The Codger

An Excerpt from the Novel The Codger and the Sparrow by Scott Semegran

1.

A wise old woman once told Hank, “The only two women who should ever bear witness to your pecker are your mother—when you’re a baby—and your wife—when you’re married. Anyone else is just asking for trouble.” This was, of course, Hank’s grandmother who told him this, although he could never think of the reason why she told him this. He often thought of this nugget of wisdom—more so now that he was becoming as old as dirt, day by day—whenever he had thoughts of other women besides his mother or his wife. Both were gone now—his mother and his wife—as well as his grandmother. But whenever he thought about a woman, he thought of what his Irish grandmother told him.

Trouble? he chuckled to himself. He rolled the question around in his mouth along with the last swig of Whiskey Old-Fashioned. Hogwash, he concluded.

Hank sat at the bar of his favorite neighborhood hangout, Home Runs—cigarette smoke in the air, one barstool occupied down the bar from him, distorted karaoke singers serenading strangers in another room out of sight, yellowed ceiling tiles sagging. Like a gargoyle, Hank slumped on his stool, his fists like boulders on either side of his empty lowball glass, tufts of white hair below his weathered knuckles. Jack the bartender wiped bar glasses with a dish rag. He was at least half Hank’s age, twice as tall with twice as much hair, but that didn’t bother Hank. He liked the guy despite his youth and nice head of hair. When Jack was a teenager, his hair was long and shiny and all the girls at his high school swooned over his hair. When Hank was in high school, all the girls swooned over the hair of the four lads from Liverpool, the Beatles, which was nothing like his own military-style buzz cut.

“Want another?” Jack said to him.

Hank nodded. “Yup.”

“Coming up,” Jack said, grabbing a bottle of top-shelf whiskey from behind him, then beginning his ritual of concocting Hank’s favorite drink: Whiskey Old-Fashioned. He mixed fresh simple syrup stirred with an ounce and a half of whiskey, a dash of orange bitters in a stirring glass, orange peel rubbed along the rim of the drinking glass, one amarena cherry with a dribble of syrup, and a single large ice cube in it. There was only one problem: Jack’s jar of amarena cherries was empty, and he knew Hank despised maraschino cherries, a lowly replacement for the rich darker berry. Hatred wasn’t a strong enough word for Hank’s ill feelings toward maraschino cherries. “I’ve got to get a new jar from the back,” he told Hank, thumbing toward the storeroom. “And I’ve something to ask you when I get back. Okay?”

Hank nodded. Jack quickly vanished.

But Hank wasn’t alone. At the other end of the bar sat Ernie, a drunk that Hank rarely conversed with nowadays, but saw regularly at Home Runs, one of about a dozen familiar faces that Hank recognized in his favorite hangout. Ernie’s facial features were undeniable—bent, crumpled, and bashed like the wreckage of an auto accident. He glared at Hank as if he knew Hank’s deepest, darkest secret, which had something to do with Hank’s involvement in a plot to overthrow the US Federal Government. Or possibly that Hank was putting the moves on Ernie’s wife or his ugly sister—the other half of the familial wreckage. It was hard to say. Ernie grunted something. Hank shrugged. A woman pretending to be Donna Summers squealed from the other room, working extra hard for her money. Ernie’s face burned red. Jack returned, placing the new jar of dark Italian cherries on the bar, then continued with his concoction.

“The last time you were here,” Jack began, opening the jar of cherries, then smiling at Hank. “You were telling me about reconnecting with an old flame. Is that right?” He spooned out a cherry and a bit of burgundy syrup, dropping it in the lowball glass. Hank’s hands merged, fingers interlacing. He was longing to hold that next cocktail.

“Yup,” Hank said, then snorted. “High school sweetheart.”

“Really? That’s wild.” Jack stirred the whiskey, bitters, and simple syrup, then poured it into Hank’s glass. He set the cocktail on a black bar napkin.

Hank toasted Jack, then took a slurp of his cocktail. Satisfied, he carefully set the glass back on the napkin.

“She lives near Houston. Found her online a few months ago. She seems to still be fond of me. At least I think so.”

Jack’s face lit up with astonishment. “Really? You contacted her?!”

