Bernie at the Pay Phone

 I came out of the post office and there
    was Bernie Stapleton talking on a pay phone.
    Bernie had been hiding from me for seven years.
    I had loaned him a thousand dollars for an emer-
    gency and I never heard from him again. He wasn’t
    sure if I had recognized him, so he turned his
    back to me and hung his head down. Bernie didn’t
    know what it was to earn a living. He just moved
    from one scam to another, narrowly evading the
    law. But I had always had a soft spot in my
    heart for Bernie. I waited at a certain distance
    for him to get off the phone. I knew he was
    sweating blood. “Bernie,” I said, “where have
    you been? I’ve missed you.” He was massively
    uncomfortable. “I’ve been away. I’ve been running
    an investment firm in the Bahamas. Yeah, I’ve
    missed you too. How’ve you been?” “Well, to
    tell you the truth, I’m kind of down on my luck,”
    I said, which was a lie. “Maybe I could help
    you out, Simon. If you could come up with, say,
    a couple hundred bucks, I could turn it into
    something substantial real fast,” he said.
    Bernie never changed. Everything around us was
    changing so fast I couldn’t keep up, and there was
    Bernie at the pay phone making nickel and dime
    deals the way he’s always done. “I think I
    could come up with that much,” I said. “Then
    meet me here tomorrow at three. A little favor
    for an old friend, that’s the least I can do.”
    Bernie was standing tall now. He really believed
    he was an investment banker in the Bahamas,
    and not some scuzzy little rat holed up in
    Shutesbury without a pot to piss in. I admired that
    to no end. “Thanks, Bernie, I’ll see you
    tomorrow,” I said.


    by James Tate