WORKER’S COMP

by Bill Mesce, Jr.

Passaic, New Jersey – November, 1983

WHEN TERRY GETS TO THE ROMA, SWEET PEA’S WORKING THE BAR AND TELLS HIM B.B.’S WAITING FOR HIM IN “THE DUNGEON.”  The dungeon is the name people working at the bar sometimes call The Roma’s cellar.

B.B. may have sunk a mint into fixing up The Roma’s barroom, but he hasn’t put squat into the cellar.  Nobody has.  With the exception of electricity and heating and barely either, nobody’s done much serious work on the cellar since Taft was president. 

The ceiling is so low Terry’s the only person who goes down there who doesn’t have to bend over; people can tell when Big Frank’s downstairs because they hear his head thunking into the exposed beams.  The few lights hang on exposed wires.

As many times as Terry’s lugged swag in and out of the cellar, he still hates going down there.  He doesn’t like the musty smell and the shadowy corners and the sounds of little long-nailed paws tickticktick-ing along the raw concrete floor somewhere in the cellar where he can’t see them. 

Most of the cellar is packed with swag:  a rack of overcoats, another one of dresses, a pile of boxes of running shoes, those damn Sony Trinitrons B.B. can’t seem to get rid of, stereos, running suits, Van Heusen shirts, it’s a regular Macy’s down there.  Terry’s always surprised B.B.’s got room for stock for the bar, but that’s what B.B.’s dealing with now.  He’s standing under one of the bare light bulbs over in a corner of the dungeon, by what used to be a coal bin, where cases of booze and beer are crammed.  He’s got his teacherly glasses parked on his nose, he’s chewing on his mustache indicating great concentration while he’s writing stuff down on a clipboard.

He looks so business-like Terry has to stand there for a second taking it in because this isn’t the kind of business he’s used to seeing B.B. do.  B.B. finally flicks a glance over at Terry.  “What’re you gawkin’ at?”

“I didn’t think you really did this.”

“Did what?”

“You know.”  Terry makes some kind of hand wave at the clipboard and the stock.

“This is my business, Ter, I actually do manage a business.” 

Terry says, “Hey, what’s with Sweet Pea?”

“You mean the tooth thing?”

“Yeah.  How do you lose a tooth like that?  I mean one a those front ones; how does that happen?  She walk inna wall or somethin’?”

“What she walked into was her boyfriend’s fist.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Wow.  She told you this?”

“Fuckin’ animale,” B.B. says.  “Some redneck from down south somewheres.  I guess he don’t like it up here too much.”

This gets Terry agitated and he starts to pace although there’s not much room what with all the swag and stock and the giant petrified octopus furnace.  “So, it’s too cold for him, he pops her one ’n’ knocks out a tooth?”

B.B. sighs.  “I dunno, Ter, not my business.”

“Wow,” Terry says.  “That’s gonna cost a pretty penny, get a fake tooth in there.  Your people got insurance?  They got dental?”

B.B. lowers his clipboard and looks at Terry over his glasses.  “What am I, Banker’s Trust?  You think when I let a dancer go, ‘Here, let’s discuss your severance package, my dear’?  Gimme a fuckin’ break.”

“I’m just wonderin’ is all.  That’s a shame.  Right up front, too.”

B.B. goes back to checking the stock.  “Hey, I feel bad, too.  Ah, shit, the mice got inna snacks.  That’s gotta be fifty bucks’ worth a snacks a li’l fuckers got.  I wisht Frank would stop playin’ with that damn cat ’n’ maybe the li’l fucker’d do what I got him for.”

Terry comes over to look at a hole eaten through the side of a big cardboard box of mixed snack-size bags of Doritos and chips and Cheez Doodles and the like.  He looks around, listens for tickticktick.  “That’s a big fuckin’ hole,” Terry says.  “I don’t think that’s just mice.”

“I don’t wanna think ’bout it,” B.B. says.  “I don’t like comin’ down here as it is.  I’ll get Frank to put traps down.”

