By Nick Young
“So whaddya think?”
“About what?”
“Him.”
“Who ‘him’?”
“Who we’re lookin’ at.”
“Shifty?”
“Who else are we lookin’ at?”
“What am I supposed to think? He’s dead.”
“Well, yeah, of course he’s dead.”
“Then what?”
“I mean about the way he looks.”
“He looks dead.”
“Well, I know he looks dead.”
“Then what?”
“I mean how he looks dead.”
“How he looks?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He don’t look like himself.”
“Who’s he look like then?”
“I mean, don’t he look kinda waxy?”
“Waxy?”
“Yeah, you know, not real natural.”
“Well, what do you expect? He’s been embalmed.”
“I know he’s been embalmed.”
“Well, then?”
“A piss poor makeup job, in my opinion.”
“That’s Fitzgerald for you.”
“Worst undertaker around.”
“Lost his touch years ago.”
“Never had any ‘touch’, if you want my opinion. How did poor, old Shifty end up here anyway?”
“You can put that square on Carla.”
“Money?”
“What else with her? Fitzgerald’s the cheapest around.”
“It shows.”
“Poor, old Shifty.”
“Yeah. He deserved better.”
“Let’s go get us a drink.”
It was “happy hour” at the Fifth Street Tap; but by the looks of the place, “happy” was not the first word that would come to mind. Maybe that was true in the early days when Peter Jurowski opened the bar in 1917 in a neighborhood populated by Polish immigrant families whose breadwinners worked in the area’s coal mines. But now, seventy-odd years later, the old folks—the starzy luzie—had died out; nearly all of their children and grandchildren had moved away.
Peter’s grandson Dominik kept the bar open, but like the surrounding blocks, it had gone to seed. The threadbare green felt on the pool table in the center of the room had two or three poorly patched tares, the cue sticks warped. On the wall opposite the bar, a jukebox sat forlornly, rarely played because it rarely worked. And in the front window hung a neon Old Milwaukee sign, flickering through glass filmed over by years of tobacco smoke and grime.
Enter Twitch Vitello and Fred Piatek, Tap regulars, each pushing sixty, next door neighbors who lived a couple of streets over.
“What’s the good word, gents?” Dominik said, drying his hands on a towel as the two men hoisted themselves onto stools at the far end of the worn bar.
“We are here,” Fred declared, “to raise one—”
“—or maybe two or three—”
“—to the memory of Mr. Stephen Jaskowiak.”
“May he rest in peace,” Twitch said solemnly, waving his hand in a clumsy approximation of the sign of the cross.
“Poor, old Shifty,” said Dominik, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his tee shirt and shaking one loose. Much as his forebears, he was built like a slab of granite from the Carpathian Mountains. He lit his cigarette from a book of matches on the shelf that held the liquor bottles, exhaling twin streams of smoke from hairy nostrils. Like Fred and Twitch, Shifty had been a regular at the Tap, as had his father before him. “What’ll it be, or should I even ask?”
“No need,” replied Fred, a year older and two heads taller than his companion, with gray hair thinned to near-baldness. His brown eyes, ringed and deep-set, gave him the appearance of a Basset Hound.
“You know what I want,” Twitch added. Jeff to Fred’s Mutt, Lou Vitello had a round, swarthy face with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. Thanks to a nerve injury sustained while on a summer job in high school, his right cheek periodically jumped to the tics that gave him his nickname. Dominik turned away and swiftly prepared the drinks.
“CC and Seven,” he said, placing the glass in front of Twitch. “A gin and tonic for Mr. Piatek . . . and Shifty’s favorite, rum and Coke, which I will drink in his honor.” He raised his glass along with the others. “To our friend—dzięki—helluva guy.” The three drained their cocktails and Dominik quickly set about refills. “How was it?” he asked.
“The wake? Not much of a turnout,” said Fred, “but we was early. A couple of the old crew, some of the family and, of course, his loving wife.” Dominik rolled his eyes as he set down the fresh drinks.
“Yeah, and I gotta be honest, Dom, he didn’t look so hot,” Twitch added, lighting a short cigar.
