The Furies (standard:drama, 2444 words)
Author: Bobby Zaman	Added: Oct 27 2002	Views/Reads: 3573/2544	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Actions never stop haunting a person.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

make it too far before he collided with a Cavalier belonging to Mark 
Halpern and his girlfriend Tina Mather.  Halpern survived the tragic 
accident.  Mather did not.” 

Goodwin kept an ear perked but eyes still closed and searching for
sleep. 

Then came the voice of the boyfriend of the dead woman, broken, shook
up, devastated. 

“I – can’t – believe – this – happened – he came – out – of nowhere-
what’s wrong – with people – these days?” He couldn’t go on any more. 

The anchor took over.  “The Whistler is one of Chicago’s oldest
establishments, and has in the past seen patrons such as Sam Giancana, 
Louis Armstrong, Carl Sandburg, and Studs Terkel. 

Goodwin sprung to a sitting position like an inflated doll. 

On screen was Sheldon Ramsey’s attorney. 

“Mr. Ramsey is very distraught over this unfortunate incident,” said the
lawyer, “He is also undergoing medical treatment at this time.”  A 
snapshot of Sheldon came on screen as the lawyer finished his sentence. 
 It was the same man.  Goodwin served him before he left Whistler’s and 
got into the wreck. 

They came to him.  The cops.  Asked him all kinds of questions.  Goodwin
knew he’d be in trouble, but it wasn’t with the law in the end.  It was 
with Charlie, owner and proprietor of Whistler’s.  They eighty year old 
man yelled at the top of lungs for twenty minutes and suspended Goodwin 
for six months. 

The last of the winners had left.  It was a bigger turnout than usual. 
About fifteen of them had made appearances, including a group of seven 
that left a two-dollar tip.  Two hours left to go on the clock and 
Charlie was anal about keeping the doors open up until the last stroke 
hit home.  Goodwin poured three Red Bulls into a pint glass, turned up 
the music, and stared at the TV. 

It was difficult to say if the guy was a winner or a loser.  He didn’t
fit either mold, not even a slight lean toward one over the other.  He 
had a bright red flock of curls, glassy blue eyes, a face that 
sometimes caught on to a smile, and expressions that weren’t shaped by 
what was happening around him.  There was a world surrounding him – he 
didn’t care to be part of it. 

He planted himself on a stool with the ease of a lover and ordered
straight bourbon. 

Goodwin let him enjoy his drink without pestering him with chitchat.  He
kept his gaze on the TV. 

“Dull as a graveyard in here,” said the guy.  “Always like this?” 

“Sometimes.  A whole bunch just left.” 

“Works for me.  You don’t need a crowbar to get to the bar.  Can’t stand
joints like that.  Nice, quiet place like this where you can actually 
enjoy a drink without assholes screaming in your ears.  I guess you’re 
used to it by now.” 

“You can never get used to assholes.” 

This ice thawed a little. 

“I’m Mark.” 

Goodwin shook his hand. 

“Goodwin.” 

“Can you drink on the job?” 

“Can’t get sloshed.” 

“Fine.  Do a shot with me.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“You pick.” 

Goodwin poured Tequila into two shot glasses and said they were on the
house. 

“What’re we drinking to?” he asked holding his glass. 

“One year anniversary.”  Before Goodwin could ask for elaboration Mark
gulped the shot. 

“What sort of anniversary?” Goodwin asked. 

“My girl – died a year ago today.” 

“You’re drinking to that?” 

“What else am I gonna do? Cry? That’ll bring her back or something?” 

“No...” 

“Alright then.  It’s better to be prgressive.” 

“That’s a fair enough way of looking at it, I guess.” 

“I don’t understand why crying is expected of people on cue when someone
dies.  If it comes naturally, by all means, do it.  What I don’t care a 
piss about is prodding your ducts till a couple of drops finally come 
to your eyes and everyone hugs you because they think you’re so 
devastated.  It’s fake and disrespectful, and frankly, annoys the piss 
out of me.” 

“Remember them happily, right?” 

“Something like that.” 

Mark looked into his glass like something was being played out for him
inside the liquid. 

“She could drink too.  Man that kid could drink.”  Mark’s eyes were
glassy to begin with and there was no way of telling if tears were 
filling them. 

“It’s ironic,” he said, “Being here, drinking a toast to her.  I thought
it’d be befitting.  After all, the bastard had his last drink here.” 

“Which bastard would that be?” 

“The bastard that pasted Tina’s body to the seat of my car.” 

“Car crash?” 

“Don’t know how I made out of it with scratches and a broken rib.  She –
whatever was left of her – had to be peeled off the passenger seat.  
Son of a bitch, you know.  Guy walked out of here, got in his car, and 
ploughed into mine.” 

Goodwin’s neck hair stood on end. 

“I’m sorry, man,” was that he could muster. 

