Bunkhouse Living
  (a novel excerpt)

 
Davis saved a shot of whisky for the next morning, and that along with a cup of black coffee picked him up enough for work. He had been flat out in his bunk for a couple hours with his eyes closed, feeling his heart working fast and heavy, regretting then that he had smoked the rock. It was always this way with that stuff: wired with no place to go, and no money to continue the high with.

Dex wasn’t in the best of moods either as they stood in front of the bunkhouse, waiting for the paper truck. It was still dark of course, but there was a group of at least fifteen guys standing outside the place. Half of them had coffee in their hands, half of them beer. With his whisky breath, Davis felt right at home with them.

Dex was right: a quick introduction to the driver and Davis was a newspaper seller, hopping onto the big white truck (similar to a moving vehicle) with half a dozen other guys. A couple men, already on the truck when it pulled up, were busy putting papers together. Loud, teasing banter went back and forth between Dex and these two men, and it was clear that no one was sober on the truck. Even the driver, Dave, a tall, thin, ill looking man looked shaky and very red in the eyes.

Davis found a seat next to Dex, and followed his buddy’s example in putting the different sections of paper together. Who’s got Sports? Where’s Lifetime? I need Classifieds!  These were the phrases that rang out over the general small talk as the truck rumbled and bumped along through town, making more stops for more paper men. It wasn’t long before there was hardly any room for the men to operate in the space provided, and tempers flared. After all, it was a hard “morning after” for most of the men, though a few had bags of beer with them.

Dex got a beer off one old timer who, frail and hunched over and smoking a roll your own, didn’t look like he’d have the strength to get off the truck. The old guy’s name was Bill, and he had a hard-eyed, birdlike look to him as he looked Davis over.

“Bill and I take care of each other,” Dex explained, sharing the beer with Davis.

Davis could see why these guys would want to have something to soothe the nerves in these loud and crowded conditions, especially this early in the morning. Right away, he did not have a good feeling about this kind of work, but he told himself that it would get better when he got off the truck. He would have some blessed quiet time to himself. That is what he couldn’t have staying at the bunkhouse.

Davis got dropped off at a corner next to an all night gas station-market, at a stoplight at the end of a highway off ramp. It did not look like a promising spot to sell newspapers, but one of the guys on the truck told him it would pick up later. As daylight started to come, Davis fit all of his papers (a fairly thick Saturday edition) into clear plastic bags to keep them from being torn or blown away by the wind. Then he surveyed the area, noticing some fast food restaurants just down the road from the gas station, and, across the road, another gas station-market, a couple motels and a real estate office. After that, he couldn’t see what there was, but it didn’t matter.

The traffic was light for the first hour, but then it picked up quickly for day business hours. By the end of two hours he had sold six papers, which was enough to get him a snack along with the two for a dollar beer special. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and with a buzz on Davis now thought that this might not be a bad way to spend the weekend after all. He put a big smile on his flushed face and stuck those papers out boldly at the slowly passing windshields, remembering some of the talk in the truck about five dollar tips. One of those would set him up with lunch and beer money for the next few hours.

Old Bill, as well as a couple other regulars on the truck, had carried their own plastic white buckets to use as seats and beer coolers. Yet Davis decided that he wouldn’t do much sitting down; he didn’t want the passing drivers to see him relaxing with a beer in hand. No, he would guzzle his cold ones in the gas station bathroom, and splash some water in his hair to make it look like he was sweating.

It was a long hot day, and after the “morning rush” (which wasn’t that much of a rush at all) Davis didn’t sell many papers. By late afternoon, when he got picked up again, he still had almost half of his papers left. Fortunately for him he had gotten some decent tips, so the day wasn’t a complete loss. Still, it was by no means worth the effort (he had taken to doing dance steps to entertain the passersby) he put into it.

“Well, you’re new, so they’re not gonna give you a great corner right away,” Dex explained. “But with your looks, they’ll have you in front of a store before long.”

“It beats a blank, right?” old Bill said, all smiles now with a beer buzz on.

“It’s better than being sober,” Davis admitted.

“Tomorrow’s the best day of the week,” Dex said. “You’ll make some money tomorrow.”

And indeed, Davis did make more money the next day, standing on a boulevard median in front of a busy supermarket. He sold out his first pile of Sunday editions by early afternoon, and the driver gave him more papers. Once he had a glow on from beer, Davis tried his comic dance routine again, and it worked well. People who appreciated the laugh paid him for a paper. He also walked through the supermarket parking lot (though he wasn't supposed to), calling out to people. He walked along the road to the fast food restaurants and convenience markets, offering employees deals if they bought from him. Davis figured he could make up for low profit margin with high volume.