“I’m lookin’ at the size a that hole, Beeb, ’n’ I’m thinkin’ they better be big fuckin’ traps.”  Terry goes back to pacing.  “Wow,” he says, shaking his head.  “She’s a nice kid, Sweet Pea.  Even if she fucks up everybody’s drink.”

B.B. turns back to his stock.  “Hey, how much a this Mexican horse piss you been drinkin’?”  He’s tapping a half-empty case of Dos Equis with his pencil.  “I swear this only came in a few days ago.”

“You want me to start payin’ for it?  Fuck it, I’ll drink Bud you got a problem.”

“I’m not thinkin’ the money, I’m thinkin’ you gonna have any liver left.”

Terry arranges a few stacked cases of beer into a place to sit.  “You gonna do somethin’?”

“’Bout what?”

“Sweet Pea.”

“The tooth?  Maybe I’ll front her a couple bucks -- ”

“No, the guy.”

B.B. lets his clipboard fall to his side, hangs his head, sighs.  “Terry, again:  not my business.  She’s hooked up with an asshole, whaddaya want from me?  I’m not a marriage counselor, I’m not a priest -- ”

“Yeah, right, I get it.”

“Hey, I feel bad for the kid -- ”

“Ok, I get it, you wanna talk business?  Let’s talk business.”

“Wait, hold on, I wanna get ready for this.”  B.B. sets his clipboard down on the booze cases, pushes his glasses up on his head, leans against the edge of the coal bin, arms crossed, waving his fingers at Terry to deliver.  “G’ahead, this is gonna be good, you lecturin’ me ’bout business.”

“I’m not lecturin’,” Terry says, “I’m just sayin’, you think it’s good business, people come in, sit atta bar, she smiles she looks like Mammy Yokum, that big front tooth missin’?”

“You tryin’ to suck me into somethin’?”

“No, you said business, I’m talkin’ business.  I just don’t think that’s good business.  You can tell the kid’s embarrassed.”

“Maybe it’ll pump up her pity tips.”

“I’m serious, Beeb.  I get it, I know what you’re sayin’, don’t get involved, blah blah blah, I get it, ok?  I just don’t think it’s good for business is all I’m sayin’.”

“So whaddaya wanna do?”

“I dunno.  I’m just sayin’.”

B.B. huffs, a little exasperated.  “You’re just sayin’,” and he picks up his clipboard, pushes his glasses back down on his nose, and goes back to checking the stock.  “You’re just sayin’ an awful fuckin’ lot.”  He looks back at the gutted box of snacks, makes some kind of tsk noise, mutters something about, “Leave the fuckin’ cat alone, Frank,” to himself, and moves on to another pile of booze cases.

“Speakin’ a business, I got somethin’,” B.B. says.  “That’s why I called you down.  Not to discuss dental plans for my staff.  You, ’n’ Frank.  Kinda sweet.  Guy’s inna me a ton or better, he’s got a freight company.  You go in with one a his trucks, down the port, Newark.  All legit, driver’s got paperwork, all clean, goes down for an honest-to-God pick-up.  His stuff takes up half the truck.  You ’n’ Frank, whatever swag you can grab fills up the other half.  Stuff that fucker full.  I want you to ’specially look for these VCR things.  People’re recordin’ stuff off the TV, it’s the new, cool thing.”

“Right, VCRs.  When?”

“I got it set up for tonight.  Truck’ll pick you guys up here ’round ten.”

Terry sits on his beer case seat for a long minute, thinking.  He knows B.B. is picking up a vibe that something’s going on inside Terry’s head.  He can feel B.B. staring at him.

“What?” B.B. asks.

“I’m just thinkin’,” Terry says.

“Oh-oh.”

“No, I’m just thinkin’, ya know, that’s a muscle ’n’ sweat job, loadin’ up all that stuff.”

“What’re you, inna fuckin’ union?  Bitch to your shop steward.”

