Free My Life in Heavy Metal by Steve Almond Page A

Peck said. “You tell me.”
    It wasn’t that bad, though really, it was.
    The Don’s whole thing was fluidity. He’d glide into the bar at ten on the nose, flip a cig from his palm onto his bottom lip and let it rest there a moment while, with his other hand, he drew a pewter lighter from his cape, snicked the flame to the business end and breathed in, nice and slow. Then he’d exhale and scratch the whiskers that ran along his jaw. He looked slightly blue and debonair, like a man on top of things, with a line of people waiting for answers only he could supply.
    I loved The Don, loved his sophistication, his belief in sophistication, the part of him that seemed unflappable. He ordered Cuba Libres as a rule, whiskey sours if he’d had a bum day on the board-walk. He knew how to dance, every step you could think of, and he knew how to behave around women. Or acted as if he did, which seemed to me the same thing in those days.
    â€œWho’s the action?” he’d say.

    And I’d tell him: the sullen blond screwed to her stool after a tangle with her boyfriend, the pair of nurses drinking off their shift, a sandaled tourist gazing wistfully into her Manhattan.
    â€œWho wants to be in my mouth?” The Don would say. “Who wants to be in The Don’s mouth?”
    â€œThe blond?”
    â€œNurse with the big ass. Nurse with the big ass. Remember, Pancho: Not the prettiest. The sexiest. It’s a mystery,” he’d tell me. “But she’s the one wants in. Look at how she holds the bottle, okay? That bottle’s like my cock, okay? Not as thick as my cock, okay? But same idea.”
    I’d gaze at the plump nurse, marooned over her Heineken, and try to envision her in some ridiculous posture of abandon.
    â€œCome on,” he’d say. “It’s obvious.”
    But now the problem was the Romanians. They wanted The Don to marry some cousin of theirs, for immigration purposes, he said. She was a quivery thing, no bigger than a matchstick, with a hat that looked like a tasseled lamp shade. They hustled her into the bar one time, handling her like a package they very much wanted to be rid of. The Don ducked out the back.
    These men had returned a few times, bladelike in leather blazers. They ordered drinks and tried to look composed, pressing the heels of their hands against the bar, checking the clock, joking back and forth. Then they smashed their glasses on the ground and threw money at Peck.
    â€œFucking Romas,” Peck said. “Fucking Roma tomatoes.” Though not too loud. The owner was Romanian too.

    â€œBusboy,” Peck said. “Get your lazy ass over here. Bring your girlfriend, broom.”
    That was me. I was the busboy.
    Obviously, this arrangement was cramping The Don’s style, cutting his action, knocking his buzz. “What kind of plan is that?” he said. “Tracking me as if I were a common criminal.”
    â€œYou are,” Peck said.
    â€œThey really smashed their glasses?”
    â€œSmasharoo,” Peck said. “Smasharino.”
    The Don took a pull on his Cuba Libre. Brown dripped from his mustache. “You think this is going to rattle me? You think that?”
    Peck finished watering the vodka, and fingered the nipple. Sometimes, after hours, I’d catch him absently sucking on one; not for the booze, just for the sensation. He had sores like cherry gum-drops around his mouth. His listening skills were zilch. He’d become bartender because his predecessor had stabbed Scoonie, one of the regulars. Before that, Peck had been the busboy.
    â€œYou think I’m rattled?” The Don said again.
    â€œLike a jig’s dice,” Peck said. “Yeah.”
    â€œPut a fin on that?”
    â€œMake it a deuce.”
    The Don winced quickly and scissored an oniony twenty onto the bar. He produced an eel-skin pouch embossed with the letters DVP—Peck claimed The Don had