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Old Times

Alan Swyer

    His head throbbing, Mike Hajeski pulled the covers over his head in a futile attempt to ignore the ringing of the doorbell. Only when that gave way first to knocking, then to banging, did he finally lift himself out of bed, an effort that was nearly undermined by what, during his baseball days, he would have termed a Big League hangover.
    Still garbed in clothes worn the night before, and far from certain how he made it home after rounds of boilermakers at a place that was a dive bar well before that term came into fashion, Hajeski tried to keep his balance as he stumbled toward the front door. All the while, he was prepping himself for what he would say if the pain-in-the-ass turned out to be some kid selling magazine subscriptions, or a Jehovah’s Witnesses eager to save his sorry soul – not that such pests appeared often in his downtrodden part of Newark.
    Trying without much luck to rub the drowsiness from his bleary eyes, Hajeski unlocked the door, then gaped at a vaguely familiar figure backlit by the morning sun.
    “I-I know you,” Hajeski mumbled, generating a nod from the tall guy in a sport jacket and slacks standing there. “High school, right?” Another nod. “You were the white guy on the basketball team.”
    “Me and Ronnie Angelo.”
    “I remember him. Moved to California or something. Tell me your name.”
    “Ed. Ed Gault.”
    “Who everybody called Steady Eddie. You were a grade behind me?”
    “Two.”
    “Hey, come on in. It’s not much, but –”
    “I don’t want to –”
    “C’mon... It’s not every day I get to shoot the shit with somebody from way back when.”
    Taking Gault’s arm, Hajeski ushered him into his apartment, then cleared away a sweatshirt and an old sports section from an easy chair. “Sit,” he said, giving Gault a chance to glance around at the furnishings, which seemed to come from multiple thrift shops. “You and I seen each other since high school?”
    “Not that I can remember.”
    “Get you something? Coffee, if instant’s okay? Or something with more of a kick to it?”
    “I’m all right.”
    “Well I’m sure as hell not.”
    Gault watched Hajeski reach for a bottle of Dewar’s and a glass. “My morning waker-upper,” he explained, downing his first shot of the day, then wincing as it hit home.
    Gault used the time to look around at the empty Chinese takeout containers and pizza boxes that made it clear there was rarely a female presence in the dimly lit place.
    “So how many years is it?” Hajeski asked.
    “Since you graduated? Roughly fifteen.”
    “Like the blink of a fuckin’ eye. I go from being the toast of Elizabeth to tearing up the minor leagues to tearing up my shoulder, and the whole thing seems more like fifteen minutes than fifteen goddamn years. Sure I can’t twist your arm?”
    Gault shook his head, then watched Hajeski down another shot. “Married?” Hajeski asked, eliciting yet another nod from Gault. “Local girl?”
    “Originally from Chicago.”
    “Which means you’re smarter than me. Jersey girls lead the league in ball-busting. Remember Buns Noonan, with the biggest you-know-what’s in town?”
    “Hard to forget.”
    “That’s who I married. Total nightmare. I’m busy fighting my way through the minor leagues, and what’s she doing? Going down on everything but the Titanic.” Hajeski again lifted the bottle. “Sure you won’t join me?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “You’re making me self-conscious.”
    “You’ll get over it.”
    Hajeski chortled. “Guess that’s right. So tell me, see anybody?”
    “From time to time.”
    “Gimme names.”
    “Mike Ziobro and I have lunch every so often.”
    Hajeski searched his memory banks, then smiled. “Big guy, football player. Who else?”
    “Once in a while my wife and I have dinner with Richie Burke and his wife.”
    “He marry somebody local?”
    “Bunny Novak.”
    “Cheerleader, right?”
    Still another nod from Gault.
    “Anybody make something of themselves? From your class... the one after... or mine?”
    “A handful are doctors, dentists, lawyers, accountants.”
    “And the rest are in the army, or jail, or dead?”
    Gault shrugged. “Not all, but quite a few.”
    “And the one who aren’t are what? Manicurists? Working at the post office? Doing construction?”
    “Some are school teachers, some went into family businesses. I heard one gal’s a dancer, and supposedly some guy’s a writer.”
