Darel Pleasant was his own man. He owned his own truck, he kept his own schedule and he minded his own business.
He kept a room at the Francis Drake, he enjoyed listening to a Miller’s game on the radio, he liked playing a hand of cards and placing a bet from time to time.
Darel didn’t have a job lined up for the day, so he spent the morning fishing at the river, off Main Street above Saint Anthony’s Fall.
If he caught a good fish he would bring it home to fry for his dinner, which he didn’t, so at noon he packed up his rod and tackle and drove south through downtown to Lake Street, where he parked his rig across the street from Nicollet Field.
Darel liked to park set-up in the lot across from the ballpark, he figured the sign on the side of his truck was good advertising, like a billboard, only it didn’t cost him anything.
It was a hot day and Darrel was over heated in the thick-humid air that had taken hold of the city, but it was laced with cool-swift currents that provided some relief.
It felt to Darel like a storm was coming, but Lake Street was busy nevertheless, and he thought it was worth his time to stay on site at least until the storm came in.
A little after 2:00 pm, Darel decided he wouldn’t get any work for the day; so he walked the block and half to the Round-up for a bucket of beer and a ham sandwich. They served the bottles on ice, and put that good Everett’s smoked pig, on soft Swedish bread from Ingebretson’s. He liked his ham sandwich with butter, mustard and pickles, which at the Round-up, they made in house.
Darel took his bounty back to the truck and turned the radio on, hoping the baseball game would at least get started, maybe-even finished before the rain came through.
He carried a couple of folding chairs and a card table in the back of his truck for days like this. He set them up on the shady side, with his beers and his sandwich and a paper bag filled with kettle chips.
He uncapped a beer, shuffled a deck of cards and started a game of solitaire.
Before he began to eat he crossed himself and said a little prayer.
Darel was content to watch the world go by, it was a pleasant afternoon and he was enjoying himself with nothing on his mind but the hit parade playing on the radio; before too long he saw his diminutive friend, Hank Jeffers, walking his way, heading east on Lake Street.
With a wave of his hand he motioned for Hank to come over and join him
Hank was his friend, and also his bookie.
Darel opened a beer for the little fellow as he climbed up into the open chair. Hank took the beer, said “Thank you,” and pulled a long swallow, then he helped himself to a quarter of Darel’s sandwich…Darel didn’t mind.
Hank started talking about his tall-blonde girlfriend, a dame named Angela, who was more than twice his height. She worked up the street at a bookstore and looked like a movie star.
Darel had seen them together, he didn’t think she was really his girlfriend, but he knew that they were friends.
He enjoyed Hank’s stories, they went well with the music and beer.
Together they played a few hands of gin for a penny a point and talked about the weather, they kept talking until the big-heavy drops of rain, the size of silver dollars began to fall hard soak the pavement.
Hank excused himself and headed for the Round-up.
Darel said, “So-long,” packed his things and went home.
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