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I guess I thought it was 。 。 。 you know； a bar and grill。 Something like that。 I'll just be going。'
'e here。' The man's brown eyes were looking at him steadily now。
'No； hey； that's all right；' Jack said nervously。 'I'll just…'
'e here。 Sit down。' The man popped a wooden match alight with his thumbnail and lit the cigar。 A fly which had been preening on his paper hat buzzed away into the darkness。 His eyes remained on Jack。 'I ain't gonna bite you。'
Jack came slowly over to the booth； and after a moment he slipped in on the other side and folded his hands in front of him neatly。 Some sixty hours later； swamping out the men's toilet at twelve…thirty in the morning with his sweaty hair hanging in his eyes； Jack thought…no； he knew…that it was his own stupid confidence that had allowed the trap to spring shut （and it had shut the moment he sat down opposite Smokey Updike； although he had not known it then）。 The Venus flytrap is able to close on its hapless； insectile victims； the pitcher plant； with its delicious smell and its deadly； glassy…smooth sides； only waits for some flying asshole of a bug to buzz on down and inside 。 。 。 where it finally drowns in the rainwater the pitcher collects。 In Oatley the pitcher was full of beer instead of rainwater…that was the only difference。
If he had run…
But he hadn't run。 And maybe； Jack thought； doing his best to meet that cold brown stare； there would be a job here after all。 Minette Banberry； the woman who owned and operated the Golden Spoon in Auburn； had been pleasant enough to Jack； had even given him a little hug and a peck of a kiss as well as three thick sandwiches when he left； but he had not been fooled。 Pleasantness and even a remote sort of kindness did not preclude a cold interest in profits； or even something very close to outright greed。
The minimum wage in New York was three dollars and forty cents an hour…that information had been posted in the Golden Spoon's kitchen by law； on a bright pink piece of paper almost the size of a movie poster。 But the short…order cook was a Haitian who spoke little English and was almost surely in the country illegally； Jack thought。 The guy cooked like a whiz； though； never allowing the spuds or the fried clams to spend a moment too long in the Fryolaters。 The girl who helped Mrs。 Banberry with the waitressing was pretty but vacant and on a work…release program for the retarded in Rome。 In such cases； the minimum wage did not apply； and the lisping； retarded girl told Jack with unfeigned awe that she was getting a dollar and twenty…five cents each hour； and all for her。
Jack himself was getting a dollar…fifty。 He had bargained for that； and he knew that if Mrs。 Banberry hadn't been strapped…her old dishwasher had quit just that morning； had gone on his coffee…break and just never e back…she would not have bargained at all； would have simply told him take the buck and a quarter； kid； or see what's down the road。 It's a free country。
Now； he thought； with the unknowing cynicism that was also a part of his new self…confidence； here was another Mrs。 Banberry。 Male instead of female； rope…skinny instead of fat and grandmotherly； sour instead of smiling； but almost surely a Mrs。 Banberry for a' that and a' that。
'Looking for a job； huh？' The man in the white pants and the paper hat put his cigar down in an old tin ashtray with the word CAMELS embossed on the bottom。 The fly stopped washing its legs and took off。
'Yes； sir； but like you say； this is a bar and all…'
The unease stirred in him again。 Those brown eyes and yellowed scleras troubled him…they were the eyes of some old hunting cat that had seen plenty of errant mice like him before。
'Yeah； it's my place；' the man said。 'Smokey Updike。' He held his hand out。 Surprised； Jack shook it。 It squeezed Jack's hand once； hard； almost to the point of pain。 Then it relaxed 。 。 。 but Smokey didn't let go。 'Well？' he said。
'Huh？' Jack said； aware he sounded stupid and a little afraid…he felt stupid and a little afraid。 And he wanted Up…dike to let go of his hand。
'Didn't your folks ever teach you to innerduce yourself？'
This was so unexpected that Jack came close to gabbling out his real name instead of the one he had used at the Golden Spoon； the name he also used if the people who picked him up asked for his handle。 That name…what he was ing to think of as his 'road…name'…was Lewis Farren。
'Jack Saw…ah…Sawtelle；' he said。