    Hajeski grew uncharacteristically reflective for a moment. “How do you explain something?” he then asked. “From some towns – Westfield, Short Hills, maybe South Orange – kids go on and do big stuff, exciting stuff. But us, so many fall by the wayside.”
    “Hard to say. Affluence? Role models that we didn’t have? Opportunities?”
    “Okay. But how, without any of that, do a few still manage to make something of themselves?”
    Gault shrugged. “I guess it’s some kind of social Darwinism.”
    “What the fuck’s that mean?”
    “You’ve heard of evolution, right?”
    Hajeski nodded begrudgingly.
    “Maybe, in whatever species you talk about, most stay – or want to stay – just as they are. But supposedly, way back when, a few creatures climbed out of the water and onto land, and somehow developed legs... Then later, some dinosaurs grew wings... And somewhere down the line, some monkeys or apes somehow wound up becoming cave men.”
    “Which is how we got ‘The Flintstones!’”
    Gault chuckled. “I watched the reruns faithfully.”
    “Me, too.”
    “I guess it’s kind of the same with people,” Gault went on. “Some – most, probably – take the path of least resistance. You know, accepting whatever seems easiest or inevitable. But somehow, every so often, somebody or other finds a way to grow, or change, or just plain lift his – or maybe her – ass out of the muck.”
    “That’s what we were in, growing up. The goddamn muck. But know what? A lot of the time it was fun. Am I right, or am I right?”
    “Can’t argue with that.”
    “We didn’t have the expensive cars, fancy toys, big houses, trips all over the world –”
    “That’s for sure –”
    “But I wouldn’t trade those days for anything.” After pondering what was for a couple of moments, Hajeski studied Gault almost clinically. “Know what? You look good. Like you’re comfortable with the life you’re leading and take care of yourself.”
    “I try.”
    “I used to do a better job of it, but –” Clearly saddened by the direction his thoughts had taken him, Hajeski poured himself another drink. “Listen,” he began a moment later, “mind if I bounce some names on you to see if you know what happened to ‘em?”
    “Fire away.”
    “Greasy Borowiek?”
    “Heard he died in a car accident.”
    “Ouch! He and I used were in wood shop together and used to cut school except in baseball season. How about Bootsie Sanders.”
    “Wish I knew.”
    “Me, too, ‘cause she was hot. I’m talking heavy-duty fantasies. “What about guys I played ball with like Mikey Colon, Danny Igoe, Richie Chesare?”
    “No clue.”
    “We had good people, you know? Not all of ‘em, but for the most part. It always felt like we were in it together. And that we mattered. Know what I mean?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Not like in the suburbs, where kids have to be chauffeured everywhere, and everything’s scheduled. We wanted to play baseball, we rode our bikes to the park. Basketball, over to the playground. And if we just wanted to hang, there were always fifty places where you could find people. But once those days are over, it gets lonely, you know? Life gets tougher, your parents, your aunts and uncles start dying, and you find yourself wondering what’s it all about. And will it ever be fun again.”
    Suddenly Hajeski frowned, then let out a laugh. “Listen to me, crying in my beer. What would Greasy Borowiek say, right? But I’ll tell you, it’s fun to talk to somebody who was part of it and gets it. You feel what I’m saying?”
    “Yup.”
    “Look, I’m sure you’ve got things to do, so I don’t want to keep you. But mind telling me how it is you happened to ring my bell? And what brought you here?”
    Gault stood. “I’ve got a warrant for your arrest.”
    “Y-you’re a cop?”
    “DEA.”
    Seeing Hajeski jump to his feet, Gault immediately put a hand on the pistol holstered under his sport jacket. “I’d rather we do this the easy way,” he stated.
    “Listen, can’t you cut an old buddy a break?”
    “If it’d been a matter of possession, maybe. Selling a small amount, probably –”
    “Yeah, but –”
    “But, nothing. Thanks to your would-be hijacking, there’s one guy on life support and another pretty close.”
    Hajeski shook his head. “So much for old times, huh?”
    “You got it. So much for old times.”

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