Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

"Well, there you are," Josie greeted from behind the counter, giving him her warmest smile. "Your buddies have been wondering if you were coming in."

Old Bob smiled back. "Have they now?"

"Sure. They can't spit and walk at the same time without you to show them how–you know that." Josie cocked one eyebrow playfully. "I swear you get better–looking every time I see you."

Old Bob laughed. Josie Jackson was somewhere in her thirties, a divorcee with a teenage daughter and a worthless ex–husband last seen heading south about half a dozen years ago. She was younger–looking than her years, certainly younger–acting, with big dark eyes and a ready smile, long blondish hair and a head–turning body, and most important of all a willingness to work that would put most people to shame. She had purchased Josie's with money loaned to her by her parents, who owned a carpet–and–tile business. Having worked much of her adult life as a waitress, Josie Jackson knew what she was doing, and in no time her business was the favorite breakfast and lunch spot in Hopewell. Josie ran it with charm and efficiency and a live–and–let–live attitude that made everyone feel welcome.

"How's Evelyn?" she asked him, leaning her elbows on the counter as she fixed him with her dark eyes.

He shrugged. "Same as always. Rock of ages."

"Yeah, she'll outlive us all, won't she?" Josie brushed at her tousled hair. "Well, go on back. You want your usual?"

Old Bob nodded, and Josie moved away. If he'd been younger and unattached, Old Bob would have given serious consideration to hooking up with Josie Jackson. But then that was the way all the old codgers felt, and most of the young bucks, too. That was Josie's gift.

He eased through the clustered tables, stopping for a brief word here and there, working his way back to where the union crowd was gathered. They glanced up as he approached, one after the other, giving him perfunctory nods or calling out words of greeting. Al Garcia, Mel Riorden, Deny Howe, Richie Stoudt, Penny Williamson, Mike Michaelson, Junior Elway, and one or two more. They made room for him at one end of the table, and he scooted a chair over and took a seat, sinking comfortably into place.

"So this guy, he works in a post office somewhere over in Iowa, right?" Mel Riorden was saying. He was a big, overweight crane operator with spiky red hair and a tendency to blink rapidly while he was speaking. He was doing so now. Like one of those ads showing how easy it is to open and close a set of blinds. Blink, blink, blink. "He comes to work in a dress. No, this is the God's honest truth. It was right there in the paper. He comes to work in a dress."

"What color of dress?" Richie Stoudt interrupted, looking genuinely puzzled, not an unusual expression for Richie.

Riorden looked at him. "What the hell difference does that make? It's a dress, on a man who works in a post office, Richie! Think about it! Anyway, he comes to work, this guy, and his supervisor sees the dress and tells him he can't work like that, he has to go home and change. So he does. And he comes back wearing a different dress, a fur coat, and a gorilla mask. The supervisor tells him to go home again, but this time he won't leave. So they call the police and haul him away. Charge him with disturbing the peace or something. But this is the best part. Afterward, the supervisor tells a reporter–this is true, now, I swear–tells the reporter, with a straight face, that they are considering psychiatric evaluation for the guy. Considering!"

"You know, I read about a guy who took his monkey to the emergency room a few weeks back." Albert Garcia picked up the conversation. He was a small, solid man with thinning dark hair and close–set features, a relative newcomer to the group, having come up from Houston with his family to work at MidCon less than ten years ago. Before the strike, he set the rolls in the fourteen–inch. "The monkey was his pet, and it got sick or something. So he hauls it down to the emergency room. This was in Arkansas, I think. Tells the nurse it's his baby. Can you imagine? His baby!"

"Did it look anything like him?" Mel Riorden laughed.

"This isn't the same guy, is it?" Penny Williamson asked suddenly. He was a bulky, heavy–featured black man with skin that shone almost as blue as oiled steel. He was a foreman in the number–three plant, steady and reliable. He shifted his heavy frame slightly and winked knowingly at Old Bob. "You know, the postal–worker guy again?"

Al Garcia looked perplexed. "I don't think so. Do you think it could be?"

"So what happened?" Riorden asked as he bit into a fresh Danish. His eyes blinked like a camera shutter. He rearranged' the sizable mound of sweet rolls he had piled on a plate in front of him, already choosing his next victim.

"Nothing." Al Garcia shrugged. "They fixed up the monkey and sent him home."

"That's it? That's the whole story?" Riorden shook his head.

Al Garcia shrugged again. "I just thought it was bizarre, that's all."

"I think you're bizarre." Riorden looked away dismissively. "Hey, Bob, what news from the east end this fine morning?"

Old Bob accepted with a nod the coffee and sweet roll Josie scooted in front of him. "Nothing you don't already know. It's hot at that end of town, too. Any news from the mill?"

"Same old, same old. The strike goes on. Life goes on. Everybody keeps on keeping on."

"I been getting some yard work out at Joe Preston's," Richie Stoudt offered, but everyone ignored him, because if brains were dynamite he didn't have enough to blow his nose.

"I'll give you some news," Junior Elway said suddenly. "There's some boys planning to cross the picket line if they can get their jobs back. It was just a few at first, but I think there's more of them now."

Old Bob considered him wordlessly for a moment. Junior was not the most reliable of sources. "That so, Junior? I don't think the company will allow it, after all that's happened."

"They'll allow it, all right," Deny Howe cut in. He was a tall, angular man with close–cropped hair and an intense, suspicious stare that made people wonder. He'd been a bit strange as a boy, and two tours in Vietnam hadn't unproved things. Since Nam, he'd lost a wife, been arrested any number of times for drinking and driving, and spotted up his mill record until it looked like someone had sneezed into an inkwell. Old Bob couldn't understand why they hadn't fired him. He was erratic and error–prone, and those who knew him best thought he wasn't rowing with all his oars in the water. Junior Elway was the only friend he had, which was a dubious distinction. He was allowed to hang out with this group only because he was Mel Riorden's sister's boy.

"What do you mean?" Al Garcia asked quickly.

"I mean, they'll allow it because they're going to start up the fourteen–inch again over the weekend and have it up and running by Tuesday. Right after the Fourth. I got it from a friend on the inside." Howe's temple pulsed and his lips tightened. "They want to break the union, and this is their best chance. Get the company running again without us."

"Been tried already." Al Garcia sniffed.

"So now it's gonna get tried again. Think about it, Al. What have they got to lose?"

"No one from the union is going back to help them do it," Penrod Williamson declared, glowering at Howe. "That's foolish talk."

"You don't think there's enough men out there with wives and children to feed that this ain't become more important to them than the strike?" Howe snapped. He brushed at his close–cropped hair. "You ain't paying attention then, Penny. The bean counters have taken over, and guys like us, we're history! You think the national's going to bail us out of this? Hell! The company's going to break the union and we're sitting here letting them do it!"