White Shirts
Screaming "Every night?" the guy next to Walter woke him as he nodded out poring over a map of The San Fernando Valley.
"If necessary." The instructor was surprised.
"How would I know?"
Another applicant bellowed: "When you stink so bad your passengers beg you to open the windows even though it's a hundred plus degrees with a smog alert."
The room erupted; close to a hundred young, middle aged, and older men of dark, medium and light complexion hooting and howling. Some slapped, drummed, or pounded the 'writing surface / arm' of the beat up junior high school ‘desk & chair combination’ into which they were crammed.
The instructor stood still, a pained half smile morphing into a smirk which finally drooped to a frown. "City of Angels Executive Car Service trusts our associates to use adult judgment. A freshly laundered, crisply ironed white shirt creates a positive initial impression on clients which helps them feel comfortable. Remember, it is quite likely that the person entering your vehicle is a visitor, and perhaps he or she has been traveling for many hours or even days. You are a big part of that person's initial experience in the Los Angeles area."
Walter raised his hand. "If you trust us to drive your cars I suppose you expect us to wear a clean shirt."
"Thank you." Breathing a sigh of relief. “Class dismissed.”
Driving home Walter realized he did not own a single white shirt. Classes all day tomorrow then driving for the first time that night. He took the next exit, calling Madeline to tell her he would be late.
The Venice Salvation Army was huge. A rack of white shirts stretched twenty feet along one wall. Prices ranged from $2.50 to $6, 'fifty fifty' shirts the cheapest. Many had a slightly soiled look; Walter remembered one summer when he worked as a busboy his sister warning that you couldn't use Clorox on them, the polyester would yellow. A friend said: "Wash 'em in the sink with fucking dish soap for Christ' sake; rinse, shake 'em out, button 'em up, another shake then hang 'em up in the shower and by morning, perfecto." He chose two of the less yellowed fifty fifties and one 100% primo Egyptian cotton styled by Marco for the elegant man. He handed the 'volunteer' at the register a ten and a five, receiving a few singles plus 'thank you, have a beautiful night'. Then she winked. Wow; three shirts cost less than his morning latte and croissant without barista attitude.
Madeline was at the door, sipping a glass of white wine. He told her how cheap the shirts were.
"Honey, don't expect me to wash them for you. Long day."
“I’ll do it in the sink. Long as the shirt is basically clean and pressed. Who could tell, sitting in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car at LAX if my shirt is not blinding white? When we used to make out in the movies did you ever notice that my teeth didn't gleam like those studs in the Pepsodent ads?"
“Puleeeze. Drink?"
Nodding ‘no’. “Lot of reading for class.”
“Honey, it’s smart of you to get those shirts for driving.”
"Long as I don't smell."
"I love the way you smell, it drives me crazy, and you don't do anything. It's not fair, It's just... you!"
Pulling him down to the couch she tongued his ear and a few buttons of her blouse eased open so he kissed her swelling cleavage all creamy and fragrant as her hand went to his crotch.
Insistent rapping at the door crashed their spontaneous passion. Loaded, squirming from her embrace Walter did the stiff legged duck walk to the door.
"Norman, what are you doing here?" It was Walter's older half brother, recently divorced.
Spreading his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I feel like, with Mom and Dad gone, I have nowhere to go."
"Yeah, it's ok. Come in."
"I don't mean to be a bother." Craning his head to see Madeline, who in standing up from the couch had caused the rest of the buttons to pop, her beautiful breasts tumbling from the scanty lace bra.
Madeline, on cue. "It's not a bother."
Norman, mouth watering. "Well, I just..."
Walter, motioning with a glance. "Honey!"
Madeline, finally noticing, giggles. "Sorry."
Norman, too stupid to be devious. "It's ok."
Walter, through clenched teeth. "I'm sure."
Madeline, casually buttoning up. "Have a seat Norman. Hungry? I bet you miss her cooking."
"Not so much. Ate take out most of the time."
"Drink?"
"What've you got?"
"What do you like?"
"Scotch."
"Johnny Red OK?"
