"Howie," complained Bucky. "You gotta help me."
"Oi vei iz mir," groaned Howie into his beer. "Not this again, boychik."
"But I only got a week," insisted Bucky, turning the shot glass full of tequila round in his metal hand, gleaming under the bright Christmas lights over the bar. "I got his stocking stuffers and the art supplies like I always do, but I gotta get him a good gift this year, and – " he made a helpless gesture and turned his big, gray, pleading eyes on his friend. "I got nothin'."
"Gevalt, I saw the bill for the art supplies; you got quite a bit more than nothing, Bucky," chided Howie. "He can paint for ten years on what you got him."
"But I always get him art supplies," Bucky whined, downing his shot. The bartender thoughtfully refilled it, mindful of his generous tips. "I got him art supplies for his birthday. And last Christmas. And the birthday before that, and the Christmas before that. I'm runnin' outa ideas, How."
"Be glad you're not Jewish then," said Howie sagely. "You got any idea how hard it is, finding eight presents to give to Sabra every year! Eight! And here you are, complaining to me about an extra one for Steve, you goyisher kop."
"If you wasn't a Yiddisher kop, you think I'd be askin'?" demanded Bucky, who had long ago ceased to be bothered by Howie's slang. "C'mon, I'm buyin' your beers and drivin' your drunk Jewish ass home. Help me out a little here."
Howie sighed deeply, the sigh of an old man asked overmuch for the fruits of his wisdom. "Something for his motorcycle, maybe?"
"Nothin' wrong with it, and he says he doesn't like all that extra stuff. Got him new saddlebags last year, vintage 1943. Next."
"Something very patriotic, a reproduction of his old shield?"
Bucky made a face. "Ugh. Nah. He doesn't like the reminders."
"Don't blame him. No tchatchkis either, he doesn't like a cluttered house."
"Naw, he's a real neatnick. I could get him another statue," said Bucky thoughtfully. "He liked that one I got him in St. Augustine real well."
"To repeat art is to cheapen it," declared Howie, draining his beer. It was his third, but Bucky was both buying and driving, and Howie wasn't bothered when the bartender poured him another with a brilliant grin. Howie smiled back; she was a pretty girl, and he was hopeful Bucky would notice. This was a good idea. "How about a girlfriend?" he suggested. "The yenta that arranged our marriage, a friend of Sabra's cousin, she has retired to Boca Raton – "
Bucky snorted into his tequila. "That's past prayin' for," he said darkly. "We got different taste, too. Look what happened that last double date I dragged him on. All they did was argue about politics all night. Geez."
"I remember," said Howie sadly. "Such a klutz with the women, he is. And to be so handsome, what a shame."
"Yeah," said Bucky gloomily.
They stared moodily into their drinks for a few moments. Bruce Springsteen was singing ad nauseum about Santa, the Christmas lights reflected in the rows of bottles behind the bar, and the low din of half-schnockered golfers buzzed at their backs. Howie's eyes lit up.
"Bucky," he said excitedly. "I've got it."
"What?" asked Bucky.
"Look." He pointed one knobby finger at the television, flickering in the corner. It was showing a commercial for some toy store, and a little boy actor was enthusiastically and incorrectly holding a new baseball bat. "How long it's been since you took him to see the Rays in Tampa? Get him season tickets, get him box seats." At Bucky's contemplative frown, Howie urged: "Always, you're talking about how you went to see the games in Brooklyn, when you were little boys! Your first spring you go, but he gets so busy with his campaigns and charities and committees. Make him have some fun, boychik; you get him box seats, he has to go, nu? And if you get four seats, then maybe bring a girl or two." He looked hopefully up at Bucky, who was staring at Howie as though he'd pulled a rabbit out of a top hat.
"That," said Bucky reverently, "is an awesome idea, Howie."
Howie preened. "Isn't it, though!" he gloated, and took a sip of his beer.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Jim," said Steve. "I need your help."
Jim looked up from the menu, gray eyebrows raised. "Do you, now?" he said calmly, then perused the entrées. He was contemplating the grouper, as the waiter had told them it was fresh off the boat. Besides, Steve was paying, and had already ordered a demi-bouteille of ridiculously expensive white Bordeaux to soften Jim up. A fish entrée would pair beautifully.
The waiter presented their appetizer, perfectly braised sea scallops in a shallot sauce, and dished them out on the fine bone china. "Anything you want, of course, Steve," said Jim generously after the first mouthful. It was delicious and he experienced a pang of regret Ellie wasn't with them. She loved this restaurant; it was so elegant. "I assume this is about your Christmas present for Bucky?"