Updike held his hand yet a moment longer； those brown eyes never moving。 Then he let it go。 'Jack Saw…ah…Sawtelle；' he said。 'Must be the longest fucking name in the phonebook； huh； kid？'
Jack flushed but said nothing。
'You ain't very big；' Updike said。 'You think you could manage to rock a ninety…pound keg of beer up on its side and walk it onto a hand…dolly？'
'I think so；' Jack said； not knowing if he could or not。 It didn't look as if it would be much of a problem； anyway…in a place as dead as this； the guy probably only had to change kegs when the one hooked up to the taps went flat。
As if reading his mind； Updike said； 'Yeah； nobody here now。 But we get pretty busy by four； five o'clock。 And on weekends the place really fills up。 That's when you'd earn your keep； Jack。'
'Well； I don't know；' Jack said。 'How much would the job pay？'
'Dollar an hour；' Updike said。 'Wish I could pay you more； but…' He shrugged and tapped the stack of bills。 He even smiled a little； as if to say You see how it is； kid； everything in Oatley is running down like a cheap pocket…watch someone forgot to wind…ever since about 1971 it's been running down。 But his eyes did not smile。 His eyes were watching Jack's face with still； catlike concentration。
'Gee； that's not very much；' Jack said。 He spoke slowly but he was thinking as fast as he could。
The Oatley Tap was a tomb…there wasn't even a single bombed…out old alky at the bar nursing a beer and watching General Hospital on the tube。 In Oatley you apparently drank in your car and called it a club。 A dollar…fifty an hour was a hard wage when you were busting your buns； in a place like this； a buck an hour might be an easy one。
'Nope；' Updike agreed； going back to his calculator； 'it ain't。' His voice said Jack could take it or leave it； there would be no negotiations。
'Might be all right；' Jack said。
'Well； that's good；' Updike said。 'We ought to get one other thing straight； though。 Who you running from and who's looking for you？' The brown eyes were on him again； and they drilled hard。 'If you got someone on your backtrail； I don't want him fucking up my life。'
This did not shake Jack's confidence much。 He wasn't the world's brightest kid； maybe； but bright enough to know he wouldn't last long on the road without a second cover story for prospective employers。 This was a Story #2…The Wicked Stepfather。
'I'm from a little town in Vermont；' he said。 'Fenderville。 My mom and dad got divorced two years ago。 My dad tried to get custody of me； but the judge gave me to my mom。 That's what they do most of the time。'
'Fucking…A they do。' He had gone back to his bills and was bent so far over the pocket calculator that his nose was almost touching the keys。 But Jack thought he was listening all the same。
'Well； my dad went out to Chicago and he got a job in a plant out there；' Jack said。 'He writes to me just about every week； I guess； but he quit ing back last year； when Aubrey beat him up。 Aubrey's…'
'Your stepfather；' Updike said； and for just a moment Jack's eyes narrowed and his original distrust came back。 There was no sympathy in Updike's voice。 Instead； Updike seemed almost to be laughing at him； as if he knew the whole tale was nothing but a great big swatch of whole cloth。
'Yeah；' he said。 'My mom married him a year and a half ago。 He beats on me a lot。'
'Sad； Jack。 Very sad。' Now Updike did look up； his eyes sardonic and unbelieving。 'So now you're off to Shytown； where you and Dads will live happily ever after。'
'Well； I hope so；' Jack said； and he had a sudden inspiration。 'All I know is that my real dad never hung me up by the neck in my closet。' He pulled down the neck of his T…shirt； baring the mark there。 It was fading now； during his stint at the Golden Spoon it had still been a vivid； ugly red…purple…like a brand。 But at the Golden Spoon he'd never had occasion to uncover it。 It was； of course； the mark left by the root that had nearly choked the life from him in that other world。
He was gratified to see Smokey Updike's eyes widen in surprise and what might almost have been shock。 He leaned forward； scattering some of his pink and yellow pages。 'Holy Jesus； kid；' he said。 'Your stepfather did that？'
'That's when I decided I had to split。'
'Is he going to show up here； looking for his car or his motorcycle or his wallet or his fucking dope…stash？' Jack shook his head。
Smokey looked at Jack for a moment longer； and then pushed the OFF button on the calculator。 'e on back to the storeroom with me； kid；' he said。
'Why？'
'I want to see if you can really rock one of those kegs up on its side。 If you can run me out a keg when I need one； you ca