My Story Published in Hob Nob Magazine

story based on the painting NIGHTHAWKS by Edward Hopper, 1942. It hangs in the Instutute of Art in Chicago.

NIGHTHAWKS

Fat Tom

by

Archie L. Tautfest, Jr.

"Want a cup of Joe"

You ask me, what's new, well I'll tell ya, not much. Things have been kinda slow lately. That push in the Pacific is sure drainin' things here. They're only given gas stamps to doctors and such. Makes it hard for anybody to get around.

Yeah, I lost the afternoon guy, he went into the army a couple of days ago. No, I'm not even going to replace him, things are too slow.

Oh. Did I tell ya about the other night. It was eleven thirty P.M. or so, and like always I was cleanin', when in walks this guy, the neighborhood calls, Fat Tom. Now when they say fat, their talking battleship size.

Anyways, Fat Tom sets at the far end of the counter, 'cause thats the only place there's two stools open. As he walks to the far end of the counter, he says, " Hi." to a few of the customers, and they says, " hi." back.

Now Fat Tom, he always is known for a joke or two, but right off when he sits down, I can see by the look on his kisser, that he's not too happy.

When he gets settled on the two stools, I says to him, "Hi fats. Coffee and pie?".

"No, I think I'll just have coffee tonight.", says fats.

Well, now I know somethin' is wrong. Besides always having a joke or two, he got a loud voice, as big as he is. But not tonight. Fats' voice sounds like a dolls voice, kinda soft and the like.

I give Fats his java, and I go back to cleanin', and takin' care of my customers. About four cups later, Fats speaks up and says, "Maybe I'll have the pie now.".

"Okay. Sure thing.", I says, as I wipe my hand on my apron and cut a large slice of apple pie.

"Cheese on it?", I asks.

"No thank you.", he says.

Well the place has cleared out by now, so there's only Fats and me. So when I take him his pie, I stop and talk.

"What brings you out tonight?", I asks.

"Oh nothing. I just been walking.", he says.

"Yeah, where to?", I asks.

"No place in particular. Just walking and thinking.", he says.

"Anything good? Thinking that is?", I asks.

"They tell me I've got to loose two hundred pounds.", he says.

"Who tells you?", I says.

"The draft board.", he says.

"Draft board?", I asks.

"Yeah. About three weeks ago I get a letter from the draft board, they tell me that I'm going to be drafted, unless there is some reason that I think I can't serve my country.", Fats says, then he went on, "Now looks at me, do you think I can fight the Nazis or the Japs. Maybe if I fell on a couple of them, I could kill 'em."

"Well, did ya talk to the draft board?", I asks.

"Yeah, I wrote a letter.", he says.

"Didn't that help?", I asks.

"Nope. They sent me another letter saying that I sounded like a malinger and that I would have to arrange a meeting with them unless I wanted to go to jail."

"So?", I says.

"So, I meet with the board this afternoon.", he says.

"What'd they have to say?", I ask.

"They take a look at me, and tell me that I look healthy enough and that all I have to do is loose two hundred pounds.

"Maybe they're right. It may take a while.", I says.

"Sure, it'll take a long while and they only gave me ninety days."

"Ninety days?", I asks.

"Yeah, ninety days. They tell me if I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life in Ft. Leavenworth Prison.", he says.

Now I ain't no Doc or anything, but I do know that as big as Fat Tom is, there ain't no way he'll loose two hundred pounds in ninety days. I also knows that he ain't gunna loose two hundred pounds in two hundred days.

"Have ya talked to your doctor?", I asks.

"Yeah, he's going to write a letter but I don't think that'll do any good.", he says.
"Do you want another piece of pie?", I asks.

"Sure, I've got to do something to keep my mind off my problems?", he says.

While I'm getting another slice of pie, Fat Tom's got his basketball size head in his ham like hands, saying over and over, "What I'm going to do? What I'm going to do?"

As he's moaning, I set the piece of pie in front of him, and turn around to get him a refill on his coffee. When I turn back to set the full mug in front of him, I see the piece of pie is gone.

"Did you drop the pie on the floor?", I asks.

"No. I ate it.", he says kinda hurt like.

"Oh.", I says. I ain't seen nobody eat a piece of pie that fast before.

"You have anymore of that pie?", he asks.

"Sure.", I says, and I dish him up another piece of pie.