"Oh yeah, with a splash. No ice."
"Make yourself comfortable. Walt?"
“Wish I could. Too much reading."
"What about the lady of the house?" Norman loved corny expressions.
At the fridge. "Thanks, I've got wine." Handing Norman his drink.
Taking his first sip. "Wish my buddy would join us."
Madeline, sitting near Walter. "You O.K.?"
"I'm fine. Orientation meeting was actually informative, but it went on forever."
"I can dig that bro, I really can." Raising his glass in salute. Previously, Norman had never addressed Walter as 'bro'.
Norman didn't have any particular problem to discuss, just needed to hang out. The room he rented was fine but he didn't feel comfortable in the rest of the house although use of the kitchen was included.
"Everything was too perfect, not like here." A smile of appreciation. During this needy, self deprecating monolog Walter noticed his half brother ogling his future wife.
After twenty minutes Walter excused himself. Driving for City of Angels Executive Car Service could be the perfect part time job. Left plenty of quality time for school.
Norman pumped his hand. "Good luck buddy."
Madeline held him close, whispering in his ear. "See you soon." Her breath was hot and slightly rancid around the edges.
He climbed the stairs slowly, glancing down at the living room. The couch faced the love seat so people could sprawl comfortably while having a conversation. Her brilliant idea.
He washed a white shirt in the bathroom sink then rinsed, squeezed, shook, hung, buttoned and shook it again. Hanging it in the shower he heard Norman's deep chuckle followed by Madeline's laugh.
He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and began reading an article in Scientific American which his professor had assigned. It said that Neanderthals, the last evolutionary step before modern humans, had large skulls.
In the quiet bedroom the muted conversation downstairs soothed him, the way the rumble of his Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen used to.
The article went on to say that Neanderthals also had very thick skulls, so the proportion of brain capacity to skull size was lower than that of humans. Subdued laughter from below was a perfect backdrop to his reading.
"Norman, would you like a refill?'
"Only if you join me."
"Of course." Fridge wincing open.
Walter read the complex passages twice. The author explained that there was a period, approximately four hundred thousand years ago, when both early humans and Neanderthals ‘coexisted’ on earth.
"You poor guy, living in a rented room."
"It's only temporary."
The clink of glasses. "I'm lucky to have you two."
A snatch of silence.
Walter was intrigued to learn that even as Neanderthals were sliding into extinction, they mated with early humans.
Below, rolling chuckles stretched into a groan, a giggle flowing into a murmur.
Based on ‘representative sampling’ the author estimated that modern human DNA shares
between three and seven percent of it’s genetic material with Neanderthals.
Walter finally dozed off.
A furniture leg scraped hardwood floor.
"God, what are we doing?"
"He sleeps like a log."
"Oh, sweet Jesus."
Her wine glass fell, shattering like silver bells.
In his dream, Walter stirred.
DeWalt
It’s always the projects that seem so simple. Disarming. Guy reeks of greasy food and tobacco, calls his wife a piranha, you’re on guard. But Jerry Karsman was perfect. Intelligent, sensitive. Described his children as ‘friends’. Spoke softly. Even Bobby, jaundiced and cynical, whose experience had produced a professional, enlightened paranoia, never suspected. A few years after 9 - 11 so people wanted to see the good.
A simple cabinet; fifty four inches wide, twenty inches deep, thirty two inches high. Cherry veneer top with a solid, curved edge. Solid legs. Three doors; solid frame with recessed veneer panels. One major dilemma; two doors open together and one singly. Odd compartment on the left or right? Karsman consulted with his wife and daughters and finally decided. Right side. Three more meetings to pick the finish color.
We built it in ten days, milling the solid legs and shaped top edge by hand. The process was the way it should be. Not like one of those situations when a couple rips a picture out of the House and Home section that costs three times their budget and you try to explain how unhappy they will be if you substitute every detail and material choice for something cheaper. To prove it you take them to a cut rate furniture store full of knockoffs made by starving people halfway around the globe. Guess what? They love everything they see.
