oh yeah."

"He's a good man, your father."

"Yeah, thanks."

"You tell him I said hello, all right?"

Frank had no intention of telling his father he'd had any contact with Paulie at all, but nodded anyway. "I'll do that."