The Saga of Alan Tugman

I recently asked a neighbor of mine about his day, and I’ve decided to write up his answer. It was the most stirring thing I have ever heard. The man’s name is Alan J. Tugman; He is a modern Ulysses. However, I must provide a bit of information about Alan before I tell his story-- he is a man who needs to be explained.

• Alan is 38. His hair is black and thinning. He has a minor potbelly.
• He works for his uncle; they run a used car lot. Alan is technically the office manager. Because the lot only has two employees, Alan also does sales when his uncle is hungover.
• Alan briefly owned a landscaping company. It was an unmitigated disaster.
• He drives a 98 Toyota Camry.
• At work, Alan spends the first half of most days browsing ESPN. He believes that this is time spent is essentially an investment; he thinks it will help him win his fantasy league this year.
• For the past 3 years, Alan has come in last place in his fantasy league.
• This year, Alan believes he has worked out a system that will enable him to win the league. It involves an Excel spreadsheet he has made.
• For the past two years Alan has also had systems that were meant to help him win the league. Both involved Excel spreadsheets.
• After lunch, Alan’s uncle sends him out to work the lot. He normally prefers the air-conditioned trailer, but is ok with working outside in spring and fall.
• I drive by the lot every day on my way to work; as far as I can tell, they have not sold a car in the past three months.
• Alan spends his weekends with “his boys”. There are three of them, and I am not sure where they know each other from.
• One of the boys is named Corey. He is a high school gym teacher; he doesn’t hang out on the third weekend of each month because he gets to see his daughter those days. He drives a Ford Mustang, is slightly overweight, and prefers domestic beers.
• Corey’s cousin, Jim, is also one of the boys. He manages a local restaurant; it has an American menu, but it is nominally a Irish Pub. They don’t sell Guinness.
• The last of the boys is Mike. He gels his hair back into little spikes, and wears a black button-down over jeans most days. He has proscription Oakley sunglasses. He sells life insurance. I saw him at work once, and he was wearing a short sleeve button down with a brown tie. He had normal glasses on. His kids go to private school.
• The boys enjoy fishing once a month, watching the Philadelphia Eagles play on Sundays, and practicing their basketball shots during the summer.
• Alan has a basketball hoop in the driveway of his one floor house. Once or twice a week, he tries to get his son to “shoot hoops”. His son usually tries and then stops after a few minutes. After this, the son goes inside to read books. He’s eight.
• Alan’s wife is named Ann. She teaches social studies to sixth graders at our public school.
• Ann loves Alan, and tolerates his friends. Alan loves Ann as well, but avoids her friends. They think he’s a dolt.
• Ann knits most nights, and works as a summer camp director during the summer. She has short hair and wears light colors.
• Ann is from New Mexico; she doesn’t regret moving, but misses her home state. The home’s wood-paneled livingroom has framed arrowheads and dream catchers on the wall. There’s a framed poster of a mountain range near her childhood home in the kitchen.
• The sun is setting in the poster. The picture was taken in the shadow of the mountains; the picture shows the lowering sun making the mountains glow.
• Alan has an ongoing dispute with the local liquor store owner, Mr. Lee. It involves alleged non-payment for a case of beer.
• Mr. Lee believes Alan accidentally stole 24 cans of Coors light when he was drunk. Alan did.
• Alan does not recall the incident; he refuses to pay for the beer.
• In Alan’s defense, he thought he had paid for the beers when he left the store.
• Mr. Lee smokes outside his store, and often sees Alan going into the pizza place next door.
• When he sees Alan, Mr. Lee heckles him and demands his money. It has been two years since the alleged incident, but Mr. Lee has a temper, as well as an encyclopedic memory.
• Alan normally just ducks into the pizza place. He’s told Mr. Lee he isn’t paying enough times.
• On the weekends, I start my day with a walk to the local deli to get a breakfast sandwich and some coffee. I normally run into Alan, who is on his way to work.
• This Sunday I ran into Alan and noticed he had a hospital wristband on. I asked what happened and if he was okay. After hearing his story, I realized I needed to record it for posterity.

It was a Friday night in June, which means one thing for the boys: basketball. Like usual, Corey took home a ball from his job, and they were shooting in Alan’s driveway. He had moved his Accord to the front of his house, and his wife’s Kia Soul was tucked into their garage. They remembered to shut the garage door this time; a week ago, they accidentally dented the Soul with a stray free throw.

They normally drank beers that someone-- not Alan-- picked up from Mr. Lee’s. After each had four or five, they would lower the hoop, and attempt to dunk. This is my favorite form of entertainment, but I had to miss it this Friday; I had a date. When I got back, they had already left.

When I saw him on Sunday, Alan told me that I didn’t miss much. They had to pack up early; Corey finally pulled off the “360-Tomahawk” dunk he had been working on for the past month, but he twisted his ankle landing it. Mike had to take him to the hospital, and Jim wasn’t there because his pub’s weekend manager called out sick, plus the ball left with Corey (they needed it for the pickup games scheduled for 3rd period on Monday). Alan told me he was pissed because he could feel that this was the week he’d finally pull off the between the legs dunk he’d been working on. Normally, after the boys left, he would cuddle with Ann on the couch and watch an old movie, but she was driving their son to a Boy Scout camping trip, so he was alone.

He had already downed a few beers, and figured some more would go down easily, so he walked on over to the liquor store. Normally, Mr. Lee didn’t work on weekends; he had hired help take care of everything after 5 on Fridays, but the burnout that normally staffed the counter got his hand stuck in a mason jar earlier in the day. Him and Corey ended up sitting next to other in the ER’s waiting area.

Anyway, Alan stumbles in, and Mr. Lee runs out from behind his counter, locks the door, and immediately demands payment for the missing twenty four cans of beer. Alan was not having this; he already lost his chance at the dunk, and he doesn’t want to lose twenty dollars on top of this. Words were exchanged. Alan made his position clear, loudly. Mr. Lee pointed at Alan’s chest, then jammed his finger into it. Alan swatted it away, and then Mr. Lee tried to tackle him; the two men grappled. Mr. Lee got free, backed up, and went to do some kind of running tackle at Alan, but slipped on the cheap rug in front of the counter. He ended up holding his kneecap while rolling around on the ground.

Alan stood over him, and was trying to gloat, but he couldn’t catch his breath-- his throat was closing, his chest was getting tight; he believed he was having a heart attack, but the EMTs would later tell him he was just “piss drunk” and “winded”. The first responders came after a patron at the pizza store saw Alan and Mr. Lee tussling and called the cops. Neither man wanted to press charges, but Mr. Lee did tell the cops about the beer. They pretended to take notes on his complaint, and told him they would reach out to a detective. They didn’t. Mr. Lee and Alan spent the night in the hospital; they were placed in the beds next to each other, and they argued about the beer.