It was a rainy Tuesday when I called Karsman to tell him that we would be delivering his piece on Friday, depending on the next few day’s weather, explaining that the finishing process was taking longer due to the dampness. Initially he was disappointed, but Karsman appreciated technical information in small doses and enjoyed being ‘included’ in decisions. I assured him that we would rather bring it sooner than later, as we had other projects in the shop, but the impulse to save a day or two must be resisted; after all, he was going to own this piece, use it, live with it, for many years. I was preaching an old world perspective on time and craftsmanship and he ate it up.
On Friday morning I called him before he went to work, reminding him to alert the people at the front desk. He was excited, and decided to leave the office early. My initial contract was very specific about terms for the final payment, so though I didn’t mention it, I expected a check upon delivery.
We arrived a half hour ahead of Karsman, carried the piece in, unwrapped the padding, attached the doors, made a few adjustments and gave it a quick buff. With a little effort I remembered approximately where he wanted the piece so we nudged a few items aside and inserted it. Suddenly, everything else looked shabby.
“He’s gonna want it all matching now.”
“Kept the approved finish sample.” I happily reminded Bobby as he went to the bathroom. Thinking about what to charge for the other pieces when our client walked in.
“Hello Mister Karsman” Snaking around me he focused on the piece. A narrow shaft of afternoon sun, diffused by the bedroom window, lit it softly and the cherry glowed. I stood in silence, waiting for the moment’s transcendent loveliness to enrapture him.
He screamed: “Built in. I said built in. It was supposed to be built in!”
“Mister Karsman, installed does not mean built in.”
“What the fuck does it mean then?”
“Installed?”
“No… motherhood ! Yes, I mean installed.”
“Installed means carried up those three flights of stairs and placed where the client requests.”
“And I’m requesting, there.” A trembling, rigid finger flipped like a switchblade from his pink, clenched fist. He pointed to a location where the cabinet in it’s present size and shape would never fit.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but this cabinet won’t fit there.”
Wringing his hands Bobby emerged from the bathroom.
“Then make a new one!”
I waited for his fury to spend itself. In less than a week Jerry Karsman had gone from enthusiastic and appreciative to demanding and suspicious. Typical middle management type. Knows the way the world works but has neither the ability nor desire to change it; his job is to understand his limitations and maximize efficiency. Values time with his family. The scary secret about those mild mannered types is that at home, in their own realm, they can be demons.
Bobby was silent, his tight grin ready to burst. Just then Karsman’s wife Janet walked in with their two daughters, aged twelve and sixteen.
“Daddy, I love it!” Jennifer, the younger girl, with undeveloped editing skills, hadn’t registered the tense confrontational vibe.
Mrs Karsman did, probing gently. “Dear, are you happy?”
“No, not by a long shot!”
“What’s wrong, it’s gorgeous!” Jessica, the teenager, with long legs, perfect butt and skin tight jeans sashayed to the cabinet and bent over to inspect it, stroking the wood.
“Gorgeous, I think it’s gorgeous too!” Bobby could not resist.
“Mister Karsman, we’ve spent a lot of time on this cabinet, and you’ve approved the drawings which state clearly the dimensions.” I produced a folded, faded shop drawing with his jittery blue Bic pen signature.
“I can’t read those things. I asked you, can I put it in the corner, and you assured me that would be possible. I remember the day perfectly. We made a mark on the wall, where I wanted it to be!” He stalked to the corner and sure enough, a few feet up the wall were two faint pencil crosses, roughly three feet apart, obviously closer than the cabinet’s width.
“I do remember that day. You commented on the weather. So muggy, you couldn’t understand how we could work. You came home at lunchtime to meet me.”
“Couldn’t wait to get back to my office, God bless air conditioning! Believe it or not, I was worried about you working in that heat.”
“I remember you mentioning that. Appreciated your concern.”
“I was thinking what good shape you must be in.”
“Certain discipline, when you do physical work.”
“I should lose some weight.”
“So that was August?”
“Yeah. Third week. A Tuesday. Started our vacation that Friday.”
Mrs Karsman had been quiet way too long. “Saturday.”
“What did you say?”
