On the other side of the fence, puddles reflected the shimmering neon lights from package stores and bars on the opposite side of the road. Carnie mirrored images caused an eerie landscape in the reflection. Broken bottles of gin, wine, and whiskey, crushed aluminum beer cans, and a couple of piles of dog shit, nearly obscured the dirt and gravel flowerbed lining the parking lot fence. In the past, a wide variety of colors lined the fence, Martin recalled.
With the toe of his scuffed work boots, Martin pushed aside some broken glass. It was just a few inches, but he wanted to get closer to the fence. He inspected the building paused in time like a young boy's deteriorated toy, left in its forgotten world of an overgrown yard. With arthritic fingers entwined in the fence, Martin pulled himself closer. He pushed his face against the fence for an eye to brave a look at the old cinder block building. The sight tore at his heart. About fifteen feet above the asphalt, windows with broken panes encircled the building. The interior was dark. Several street lamps unsuccessfully tried to illuminate the barren parking lot. A lamppost with a broken bulb stood like a dead sentry at the parking lot entrance. The broken lamps were victims, as were the windows, to accurate hoodlum arms. Or, perhaps, from vindictive employees let go when the plant shut down.
From his vantage point, Martin could see the guard booth, also with broken windows and plywood hung loosely onto the sides, the wood rotting in the weather. Old man Jenkins had stood guard at that gate for as long as Martin could remember. Every morning, driving into the lot, Martin waved his good mornings to him. Jenkins, in mock military fashion, saluted the vehicle as it passed by, then he waived with a broad smile. When they finally closed the old plant down, Jenkins must have been near eighty. When he turned sixty-five, he refused to retire and had insisted on part-time work at the gate to keep busy and to help supplement his social security.
"I don't know what I'm going to do now, with all the extra time and all," he told Martin on his last day. Martin had made a point to stop at the gate to wish Jenkins a good retirement. With the handshaking finished, Jenkins said, "It's been a real pleasure working with you all these years Mr. Fitzgerald." Jenkins tipped the beak of his guard cap to his friend.
"Jenkins, you're the most loyal employee this company ever had."
"Why thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. That means a lot coming from you."
"You can call me Martin now, Mr. Jenkins."
"Yeh, I know that. But just because we don't work together no more, don't mean I'm going to be disrespectful all of a sudden. I wasn't raised that way."
Remembering that last goodbye, Martin stepped back away from the fence. Not three weeks later, Jenkins passed away. The official cause of death was old age. Martin and many others believed that he had just given up once the plant closed. Nothing left to do and no one to watch over. His wife had passed on years earlier. Martin felt bad for not doing more to help the old man.
Martin made some tough choices those last couple of years and the changes weren't easy. He did things he had to do, but not necessarily wanted to do. He glanced back at the plant before stepping off the curb. With his hands deep in his pockets, he hopped over a puddle and crossed the road towards O'Malley's Pub.
Young Sean was behind the bar. He was the owner now, inheriting the bar from his dad when it had passed to the next generation. The O'Malley's ran the bar nearly as long as the plant was there, four generations.
"Good evening, Marty," Sean called out to his friend. Sean pulled on the Guinness tap and placed the mug on the bar in front of Martin after he sat down.
"What brings you back to these parts, Marty? Had to have one last look, didn't you?"
Martin sipped on the frosted mug before answering.
"I spent forty-five years of my life in that building, Sean. I'm leaving a part of me there. I'll be leaving a part of me here, too," he said looking around the room. Old Irish folk songs playing, but the place wasn't hopping like it did before the plant closing. Only three other patrons sat in a back booth.
"How's Big Sean?"
"The old man's doing fine, Marty. He's enjoying his senior years watching Jeopardy. He's figured I can run the bar on my own now."
"I think he's known that for a while, Sean. It's just that your work gets in your blood. It's hard to leave. That's why your dad found it hard to turn over the reigns"
"Yeh, I guess," he answered while wiping the bar with a damp rag. "Times have changed, too. It's not like it used to be. One person can handle the bar on most nights now. Back before the plant closed, we needed a whole crew and the tap never stopped flowing."
"I wish I could have done more. You know that, don't you, Sean?"
"No one's blaming you, Marty. You did what you had to do. You had investors on your back. They didn't give you much of a choice."
"No, they didn't. But I could have fought to keep the plant open for a little while."
"It was going to happen eventually. Labor is cheaper across the border. It's just the way business is run nowadays." Sean looked hard at his friend. "It all comes down to the almighty dollar. That's why we're all here, to try and make a buck or two. Big companies just do it in a bigger way."
"I didn't think it was going to bother me like it does. They gave me a good package. I won't be hurting like the others. A lot of them have family to support. Mine are grown and on their own. They don't need my help anymore."
Martin took another sip. One of the guys sitting in the back booth got up and went to the men's room.
"Another Guinness?"
"Maybe one more," he answered stroking the bristles on his chin. "Then I'll need to go. I have an early flight tomorrow."
Sean poured Martin's Guinness then delivered three long neck bottles of Budweiser to the back booth. When he returned, he started rinsing mugs and stacking them in the icebox to frost.
"Do you know when it really got to me, Sean?"
"What's that, Marty?"
"The plant closing," Martin said with a blank stare at his reflection in the mirror. "It was at Jenkins' funeral. Do you remember old man Jenkins, Sean? He was the guard on the lot. Worked for me for over thirty years. Died three weeks after the plant closed. Can't help but think the plant closing might have had something to do with it." Martin traced his right index finger along the top of the mug as he spoke.
"Jenkins was an old man," Sean answered. "It was his time. There wasn't anything you could have done."
Sean began wiping the bar again, even though he had just done it a few minutes earlier.
"Believe me, Marty. No one ever blamed you for closing the plant, especially Jenkins. He had nothing but the nicest things to say about you, ever."
Martin finished his mug and placed it back on the cardboard coaster.
"Another?" Sean asked.
"No, thanks, Sean. I need to be on my way."
Martin spun the stool around and stood up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and put a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "No need for any change, Sean. You've treated me well these last couple of years. And," he hesitated like he wasn't sure what to say next, "you're a good listener, too. It's the best trait a bartender can have and you're good at it because you really care."
Sean called out before Martin pushed through the exit.
"Marty."
Martin turned back, the door held open with his left hand.
"Forget this place," Sean advised. "Go to Florida and enjoy the sun, play some golf. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Sean. Good luck to you, too. And give my best to your dad."
The door closed behind Martin, silencing the Irish folk songs forever. He turned to his right and made his way towards the Mercedes parked a few doors down. He didn't look back. He couldn't look back. It was time to move on. Tomorrow he would be on a Delta flight to Miami to begin his new life in the golden years.
3/16/2002