“Yup,” Hank began, then stammered. “Well, I wanted to, but . . . ”

A grin slid across Jack’s face. “You sly son of a—”

Suddenly, Ernie cleared his throat, a harsh sound like an envelope being ripped open. “You gonna tell her how your wife and kid died?” Ernie blurted, then smirked, the lame attempt at a smile appearing on his mangled mug like a gash in a potato.

Hank turned to Ernie, angrier than a trapped raccoon. Now, that was Hank’s deepest, darkest secret—not overthrowing the US government or boinking Ernie’s wife or ugly sister. Had he said it aloud at Home Runs after drinking one too many cocktails? Had he drunkenly confessed his darkest hours, days, and weeks after his loved ones’s untimely and unfortunate deaths to anyone who would listen at the bar, and simply forgotten? Hank couldn’t remember how Ernie knew this about his lovely wife or his beautiful daughter, but he wasn’t in the mood to engage with Ernie either. He wanted to punch that smug face, but he knew better. He could destroy him with one decisive punch. He knew that much. Just knowing that satisfied him, but he wasn’t going to let this slight on Ernie’s part go unremedied.

“Suck a donkey dingle,” Hank pronounced, then turned back to his drink, placing his protective fists on either side of his sweating glass.

Jack bellowed. “Burn! You hear that, Ernie?” He placed his hands over his stomach, quelling his laughter. “Oh my god. That’s the best.”

Hank’s propensity to not curse—no matter the circumstances—was legendary at this point, and his colorful replacements for the run-of-the-mill vulgarities offered whoever was listening a humorous respite from profanity. Ernie’s face burned red again—a hotter and more malicious shade than before—then he abruptly left the building, scurrying away like a rodent without finishing his light beer or paying Jack for his tab.

Hank slurped some more of his cocktail with a carefree tilt of his glass.

Jack chuckled. “I can’t believe you just told Ernie to suck a donkey dick.”

“Dingle. I don’t cuss.”

“Dick. Dingle. Whatever. That was awesome. Your next drink is on me!”

“Put it on my tab. I’ve got to go after I finish this one,” he said, taking another sip.

“You got it,” Jack said, scribbling Hank’s request on a pad of paper. “You going home?”

“Yup.”

“See you next time, then.”

Hank nodded, finished his drink, carefully set his glass on the napkin, then lumbered out the door.

It was late, the tarp of night having already lain over the strip mall where Home Runs resided, right outside his neighborhood, Wells Port. The sordid nightlife business of Home Runs occupied the building’s left end, staying open long past the other family businesses had closed. Hank’s lugubrious march to his car was accompanied by the jangle of his keys in his pocket. He wondered how he got his meaty hand in his cramped pocket in the first place as he struggled to pull it out, then stopped to concentrate when he heard a familiar voice call out.

“Hey!” the voice hollered, cracking at the tail end.

With his hand still trapped in his pocket, Hank looked up to discover Ernie standing several feet away—his stiff arms by his sides, a knife in his right hand, his left hand clenched in a taut fist, and the mostly empty parking lot spreading out behind him. The four-inch blade twinkled like a distant star. No one else seemed to be around except for a gleaming black car idling in front of the convenience store at the end of the strip mall. The air was still and humid. The interstate hummed on the horizon. Cicadas chirped from the surrounding oak and ash trees, filling the night with a distant lively buzz. Hank’s hand came out of his pocket—finally—without a struggle, rolling into an angry fist. He planted his feet like he was trained long ago to do, while a young man on a team of varsity pugilists, in an era like ancient history. But the lessons were sturdy, like his fighting stance.

“You embarrassed me . . . ” Ernie said, adjusting the handle of the knife in his shaky hand.

Hank didn’t move. He examined Ernie’s stance—the wobble in his knees, his fidgety hands, and the way his bloodshot eyes darted away and back at him. Ernie had been in a few fights in his life, but Hank had been in a thousand fights and would be in many, many more.

Ernie continued. “ . . . in front of everybody.”

“Just Jack,” Hank said.

“That’s everybody,” Ernie said, then he lunged.

