THE SECOND TIME MR SMITH WENT OUT

The first time Mr. Smith went out it was to collect his shirts from the laundry. So was the second time, in a way. Mr. Wong’s was the last Chinese laundry in town. Even Mr. Wong said he was maybe going to close down. He’d been told by his cousin in Sacramento that there was more money in restaurants. Vietnamese was what people in California wanted to eat these days. No one could tell the difference between Chinese and Vietnamese food. Mr. Smith liked to have his shirts pressed and starched properly. He was meticulous like that. He wanted them to feel almost stiff, to keep the creases until late in the day. Like it was in the army.

 

Mr. Wong’s was closed. It was still early Saturday morning. Sometimes Wong was late. Orientals had strange habits, Mr. Smith thought. In the war they often attacked at night when Mr. Smith and the others were asleep, or trying to sleep. They never really slept. Mr. Smith walked to the vending machine outside the gas station and bought some cigarettes. Marlboro. He lit one, and was walking along the mall-front looking into the stores aimlessly. In one of the windows was a display of children’s toys. Cabbage-patch dolls. One of them had a little tag attached which said, “Please adopt me, and I’ll love you forever.”

 

Mr. Smith was getting impatient. It was almost nine-thirty and there was no sign of Wong’s little van with “Wong’s Old-Style Chinese Laundry – Ring 46792” written on the side. It was a new van. Mr. Wong had told Mr. Smith that he was sure that this van would bring in the customers. It sure was a nice new van, Mr. Smith thought.

 

Also in the store windows were some Halloween masks. One of them was a grotesque, distorted, red, rubber face with a mass of long yellow hair and a big wart on the nose. Four dollars. “The things people buy”, thought Mr. Smith.

 

Mr. Smith waited about another ten minutes and paced up and down the mall-front looking at the goods. Women’s wear. Groceries. Hardware. Hunting equipment. “Almost ten”, thought Mr. Smith. He smoked a Marlboro outside the hardware store.

 

At the end of the block was ‘Joe’s Bar & Grill’. Mr. Smith went in. Mr. Smith hadn’t visited Joe’s since he went clean, two years ago. He thought he’d have a shake and some French toast. Joe was pleased to see him again.

“Rob! Hey!”

Joe leaned over the counter and gave Mr. Smith, Rob, a light punch on the arm, above the elbow.

“Long time no see.”

“Been a good boy, Joe.”

“Putting me outta business, Rob.”

“Thought I’d take a shake and a bite.”

“Coming right up. What flavor?”

 

Mr. Smith had a banana shake and a hamburger. He had changed his mind about the French toast. He ate a fried hamburger with tomato sauce and onions. It was good to see Joe again.

 

Mr. Smith was forty and Doctor Macmillan had told him. No fries, no cigarettes, no booze, but what the hell? He wanted a drink. You couldn’t trust these Orientals. Only to do shirts.

 

Joe told Mr. Smith, Rob, that Wong had closed down on Friday. Wasn’t taking no more orders. Probably open Monday to return the work he had already. Joe talks a little to Rob about the old days. Remember how you smashed the lamp with the pool cue, Rob? Remember when you didn’t want to go home and I made a bed for you on the pool-table? Mr. Smith remembers these things. Mr. Smith, Rob, says that he might have a little beer before going home. Rob tells Joe that, gee, it’s good to see him again.

 

Rob leaves Joe’s it’s about midday. He walks past Wong’s door. On it is a little sign that says “Wong’s. Opening times 9 - 6, Saturdays 9 - 1”. All the other stores open all day Saturday. Rob is carrying a little brown paper bag. He had promised his daughter, he knew, but inside it was a fifth of Scotch. Anyway, she was away at college. No one would know. His wife wouldn’t even care. She was in Sacramento. She left him a few years after he came back from Nam. About that time he couldn’t stop drinking. And the drugs. Only his daughter cared. She had stayed with him as much as she could since she was eighteen. She was twenty-one now, and planned to teach in the local High when she finished college next year. He knew the principal. He could get her a job. No problem. The problem was his shirts. What would he wear to work on Monday? He particularly wanted the double-stitched, button-down Oxford-blue shirt. He got into the Buick and started for home.

 

After lunch Rob phoned 46792. Mr. Wong was there, but wasn’t opening. He could collect his shirts on Monday, but they weren’t pressed. Wong had released his staff on Thursday. He was moving to Sacramento at the end of next week. Mr. Smith asked if he could pick up the shirts that afternoon, as Mr. Wong was there. Mr. Smith put down the receiver. In the kitchen he opened the fifth of Scotch, poured himself a large measure, and felt much better, like the old days.

 

The second time Mr. Smith, Rob, went out was about five in the afternoon. He had the Scotch on the seat next to him. It made him feel like someone was with him. It was almost half-empty. Bill Sutter, in the Hunting and Fishing Store asked him, when he sold him the cartridges, if he was going away for the weekend. “Sure”, says Rob. Rob walked along the mall-front to Wong’s, knocked on the door, went in, and came out after a minute or so. He had the Oxford-blue shirt, but it was ruined. He would never manage to get the bloodstains out. He got home and parked the Buick in the driveway. Then he went upstairs to bed to sleep, or to try to sleep.