“You mean the way he was fixed up?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Dominik replied, shaking his head. “Old man Fitzgerald. Whaddya expect?”
“Like we was sayin’,” Fred said.
“He deserved better,” said Twitch, drawing on his stogie.
“Long as I’d known him, all the way back to high school, seems like he never could catch a break,” Dominik said.
“That’s when it started,” said Twitch. “High school.”
“Yeah,” Fred added. “First I remember we was freshmen. He got his hand stuck trying to reach up into a cigarette machine to steal a pack.”
“Not so bright,” Dominik said.
“Understatement of the year,” offered Twitch, sending a gust of cigar smoke toward the ceiling.
“That was Shifty,” said Fred.
“After the cops got his hand loose—remember? It turned all black and blue and swelled up?” Twitch went on. Fred nodded before picking up.
“I remember, I remember. And then his old man—what a mean bastard he was—whipped Shifty’s ass so bad he could hardly sit down for a week.”
“I was a couple of years behind you guys, but everybody knew about Shifty,” said Dominik. “Seemed like he was always in trouble, getting suspended.”
“Because he was always getting into trouble for pulling some kind of stupid shit and getting caught,” Twitch said.
“Yeah,” said Fred, chuckling, “like the time he put a dead rat in one of the stalls in the third floor girls bathroom. Mrs. Gronman, remember her? The French teacher? Nearly gave the old bat a heart attack.” All three laughed, raised their glasses in memory, and drank again.
“That was Shifty,” said Twitch.
“Yeah,” Fred said with a sigh.
“Poor, old Shifty,” Dominik added. The men fell silent for a long moment.
“Wasn’t the only time he caught hell over an animal, either,” Twitch said.
“No,” said Fred. “His most outrageous stunt was the one he pulled at Senior Assembly, remember that one?”
“Is this the one with the duck?” Dominik broke in.
“It is,” Fred answered. Twitch took a quick puff of his cigar, blowing the smoke sideways out of his mouth.
“God, that was a scene!” he chortled.
“Picture this,” Fred began. “The whole varsity football team was up on the auditorium stage to get their letters, along with all the cheerleaders.”
“And the head coach,” said Twitch.
“That’s right, old blood-and-guts Leo Krutz,” Fred said, “remember him? Well, he’s going on and on about God and country and the glories of the gridiron, you know? In the meantime, Shifty had snuck backstage…” Fred paused, seized for a moment with laughter, crimson beginning to infuse his jowly face “…unzipped a gym bag he’d stashed there and let out a frigging Mallard duck!”
“My God!” Dominik exclaimed, with a loud, barking laugh that startled two men at the other end of the bar.
“Yeah,” said Twitch, now barely able to control his glee, “the damned duck starts making wild circles over the stage, flapping and quacking to beat hell, feathers flying all over the joint. Kids are pointing and laughing, the girls are screaming, all the teachers shouting—”
“Total mayhem,” said Fred.
“Total. Old Krutz looked like he was gonna have a stroke,” Twitch said, seized with laughter and a coughing fit.
“That was Shifty,” Fred offered, face now fully aflame.
“Yeah,” Twitch agreed.
“Good, old Shifty,” Dominik added. The laughter subsided. Again, the men lapsed into silence before renewing their toast.
#
One week to the day after paying their last respects, Twitch Vitello and Fred Piatek were again bellied up at the Fifth Street Tap.
“You’re just the two to ask,” Dominik said as he dispensed a first round of drinks. Was there some trouble at Shifty’s wake?”
“Some trouble?” Twitch blurted.
“A monumental clusterfuck,” Fred added.
“So what happened?”
“Well,” Twitch said, shaking his head, “me and Fred had already left, but we got the whole story from a very reliable eyewitness. You know Shifty’s side of the family don’t get along with Carla’s.”
“Never have,” said Fred.
“Never have,” Twitch echoed, “so putting all them aunts and uncles and cousins in the same room at the wake was dynamite from the get-go.”
“Especially because they’re all booze hounds and most of them had been drinking before they showed up,” said Fred.