In a split second, Hank landed a swift, decisive punch into Ernie’s bulbous nose, sending him backward, his arms flailing, his feet dancing an uncoordinated two-step, the knife clanking on the asphalt a few feet away. Soon after Ernie’s body hit the ground, red and blue lights flashed from the grill of the black car parked at the convenience store. The unmarked car chirped a couple of times, then rolled toward the street fighters. Once it reached them, headlights glaring, the car chirped once more. A plain-clothes cop popped out, a silver badge attached to his shirt, a neatly trimmed moustache above his slit of mouth.

“All right, turn around. Put your hands above your head,” the officer in plain clothes said.

Hank, a man who respected authority, complied. He sighed. “I was only protecting myself. He attacked me.”

“We’ll let the court see the dashcam video, but I’ve got to take you downtown nonetheless,” the officer said, cuffing Hank’s thick wrists. “Jesus, these cuffs barely fit.”

“Yup,” Hank replied.

The officer placed a hand on Hank’s head as he pushed him into the back of the unmarked police car.

“We’ll wait until EMS comes for your friend, then I’ll drive you downtown.”

Hank sighed again. “He’s not my friend.”

He sat in the backseat and watched through the tinted window until the ambulance came and took stinky Ernie away. He then watched out the window as the police car drove south on I-35, past parts of Austin he hadn’t seen in a while: the 183 flyover, Airport Boulevard, Darrell K Royal Texas Memorial Stadium, the University of Texas Tower, the Texas Capitol, the changing skyline of downtown, all of which sailed by within reflections of orange, pink, and yellow neon. The whiskey Hank consumed that night penetrated every artery, vein, and capillary in his body, stretching time into nonexistence. He wasn’t aware of how long it took to get downtown, or how long it took to get through jail processing. He answered when he was asked questions, things like his name and where he lived, any other declarations they requested. He was fingerprinted and photographed. An officer asked him to take off his clothes, bend over, and spread his butt cheeks. When he stood back up, he could see his lumpy, pasty reflection in the officer’s glasses. From a distance, he looked like The Thing—the deformed, orange, rocky strongman from the superhero group the Fantastic Four. His torso was short and stocky like an oak tree trunk, his hands and feet massive and bulbous with craggy knuckles, and his silver hair sticking straight up as if electrically shocked. As a child, his mother had to custom order his shoes, as his feet were massive then. He preferred sneakers to loafers, even now. He looked down at his shriveled pecker and wondered if the wisdom his grandmother imparted on him included a curious police officer witnessing his wilted carrot in a holding cell. He blinked, then found himself in a pink jumpsuit and rubber flip-flops, being escorted—handcuffed again—to where he would spend the night. A cell door opened. His cuffs were removed. He was asked to step inside—the concrete chamber smelling dank and putrid—then the door slammed closed behind him.

Hank quickly discovered the small cinderblock room’s bunk beds were already occupied—the lower one by a motionless lump, the upper one by a wheezing monster—so he sat on the concrete floor, his back against the cold wall, his legs splayed out in front of him.

This isn’t how I imagined this night would end, he thought. Hogwash.

He remembered serene evenings with his wife and daughter, roasted chicken for dinner, board games afterwards, the routine of it sometimes numbing then, but the placidity of these family dinners seemed heavenly now. He sighed.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

When the sun’s orange glow illuminated the cell through a tiny, grimy window, a small opening appeared in the middle of the cell door and three brown paper bags were shoved through, plopping on the floor. Hank grabbed one and opened it, finding a peanut butter sandwich, a bruised apple, and a carton of two-percent milk inside. But he wasn’t hungry, nor did he care to try the offerings from the jail guards. He set the bag on the floor and waited for someone to get him—his cellmates still snoring, his mind racing with uncertainty. It took a couple of hours, but they eventually came for him.

Hank was handcuffed to five other criminals and led down a concrete hallway to a large service elevator. They descended to the second floor—accompanied by a tall and lanky police officer—and led down another hallway to court room number two, the place where Hank might find justice or punishment; it could go either way, really. On his left was a sweaty young Latino man with halitosis and a scraggly goatee who muttered in Spanish. On his right was a Black man who Hank surmised was about the same age as he was, the man’s hair mostly white, his eyes yellowed, and his shoulders rigid, tendons stringing his neck like an old steel bridge.

“This is some bullshit,” the Black man declared.

“Yup,” Hank agreed.