“No, it ain’t that, I’m just wonderin’; you got a problem I bring another set a hands?”

“Who?”

“I’m just sayin’, another set a hands would be a big help.”

B.B. walks over to Terry, his mouth curling up in an I-know-where-this-is-going grin.  He stares at Terry over the tops of his glasses.  “What’s runnin’ in that pointy head a yours?”

Terry can’t look him in the eye.  “Is it a problem?”

“This set a hands got a big mouth?  None of us needs a big mouth on this.”

“It’ll be fine, I’m tellin’ you.”

“Who pays?”

“Don’t worry ’bout it, ok?  I got it covered.”

B.B. shakes his head and goes back to his stock.  “G’way.  I don’t wanna know nothin’ ’bout it.  Just bring me good stuff.  Don’t forget -- ”

“VCRs, right.”

Frank is sitting at the bar balling up cocktail napkins and throwing them down the bar.  Mouser chases them, jumps on them, grabs the wad of paper with his front paws, bites into it, then claws the hell out of it with his back paws before letting it go.  Then Frank throws another balled-up napkin in the other direction.

“B.B. don’t want you playin’ with a cat no more,” Terry says taking the stool next to Frank.  “He says you’re distractin’ him from his job function.”

“He’s got most a day to kill mice.  He needs a little recreation oncet in a while.”

Terry shakes his head and signals Sweet Pea to bring him a beer.  Sweet Pea brings him a Bud long neck.  “Where’s my Dos Equis?”

“We have Dos Equis?” Sweet Pea says and her little round face wrinkles up in puzzlement.  “I thought we didn’t serve Dos Equis.”

Terry tells her never mind.  After she goes off to serve somebody else, “You see Sweet Pea’s, uh...,” he says to Frank, touching one of his own front teeth.

Frank nods a nod dripping with What a damn shame.

“You ever see this guy she’s with?” Terry asks.  “I never seen him.”

“Couple times,” Frank says looking unhappy about it.

“B.B. says he’s some rube down south somewheres.”

“Yeah, he was workin’ as a produce manager for some A & P or somethin’, whatever the hell it is, the one by Route 3.”

“What a hell does a produce manager do?”

“I dunno,” Frank says, shrugging.  “I guess he manages a produce.  He tells a tomatoes to behave.”

“What’s this prick like?”

Frank frowns.  “He’s a real cocksucker, that guy, makes me mad.  He’ll come in here, Sweet Pea’s right there, and this momo’s makin’ eyes with a girls on stage.  Not like horsin’ ’round neither, ya know?  ‘Hi, I’m Joe Stud’; he’s doin’ this while she’s right there, ’n’ a poor kid is workin’ a bar lookin’ like a whipped dog.  She just takes it.  Pisses me off.”

Terry nods his head.  “Yeah, I see that, I dunno why they let that happen.  Jesus, when I was with Ginny, I ever pulled shit like that in front a her?  ’Fore I could blink twice, she’d be feedin’ me my nuts, sack ’n’ all...in marinara sauce.”

Frank looks down the bar to make sure Sweet Pea is out of hearing distance.  He lowers his voice:  “I dunno B.B. knows, but this ain’t a first time this guy’s banged Sweet Pea around.”

“Wow.  How do you know this?”

“I overheard some a the girls talkin’.  Sometimes when she calls in sick, she ain’t sick.”

“What a prick.”

“Guy drinks, he starts beltin’ her around.  Then I hear he lost his job.”

“Whaddaya do to lose a job playin’ with vegables?”

Frank looks just as puzzled.  “I dunno, maybe they didn’t like how he treated the bananas or somethin’.  So, now, he’s drinkin’ alla time, so now ya got this...”  He nods toward Sweet Pea.

“Awful lotta cocksuckers in the world, Frankie.  I don’t know why they don’t find each other ’n’ all go off on an island together ’‘n’ give each other grief ’stead everybody else.”

