Reapo Man
by
Craig Moore
He rubbed at the ache in his jaw. He hoped he wasn't going to need another root canal. He had just had one done on the right; now the left was acting up? It felt a little different, so maybe it was nothing.
He stared down into his beer. Moe had had it drawn up for him as always when he had arrived. It just hadn't been in its usual spot. It was Thursday, not that that made any difference. He was here every night, and every night, Moe had his beer (“beer” was generous for the swill served here) ready at the end of the bar, near the wall. The wall had become his friend. By the end of most nights, he needed its support.
Not tonight. Tonight, it had been waiting one seat down. A big guy had been sitting at his stool when he arrived. He had shot Moe an angry glare for allowing this pretender to take his spot. What good was tradition if nobody honored it? Granted, this was no “Cheers”. You might see the same people night after night, but nobody knows your name. Nobody wants to. He wondered if even Moe knew his name—it was Oliver, by the way. He was only “Bud,” “Buddy,” or “Mac” to Moe. They beat Oliver, anyway. This was one of those places that truly earned the label, “Dive”. Referring to the small crowd of humanity at the bar and the few tables as “clientèle”, “patrons”, or even “customers” would be elevating them well beyond their stations. No, people here were a step removed from the street, and sometimes not even that.
Oliver continued gazing sullenly into his near-empty glass. He had wanted to bluntly tell the jerk next to him where to take it, but something about the guy had suggested that that might not be a good idea. Moe should have had him move on! His anger at this slight only added to the self-pity that he indulged in every night.
Of course, to Oliver, it wasn't self-pity. It was injustice! Alcoholism was a disease, and he was a sick man. It wasn't his fault! Job, money, friends—gone, just like his family. Domestic violence? He was a good guy—when he was sober.
He rubbed his shoulder. It was aching almost as much as his jaw. He figured he'd need some Vicodin soon, unless the beer took care of it.
“Repossessions.” The guy next to him muttered.
Great. First the guy takes my seat, now he wants to get chatty? Oliver continued to study his beer.
“The Boss said, 'Just think of it as repossessions.'” The jerk continued, oblivious to Oliver's disinterest. “Hell of an understatement for my job description.”
Oliver turned slightly away from the guy, hoping he'd get a clue.
“Repossessions, inventory, allocations....The list just goes on. And don't forget 'enforcer'. Nobody ever seems to forget that one. I should have tried to beat out Pete for 'Acquisitions'. That's the glamor job.
“The responsibilities aren't the worst of it. I can handle those. It's the other stuff. Few fringes, no chance of advancement, long hours,” the big man laughed sourly, “and no retirement. Throw in the people I have to work with, both the staff and the customers, and it's just hell.”
Cry me a river, buddy. We've all got our problems. Oliver practically had his back to him now.
“I was naive, I guess. 'Take one for the team,' the Boss argued. It did sound somewhat appealing. I would have autonomy; I could almost be my own boss. I also figured it was worth some points with the Big Guy to take it. And someone had to do it. There were bound to be those who didn't fulfill their obligations. Without someone taking the job, what was to prevent everyone from choosing the wrong path? Someone needed to keep them honest.”
Apparently, the man didn't mind talking to Oliver's back.
“Big mistake—huge. I had real friends and true respect. Now, I only get respect out of fear. It's not the same, believe me. I haven't seen friends in ages. Not that I blame them for not dropping by. My district isn't what you'd call the “right” side of the tracks. And my reputation? The stories about me paint me as some kind of monster! I did it for the team! And this was the result?
“The job's always the same, too. Somebody decides the rules don't apply to them. Or maybe they're a victim of circumstance; something else is to blame. Come on! Everyone knows the rules. Nobody needs to be told. You break the rules, you know it instinctively. You know the price, too.”
What the hell is this guy talking about, anyway? And why is he still talking? Oliver rubbed his shoulder again. If anything, the ache was worse.
“They're all low-lives and scumbags. And the whining! I can almost guess what they're going to say, 'Give me one more chance;' 'This is a mistake;' or my favorite: 'It's not my fault.' Whatever happened to personal accountability? Even the so-called tough guys; you'd think they might show a little more backbone.
“And then there's my staff. You couldn't find a group more fanatically dedicated to their jobs. Work? They think it's fun! Psychopaths, every one of them! And it's only them and my clients for company—all day, every day. It's enough to push anyone over the edge. Lord, I would kill for one day of intelligent conversation that didn't involve pain or punishment.”
The big man started to push his stool—my stool, Oliver thought—away from the bar. Oliver's entire left arm was aching now.
“Just about closing time, don't you think, Oliver?”
Oliver had been trying to ignore the guy so hard, it took a moment to register. Oliver? How in hell did he know that?
The guy stood up. He really was a big man—huge, in fact. He gave Oliver a firm slap on the back, “Time to go, buddy.”
The ache in Oliver's arm and jaw flared white hot. There was an odd little flip in his chest and a sudden disorientation. Involuntarily, he slid off the stool. The big guy caught him under the arm and held him up. It was a moment before Oliver realized they were moving towards the door. A moment longer before he started to weakly resist.
What's going on? Who on earth is this guy? Foggy thoughts crowded through Oliver's head.
He looked behind him. Some guy was already sitting at Oliver's usual place. Or slumping, actually; his head resting on the bar.
He turned back. The big guy was holding the door open, pushing him forward. It was darker than it should have been. Where were the cars and streetlights? And what was that smell? Was something burning?
Suddenly, he was through the door, falling. He shouted out, only to be drowned out by countless other similar voices.
At the bar, Moe shook the man slumped at the last stool, getting no response.
“Oh, God! Not another one.”
“You said it, Moe,” Lucifer muttered, following Oliver through the door.
![[home]](/Icons/Extras/lilhome.gif){kind=icon}
![[up]](/Icons/Extras/lilup.gif){kind=icon}