CHAPTER ELEVEN | DUKE
“I’d like to give a special shout-out to my brothers in black!” Troy Hart announced as he grabbed a sweaty bottle of Heineken from the bar and raised it towards the rest of the crew. “Cheers to surviving yet another work week without loss of life, limb, or loins!”
“Cheers!” a chorus of eleven other voices echoed in unison as we all raised our glasses and clinked them together in a toast.
It was Friday night and, per Firehouse 56 tradition, all twelve members of the crew were assembled around our usual section of the bar at Rusty’s Tavern.
According to its Yelp reviews, Rusty’s was “a charming and unpretentious local watering hole” and “a true Hartford landmark.” If you had asked me to pen a review, I’d probably be more inclined to describe the place as “literally a shithole” and “one step above the town dump.”
A dive bar since the day it had opened in 1970-something, I couldn’t imagine Rusty’s ever being not shitty. The whole place stunk of stale beer and pizza, and every surface — from the slip-proof tile floors to the wooden bar top — was caked in a sticky film of grease.
Old-school stained glass chandeliers hung from the wood-paneled ceiling, casting dim yellow light over the sticky red vinyl booths that lined one wall. The bar itself was divided into two L-shaped segments and, between them, there was a stage set up for drunken karaoke performances.
Under the misguided assumption that bar patrons would actually want to dance to shitty karaoke renditions of power ballads from the 1980s, there was an empty void of space left directly in front of the stage, topped off with a dusty old disco ball.
In all my years of coming to Rusty’s for after-work drinks with the guys, I had yet to see anyone step foot on that dance floor unless it was after three a.m. or they were three sheets to the wind.
As if to meet their quota for ‘local charm,’ the walls of Rusty’s Tavern were plastered with relics and mementos from the last four decades of life in Hartford. One corner was set up as a shrine to honor the time that Hartford High School’s varsity football team had made it to the state playoffs, complete with newspaper clippings and a team jersey. Another section of wall was covered in faded blue license plates, each marked with Connecticut’s proud designation as the ‘Constitution State.’
Perhaps the most significant artifact on display in Rusty’s makeshift museum of local history was the black Hartford Fire Department turnout coat that was hung up on the wall directly behind the bar.
The coat was singed and tattered from years of abuse, but the name spelled out on the back in reflective vinyl letters was still crystal clear:
HUDSON
That coat had belonged to Brady and Josh’s father back in the day, when he had been a crewmember at Firehouse 56. Hudson Senior had died in the line of duty about ten years ago, and he had been memorialized as a town hero ever since.
Brady and Josh didn’t like to talk about their old man much, but I couldn’t recall a single Friday night at Rusty’s that had gone by without them both giving a silent nod of respect to that coat.
I had to admit seeing that Firehouse 56 coat on the wall always filled me with a sense of pride, too. It reminded me that I was part of something; that I had a place where I belonged.
Hartford was my home now, and the other eleven guys on the crew were my brothers. We all had our quirks and differences, but at the end of the day that crew was the closest thing that I had ever found to a family.
Speaking of family—
“Hey March Madness, wake up!” the deep boom of Josh Hudson’s voice immediately snapped me out of my thoughts. For good measure, he slugged my arm with his elbow as he dropped down onto the empty stool next to me at the bar.
“What’s up with you tonight?” he wanted to know. “You’re so… quiet.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not being quiet!”
Even though he was right — I had been keeping to myself more than usual — I couldn’t help but feel a little bit defensive as I sat back on my barstool and straightened my shoulders.
“I guess I’m just used to you being the life of the party,” Josh shrugged casually. Then he nodded at my glass and teased: “Maybe Rusty’s just making your flirtinis a little too strong tonight.”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my glass and took a sip. For the record, I was drinking my usual Grey Goose… not a ‘flirtini.’ Not that it mattered much to the rest of the crew; as far as they were concerned, it was a cardinal sin to go to an establishment like Rusty’s and order anything other than beer.
In their eyes, my vodka neat might as well have been a rainbow-colored Mai Tai, flamboyantly adorned with a wedge of pineapple, a pink paper umbrella, and a curly straw.
“Is Mr. February giving you a hard time, Duke?” Troy asked, sweeping up behind Josh and I. He draped one arm over the back of each of our barstools, then he leaned forward so his head hovered between us.
“Not at all—” Josh started to say, but Troy cut him off.
“How does that old proverb go? ‘People who live in glass houses…”
Troy’s voice trailed off and he kicked at something that was resting on the ground between our barstools. I glanced down and saw what appeared to be an oversized woman’s handbag.
