It’s the middle of the fucking night when Brandon and his buddies come banging on Aldous’s kitchen door. They’re going to break the door down; they’re pounding so hard Aldous can hear it over the sound of the water that runs day and night from the bathroom tap, even over the sound of his own snoring. He wakes up with dread in his belly. He can’t afford to get the tap fixed and he sure can’t afford to replace a broken door.
He should call the cops, but doesn’t. He should put some shorts on, but doesn’t. Instead he pads to the kitchen and pulls the door open. “Do you know what time it is?”
Brandon’s hunched over, getting ready to pick the lock, and Aldous shoves his naked belly into Brandon’s face.
The kid backs off, straightens up, waves a knife in his right hand. “Where’s the beer?”
Aldous makes to slam the door. “Come back when it’s civilized,” he says. He doesn’t sell beer in the middle of the night, and not from his kitchen.
But the kid steps to, and says, “Fucking bootlegger. I’m not here to buy.” He angles the point of his knife against Aldous’s throat, and it’s as Aldous tilts his head back that he sees Brandon’s two buddies standing on the steps that lead up to Rabbit’s place.
It doesn’t make sense. Just today, Aldous gave these kids a ride, helped them out, sold them a couple of bottles. Brandon, sweet kid with a Mohawk, always says thank you when he gets out of Aldous’s van.
A patch of fur rubs against Aldous’s ankle as his cat Daisy zips past them all into the darkness.
“Now you’ve scared my damn cat,” he says. He’s exposed and cold in the September night but damned if he’s going to show these punks he’s afraid.
The three kids push him back into his kitchen, and Brandon says again, “Where’s the beer?” It’s all stacked up next to the fridge, four cases full, one nearly empty, all of it waiting to be loaded into the van for legitimate customers. Daylight customers.
Aldous stands in front of the beer and stares at them. The only sound is the water running in the bathroom. Then the tall guy at the back mutters, “Fat fuck,” spits on the linoleum, and pushes Brandon aside to give Aldous a shove. “Get out of the way, old man.”
Aldous stumbles aside, his trembling hands clenching. If he’d called the cops. If he’d gotten dressed. If he’d fixed the tap. If he’d just left the beer in the goddamn van like always. But he’ll show them, won’t he. This is his house. This is Big Al’s house.
He throws a punch, misses. Then in the light of the bare bulb by the back steps he sees the glint of a bottle from the open case swinging down towards his face. What kind is it? Most of his customers like Canadian, or Bud Light. The young guys like to drink Labatt 50, just like their fathers did back when the mines were booming. Aldous can’t remember what he’s got in stock, what was in the open case, and is still trying to figure it out when he falls on his knees, left eye filling with blood from a cut over his eyebrow. And then Brandon shoves a foot into his chest, snarling, “Stay down!” and as Aldous falls backwards, head in the living room, body in the kitchen, it doesn’t really matter much anymore which brand hit him.
I’m going to die here.
Aldous stays down like he’s told. The punks carry the cases out the door, one by one. Brandon smashes the cookie jar on the counter and pulls out the four hundred-dollar bills he finds in the ceramic shards. He stuffs them in his pocket and turns around. Aldous half expects him to say thank you.
Instead: “Call the cops and we’ll burn your house down.” Brandon flicks open a Bic lighter and throws it at Aldous’s feet. Aldous feels the lick of flame against his bare toe before it sputters and dies. There’ve been fires along Melvin Street lately; Brandon’s not fucking around. Aldous’s bowels turn to ice and let go and he’s lying in a puddle of his own shit and what’s left of his courage and pride and he can’t call the cops.
Old man. Fat fuck. Brandon and his buddies have just declared open season on the man they used to call Big Al. Big man on Melvin Street, the man with the beer in the back of his van, the man who’s everybody’s friend.
The nobody. The failure his ex-wife always said he was. The loser father whose daughter doesn’t visit.
Aldous’s tears stream sideways down his face and pool in his ears and he’s reminded of a song he used to sing to Athena when she was little. He hums it as he hauls himself back to his feet, gripping the wall for support; as he gets himself washed and dressed; as he throws a change of clothing into his van and locks his house behind him.
He climbs up the back stairs, slow with his gimpy leg and the blood still coming down his face, and bangs on Rabbit’s apartment door. Rabbit owes him back rent and sometimes keeps the change when he sells beer for Aldous, but Aldous has nowhere else to turn.
When Rabbit opens the door, rubbing his eyes, Aldous tells him what happened, then hands Rabbit his house key. He says, “Tell Athena I’ll call her when it’s safe.”
Rabbit says, “So you’re just going to run away?”
Aldous shrugs. “Sometimes you fight. Sometimes you flee.”
“When did you become such a fucking coward?”
Aldous shrugs again, then he’s gone. Gone before he has to answer Rabbit, gone before the sun comes up.
He is halfway to safety before Daisy scratches at the kitchen door, wanting to be let back in.