“We went away on Saturday, early in the morning. Jessica had a date on Friday night. They went to hear music. Nice boy, nephew of that couple near First Avenue.”
Bewildered, Karsman processed this. It had nothing to do with our issue but seemed to discolor his rosy memory of the family vacation.
“Ever see him again dear?” Janet Karsman was a master of diversion.
Jessica wrinkled her nose and shook her hair. “Went back to Rhode Island.”
“Did you have a nice time, at the music?”
“I guess. Ok I guess.”
Bobby glanced at her, a filthy movie in his eyes.
“So, it was August?”
Karsman came out swinging. ”Yeah, August, what’s the difference?”
I hesitated. “This drawing you signed, it’s dated October ninth.”
Cornered. “What’s the difference?”
“Sir, we had a lot of conversations. At one point we even discussed mahogany.”
“You talked me out of it with that crap about the rainforest.”
“Cherry cost you a couple hundred less, too.”
“It’s always about that, isn’t it?”
Spreading my hands. “Can’t give it away sir.”
“All these conversations are confusing.”
“That’s why I always work from an approved drawing. Mister Karsman, I think it’s fair to expect my final payment.”
He looked really sad. “You know, on the contract, next to the final balance it says: ‘to the client’s satisfaction’ and I’m far from satisfied.” He began peering at every detail, every joint. Shoving the cabinet away from the wall he ran his hand down behind it. “Feels really rough.”
“Unfinished back.” I pointed to the specification on the drawing.
“Enough already! Honey, give the man his money. We’ll make this work. He’s obviously not going to to make you happy.”
But he wasn’t done. “What’s the balance, anyway?”
“Thousand.” I cursed myself for leaving such a big balance. Thirty per cent. I wanted the job, he seemed an honest guy.
“Seven, we’re even, ok ?”
“Sir, we made a deal.”
“Seven hundred.”
“So, for a difference of three hundred dollars you’re happy?”
“Don’t put it that way, ok? Don’t trivialize this.” Writing the check.
“I don’t want to take your cabinet away Mister Karsman. Please.”
“Honey, call Ernie.” Karsman held out the check like a wand. “You’re not taking that thing anywhere.”
Ernie is the super, a two hundred thirty pound five by five cement block of a man who probably has zero pain receptors anywhere on his face and a few scattered around his body. Real puzzle.
Honey buzzed repeatedly. Finally, the scratchy voice. “Yeah?”
“Ernie, could you come up?”
“Be a few minutes, I’m under Mrs Schwartzes sink.”
Karsman grabbed the intercom. “It’s sort of an emergency, and bring Hector.”
“Leak?”
“No.”
“Not a leak or a fire, you’ll have to wait a bit, I’m sorry Mister Karsman.”
“Shit! Guess two hundred cash at Christmas ain’t enough anymore.”
“Her sink’s always a problem. She flushes stuff down her drain. Doesn’t understand.”
“Maybe he’s hosing her!” I had never heard Karsman talk this way.
Jessica got really angry. “Daddy, Mrs Schwartz is seventy eight years old!”
“Ernie won’t be necessary. I’m not going to take the cabinet away.”
“Thousand? You’re lucky to get half of that for this kind of work.” Handing me the check.
“Let’s go Bobby.” We stuck tools in backpacks, folded the moving blanket, shrugged on our coats and started out. Suddenly I remembered that I had left my DeWalt biscuit joiner in the closet, brought it from another job. “I’m sorry, I forgot a tool in your closet, if you don’t mind.”
When I started to get it Karsman shouted. “I’ll get it. I know the trick. Take a couple doors off, right? Hinges snap open pretty easy.” He went to the bedroom and came back, walking lopsided to exaggerate his burden and dropped it on the floor. “What the hell’s in there?”
“Biscuit Joiner.” I dropped to a knee and opened the bright yellow steel case, partly to show him but also to make sure everything was there.
“Did you use that here?”
Wondering why he asked me. “Different job, left it here then forgot it.” I renegotiated the stuff I was carrying, picking up the DeWalt, then stopped in the doorway. Looking at Karsman, his family behind him, I held the check up. “Are you sure this is how you want to do this?”