“Wait a second,” I frowned. “Is that—”
“It’s a diaper bag, ok?” Josh muttered under his breath. He heaved out a heavy sigh and crossed his arms defensively over his chest. Troy’s lips immediately curled up into a satisfied smirk.
“Why the hell did you bring a diaper bag to the bar?” I blinked at Josh, confused.
“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered back. “I must have just grabbed it out of habit when I was leaving the house to come here. I’m so used to carrying it everywhere…”
“Ok,” I said slowly. “So… why did you bring it inside? Couldn’t you just leave it in your car or something?”
“Are you kidding?” Josh’s eyes flicked up at me. “You and I both know that the parking lot here is a hotbed for criminal activity and vehicle break-ins. There’s no way I would leave a four hundred dollar diaper bag sitting in my car. Vanessa would kill me. It’s Kate Spade.”
That was the last straw for Troy. His face had already gone red from the strain of trying not to laugh, but as soon as Josh referred to the gravel parking lot outside of Rusty’s as a ‘hotbed for criminal activity,’ he just couldn’t hold it in any longer.
He whooped and sputtered with laughter as he doubled over between our barstools.
“Jesus, Josh,” I winced as I reached for my Grey Goose. “This really is a new low.”
“You assholes can laugh at me all you want now,” he glared, “but mark my words: someday, when you both have kids of your own, you’ll understand.”
That just made Troy laugh even harder.
“Fat chance of that happening, Joshy,” I chuckled, speaking just as much on Troy’s behalf as I was on my own. I couldn’t imagine either of us settling down or playing ‘daddy’ anytime soon.
Then again, I never would have imagined Josh Hudson strolling into Rusty’s Tavern with a Kate Spade diaper bag on his shoulder, but here we fucking are…
“Hey guys…”
I registered a voice addressing us from behind, and when I spun around on my barstool I saw Logan Ford sauntering towards us.
Logan was another colleague and longtime Firehouse 56 crewmember. And, like the Hudson brothers, he was also a second-generation fireman. His father had served on the Firehouse 56 crew before him.
“The bouncer asked me to come over here and make sure that Troy isn’t having a seizure,” he said.
We all glanced down at Troy, who was still doubled over and wheezing from laughing so hard.
“Troy, are you having a seizure?” I asked. Troy’s blond man-bun shook back and forth to indicate ‘no,’ and he kept right on cackling. Then I turned back to Logan and explained:
“Josh brought a diaper bag into the bar.”
Logan’s face lit up with amusement but before he could expel so much as a chuckle, Josh gripped his beer mug and jerked back his barstool.
“That’s it,” he grunted. “I’m playing pool. If any of you punks want to man up and act your age, you know where to find me.”
He kept the glare on his face as he made an indignant display of shoving the Kate Spade diaper bag onto his shoulder. Then he huffed off towards the back corner of the bar, where one very used and very abused old billiards table was positioned under a stained glass chandelier.
I had a personal vendetta against that damn pool table. Why? Because despite being scuffed to shit and missing five out of the sixteen pocket balls, it still inexplicably cost four quarters to play a round.
There had been a lot of money matters that I had been forced to come to terms with after being disinherited from my million dollar trust fund, but paying a dollar for an incomplete game of pool was one monetary injustice that I just couldn’t wrap my head around.
Quarters don’t grow on trees… I had to earn that dollar!
Troy finally came up for air and slammed himself down into the barstool that Josh had left vacant. Tears were streaming down his face from laughing so hard, and he dragged the back of his hand across his cheeks to brush them away.
“You guys are in rare fucking form tonight,” Logan shook his head, looking both perplexed and amused. “Josh is walking around with a man purse, Troy’s having seizures and crying—”
“Lighten up, Logan,” I smirked, swirling around the last remnants of vodka in my glass. “It wouldn’t be a Friday night at Rusty’s if there wasn’t someone crying at the bar.”
I threw back the last sip of Grey Goose, then I caught the bartender’s eye and motioned for another.
Rusty’s definitely wasn’t the sort of establishment that kept Grey Goose on their roster of spirits. In fact, their idea of ‘top shelf liquor’ was the assortment of plastic liter-sized Burnett's bottles displayed proudly on glass shelves behind the bar.
If Burnett’s was considered the ‘premium’ choice at Rusty’s, I didn’t even want to think about what they poured into the well drinks…
Luckily, that was one grim reality that I wasn’t forced to face. Since Firehouse 56 had a longstanding relationship with the tavern’s management, it hadn’t been too hard to convince the bar staff to keep a special bottle of Grey Goose under the counter just for me.
