For a cup’a’joe
July 14, 1959
Chicago, Illinois
He’d had the second of his occasional twice-weekly day-labor jobs yesterday. Afterwards, reciprocating to a friend that had popped for drinks on one of his non-working days, the derelict had spent the remainder of that day’s wage, as usual, by staggering from one gin mill to another, that, in this skid row area of Chicago’s West Madison Street were in more than ample abundance.
At 5:12 a.m. …
“’Ay, man!”
As had become his habit… “All food establishments remaining open twenty-four hours a day,” so said the Chicago regulations, “must close at least one hour per day for clean up.” So…
After relieving his brother, on warm mornings, leaving the double doors open, the man would pull the steel barred, diamond-shaped accordion gate to a closed position and lock the lock.
However, extremely distracted on this day, he had merely slipped the hasp of the Master Lock through the staple of the adjoining hasp, then, as always, the man began to…
“’Ay, man!”
Having swept the floor, now mopping the floor, “huh?” His back to the door, turning, he saw the unkempt, vaguely familiar black man.
“Needs me a cup’a’joe!”
Being a good humored, generous man he had done it on hundreds of occasions and normally would have poured coffee into a takeout cup, handed it through the gate and given it to the bum.
Far from his usual mood on this day however, wondering if it wasn’t past time he took his head out of the sand and see his wife for what he knew—for what he had known—she was and what she did, but could not admit to; in an uncharacteristically bad mood, “sorry,” the man—wearing a long white apron over his neatly pressed slacks and sport shirt, said—“we’re closed. Come back later.”
Having taken advantage of this man in the past, “’Ay,” wrapping his hands around a bar, rattling the gate, “all’s I want’s a cup’a’joe!”
“Look, I told you, we’re closed now!”
“Yeah, I know’s ya tol’ me!” Noticing the lock was not locked, “but…” slipping the hasp from the staple, pulling the gate open, coming into the restaurant, “I need’s me a cup’a’joe, now!”
“God-damn-it!” Dropping it, the mop handle fell between two stools where it clattered against the Formica counter. “I told you: not now!”
Taking two steps forward, “Get the hell out of here!” Putting both hands onto his chest, shoving, the man pushed the derelict against the partially open gate.
“’Ay!” Pushing back, coming closer, shaking a fist in the man’s face. “All’s I want’s a cup’a your God-damned, fuckin’ joe!”
Thinking it would scare him away, speaking from between clenched teeth, “If you don’t get the hell out of here right now…” Moving the apron aside, the man exposed the wood-grain handle of a snub-nosed .38 caliber pistol that was tucked beneath his belt. But the threat remained unfinished because…
Shoving again, the derelict pushed the man backwards, where, tripping on the mop handle, off balance, the man stumbled between the stools and…
As he stumbled, jerking the pistol from the man’s belt…
July 14, 1959: Peoria, Illinois
7:22 a.m.
“Hello.”
“Mitch, it’s Roger.”
Pouring a cup of coffee, “hi!” putting the pot on the stove, glancing at the clock, “what’s up?”
Speaking in a strangely flat voice, “Is my sister,”—which, for conversations he’d had with Roger, did not sound all that strange—“uh, is Marsha around?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Having a long cord, the one phone in the house was on the dining room side of the adjoining wall. Inadvertently glancing at his son, who was sitting on the floor watching television, then at the stairway. “Guess she’s still in the bathroom.” Never getting a phone call from his brother-in-law, let alone one at 7:22 a.m., “Is something wrong?”
The line silent a number of seconds, “Yeah,” Roger finally said. “Tell my sister that dad had a, uh, accident and that you guys should come on home.”
“An accident? Yeah, sure, Roge. How is he? A car accident?”
The line silent again… “No… he got shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yeah, look…” Obviously not wanting to talk of this, hesitating again, “I can’t talk anymore. You guys just come home as soon as you can! Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. We’ll be there at about,” looking at the clock, judging how long it will take them to get ready to leave, “twelve, twelve-thirty, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, okay. See you then.” Roger said, then hung up.
Putting the phone on the cradle, trying to think how to tell Marsha. As he walked to the stairs, she was coming down the stairs.
“Who was that? Who’d call at this time,” Marsha asked, “a customer?”
“No, your brother, and he…”
“My brother called?”
“Yeah, And he said that we should come there now because…”
“Now? He wants us to come to Chicago, now? Why?”
“He said there was some kind of an accident, and…”
“An accident?”
“Yes.” Thinking if he remained calm, hopefully she would too. “He said that…”
“What kind of accident? Who…”
“I don’t know how it happened, Marcie, but…”
“Mitchell, an accident with who? Who got hurt?”
“Marcie, it was your dad. He…”
All vestige of calmness gone, “Daddy!” Her voice catching, “what happened to daddy?”
“Your brother… Roger said that… That your dad, uh…”
Rushing to the phone, about to grab it, it rang. “Yes!”
“Marsha…”
“Aunt Ida, what’s wrong?”
“We didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but thinking about it we thought it best to let you know because…”
In panic, “let me know what?”
“We didn’t want the three of you rushing home and getting into an accident yourselves, but…”
Her voice rising, “Aunt Ida, please! What happened to daddy?”
“This morning, before he opened, some bum, some dirty, God-dammed bum came into the store, and… The bastard shot your father!”
“Daddy? Shot?” Not allowing herself to think it, “How… How is he?”
Struggling to find words, the line was silent a moment. “That’s why there’s no need to rush here,” Ida said. “Marcie, Eli… Your father’s dead.”
