Read Signs of Struggle for Free Online Page B

something going with those burgers.”
     
    Lunatic turned to a lady behind the bar and said, “One Special and a pitcher of Corona for our patron, Rachel.” Then he turned back, gestured at Rachel and said, “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Thomas O’Shea. Thomas, Rachel Bergman.”
     
    Rachel vigorously wiped her right hand on her apron and reached across the bar and we shook hands. She had a good, earthy smile. Her dark hair streaked with gray and braided close to her skull made her look efficient. Fifties. Sassy. I liked her face. We exchanged pleasantries and she provided the beer, turned away, and set to my order.
     
    I said to Mooning, “I don’t suppose Gunther Schmidt is here tonight, is he?”
     
    “Not yet. He’s overdue. But he is also random. Feel free to stick around, shoot a little pool, hit on some women. Kick back. He might show.”
     
    “I believe I’ll do some of those things,” I said.
     
    I spent the next hour finishing my food, shooting enough pool to improve a little, and eavesdropping on conversations. I chose not to hit on women, although one, somewhere in the confusion of her late 30’s, did smile at me every time I looked her way. I tried not to look her way. Too old to be a boyfriend, too young to be a daddy sub. I longed for Karen to walk through the door.
     
    Gunther Schmidt showed up at eight-thirty. Early 30's, powerfully built with a little paunch, red-blonde hair long and curly in the back, and a beard, darker than his hair. Schmidt wore stained, faded Levi's; worn work boots; and a navy blue t-shirt with a chest pocket torn loose and floppy at one corner. He looked like "The Spirit of October," albeit anxious and defeated, looks that did not suit him. I glanced over at Lunatic, who nodded.
     
    I waited until Schmidt sat down at the bar and ordered his first Miller's draft, then edged over and sat next to him. He did not look up. He studied his beer, perhaps wondering when the grain of truth would appear in the amber liquid.
     
    "My name is Thomas O'Shea, and I need to buy a good house. I understand you build them."
     
    Schmidt turned his head and looked at me for a long time, as if he were searching for a clue that this was some kind of joke set up by a cruel drunk. We shook hands. His were thick and hard. "Gunther Schmidt," he said, his voice soft and reedy, a surprise.
     
    "The houses I have seen for sale around here are overpriced, poorly constructed, or unimaginative. The others are already occupied. Would you be willing to show me one you have built?"
     
    Schmidt smiled ruefully. "I show only to discriminating clientele. Just ask Moon here."
     
    The big Ojibwa stood before us, polishing a shot glass, biceps bulging in his shirtsleeves with the rotation of his forearms. Mooning watched Gunther finish his Miller's and handed up another, fresh from the tap in a clean glass.
     
    He took away the first glass, wiped away a condensation ring on the bar.
     
    Gunther went on. "Trouble is, there's only been one discriminating buyer, and there are three more houses." Lunatic smiled at their shared joke. I offered to buy dinner, and Gunther accepted.
     
    We ordered cheese nachos and a large meat lovers’ pizza with extra cheese, picked up our drinks and found a booth. An hour and a half later Gunther agreed to show me the house Lunatic Mooning spoke of.
     
    We looked at the house the next morning, Thursday. That afternoon we agreed on a price for the house, and all fifty-three acres of the land, that was more than I ever paid for personal property in my life. The next afternoon over a late lunch at The Grain o' Truth Bar & Grill, with Lunatic Mooning and Horace Norris looking on from a distance, I wrote a check on my new First Bank of Rockbluff account. I slid it across the table.
     
    Gunther studied the check as if it were written in Farsi, looked up and said, "This is less than our agreed-upon price, Thomas."
     
    I withdrew my billfold and splayed it open on the table