“Roll Call” by Garvin Livingston

Roll Call

Art showed up and talked about the two earthquakes he felt when he lived in Japan. Sam told them about the endless tornados he experienced his whole life living in Wichita.
“I can’t begin to count how many F1s or bigger I’ve lived through,” he said.
The men listened to Sam’s stories, but they all kept an eye on the door to see who would enter next. Al still hadn’t appeared. He was one of two who lived alone. The other fourteen had wives who were likely to account for their whereabouts if they were missing.
They never called it a club, but it was. They met every Thursday morning in the building adjacent to the pool. The room had no name and was rarely used. It served as a storage room for paper plates, plastic cups, napkins, and other supplies. It also had shelves of books for anyone to take and lots of boxes of jigsaw puzzles. There were some wrought-iron chairs with floral cushions lining the perimeter and a couple of card tables in the center of the room.
Burt walked in through the door next to the large picture window.
“C’mon, Burt, we’re talking ‘bout natural disasters,” Dave said. “How many have you been in?”
“Oh, Christ,” Burt said, with a wave of his hand as if to dismiss the whole group. “Do you know how many times I waded through water up to my waist in Alabama?”
“No,” Dave said. “We’re talking only hurricanes, earthquakes, and tornados. Floods don’t count.”
“Well, hell, anyone who has been here for more than a few years has lived through at least a dozen hurricanes,” Burt replied.
Al was still absent, and it made a few of them wonder. He was a swimmer. He often skipped the meeting but usually stuck his head in to excuse himself on his way to the pool. Jack, Ray, and Ralph all walked in together.
“It has to be a hurricane and not just a tropical storm. And you had to be in the hurricane, not just near it,” Dave explained to Burt.
The men would start trickling in around 7:30, and by 9:00, most of them were gone since they had to be seated for breakfast by that time. There were no minutes. The “club” had no name. They had dues of fifty cents per meeting to cover the cost of coffee. It was an honor system with a jar next to the coffee pot. There were no written rules. There was no announced agenda, but they all knew why they were there. The camaraderie was great, but they would confess to themselves that the real purpose of their club was to take attendance.
Residents died almost every week. Living there was largely an exercise in attrition. They never talked about it, but they feared that one of them would go down, and the others would not know about it. There was no roll call, but they each made mental notes in their heads as people entered the room. The men took notice. If anyone missed a meeting, there was an unwritten rule to report back to the others as soon as that person was sighted.
In previous weeks, the topics had been Best Car You Ever Owned. No models after 1980. Countries Visited. Clem won that one. States Visited. Five of them tied for having visited all fifty. Packs of cigarettes smoked in a lifetime. That one tested their math skills. They never did arrive at a winner. Most World Series Games attended. Henry was the winner there.
Lots of topics had been turned down in the early stages of their meetings. Tommy had suggested, “how many broads we’ve been with.” That was unanimously voted down. Skip had wanted to see who had the most surgeries. They all agreed that health issues were taboo. Chuck wanted to talk about the most monumental personal sports achievements. Johnny objected, “No one cares about your Little League home runs, Chuck.” So that motion was scratched.
Paul was the winner this week by virtue of having lived thirty years in California. He claimed that he had experienced twenty-six earthquakes, but everyone doubted how he could remember that number. Virgil was a close second since he had lived in Florida the longest, and had also gone, years ago, on purchasing trips as a coffee broker to Colombia, where earthquakes were common.
By then, Al was the only one missing. The room got quieter at about 8:45, and then they heard a tap on the window. Al was on the other side, waving with a big mustached smile, a towel slung over his left shoulder. The meeting was adjourned, and they all moved on to the dining room for breakfast. No casualties that week. All were accounted for. Fifteen, plus Al in the pool. 

Garvin Livingston

Garvin Livingston has written three novels and numerous short stories. His most recent stories appear in the February 2023 issue of Bull Magazine, the summer 2023 issue of The Raven Review, the January, 2024, issue of Opiate Magazine and the Winter 2024 issue of The Courtship of Winds. He holds an MA from the University of Pennsylvania.

Headshot: Garvin Livingston

Photo Credit: Staff