Steve exhaled. "I can't decide," he said fretfully. "He doesn't need anything for either his car or his motorcycle. He never wears any of the clothes I get him. And he buys everything he wants as soon as he sees it. I'm stumped."
"Any new video games he might like?" asked Jim, hesitant. He didn't altogether understand Bucky's obsession with the Playstation.
"Not really, no," grumbled Steve. "He just got the latest version of 'Tank Commander,' and he's already blown through the sci-fi game I got him for his birthday. He doesn't like the puzzle games I bought for him."
"Hm." Jim drooped thoughtfully over the scallops, careful to avoid spotting his new Tom Ford tie. He took a mouthful of the pouilly-fuissé, pausing to appreciate its bite. "Well, just because you like the puzzle games doesn't mean Bucky does, you know. His mind works very differently than yours."
"I know," said Steve, pushing his scallops around with a scowl. He grimaced and rested his massive forearms, clad in a beautiful blue suit, on the edge of the table and gave the older man a pained look. "It's just that he's so smart. I wish he'd use his brain more."
"He uses it plenty," said Jim gently. "Just not the way he used to, maybe."
"Right, yes, okay," said Steve uncomfortably. "I just have to get him something. He does so much for people; he tries so hard. Look at all the things he does for Mrs. Schumacher, for the clubhouse. He deserves something really special this year."
"You could get him a good girlfriend," grinned Jim.
Steve snorted. "I wish."
"Ellie's got a friend in her Wednesday morning Bible study," pressed Jim. "She has a daughter who is single, a really nice girl, she told Ellie – "
"Bucky, with a nice girl?" said Steve, dubious. "You actually think that'd interest him?"
"He doesn't always have the best taste," agreed Jim with a little laugh.
The two men finished their scallops in silence. The restaurant was airy and filled with light, the tall greenhouse glass edged with white Christmas lights and gold ribbons. A harpist played holiday music, trilling and soothing around the low, refined buzz of their fellow diners. Suddenly Jim snapped his fingers.
"I got it!" he said brightly.
"What?" asked Steve, leaning forward.
"Box seats to the Rays," said Jim, tapping the snowy tablecloth with a gnarled finger. "Think! You two went up to Tampa to see the Rays nearly all season, your first year in Sarasota. But you just let it drop off. Such a shame, too, because Bucky is always reminiscing about how often you two would go to baseball games when you were young kids in New York."
"Does he?" asked Steve; his face went soft. "Yes, those were good memories." He frowned and sat back as the waiter came by to collect their dirty plates. "We just got busy, I guess," he admitted. "I started as a docent at the Ringling, and he got involved in golf and fixing up his Barracuda, and mowing everyone's yards who couldn't afford a landscaping contract. I guess I forgot how much he loves baseball."
"It happens," said Jim sagely. "You made friends, you got hobbies. But this will be a fun thing for him, won't it? Get him a set of four box seats – don't give me that look, I know you can afford it, young man! – then he can bring you, or his dubious girlfriends, or even Mrs. Schumacher if he likes."
"That's a great idea," said Steve, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank you, Jim! I'll get right on that."
"You do that," smiled Jim smugly.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Play ball!" boomed the announcer, and the noise in the stands redoubled under the dome of Tropicana Stadium. Bucky argued noisily with the hot dog vendor, and Steve was deftly providing Ellie Allen and Sabra Fetterman with their drinks, careful not to spill on the older ladies. Jim Allen and Howie Fetterman sat next to each other in the box, watching the Rays and their current opponents, the Astros, jog out onto the turf and take up their positions. Bucky finally got what he wanted and handed the hot dogs to the two men.
"Two kosher franks," he grinned. He was wearing the most ridiculous hat, foam rubber sprouting their team's mascot in bright colors. "Steve's got your beers, hold on."
"Thank you, Bucky!" said Jim, and Howie bit into the kosher dog with enthusiasm. Bucky fought his way back up the aisle to buy pennants, and Jim and Howie watched Steve wrangle two more beers and hand them over. They saluted him, and, when both Steve and Bucky were occupied with Ellie and Sabra, gave each other secret smiles.
"I can't remember which one of us had the idea," said Jim under his breath, "but it was a good one, wasn't it?"
"A real cochmeh," chuckled Howie. "And plenty of seats for everyone this way!"
"Cheers," grinned Jim, touching his cup to Howie's.
"L'chaim," agreed Howie, and they settled back to watch the game.