That night, at the bunkhouse, the spirits were high amongst the paper sellers; it had been a good day for most, and that meant plenty of beer. Davis sat outside at one of the picnic tables with Dex, little Tommy, Rudy the flier walker, big Byron, and some others. The dominos were being slapped down with intoxicated gusto, as were the playing cards; the teasing chatter was as constant as the popping of beer cans. Bobby the Spy had his day off, so the men felt easier on that count too. A small group of men hadn’t moved in over an hour from behind the old truck in the smokers' section of the yard. It seemed ironic to Davis that what was supposed to be the Lord’s Day, or the day of rest, had actually turned out to be one of the loosest and rowdiest nights he had seen.

Davis felt especially good because not only did he do well with the newspapers that day, but he had a sure day of flier hanging on Monday – his best day of the week in that business.  He wouldn’t have to go to the food lines every day that week. Perhaps he’d even treat himself to some good Mexican food, and go to one of the discount movies. He could get away from this place for a night or two.

Davis found it hard to understand these men who lived at the bunkhouse every day. Many of them fretted over the possibility of not having a night’s rent; they seemed to abhor the thought of sleeping outdoors, even on warm nights. Personally, when it came to sleeping, Davis felt more comfortable lying by himself in the dark somewhere, listening to the night sounds, than lying awake in the smelly, close atmosphere of the bunkhouse, with the hacking coughs, loud snoring, ripping farts and moaning and groaning around him. 

“I might be able to get you on the flier truck tomorrow,” Davis said to Dex.

“No, I try not to do all that walkin if I don’t have to. Besides, I did good enough today to take the day off.” He raised his beer can in a toast and laughed. Dex was fortunate enough to have one of the best corners in Shaky Dave’s paper area. Davis had seen at least three twenties in the money wad Dex had playfully flipped through after they had gotten off the truck.

“Can you get me on there?” Tommy asked. “I need to get out tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” Davis said. “He usually needs someone.”

He being Kevin White, Davis’s boss in the flier business. Kevin was a veteran of thirteen years in that business, a self-employed contractor now with his own truck, who did very little walking himself these days. He had hung fliers and product samples on doors all over the country, with Houston as his home base.

On weekday mornings, when he had work, White drove by the Salvation Army and the bunkhouse, looking for his paper hanging crew for the day.

“I know fliers, man,” Tommy said. “I’ve worked on all the other trucks.”

“He’s been thrown off all the other trucks too,” Rudy said, laughing.

“Shit,” Tommy said. “Those fuckers don’t like me cause I speak my mind, that’s all. They want a bunch of kiss asses workin' for 'em.”

“You speak your mind all right,” Rudy said, “after you get six beers in you.” They all laughed at that.

“I’m serious though, man,” Tommy said. “I would appreciate it if you’d put in a word for me. I’m about to get bounced from here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Davis said, though he already knew that Tommy had a habit of standing outside the place early in the morning, swaying drunk and talking loud in his smoke and drink rough voice.

“You guys can have that walkin business,” Byron said. “Me, I’ll stick with the man who’s takin' care of me right now.” He showed them all a big smile along with a little self-satisfied chuckle. Byron had the best paying job of anybody living at the bunkhouse, working as a supplies and inventory clerk at a local warehouse. He had worked at the place for three months now, and had already gotten a raise. “It won’t be too much longer and I’ll be out of this dump.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” Rudy said.

“It’s not luck, man,” Byron said, suddenly testy. “You could get out there and get you a decent job too, if you wanted to. Instead of sittin' here and cryin' in your beer every day. You think too negative, Rudy. A place like this loves to have people like you, always bitchin' and moanin' but never doin' anything about it.”

There was quiet all around, for most of the guys knew that those words could apply to them too. The exceptions were Dex and Davis, who, for the moment, weren’t looking for anything more than what they had then. These two men had known a comfortable middle class life, they had had decent jobs and places to live, cars and bank accounts. They looked at their current days as a period of adventure and learning, and though perhaps rough and dangerous at times, it provided them with some welcome excitement. They also believed that this phase of their lives was only temporary: a time to think things out, try some new things, and lose, for the time being, what they considered to be the constraints of their past, comfortable lives.

“Maybe you can get me on down where you’re at,” Rudy said to Byron.

“I’ve already told you they’re not hirin' right now. I told you that before.”

Dex leaned over to Davis.

“Let’s go smoke one,” he said.

The man’s timing couldn’t have been better, Davis thought, as he followed Dex out of the yard.

“We see how it is!” Tommy, smirking, called out. “You white boys are too good for us.”
 

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