“Be happy with seven hundred.”
I handed him the check. “I’ll see you in court.”
Miserable, we walked to the train together.
“Beer?”
“Yeah. I dunno. Don’t feel like it, actually. Late”
“Me neither. Shit. Tired.”
“Lookin’ forward to that money.”
“Need me to lend you some?”
“Seven woulda been better’n nothin’”
“Never get the rest.”
“Really?”
“How it works.”
“Shit. How long?”
“What?”
“If you go to court.”
“Month, six weeks”
“Should fuck the daughter, older one.”
“Expensive piece.”
“Cabinet’s perfect.”
“Don’t fit.”
“Re do it, he’s payin’ the thou first.”
“Be simple.”
“What?”
“What were we just talkin’ about?”
“Don’t get like that, ok?”
“Like what?”
“You know….impatient.”
“Bobby, I’m only human. You have your outbursts.”
“To insult me ‘cause I ask a question. Like I was stupid.”
“Did I ever call you stupid?” As we turned the corner the wind blasted us so I had to scream. “Remove the top, legs, doors. Cut the case and top down by an exact dimension so two doors work, we’re not making any new doors. Just redo the case.”
“Just this and just that. Some refinishing too.”
“Two days?”
“Full days. Two long days.”
“Get the thousand first.”
“Five for the redo, no material.”
“What I was thinking.”
“Good deal for him.”
“Doesn’t understand enough to appreciate that fact.”
“The fuck. I’m freezin’ man. Shit, three blocks crosstown.”
I stopped at the side entrance to Grand Central, on Lexington. “This is me.”
“Later.” Bobby started the long walk to his train, shaking his head as I squeezed through the revolving doors.
The long arcade from Lex to the main hall was lined with fancy food stalls and knots of police. State, Feds, City, MTA. Few years after nine eleven, still like this. Not many people. Sign for the subway too small, like it was the least important thing.
When I entered the main hall the light blaring in from high up made me feel like I was in a sort of grimy Rennaisance painting. DeWalt got heavy, trying to pull my arm out of the shoulder so I stop, lean over in the middle of the central hall and it slips the last few inches. Quite a concussion against the stone floor in such a huge space. NYPD zeroes in on sound, I smile wide, his is more controlled. I flex my arm to work out the strain, illustrating to him what caused the noise, then pick the thing up again. It’s ok. Working guy.
“Have a good day.” I trudge on, State cop watching me. Trooper type, wide brimmed hat, high boots, aviator shades. Wondering how many American flags adorn his SUV I nod. Tool box, worn clothes, dirty shoes, make me one of them, guy who eats brats, guzzles a few longneck Buds and screams for The Giants every Sunday. Only thing missing is the hard hat with a torn union sticker pasted on it and the rusty scrape I got in that near miss back when I did ironwork. I’m limping a bit, DeWalt plumetting plumbob straight from stretched arm.
Finally at the turnstile, Two black lady cops, one full figured, one petite, smiling like sunrise. “How you doin’?”
“OK thanks, you?”
“Oh, wonderful!” Sliding DeWalt along the flat part where the slot is to free a hand, dig out my Metrocard and swipe. “Hope you have a nice boring evening.” Grabbing DeWalt in stride.
Scary silence until they appreciate the humor and as I crab walk to my train I hear first the high twittering giggle then the deep belly laugh.
Platform’s pretty empty, barely nine on a weekday, deadest part of winter, month after Christmas. Good season to stay home, make dinner, drink red wine and hold each other. Early enough, the F train still running frequently. Get a seat, read The Times, drink a whisky at my local, maybe talk to that woman with the shy smile. Home to a good night’s sleep and forget everything. Until tomorrow, when that gaping hole in my bank account sprouts a fresh set of teeth.
