B is for Belts

Harry stared at himself in the mirror and squinted.

"I'm done, Alvy. It's over." He pulled out his gun from the sock drawer, aimed it point blank at his reflection in the mirror and pulled the trigger.

Click.

He flinched even though the gun wasn't loaded. A gun; the  power to change the world by squeezing a trigger, a stupid little metal part. He squinted again.

"Go ahead, Alvy, make my day."

Click.

"What'd you say Alvy, what'd you say, boy?"

Blubber, blubber.

"Louder, boy. I didn't hear you."

Blubber, blubber. Boo hoo hoo.

Click.Tomorrow he'd quit in style.

But tomorrow got pushed off again and again until one day the Shugar Belt Building burnt down. Alvy didn't do it for the insurance this time.

"Harry, if I had a gun right now, I'd shoot myself," Alvy confessed.

Here in this deli; hoe apropos

"I have a piece at home," Harry said.

"Yeah, right. How could you even think of joking at a time like this. My business just burnt down, my life's work. Without it, I'm nothing. Just another fat shit with a filthy mouth."

"I'm sorry Alvy. That was a stupid thing to say. I really am sorry, though."

And there was a kernel of truth to that.

"My business is finished, Harry. Two hundred and fifty four people out of work. All because I took a wicked dump and lit a match...like I usually do, y'know... to kill the smell...I wasn't thinking clearly. Too much shit on my mind...lots."

It happened in the bathroom in the back of the factory where the chemical barrels were stored.

"You left the can without stamping out the match?"

"...I left the can without stamping out the..."

Alvy leaned across the table, grabbed Harry and hugged him for dear life. "I'm fucking ruined Harry, it's all over..." He let go of Harry abruptly. "Fuck, this is embarrasing. But shit, you're like the son I never had...And if I did, with these genes, it would've been a disaster."

"Well, thanks, I guess."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm so fucked."

"Rebuild, Alvy. You have to, belts are your life. You'll collect insurance, you'll be okay."

"Easy to say, boychik. I was already up to my eyeballs with the bank. I lost a shit-load in the market, so I had to cut most of my expenses, including insurance. I'm only covered for half a mil. The building alone is worth double that. And I'm not even talking machinery."

Alvy looked deep within Harry's eyes and said, "I'm sixty-two, I don't know if I have the strength to start all over...But Alvy Shugar was no pushover. I'm not ready to roll over and croak. And I'm far from broke. I've been socking away cash from undeclared sales for years...Rebuild? Yes, we'll rebuild, Harry!"

"We'll?"

"You got it, Harry. I was gonna open a division for you anyways. I always saw you as partner material. It would be like bringing my son into the business."

"I don't know what to say, Alvy."

Still, as much as he knew that any deal with Alvy would inevitably be a bad one for him, Harry felt himself getting sucked in again into Alvy's world. There was something magical about a vulgarian businessmen like Alvy. He was what he was.

"Partner material? Me?"

"Yeah Harry, you work hard. You have talent and wouldn't screw me. And you're, family...not that that means anything. I don't speak to most of my family and if I could get away with it, I'd murder Candy's mooching family one by one...with a fucking axe." Alvy cleared his throat and wiped the sweat off his brow with his grease-stained napkin. He threw it down on his empty plate and pouted.

Alvy snapped his finger at the waitress who immediately approached the table.

"Where's my pickle? I ordered the smoked meat platter, but there wasn't a pickle."

"Yes sir, there was a pickle spear next to the cole slaw."

Alvy grabbed the menu and scanned it.

"There," he pointed to on the menu. "It says that the smoked platter comes with a pickle, not a pickle spear...What's a pickle spear anyways? A delicatessen weapon? Pickle spear."

The waitress inhaled deeply and thought how she would get even with the asshole du jour.

"Sir, I can get you a pickle."

"Yeah, that would great. No spears or swords. Just a dill pickle..." Alvy winked at Harry, then turned to the waitress. "Make that two, sweetie."

