Only At Night update

Armstrong’s seats at the big game were good. For what he’d paid for them, they ought to be. I watched the game, trying to look into it despite not being much of a fan of either team. Out of the corner of my eye, I read my neighbors. Most of them seemed nondescript—so nondescript that they were wearing jackets or hats with the same logo as the team that was playing. 

There was one guy in the row ahead of me who was memorable for all the wrong reasons. One of those people you see in Wal-Mart at night, never guessing what such a weirdo is up to normally. He wore skinny jeans, given his legs a spindly impression, but he was heavy-set from the waist up. Hefty fat bulging at his gut, less like a lack of diet and exercise, more like some glandular thing that took charge at the hem of his shirt, which wasn’t long enough to cover his protruding belly. It was no surprise to see him signal for a hot dog, but as he did, he spotted me.

“Hey,” he said. “You got Armstrong’s seat.”

“Yeah,” I said, halfway eying the hot dog as it was passed down the row. Such things always filled me with a bit of unease. Maybe I just wasn’t built for arena sports. All the waves and cheers and chants seemed like the purest expression of that curious American preoccupation with noise for the sake of noise. “You know him?”

“I should, he’s been sitting back there for seven seasons now. What the hell happened to the guy?”

I shrugged. “Search me. I happened to be coming into town, Chris said I could stay at his place, but when I got here, he’s left a note with the front desk that he’ll be out of town on business and I’m welcome to make sure his apartment doesn’t burn down.” I threw in a wink. “As long as I don’t mind owing him one, of course.”

“So you two are close?”

“We used to be,” I said, trying to draw out the repartee. With each word, I felt like I was sneaking into my parents’ house after breaking curfew. The cheers that went up occasionally seemed sure to break the spell. “We grew up together, couple months back we reconnected on Facebook, hit it off all over again. We always meant to get together in the flesh, but I guess that’s still a ways out.”

“Too bad. Chris’s a good guy.” The man started to turn back to the game.

“How about you?” I insisted, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. “Seven seasons—you and Chris must have made friendship bracelets by now.”

He laughed, a bit more than I thought the remark called for. “Nah, nah, Chris is a private guy. We go out for drinks after the game sometimes, but other than that I don’t see him.”

“Really? Drinks? I had no idea Chris was such a party animal. He almost seemed like such a homebody when the two of us talked.”

“Not a party, really, just a sports bar the hipsters haven’t ruined yet. You can get a decent steak at a decent price, enjoy a few beers. Chris hates the mark-up here at the stadium, so he’ll go there to eat while he watches the highlight reel on the TVs. Drives me nuts—he just watched the game! But he’s good company. I’m the type who hates drinking alone.”

“Well, if this is one of those cool little places that doesn’t turn into a sardine can at dinner time, maybe I should check it out. I hate visiting a new city and just going to Burger King and Pizza Hut.”

He laughed—again, out of proportion to what wasn’t really a joke. “Yeah, tell me about it! You got a pen?”

“Phone,” I said, taking mine out.

“Okay. The place is called—”

***

Two hours later, the game was over and I was at Antoni’s, one of those small businesses that split the difference between corporate chintz and privately owned incompetence. I mocked it, but I had a soft spot for the basement atmosphere. Even if the place wasn’t some polished, franchise affair, it’d been born out of some blue-collar guy taking his retirement and a small windfall and deciding to open up the kind of joint he would like to hang out at. 

The place probably wouldn’t last five years, but I enjoyed the unironic touches. The red and white checkerboard tablecloths, the beer prices written on a big piece of poster board tacked to the drywall, the random neon signs liberated from a thousand garage sales to give the place the ambience of an eighties Times Square. The owner had even started putting up a few framed photos of local celebrities stopping by. I recognized Tina Turner. How could you not be a little charmed by someone who bragged about knowing Tina Turner? 

Armstrong’s neighbor, I’d learned, was named Hal Stevens. He looked less ungainly in motion. His weight shifted at least somewhat to his thighs and he moved around with a surprising nimbleness, like he’d been pumped up with helium instead of Dunkin Donuts. 

He led me around Antoni’s, pointing out to me various fixtures and making some introductions. There was a pinball machine, some regulars, a pool table—enough for the place to earn the smell of the sawdust on the floor. Like I said, I liked it. Whoever Chris Armstrong was, he either had some taste or he’d gotten lucky enough to make this his hang-out instead of an Applebee’s. 

I scanned the place, trying to pick up some miasma of Armstrong’s old presence—Eau de Accountant. If I were Sherlock Holmes, I suppose this is the point where I would see that one of the newspapers behind the bar featured a picture with Armstrong’s supposedly long-dead wife in it, and clearly he had run off to confront her. Or he’d carved his initials into the bar along with a Masonic symbol that would lead to the lodge house which was pulling all the strings, or at least being a red herring. 

But I, not even having Basil of Baker Street’s reputation to live up to, couldn’t pick up anything of Armstrong’s presence. This was simply another room he’d been in, not telling any more about him than the waiting room at his dentist’s or the check-out line at his usual grocery store.

“Margo, hey, you met this guy?” I felt Hal grab me from behind, patting at my shoulders with clammy hands I could feel through my shirt. I turned around and saw who he was bringing over. 

Margo was in her forties, but aging so well you could only tell by a few lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She had a strong, pretty face, with a straight nose, clear blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Her blonde hair surrounded her face in a slightly ragged cut that brought out the still-pristine angles of her features, but she was dressed a little too desperately. A micro-mini skirt that showed her thighs almost to her panties and a leather vest that tucked into her belt, but with the last button going above her belly button, so it was shown off between the opening vest and her belt buckle.

“This is Ivan,” Hal said exuberantly. “He’s a friend of Chris’s.”

“Oh?” Margo sounded tipsy, like she’d already had a few. “Do you like assholes or do you just not mind ‘em?”

“Hey, Margo, c’mon,” Hal said warningly.

“I mean, was he an asshole when you first met him or did he become one at your… your fucking baseball games…”

Margo staggered, overwrought, and I caught her by the shoulders before she could fall. I redirected her down to sit at a booth before she caused a scene.

“Hal, why don’t you get us some drinks?” I asked him. “Water.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hal said, probably grateful to be able to get away from the awkward scene. 

He started pushing his way through the crowd while I ripped off a length from the paper towel roll that served as a napkin dispenser and handed it to Margo. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose before wadding the whole thing up.

“Fuck,” Margo concluded.

I reached across the table to take her hand. “Hey, it can’t be all that bad, can it? I’m not defending the guy—I barely know him these days, we were friends as kids. But it doesn’t sound like him to get a girl so upset.”

“Yeah?” Margo demanded. As I’d hoped, giving her a fig leaf of a reason to rant about her ex started her up again, but directed at me instead of the whole bar. “Let me tell you about Chris, okay, let me tell you about him…”