The bartender replenished my glass and slid it across the bar towards me, and I dropped a ten dollar bill into the tip jar.
“You generous son of a bitch,” Logan wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You really do make the rest of us look like peasants, you know that?”
“Relax, it’s just a tip,” I shrugged, brushing it off.
“Where have I heard that line before?” Logan scoffed. “Relax baby, it’s just the tip…”
“That’s a good question, Logan,” Troy retorted smugly, taking a swig of his Heineken. “Where have you heard that line before?”
“Is there something you want to tell us, Logan?” I joined in the joke. “Is someone trying to give you the tip?”
“You guys are fucking terrible,” Logan grunted. “I’m going to go play pool with Josh.”
As Logan started to look for an escape route through the crowd of people that were loitering around the bar, Troy and I both glanced towards billiards table, where Josh was busy wiping down the shaft of a pool cue with a Clorox wipe.
“Be careful, Logan,” I grinned. “I think Josh is getting ready to give you the tip…”
Logan held up his middle finger and kept it pointed at Troy and me as he weaved his way through the crowd and headed towards the back of the bar.
“Oh come on, dude!” Troy called after him. “You set yourself up for that one!”
I had already turned back to my glass of Grey Goose when I heard Troy’s tone suddenly change.
“Well, what do we have here?” he whistled eagerly, reclining on his barstool.
I glanced up, following the line of Troy’s gaze across the bar.
Firehouse 56 wasn’t the only division of Hartford Fire Department that had a tradition of celebrating Friday nights at Rusty’s, and as I scanned my eyes around the bar, I recognized a handful of vaguely familiar faces scattered around the room.
Then my eyes landed on one particular face that stood out from all the others.
“Do you see her? Sexy blonde… fucking phenomenal body. She’s wearing a Guns n’ Roses t-shirt, and she kinda looks like she’d beat me up if I tried to talk to her…”
Troy was trying to help me locate the woman that had caught his eye, but he didn’t realize that I was already staring right at the woman that he was describing…
Beck.
I felt my face get heavy and I realized that I hadn’t taken a breath in several seconds. I sucked up a gulp of air through my teeth, but I made the mistake of trying to swallow at the same time and I ended up choking.
Troy glanced back at me and raised his eyebrow, and I tried to play it off by clearing my throat nonchalantly.
“You know her or something?” he asked.
“No, not really,” I said. I took another breath — this time successfully — and I folded my arms across my chest. “I mean… she’s my roommate, but I don’t really know her—”
“That’s your fuckin’ roommate?” Troy blinked in disbelief, and when he glanced back at Beck he whistled again. “Shit, man… I’d have to take a cold shower every hour, on the hour, if I had to live under the same roof as that. Do you think she’s wearing that Guns n’ Roses shirt because it looks cool? Or do you think she’s actually a fan?” he wondered out loud as his eyes rolled back towards her. “You think she’d welcome me to her jungle?"
I frowned, feeling suddenly protective of my roommate.
“Don’t talk about Beck like that,” I practically growled. The anger in my voice surprised me, and it nearly knocked Troy off his barstool as he spun around to face me.
I exhaled, forcing myself to calm down.
“She doesn’t like it when guys say that kind of shit about her,” I explained. “She just wants to be treated like a human being, and not some kind of sex object.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” he rolled his eyes and swiveled his barstool back around towards Beck again. “Women always want attention. Even the angry ones who don’t like to admit it.”
“Not Beck,” I said, clenching my jaw.
“It looks like we’re about to see for ourselves,” Troy’s face lit up with amusement and he nodded towards the opposite end of the bar. “Some guy is going in for the kill as we speak!”
My eyes shot up and I twisted around on my barstool to get a better view.
Sure enough, some lanky looking guy was lumbering towards Beck. She was oblivious; she had her back turned to him, and she was talking to some other woman.
“Who the hell does that guy think he is?” I muttered under my breath, feeling my anger rise as I watched him creep closer. I had never seen this guy before, but I hated him immediately. He had one of those faces that had ‘assclown’ written all over it.
He was a few paces away from Beck when he started to stretch out his arm. For a second I thought he was going to reach up and tap on her on the shoulder, but instead his hand darted lower.
He was reaching for her ass!
“That’s it. This motherfucker is going down,” I growled.
I jumped to my feet so fast that my barstool clattered to the tile floor, but by the time I heard it, I had already shoved myself halfway across the crowded bar.