Butch McQuire

Jan. 16, 2004 : I have recently rewritten the opening of this. I will update it soon. Don't hold your breath but I will do it. Inside the chickee hut , Barry cleaned glasses wearing a whitish apron, looking like Jackie Gleason's bartender character. The apron's color is actually white with a bit of beer-yellow and scotch-brown. He leaned against the counter blowing some germs on each glass, then polishing them away with another whitish cloth.
Butch McQuire watched him, bored but there was nothing on the tube except college football. That wasn't even a sport as far as he was concerned. They never showed any shots of the cheerleaders. Cheerleaders were the only reason that Butch ever went to a game. He tried to sit near them to catch a stray flash of cheek or a feathery tendril of pubic hair that might have crept out of their pants. The game itself was too clean, too neat and precise to be called a sport. The athletes were amazing in their size and speed but the rest of it, rarely upset with surprises, just filled in the space between cheers. The best cheers were the ones with the girls held high in some ape's arms, doing a flip or a single leg stand with the other leg pulled straight up alongside her head showing all the crowd what her crotch looked like today. Fun was where you found it, Butch always said.
His third scotch and water sat in front of him, making a wet stain on the rough bar. Barry was cleaning a glass just like the one in front of Butch and, just before he took a sip, Butch muttered to no one, "Alcohol kills germs, doesn't it?" He decided to finish the glass in one gulp halfway through the sip and hadn't taken enough air in for the job. He ran out of air just before the end and had to pull the glass away quickly, letting some drip down his chin.
"Drink much?" Barry laughed at him.
"Kill many people with your germs?", Barry laughed even louder at that and brought him another scotch.
"This one is supposed to be drip proof."
"Thanks pal."
Barry stood in front of Butch and slowly polished another glass. He had known him for a couple of years, just about as long as Butch had been in Naples. They hadn't started out as friends. Butch didn't like bartenders and Barry didn't like athletes. Thats why he worked at the chickee hut in Naples. Actually he owned it but he worked there long before that. Naples had more seniors, wealthy seniors than just about any other community in Florida, plus anyone who wasn't a senior, seemed to be wealthy also. The canals and waterways around and through the town were edged with million and multi-million dollar houses/estates/condos and some decent looking Italian townhouses perched right in the water of the Gulf. There wasn't any problem getting paying customers in Naples, the problem was mainly one of getting good help in the restaurant and food biz. Barry had finally found a good waitress, Maggie, after years of watching less than efficient help drive away business. There were lots of other places in town that had gone out of business waiting for the right help. Too much money wasn't the problem in many towns in the States, but seemed to be in Naples.
Butch, former athlete and current rich bum, had come down from the Northeast, Boston to be exact. Nothing in particular about Naples had attracted him, he had just shown up one day, liked the view from a condo he had bought, sight unseen from an ad in the Examiner, and decided to stay.
Initially, Butch sat at the bar, Barry brought drinks and things were civil at best. Barry knew who Butch was, Maggie had told him. He figured Butch had a story and would tell it at some point but for now they had a kind of you keep your distance, I'll keep mine relationship. That gradually developed into a stay away from me but where are you from relationship and then into a "Nice to see you again Butch or Barry, how are things today?" affair. They were both about the same age, too young to be doing what they were doing but too old to be doing what they wanted to do. Is that middle-age? Anyway, nearing forty is like middle-age to men, even if it isn't in the manuals.
Butch had been over to Barrys studio. It was actually a cheap Florida house, the kind with drywall walls that you could almost walk through. Butch was amazed at how things were built in the states, cheap and flimsy mostly. Hell, they didn't even use spiral nails. The studio was in the back, facing the southern lawn. Barry had knocked out a wall and spread rugs over the parquet floors, put in some halogen track lighting and hung a wide ledge all around the room. The ledge was just below eye level and held Barry's paintings. They sat at a slight angle to the wall, their bottom edge resting against a lip on the ledge. They looked better at night with the halogen lights bouncing off them but Barry thought that the early morning diffuse light was better. Sometimes Butch said they looked a lot better after a couple of scotches. They were actually very good paintings, nudes, landscapes and lots of eyes. Butch had a problem with the eyes but couldn't figure out why.
Mary Pat, Barry's live-in squeeze, as in lover, cook and soul mate, frequently wandered around the place as if it was a clothing optional resort somewhere. The paintings of nudes were of her and she took her modeling job seriously, posing at any time of the day or night on the chaise in the middle of the room. It sat on a platform that was draped in the appropriate sheets, sometimes colored sometimes plain white. MP, the name she requested, read there often, seemingly unaware of how her legs were, or who was around. Butch had become accustomed to it but only after a drink or two did he feel comfortable. Maggie, who frequently accompanied Butch around Naples, didn't mind the situation at all and frequently modeled with MP. Butch had been a voyeur all of his life, so this seemed like heaven.