"Yes, sir," she said walking towards the kitchen.

"You see that Harry, I know how to get what I want."

"..."

"That's the key to business, bubbeleh, you gotta push. Push, push, push."

"..."

Alvy was right about that, but who wants to push when crusing along is so much easier? Harry cleared his throat. Time to thwart this pitch.

"Here's the thing, Alvy. It's time for me to move on anyways, I never intended to sell belts all my life--"

The waitress brought Alvy the pickles she spit on when nobody was looking. Alvy stabbed at one with his fork and looked at Harry.

"Pickle?"

Harry shook his head. "No, thanks."

Alvy cut into a spit-glazed pickle with his fork. An arc of pickle juice squirted out hit him in the chest, staining his shirt.

"Fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck!" Alvy cried while wiping up the briny juice from his yellow silk Hugo Boss shirt. "This shirt cost me a hundred and eighty-five bucks...plus tax!"

The waitress stood in the corner monitoring the situation. She smiled and let out a smug sigh of satisfaction. Chock up another notch on the bedpost of revenge.

"Y'think I grew up dreaming to be the belT king, Harry?" Alvy asked while chomping with a full mouth. More pickle juice dribbled down his chin. He shut his eyes, swallowed and took a deep breath. "I fucken eat too fast. My mother always told me that." He cleared his phlegmy throat. "Belts. I mean what's a belt? You're not gonna win any Nobel prizes for making straps of leather that hold up your pants."

"?"

"No! I wanted to be an architect. The emesse, my hand to God."
.
" !"

"Wanted I said, but couldn't. I don't have the head for it. I have a tiny brain like a crocodile. It thinks, eat or not eat. I think, make money or...finagle. So I can't be an architect, I have to go with a realistic choice, Plan B, for business. The point is Harry, for most of us, life is about Plan B. Plan A's rarely materialize. You wanted to b an actor, but never made it out of the starting gate. Like millions of others. But that's history, so you go for Plan B for belts."

"We'll my Plan B is to write for TV. That way I can be in the business without getting on stage."

Alvy picked up a pickle and pointed it at Harry. "You and 16,000 others."

Harry clenched his fist. "I can do it. You'll see."

"I wish you well, Harry. I really do. But you still need to eat," Alvy said and then bit off three inches of pickle.

"I've saved up enough money to keep me going for a year."

"Great, and then what? A year flies," Alvy said with his mouth full.

Harry rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "I'll worry about that when it happens."

Alvy pointed his fork at Harry. "I'd worry now. Have a Plan B."

"I can wait on tables if I have to, but staying in this business would eat me alive."

"Easy to say, Harry, but I don't see you waiting tables. Here's what I'm thinking.." Alvy picked at the bread crumbs left on his plate and rolled them into a doughy booger-sized morsel. "I've sold a bit down in the states. I can do well there. I know some Koreans down in L.A. who could manufacture for me in the meantime. Eventually I could open up my own plant there. To get started I could I open up a showroom in the L.A. fashion mart and you could run it...You could still do your writing for all I care. And if you should be so lucky as to make it with this writing business Harry, you're free to go. Just get me a replacement..."

"..."

"I'll pay you seventy-five grand plus three per cent commission..." Alvy offered while patting the bulging wallet in his pocket.

"..."

"Two-and-a-half per cent for the majors."

"I dunno..."

"You can live it up a bit, L.A.'s no place for schleppers with no money. You're gonna need a car, money to go out...I'll throw in a car in the deal." Alvy wiped off his sweaty brow, crumpled up the napkin and threw it on the table.

Harry understood the practical side to the offer. And there was a lot of downtime in writing and he'd probably have to kick around for a while before...if anything ever got going. And there was money and a car. He released his tight grip on his pecker.

"A car. Not a shit-box." Harry wanted to make sure he heard it right.

"Nothing fancy, maybe a good used one? I know a guy down there..."

"..."

"Nu?"

"You know a guy."