For the next hour or so, I listen to Fat Tom moan about spendin' his life in jail and how he's heard that the pen serves lousy chow and what is his family's gunna say when the Draft Board carts him off to jail. And on and on and on. It's a good thing I don't have other customers during that time or Fat Tom's whinin' would've run them out.

I got to tell you, in that hour or so I got a lot of cleanin' done, but I was still listenin' to Fats cry about how could anyone do this to him.

Finally I says to him, "Look Fat Tom, if you go down to the induction center and the doctors see you, they'll list you as 4-F and then you're clean with the draft board."

Well Fat Tom picks his head out of his hands and stares at me for a long moment, then a large grin comes on his fat mug.

"Great, Great idea. Why didn't I think of that. Great. Phillie I could kiss you. I don't have to go to jail.", Fat Tom says. Then he goes on 'bout how God is smilin' on him.

Well that's not the end of the story 'bout Fat Tom. You see Fat Tom is so happy 'bout what I suggested that he orders a burger. Then another, then another and....

When he gets done eating that night, I have to wait and open an hour late the next morning. You see, he eats everything I have on hand, so I have to wait the next morning, until the delivery man comes, so I've got something to serve.

No Fat Tom didn't go in the Army, and no he didn't go to jail for the rest of his life. He was classified 4-F and as far as I know he's still eating like always.

Like I said there's nothin' goin' on , things are slow.

"Want a refill of Joe"



07-14-87

COLD DARK NIGHT

COLD DARK NIGHT

By

Archie L. Tautfest Jr.

The man walked through the cold night air. His head bent down to hide his face from the sharp, knife like wind. He had his hat pulled down over his ears, first to keep his ears warm and second to keep the wind from carrying his hat into the next street.

In this part of town the streetlights cast a pale yellow glow in small pools beneath where they stood. Up town the streetlights were the bright blue-white lights of the Arc light. But in the dank river front neighborhood it was still the old yellow jaundice type streetlights.

Before the man rounded the corner he stopped. He pulled the collar of his jacket higher on his neck. He looked over his shoulder and then slowly peered around the corner of the building. No one was in sight. He took another look over his shoulder and then he stepped around the corner and resumed his hunched over walk.

A half block after turning the corner the man stopped. He didn't move. He had heard a noise that didn't belong on a night like this. He slowly turned his head so he could look back over the half block he had just walked. Nothing, he saw nothing. He carefully viewed the street in front of him. Nothing.

There was a sound, a sound that he had heard before. The distinct sound of metal sliding on metal, it was the slide of a gun being cocked. He knew that sound after spending three tours in Vietnam. … He knew that sound. Even with the wind making it's own noises, the man knew the sound of metal sliding on metal.

All he wanted to do was get home. Home, it was a home to him. To others it may have looked like a boarded up warehouse, but to him it was home. He had a bottle hidden in his secret place. Just to get home and find his friend. That's all he wanted to do.

But he knew that they had been watching him. He told them that he hadn't seen anything. But he knew that they knew that he'd seen the long black car stop beside the Dumpster.

He'd seen two men in tuxedos get out of the car and the man that had been driving had opened the trunk. Both men had reached into the trunk and pulled out a large bundle. It was heavy because it took the two men two tries to get the bundle into the Dumpster.

It was then that the driver saw the figure hiding in the corner of the building next to the Dumpster.
The man pretended to be sleeping. It didn't stop the driver from kicking him in the stomach. The other man grabbed the drive by the sleeve and pulled him towards the car.
They got into the car and drove away, but not before they both had gotten a good look at the man they had just been kicking.

Now they were hunting him. …Really, they were no longer hunting him, they had found him. This was going to be the end. Three tours in Vietnam with no scratches and now he was going to meet his end here on one of the back street of the city
.
He kept walking. The end is the end. If only he has his bottle. That would be good. Him and his bottle, one last drink.
He didn't see the man hiding in the shadows. He didn't hear the noise or see the flash that came from the barrel of the gun. He didn't feel the slug hit him in the heart. Nor did he feel himself fall on his face, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

The man with the gun walked over to the lifeless figure lying on the sidewalk. With the toe of his shoe he rolled the limp figure over so the lifeless body was looking up at him.

As the man with the gun walked down the alley toward the street, he muttered, "Damn...wrong guy."