Butch looked up and tried to focus in the dim light of the chickee hut. His eyes had been shut the whole time the final scene in his baseball career had played out again.
Barry knew what he'd been dreaming about. Some busy nights the scene didn't play out and Butch's attention was held by customers, female customers. On slow nights like this, though, the replays started. Sometimes he caught the ball and was a hero, mostly the ball scuffed the top of his glove and ended up in the stands, just as it had in October four years before.
"Wanta hear a joke, Butch?" Barry asked.
"Sure, Barry. Joke away. "
He leaned his head back and finished the scotch.
"Well, did you hear about the cannibal who passed his friend on the street ?" Barry puffed on the glass, polished a troublesome spot and walked away.
Butch waited. Barry stood talking to the waitress on the far side of the bar. What the hell kind of joke is that, he asked himself. It was only after the guy two seats down stood up and headed for the john that Butch clued in to the one-liner. "Barry, you ought to be on stage you know", he shouted across the bar. "With jokes like that youd be a star for sure ." He stood up and stretched. "And where's my scotch ?"
Standing just over six foot two, Butch's physique had gone a bit farther south than Florida in his years out of baseball, but there was still enough muscle tone left to give him a commanding presence around Naples. Most people in this southern Florida town didn't care much about baseball and far less about ex-baseball players. But Naples was a town with money and if there was one thing that Butch had besides bad memories, it was money. As someone long ago had said in a bad Spanish accent, Baseballs been velli, velli good to heem.
Barry sauntered over with the scotch. "Maggie wonders what you're doing later, Butch. She's still pissed at you, though. You might have to be extra nice to her." He set the glass down. and looked over Butch's shoulder. But Maggie might have to wait.
Butch followed Barrys gaze. Standing just inside the plastic sheets that hung around the chickee hut, a stunning but dishevelled brunette stood, quickly scanning the virtually empty bar. She took notice of Butch and then Barry, and walked quickly across to stand near them. "Would one of you please call me a cab ?"
Butch looked at Barry then slowly turned to face the woman. "You're a cab", he said and everyone in the bar howled. The brunette took only a second to catch on and only a second longer to rear back and smash Butch across the face with a backhand that left an enormous scratch from his ear to his nose. She swiftly turned and headed out of the bar.
Blood had started to drip down Butch's cheek but he continued laughing for a moment. "Jesus, some people just can't take a joke!" The bar erupted again. Barry threw him a napkin and suggested he might want to apologize to the girl.
"Been a long time since I saw one like that come in here, Butch."
"You're right there, my man." Butch stood up and slowly made his way through the plastic around the bar.
She was standing on the edge of the hotel parking lot, one arm curled around her purse high on her chest, the other straight down by her side stiffly slapping her outer thigh while she scanned the street for a taxi.
"Pretty tough to flag a cab here in Naples. How about if I walk you around to the lobby? There's usually a hack there." He continued walking towards her.
"You bastard", she hissed and swung at him again. This time he was ready for her and knocked her arm away. "Piss off, you ..." Butch had the vaguest sense of someone coming up behind him but didn't have time to react. The loud crack that he felt more than heard ended his evening very suddenly.
The hissing sound didn't increase in volume, but it didn't decrease. It seemed to come and go, always at the same level of intensity. At least the sound gave Butch some respite from the pain. Unfortunately the pain didn't decrease very much, it ebbed when he slipped into unconsciousness, throbbing and pounding whenever he got closer to the light that seemed very close to his eyes. Whenever he saw the light he heard the sound. After a particularly long bout of light and pain, he heard the national anthem. It was only when the jaunty music of the currently trendy kid's show came on that he realized what the hissing noise had been.
Butch threw up on the carpet under him, just managing to lift his head enough to keep it out of the muck. It took all of his strength to roll onto his side. I've been hungover before but never like this, he thought. He moved his hand up to his head and tried to find the source of the pain. It wasn't behind his eyes like it usually was with a hangover but somewhere behind his left ear. His hand felt gingerly around the spot, finding a soft, sticky section that he spent a long time thinking about. Only after another slide in to darkness did he realize what he had found with his fingers. His last few moments of the night before came floating back to him. He had been beaned once in Kansas City by a notorious fastball pitcher. That pain, followed by a week in the hospital, didn't hold a candle to this. He wondered how long he would have to spend on his back this time.
Sometime between the kids show and the midmorning talk shows, Butch managed to roll onto his back and then slowly raise himself to a sitting position. He had to move incredibly slowly, fighting the nausea and throbbing agony. The TV remote was on the coffee table in front of him and he made an effort to grab it and switch off the noise. In silence at last he cautiously tried to stand up. As he moved his arm back to grab the edge of the sofa for assistance, his hand brushed against something cold and soft. He didn't want to look behind him, like in times in his bed when he knew he should open his eyes but couldn't, still locked in the arms of sleep. It was very difficult to turn his head so he slowly moved away from the couch and twisted his whole body around. The girl from the chickee hut who hadn't liked his sense of humor sat on the couch in front of him. Butch's first thought, strange as it was, had to do with the difficulty someone was going to have getting her into a coffin.
