Birchbank tales

It's a night for tall trees and tall tales. The rain hustles the
tiles of the Grand Birchbranch Hunting Lodge, looking to get in, but
Old Parker on the door's having none of it. Only affiliated members and
their suitably attired friends make it past those oak doors, 'cept for
offices of the law and occasional representatives from the revenue.
Parker's been by that door a long time, seen it worn from a little
acorn into a fat old plank of wood. He knows all the members by name,
patronage and tip average. He can spot a pistol concealed in the bulge
of an ankle or the saw edge curve of a skinning knife in the way a
jacket hangs. He knows how to deal with it too. When to offer a quiet
reminder in Jim Wanderheart's ear and when to plant his legs apart,
pull his full six foot up from his boots and turn them away with a
flick of his neck. There'll be no uninvited guests tonight. It took the
Utterly boys two weeks to get the roof fixed, but the managed it.
Parker had to clamber up by the chimney himself, sat looking down on
them, telling them to get the felt good and taut, while all the while
the moaned about their safety, broke more tiles than they fixed. Still,
they did the job well enough in the end. The runoff sprays over the
gutters, a spouts clattering onto the concrete outsides the window of
the gents.

The other side of the wall Lemon is waiting to start, focusing on the
tinkle from outside. He can't ever seem to get started when he wants,
since he had his operation. Sometimes though, he starts when he least
expects it, so he has to go all the time, cursing under his sour
breath. A sniff of ammonia and disinfectant follows him
everywhere.
A young fellow walks in, stands next to him, unzips, pulls it out and
holds it with both hands. Starts right away. Lucky fellow.
"Takes me a bit longer these days" says Lemon with a laugh that comes
out as embarrassed cough. "Used to pee twenty feet when I was your age.
Still, used to be able to manage a lot of things back then. Could get a
hard on just sitting on a bus. Always sat above the wheels, you see.
Mind, I could get a hard on waiting for the bus, and that was dammed
embarrassing, let me tell you."
Young fellow isn't listening. When Lemon looks across at him his eyes
are fixed on the glacial cracks in the porcelain. He's holding himself
out from the trousers, as if he can't risk stains. Rented suit. No
wonder he looks uncomfortable. It must have looked good in the agency,
heavy cloth and sharp creases to impress the women. But in the muggy
smog of the Birchbranch's lounge Saturday night, it must be getting
pretty warm in there, that damn frilly shirt dampening under the arms
and the wool itching at his thighs. Lemon looks at the purple blocks in
the gutter. He still hasn't started. "Nowadays," he mutters, "I can't
even get it up for Diane in the back room." The fellow is finishing up.
"Hey wash your hands." They never wash their hands. He's out the door,
so Lemon starts to whistle.

Out though the swinging bathroom door, through another door, back into
the noise of the lounge. It's humming tonight, groups of men shouting
above the singer in the corner, playing pool, or miming their last
fishing adventure. There are some women, not as many as Phil promised,
and they mostly look like wives or lovers. Baboo dances back to Phil
and the others in arcs that take him closer and further away, so he can
check out the whole room. When he gets to the bar, he shovels a handful
of nuts into his mouth and necks his beer. It's warm and it tastes
different, sharper, as if they spiked it. Can't imagine Phil would do
that. He always broke, and when he's not broke, he's too tight to spike
anyone but himself. Baboo isn't so sure about the other guy's, Phil's
accounts. They're all wise guys, big movers in P.R. out on a
promotional freebie. Maybe it's laugh at the dumb junior night.
Birchbranch is supposed to be the smartest private members club for a
hundred miles, but it could be the only private members club for a
hundred miles. The only club in fact, stuck up here in the middle of a
forest at the end of a roller coaster track that nearly brought back
his dinner. All the time Baboo was fighting to hold it in, Phil was
letting it out. The guy never stops talking, no matter what he's
feeling or thinking. It's just a reflex action as involuntary as
breathing or vomiting. He's still talking now. The accounts haven't
said anything for twenty minutes. They just stare open mouthed at his
stories. Are they staring at his stories or at him? Now they're
laughing so they must be laughing with him. Phil turns back to Baboo
and the smile hey-prestos of his face. He puts his hand on his
shoulder. It looks like brotherhood but it hurts like hell.
"If you don't start entertaining these morons right now," Phil whispers
in his ear, "you can empty your desk on Monday morning. Smile." He
drags Baboo back into the circle and orders drinks.
"Now Baboo," grins account 45304, "are you going to tell us how you got
that name, or can we beat it out of you."
Account 47666 explodes in the sort of laughter that little girls
normally produce. He slaps 45304 on the back so hard his drink sloshes
over Baboo's trousers. "Sorry man," he wipes his eye, "I've just got to
know."
Baboo looks for Phil, but Phil's ordering, glasses piling up around his
elbows, so he clears his throat. The whole bar seems to go quiet. The
singer stops and there is no applause, a gnat-like drone fills the
silence. Phil can feel the fire rising in his cheeks, the beacon that
burns for women and awkward situations, that draws eyes towards him,
makes him grow above the crowd.
"When I was thirteen I had a crush on my neighbour's girl. Her name was
Barbara, only I couldn't say her name on account of my stammer. I don't
have a stammer now though. I had one then and it was real bad. She was
nice to me. Out of anyone she didn't laugh at me." Baboo can see Phil
out of the corner of his eye turning back from the bar, a look of panic
spreading over his face

--This is work in progress. If you would like me to finish it, please
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