Merlot by Mike Faricy

to
show up. Otherwise there’s no one down there, cept them fat broads.
Oh yeah, and your bartenders.”
    Osborne seemed to deflate on the spot.
    “Find me this Sassie’s phone number,” he said
disgustedly.
    * * *
    Billy Truesdale was as good as his word and
was lying low all day. He promised himself he wasn’t going to give
one thought to the week from hell waiting for him tomorrow when
they began hauling the fair cash to Central. He set down a plate of
French bread next to a bucket filled with ice and three
nonalcoholic beers. He stretched his feet out in front of the
portable television he had just dragged onto the sun porch.
    The grass was cut, the sidewalk swept, two
salmon steaks were thawing in the kitchen. There was nothing for a
guy to do but drink cold beer and watch the game in air-conditioned
comfort. He’d tested his blood sugar then grabbed the remote.
    He had a feeling this was the Vikings year.
Of course he felt that every year. Talk of a home town rookie had
the preseason cranked up. Purple pride baby, he thought, sipping
his beer. Time again for purple pride.
    * * *
    Every Sunday for years, DiMento’s had an
all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch. Merlot’s father had started it,
turning an otherwise flat business day into a lucrative event, and
in the process guaranteeing that he would have to work seven days a
week.
    Merlot had been working the brunch crowd,
bussing tables, seating folks, glad-handing people, asking about
kids and grandkids, checking the buffet lines. The brunch went from
11:00 until 2:00, and his eyes were continually checking the clock,
willing the thing to move faster so he could get home and squeeze
in a decent nap this afternoon.
    A little past noon, he made his way through
the all-you-can-eat crowd, thinking, come on clock, tick!
    “Merlot, you forget about purple pride?”
Dickie yelled from a Lounge booth. Wiener and Victor along with a
blind attorney, Andrew, sat with him. Smothered by Dickie’s massive
size, Wiener was crammed into the far corner of the booth. His
shoulders squeezed together, he looked like he was fighting for
oxygen.
    Dickie wasn’t just dressed, he was costumed
in plaid shorts and perhaps the largest purple jersey Merlot had
ever seen, number thirty-five. A good eighty pounds of Dickie’s
right side hung dangerously into the aisle.
    “Oh no,” Merlot groaned.
    “You didn’t forget again, did you?” Victor
asked.
    “Hi Andrew,” Merlot said grabbing Andrew’s
hand. “We met before, I’m…”
    “Yeah, I know, Merlot. Hey, I’m only blind,
not deaf. Recognize your voice, how’s it going?” directing his head
about two feet to Merlot’s left.
    “Good Andrew, really good,” he lied.
    “So, did you forget we’ve got tickets to the
game, dipshit?” Dickie shouted.
    “No, I didn’t forget,” wondering how in the
hell he could have forgotten.
    In Dickie’s mind the final preseason game had
taken on a life of its own, one of those major occurrences in life
by which time and events become forever measured. Oh, that was
before the final preseason game or, that was just after the final
preseason game.
    The reason was Dickie’s third or fourth
cousin, Jerry Cardy Jr. from Chisholm, Minnesota. He was making his
debut as a rookie wide receiver for the Vikings. And to hear
Dickie, you would have thought he had personally coached the kid
for the past twenty-four years.
    As if that wasn’t bad enough, local sports
media came up with a name, dubbing him the ‘Wild Card’. Dickie had
taken up the chant to a nauseating level.
    “The Wild Card is gonna deal us into the
Super Bowl. The Wild Card is gonna run the table. The Wild Card is
gonna stack the deck in our favor.”
    It went on and on, and they all promised to
go to the final preseason game for the Wild Card’s debut if only
Dickie promised not to mention him for the two weeks preceding the
game.
    Two weeks officially ended last night at
midnight and so, wasting no time, Dickie said, “Come on