“A bad recipe,” said Twitch.
“Real bad,” Fred added.
“Don’t take no genius to see where this is headed,” said Twitch.
“Straight downhill,” Fred again. Twitch took a long pull at his CC and seven before continuing.
“So, the way we got the story, it started out with one of the cousins on Shifty’s side—a man—no doubt with a few under his belt, getting bent outta shape for God knows what reason and calling one of Carla’s nieces “a cheap slut.”
“Ah, Jeez,” muttered Dominik.
“Yeah,” Fred jumped in, “and the niece fires back with words to the effect that the only whore in the room is the guy’s wife.”
“And she is standing right there next to her husband, apparently with a snootful of her own,” said Twitch, “so she jumps in front of her old man, yelling ‘you fucking bitch’ and starts pulling out her hair.”
“Ah, Jeez!” Dominik winced.
“Yeah, well, it only got worse. The priest that was there to say a few words—Father Gorecki from St. Maximillian’s?—tried to step in with a prayer to get everyone to calm down,” Fred said, “but it was too late. Fists started flying, and at one point one guy cold-cocked another guy who went stumbling backwards into the casket and damned near upended it.”
Dominik said nothing, only shook his head. “Poor, old Shifty.”
“Yeah,” Fred said.
“If only that was the end of it,” said Twitch.
“What else?” Dominik asked in disbelief.
“So yesterday Carla got in touch with me and Twitch and a couple of Shifty’s other pals. She had his ashes and she wanted all of us to meet her at Rawson’s Pond—you know what I’m talking about?”
“Sure. West of here, five miles or so, off Route 62?”
“That’s it,” said Twitch.
“Okay,” Fred continued, “so the group of us meet up with Carla. She wanted us to be there while she scattered Shifty’s ashes. It was his wish, she said, because the pond was his favorite spot to fish.”
“I didn’t know Shifty was a fisherman,” Dominik said, surprised.
“Well, he wasn’t much of one, if you want my two cents worth,” Frank answered. “Anyway, it’s what Shifty wanted, Carla said, so we figured we’d give the guy that much and got our asses over to the pond.”
“Thank God none of the family was there,” said Twitch. Fred nodded.
“Yeah. Carla ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed—”
“By a long shot.”
“—but after the fiasco at the wake, even she wasn’t ignorant enough to get the family involved.”
“But that don’t mean she wasn’t ignorant just the same,” Twitch said.
“Why, you ask?” said Fred. “Because you don’t got to be a TV weatherman to see that this is the windiest damned day of the year. I mentioned to Carla that maybe it wasn’t the right time to do the ashes thing—”
“But you might as well have been talkin’ to a rock,” Twitch added with some disgust.
“Hell or high water, she was going ahead with it. So, here’s the picture: she’s holding the canister with Shifty’s ashes, trying to wrench off the cap while mumbling some words—”
“In that hurricane, who the hell could tell what she was sayin’?”
“Finally, she manages to get the cap off—she’s standing down at the edge of the pond—and begins to shake out the ashes—”
“When this big-ass gust of wind hits—”
“—blows a cloud back in her face—”
“—she panics—”
“—drops the frigging canister into the water—”
“—and it sinks like a stone!”
“Jeeez-us!” exclaimed Dominik. “Then what happened?”
“Well, we just stood there,” Fred said.
“Nobody said anything?” Twitch looked at Dominik and shook his head.
“What was there to say? What could you say?”
“We just turned around—me and Twitch—got in the car and drove back to town.” Dominik sighed with sadness.
“Poor, old Shifty.
“Yeah,” sighed Twitch. “Poor, old Shifty.” Fred nodded.
“He deserved better.” Dominik lifted his glass.
“One more time?” Fred and Twitch followed his lead and said in unison,
“One more time.”
—
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His stories “Watercolor” and “Boomerang” have appeared in Backchannels. In addition, his writing has been published in dozens of magazines, reviews, and anthologies. His first novel, Deadline, was published in 2023. He can be found on Bluesky @youngnick.bsky.social. He lives outside Chicago.