They didn’t wait long before being led into court room number two. The six men sat in a pew to themselves. Hank looked around and most of the other pews were occupied by a similar group of miscreants, all colors and all men, not a single woman amongst them. It was like a church for the condemned; a chapel for male convicts. Hank didn’t think he was a convict, but that wouldn’t be up to him.

A door at the back of the courtroom opened and the court reporter quickly stood up, the bailiff ordering the accused to rise for the judge, an elderly woman so short and slight that she appeared to levitate to the judge’s bench.

“Please be seated,” Judge Richards ordered them, her name etched in gold letters on a block of dark, lacquered wood. A streak of white ran the length of her black hair. Gold glasses daintily sat on her pointy nose. The courtroom deputy, a young man who looked like a teenager, handed Judge Richards a stack of papers. She sighed, then called out, “Malarkey!”

Hank chuckled. She peered in his direction.

Judge Richards cleared her throat. “This is how it’s going down on this beautiful morning. I’ll call out a name and you will stand. I’ll read your charge and you will declare your plea: guilty or not guilty. If you plead guilty, then I will sentence you accordingly. If you plead not guilty—”

The room erupted with hoots and hollers. Judge Richards smacked her gavel against the sound block on her desk.

“Silence, you knuckleheads!” she said, then sighed. “If you plead not guilty, then a court date will be set for your trial. Understood?”

The knuckleheads hummed an acknowledgement. Judge Richards shuffled the papers on her desk, then lifted one.

“Jackson, Melvin,” she called out.

The Black man on Hank’s right stood up, his left hand cuffed to Hank’s right. He smelled of farts, menthol cigarettes, and WD-40. As a kid, he smelled of farts, bubblegum, and WD-40. He had never done anything in his life that would’ve gotten him in trouble with the law. Ever. He was as good as a person can be, except he had atrocious luck. And he was a Black man.

Judge Richards continued. “Mr. Jackson, you’ve been accused of stealing loaves of bread at a bakery. How do you plead?”

“Ma’am, I didn’t steal no loaves of bread. The police are always accusing me of wrongdoing when there was no wrong doing.”

“Mr. Jackson—”

“Ma’am, I thought I paid for all the bread. Honest to God!”

“Mr. Jackson!” she cut in.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”

“Mr. Jackson, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

“Fine. Your court date is September twelfth. If you can make bail, then you can go.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Melvin said, then sat back down next to Hank. He shook his head.

Judge Richards cleared her throat. “O’Sullivan, Henry.”

Hank stood up, Melvin’s hand rising with him. “Hank, ma’am. I prefer to be called Hank.”

The judge stared at Hank, then read the sheet of paper aloud. “Mr. O’Sullivan, you’ve been charged with assault and disorderly conduct. How do you plead?”

“Well, your honor, I am guilty of punching Ernie, but he deserved it. Besides, he had a knife, so it was self-defense.”

The knuckleheads hummed in agreement.

“But you’re still pleading guilty?”

“Yes, I did punch him. That’s true.”

Judge Richards looked up from the piece of paper while the court deputy returned with a different sheet of paper in hand. He gave it to the judge, who then read it. After considering what was on it, she said, “There’s a statement from the arresting police officer corroborating that the other perpetrator had a knife.”

“Yup.”

The knuckleheads chuckled.

The judge picked up the other sheet of paper and read it. “And it appears you have a clean record.”

“That’s right,” Hank agreed.

“But in the end, the guilty must pay. So I sentence you to forty hours of community service. Do you have anything else to say?”

“No ma’am,” Hank said.

“All righty then,” she said, then handed the sheets of paper concerning Henry “Hank” O’Sullivan to the court deputy. “Next up: Salazar, Marco.”

The sweaty young Latino man to Hank’s left stood up, lifting Hank’s left hand with him. “Sí,” he answered.

On Hank’s right, Melvin elbowed him, then leaned in.

“I told you. This is some bullshit,” Melvin whispered.

“Yup,” Hank agreed. “I hope it doesn’t cost me much.”

“You know it.”

Then they listened to Judge Richards tell the court how Marco Salazar showed his pecker to the cleaning lady at the warehouse where he worked as a forklift driver. Hank wondered if Marco’s grandmother would be disappointed.

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