“Ain’t no reason to go hittin’ a girl,” Frank pronounces.  “I mean, I’m not a Women’s Libber or nothin’, but still…  That ain’t right,” he declares.

“That ain’t right,” Terry seconds.  “B.B. says it’s none a his business.”

“Maybe he don’t know.”

“He knows.  He fuckin’ knows everything.  He just thinks it’s none a his business.”

“Well...”  Frank mulls this over a bit.  “I kinda see that.”

“Yeah, but still...”

“Still.”

Terry tells Frank about the job B.B. wants them to do.  Then he says, “Here’s what I’m thinkin’.  I was thinkin’ we ask Sweet Pea, does her guy need to make a few bucks?”

“Whadda we wanna do this prick a favor for?”

Then he sees the way Terry’s grinning.  It takes him a few seconds, then he says, “Oh.”  And he laughs.

Terry’s first thought when the truck’s cargo door rolls up and he sees B.B. standing at the curb frowning up at him is, Oh-oh.

He’d meant to spend the ride from the warehouse back to The Roma thinking of what to tell B.B. and how to tell it because he knew the second B.B. saw the big dark splotches on his coveralls he was going to know something had happened that he wouldn’t want to know about but would ask about anyway.

Loading up the truck had been a hell of a sweat job, and then it had gotten late, and the later it got the more Terry had to admit what he’d been trying not to admit; that the days of him doing late-nighters fueled on nothing but beer and Slim Jims were over. 

So, what had happened instead of him conjuring up a diplomatically spun tale with soft edges was he had climbed up on top of the crates jammed into the cargo box, him and Big Frank, sprawled out, and despite his sundry aches and pains, the rocking of the truck and just being plain beat combined to slip him into a nod and then…out.

He was jump-started into consciousness by the cargo gate rattling up.  Terry sprang up, forgetting how little head room there was laying on top of those piled crates, and bounced his noggin off the roof of the cargo box.  He was still not quite awake and now had this hell of a pain in his head on top of every joint in his body being stiff and achy as he slid -- without a lot of grace -- off the crates onto the tailgate.  That’s when he squinted down through sleepy eyes and saw a not-happy B.B. standing there, eyes locked on the big, dark stains on the front of Terry’s coveralls.  Thus:  Oh-oh.

B.B.’s quiet for a long time, then his shoulders go up and down and he lets out a long breath.  “So, where’s this extra set a hands suppose’ to be helpin’ you?”

“Um, well…”

“That’s what I thought.”  B.B. points at Terry.  “Come talk to me.”  He points fingers at Frank and then to the open steel doors in the sidewalk leading to The Roma’s cellar.  “Unload.”

“Just me?” Frank whines.

B.B. lets out another of those long, annoyed breaths.  He pulls a wad out of his pocket, peels off two twenties, hands them to Frank.  “Give that to the guys inna cab ’n’ tell ’em how much I’d ’ppreciate they help out.”

Then B.B. waves a finger at Terry to follow, and, again, Terry thinks, Oh-oh, wishing he could have a few minutes to clear his head to figure out how to tell what he has to tell.

When Terry sees the bar is dark and empty, he sort of groans a bit, thinking, Christ, just how late is it?  His stiff back and the pains in his knees tell him it’s pretty fucking late and he’s pretty fucking beat.

“Take a seat,” B.B. says, nodding Terry to a stool.  B.B. goes around behind the bar, flicks on the bar lights, pours them each a shot of Jameson’s, leaves the bottle on the bar, parks a couple of Dos Equis backs there, too.

Terry downs his shot.  “I needed that,” he sighs, liking the feel of the whisky warmth spreading out from his middle, dampening down some of the aches.  He asks B.B. for some ice.  B.B. wraps a couple of cubes in a bar rag and Terry sets the bundle gingerly on the throbbing lump on his head, then pours himself another shot.

“You look like shit,” B.B. says.

“I love you, too.”