“I’d rather you keep the condoling words to yourself.  My head buzzed
for months from hearing every single one in the book.  No reason for 
you to be sorry.  You had nothing to do with anything.” 

“You said the guy walked out of here?” 

“Can I get another bourbon?” 

Goodwin refilled his glass, on the house. 

“It’s not my place to talk about social responsibility and all that
crap,” said Mark, “There’re folks that get paid to gas about all that, 
and frankly it’s a lot of hot air and irritates the piss out of me.  My 
girl died.  I was gonna ask her to marry me.  I had a ring and a whole 
evening planned.  Did my plans get interrupted? Yeah.  Did he kill part 
of me with her? Yeah.  Do I want to see him burned at the stake? I 
don’t give a hootin’ hell.  He got off with a DUI, which to him is a 
Sunday walk in the park.  Guy’s got more money than I have hair.  He’s 
off doing his thing and I’m short a girlfriend.  Should I be pissed for 
the rest of my life? Should I be pissed at you because you served him 
that night? – I’m not saying you did, just making an example.  Should 
I?” 

Goodwin’s heart bead madly against his chest. 

“What’s your story?” Mark asked. 

“I – um...” 

“What’s the matter? Look like you seen a ghost.” 

“I got a girl.  She doesn’t want to marry me ‘cause I don’t want kids. 
We’re in kind of a Catch 22.  Doesn’t want to break up with me either.” 


“You do?” 

“No.  I don’t know.  I guess I don’t. 

“You do or you don’t, brother.  There’s no in between.  You dabble in
the middle and she’ll do the thinking for you.  And it won’t be 
something you like.” 

“It’s not something we talk about day and night, thank goodness.  We hit
on it a few times last year, and since then it stayed there.  Hasn’t 
come up.” 

“That right there is bad news.  Another bourbon, and this time I’m
paying you for it.” 

“That’s bad news, brother,” Mark went on, “Calm before the storm.  You
think she’s forgotten or not bringing it up.  She’ll put up a brick 
wall before you know it, and wham! you’re gonna run into it with your 
eyes closed.” 

The topic of his girlfriend’s death seemed to have washed away with
bourbon.  Mark had moved on to other probes.  Goodwin’s life.  Goodwin 
felt a trace of nausea take over him as he replayed the incident Mark 
has just relayed to him.  He tried to recall the night, any night, last 
year when he’d served – over served – a patron – winner or loser. 

“Sheldon Ramsey,” said Mark, his voice floating at Goodwin’s temporary
state of reminiscence.  “That’s his name.  I’ll never forget it long as 
I live.” 

In a flash the TV screen from the morning he heard the news came back to
Goodwin.  With it the photo of Sheldon Ramsey that had hung there for 
those brief seconds during the broadcast.  With it, the time and the 
place where he and Sheila were wading back then.  The pregnancy scare.  
The stress.  The lack of judgment. 

“I think it was on a night I was off,” said Goodwin, “I’m pretty good
with names and faces.” 

Mark sighed, the first indication that sentiments actually lived
somewhere inside him, took out a twenty and set on the bar.  Goodwin 
tried to protest, but Mark didn’t wait to hear them.  He started for 
the door. 

“Don’t let yourself run into that wall,” he turned and said. 

Goodwin came out and rushed to the door after it shut behind Mark. 

“Hey,” he called just as a cab stopped to pick up Mark. 

“What?” said Mark. 

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t driving.” 

Mark smiled and said, “Keep up the good work, brother.” 

Sheila was watching a replay of the nightly news when Goodwin walked in
a sat next to her on the couch.  He sat there blankly watching the 
frames come and go and the words produce a garbled hodgepodge in his 
head.  He leaned in and kisser her on the cheek and tried to make her 
face him. 

“Hang on, honey, I’m watching this,” said Sheila.  He kissed her again,
and again.  “What’s gotten into you?” 

“I hate brick walls.” 

“Huh?” 

“I hate brick walls.” 

“You’ve been drinking.” 

“Couple shots with a patron.” 

“Charlie’ll be mad at you again.” 

“Fine.  I’m quitting.  I’m twenty-eight years old.  Don’t want to work
in a bar the rest of my life.  Unless I own it.” 

“What’ll you do?” 

“Don’t know.  I’ll think of something.  You know what I want to do right
now?” 

Sheila looked at him in wonder. 

“I want to hold you as tight as I can and sleep like a baby.” 

Sheila raised an eyebrow and grinned. 

“You’re so adorable when you’re drunk,” she said. 

Goodwin pulled her in and clamped his arms around her.  He held her
firmly against his chest letting her breaths quell the storm in his 
heart. 

“What’s all this about brick walls?” Sheila said. 

“I don’t like them.” 

“Why not.” 

“I don’t like running into them with my eyes closed.” 

Sheila shook her head and giggled, and Goodwin laid his head on her
chest and let sleep take over every thought. 


Tweet