Her skirt was up around her waist, her legs not helping with her modesty at all as they were wide open at the knees. His tie, the skinny leather one that Barry kidded him about, was partially visible hanging down one naked breast. The rest of it looked like it was deeply imbedded in her neck, obviously explaining the purple hue to her face and the grossly distorted tongue hanging from her mouth. You look older than you did last night, Butch said to no one in particular. I won't tell anyone, though, you can count on that.
Butch felt suddenly very cold and very scared. The pain in his head seemed to drift away somewhat as he stared at the figure on his couch. Without some medication he knew he wasn't going to be able to work this situation out. Thank goodness I drink now and then, he thought. Moving like a sloth he stood up and made his way to the bathroom cabinet. His doctor had prescribed some codeine based painkillers. Four should so the trick eh Butch. Something in his memory said that four was too many, three would be better. There was also a nagging thought about painkillers after a head injury but right now that didn't seem important.
After brewing some black coffee, he tried to look at the girl again to get some idea of what the hell was going on but he couldn't face her again. He drank his coffee and stared out onto the golf course. Life always seems to go on at times like this, he thought. It brought back a memory of his childhood, of being sick in the hospital just before an operation. On the other side of the curtain he had heard people talking to one another as if nothing unusual at all was happening anywhere. It had seemed to Butch that he was invisible, the pain he felt as he lay there on the bed kept him from the real world.
He wondered if the girl had felt much pain. He wondered who she was. He wondered how long it would take him to wake up from this dream. Missing the catch in the World Series was the last time he had wished he was in a dream but after a long, long time he had finally clued in to reality.
"Well, buddy. Is this the kind of thing you just walk into or did someone invite you?" Just at that point, the corpse on his couch farted and Butch jumped back into the kitchen spilling coffee over himself and the carpet. When his heart kicked in again he started to laugh and cry all at once. The only thing that stopped him was the pain in his head and the knock on the door. He immediately shut up, not even daring to breathe.
There was another knock, quieter than the last and Butch took a quick glance at the door. While the deadlock didn't look like it was set, the knob had its own lock and the door was fully shut. Whoever had brought him and his friend up to the apartment had at least shut it behind them.
There was no more knocking but a moment or two later the condo intercom made its distinctive shrill noise. Butch automatically picked it up.
"Butch, listen it's Gary at the desk. There's two cops on the way up, detectives in plain clothes. They've got their guns ready. I sent Manuela up to warn you while I kept them busy signing in but I couldn't stall them anymore. They'll be on the other side of the building on the floor below for a few minutes until they see they've got the wrong apartment but ...", the voice stopped for a moment. Butch heard some muttering and swearing in the background and then he heard Gary say, "Oh I am sorry officers, I said 207 but I meant 307. Gee, I am so sorry."
Butch didn't wait to hear any more. Ignoring the pain in his head, he opened the balcony door and flicked the handle into the locked position. Stepping outside, he slammed the door shut with all of his strength. It shut and locked securely just as it had done late one night with Butch on the outside. At least the cops would think he had left by the front door. He vaulted over his railing and hoped for the best. His foot just managed to rest on the balcony railing below his for a fraction of a second before it slipped off and he fell sprawling across it. Having the wind knocked out of him wasn't anything new but it never ceased to feel god-awful. There was no time to groan about it now. He balanced on the edge again and jumped as far as he could off the side of the balcony, landing heavily on a knoll that protected the parking lot from errant golf balls.
As far as he knew no one had seen him but that was only because he had not seen anyone himself. The parking lot below him was full of cars. This gave him some protection as he jogged across it to the meandering pathways that ran alongside the golf course. The small plan he had hatched thus far in his aching head took him to his boat at the city marina. Beyond that there was not much of anything formulating.
The boat had only just gone back in the water. The wife of the previous owner, upon finding said previous owner in the sack with their maid, stove a hole in the bow with a nine iron. Butch figured she must have had a hell of a stroke. Turns out the guy in the sack had a stroke at just about the same time. They had to carry him off on a stretcher. Butch got it for salvage costs, far less than what a similar CS27 would have cost with no hole. Manny Winegar, the marina owner owed him a favor and patched it up himself for nothing. Now if only Butch had learned to sail it, things might have looked a bit rosier.
Butch slipped aboard, glad that the weather was cool. Even so, the sun had heated up the interior of the boat. He had to open all the hatches and sliders to get a breath of air into the interior. He lay on the bunk until the world looked somewhat normal again. How safe he was on the boat wasn't really clear to him. None of his acquaintances knew about it, not even Barry or Maggie. He had planned on taking sailing lessons and then throwing a party to celebrate the boat's new name.

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