B.B. stands quiet for a bit.  Terry knows he’s waiting.  After a bit, B.B. finally says, “So.”  He hasn’t touched his drink.

“Yeah, well…  So…”

“So.”

“Ok, well, so, gotta tell ya, we didn’t get your VCRs.”

“You didn’t get my VCRs.”

“They didn’t have ’em inna warehouse where we were.”

“No VCRs.”

“I think we got you somethin’ better.”

“Better.”

“Some kinda laser somethin’, uses some kinda disc, like a big record — "

“Lasers?”

“Yeah, these things use -- ”

B.B.’s head hangs down and he shakes it from side to side.  “You got me ray guns.”

“Beeb, one a the drivers says these’re better ’n tapes, better ’n VCRs, says these’ll blow tapes -- ”

“Guy drives a truck, you listen to him ’bout ray guns ’n’ VCRs.”

“They’re not ray guns -- ”

“Did I say, ‘Hey, Terry, while you’re out there tonight, boost me some ray guns?’  I get asked for VCRs, I don’t get asked for ray guns.”

Terry downs his second shot.  “Forget it, fuck it, I’ll have the guy dump ’em inna fuckin’ river you’re gonna be like this.”

B.B. goes quiet.  Terry spins a bit on his stool so he doesn’t have to look at B.B.

B.B. after a bit:  “So, tell me…”

“Tell you what?” but Terry knows what B.B. wants him to tell him.  The only upside; it’s occurring to Terry just then he hadn’t missed anything nodding off in the truck; there is no fucking good way to tell this.

B.B. pushes his own untouched shot glass in front of Terry.  “That’s not tomato sauce all over your front.”

“Well…”

“Well my ass.  Why don’t I tell you!  I don’t see no extra set a hands like you said, ’n’ figgerin’ you’re the kinda sap you are…  I’ll bet you tonight’s bar take that extra set a hands was Sweet Pea’s boyfriend.  Right?”

Terry shrugs and winces; that lump in his head is really pounding now.

“Wha’d you do??”

Terry shrugs.  “You know.”

“I got a pretty good idea, but it’ll be more fun hearin’ you tell it.”

Terry takes a deep breath, sips his beer.  “You woulda hated this fucker, Beeb.  He’s one a those guys, you talk to him five minutes, you wanna punch ’im inna face.  One a those weedy li’l fucks, all mouth, ya know?  Lotta big talk, ‘Fuck this,’ ‘Fuck that,’ ‘Hey, guys, I know where we can score some nice pussy after we’re done,’ not givin’ a shit we know Sweet Pea.  You gettin’ a picture?”

“Ok, so he’s an asshole.  Are we the asshole police or somethin’?”

Terry shrugs that away.  “He’s goin’ on ’n’ on how what a big whoop it is we asked ’im onna job, hopes we’ll think of ’im again, maybe make ’im a regular, ya know?  Goes on all the respect he’s got for us, blah blah blah, guy’s pracally romancin’ us.  Talkin’ ’bout all this work says he did back home in Bumfuck, Kentucky or wherever the hell he’s from.  But you can tell it’s all gas.  We’re goin’ through the gate, guy’s pracally pissin’ in his pants.  ‘What if a guard checks back here?  What if this, What if that?’  I don’t think this pussy ever stole so much as somebody’s milk money.”

“Ok, I get it.”

“We’re at the warehouse, we wait ’til he helps us get the truck loaded.”

“Great, you did one smart thing.”

“Then we’re done, we’re ready to go, I give Frank the nod ’n’ he busts this prick one inna face.  I’m tellin’ ya, after a night with this guy, even if he hadn’t popped Sweet Pea, this bullshit artist had it comin’.  Now he’s down on his ass, I guess Frank missed, busted his nose, guy’s bleedin’ all over a fuckin’ place, but don’t you know this li’l prick still has all his teeth?  I’m thinkin’ that ain’t fair.”

“Course not.  I kinda see where this is goin’.”

“Yeah, well, so I tell Frank give ’im another one.”

B.B. winces.  “Of course.  Sure, why not?”

“But, damn, this guy’s still got his teeth!  Fucker’s got choppers like steel plate!  Or Frank missed again.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, I mean, the whole point a this thing -- ”

“Yeah, I get the point a this thing.  So…”

“So, I tell Frank to use his piece.  I tell ’im just a rap to break a tooth.  Frank raps him one, maybe a little too hard, you know how it is with Frank -- ”

“How bad?”

“He gets ’im crosst all four a those front fuckers BANG and this asshole’s spittin’ Chiclets.”

B.B. shakes his head.  “Ya know, Sweet Pea only lost one.”

“Call it vig.”

“What’s he doin’ through all this?”

“Well, after Frank give ’im that first shot, he’s half out of it anyway, he’s like this…”  Terry started blinking stupidly and flopping his hands like fins on a beached fish.  It’s hard not to laugh at the memory even if it makes his head hurt more, and even if B.B. doesn’t seem to find it funny.  “Anyways, we drag ’im to the truck, he’s all -- ” Terry mimes going completely limp.  “Onna ride back, we tell ’im, I say to this guy, ‘Hey, fuckhead, anybody asks, you fell down a stairs or somethin’, unnerstand?  ’N’ a word to Sweet Pea what happened, or God help you you touch her again, fuck your teeth, they try puttin’ you back together after we’re done they’re gonna find pieces missin’.’  Then we had the truck swing by St. Mike’s, dropped him at Emergency -- ”

“That was nice a you.”

“Hey, asshole or not, it’s Sweet Pea’s boyfriend.”

“Very fuckin’ considerate.”

“’N’ then came home.”

B.B. doesn’t say anything for a while, seems to be running things over in his head.  “Ya know she’s gonna ask I know somethin’ ’bout this.”

“Whaddaya know?  You weren’t there.”

“Ter, she may act retarded half the time, but she’s not stupid.  You know how some broads get; guy beats ’em, they still love ’im ’n’ now her guy shows up no teeth ’n’ his face punched in.”

Terry shrugs; done is done.

“Here’s somethin’ else, I dunno you thought ’bout this,” B.B. says.  “What if this cow-fucking rube decides to squawk?  Who needs heat?  You need heat?  I know I sure as hell don’t need heat.”

“What’s he gonna say?  ‘Uh, yeah, officer, these guys busted my teeth while I was out stealin’ with ’em’?  ’Sides, you’re clean, he can only finger me ’n’ Frank, ’n’ trust me, this chickenshit’s not goin’ to nobody.  After Frank busted his teeth ’n’ I’m down in this little cocksucker’s face tellin’ ’im what’s gonna happen he touches that li’l girl again or he opens his Johnny Reb mouth ’n’ brings heat, you shoulda seen ’im.  He was all ‘I’m a killer motherfucker’ on a way in -- ”

“’N’ he’s beggin’ for mercy on a way out.”  B.B. finally pours himself a shot that he downs.  “Listen, Mr. Softee, from now on, you wanna be the Caped Crusader or somethin’, defend the oppressed or whatever, do it on your own time with people got no connection to me, ok?”

“I get it, Beeb, it’s just I saw her, that missin’ tooth --”

“I felt bad, too.  Not our business, ok?  I get up one day, see on the news she beat this prick’s head in with a baseball bat, I’m cheerin’ for her, but not our business.  You’re suppose’ to be the one I don’t have to worry ’bout doin’ stupid shit.  Ok?”

Terry pours himself a shot, holds it up in an agreeing salute and downs it. 

"Worker's Comp" is one of a series of short stories (some short, some long shorts, three of which have made it into final rounds of writing competitions) William Mesce has published over the last couple of years, based around a fictional "crew" working in New Jersey's dying factory towns in the early 1980s. The stories, in large part, were inspired by tales of local shady characters he heard while growing up in the region.