Five minutes, train arrives. I sit, spreading my mess around. Soon as we’re rolling the conductor’s voice, actually audible, informing us that we’ll be held up a few minutes due to another train crossing ahead of us at Union Square. Normal. Young couple a few years out of college across from me whisper and giggle. Thirtyish single career woman a few seats up hardens her face a little more. Guy in suit raises his head like a bird dog listening for some clue, then back to The Wall Street Journal. I read The Times. We sit in the station. Career woman leaning back, eyes jammed shut. Glances my way, I release a wry smile so she tightens glossy lips against perfect teeth.
Train grinds forward into Union Square station. People on the platform expecting to press into the car but the doors never open so their faces drop as the conductor bursts the air with his grotesquely loud horn then tells us the train will not be stopping at Union Square, will not stop until Jay Street in Brooklyn. Without apology he outlines the manner by which passengers can get to the skipped stations by catching a Manhattan bound train at Jay Street. For me it’s fine because I live in Brooklyn. Lady exec exhales.
Crawling to the end of the long platform the train shudders then stops though the doors remain closed. Through greasy fingerprints I watch a dumb show on the platform. A slightly built man, impeccably dressed in a tweedy business suit and wire rimmed glasses surrounded by a few cops. Bald head, olive skin, high cheekbones, trim moustache. One cop is burly and white, one is slender and Asian, one burly and black. Though they are smiling the suspect seems serious. In a supplicating gesture he holds out his hand, palm flat supporting a white cardboard bakery box with the sides collapsed and a mess of dough and frosting. Wad of that skinny red and white striped string they use in bakeries drooping off a corner. He talks quickly and with great emotion, never threatening. Few feet behind the cops is a soldier with a big dog, shepherd mix. On the filthy platform squats an amorphous white mass. Dog licking at some of it stuck on his snout. Birthday cake. The cops finally write something down and hand it to him. The man looks at the paper a long time, silently mouthing. I guess it’s a phone number. Cops walk away, shrugging. Carefully skirting the dog’s zone man finds a trash can and discards the ruined cake, licking each finger with reverence. Finally noticing the train he approaches, blinking through the closed doors at me. Stands, expecting the doors to open. Staring at him I wish it was an elevator where you push the button with the triangles pointing away from each other. A sharp blast and he hops backwards, blinking even more rapidly. We plunge screaming into darkness.
At Jay street a transit cop, an NYPD, and a man in a gray suit board the train. I’m thinking it’s late, probably should forget stopping at my local, maybe she’ll be there tomorrow. Open bottle of Cabernet from two days ago on the window sill. Nodding to me suit glances at DeWalt, looking lethal. “Hammer drill?”
“Biscuit Joiner.”
He smiles. “You must be a pro.”
“Yeah.” Remembering when I got it. Bobby had just finished a big job, got himself a Milwaukee screw gun. Purchasing your first expensive, high end professional tool was an event that we celebrated. This was our work, not just a job, and the commitment freed us to care.
Carroll Street, I get out. Same guy always asking for change, I don’t have any and don’t feel like giving him a dollar but I meet his eyes.
“Have a good night sir.”
“Thanks. Catch you next time.”
“God bless you sir.”
God.
First Time
Tony’s, his neighborhood hardware store with it’s beat up floor and hand lettered signs sold a ‘super duty’ extra large trash bag especially for building supers and contractors in a six mil thickness for fifty cents each.
“Three should be enough Tony.”
“Cleaning up the basement again?”
“Of course.”
“Planning to sleep down there?”
“How’d you guess?”
“One sixty three. Receipt?”
“No thanks." Smiling to his friend. "Later.”
He quickly strode the five blocks, dodging Yoga Moms shoving double wides who continually pleaded ‘sorry’ glaring at tourists who bolted across the sidewalk to read dinner specials scrawled in pastel chalk and shouting ‘excuse me’ to oblivious young somethings.
He had time to check the want ads, write a few perfunctory e mails and ‘reach out’ leaving his actual human sound on a few voice mails. Then he prepared dinner.
His wife was working late and when she arrived home at eight thirty would:
(1) Beg like a child for ‘a good stiff one’ and upon receiving her favorite highball say; ‘Oh, I get a drink too?’ giggling at the double entendre.
(2) Say how exhausted she was, swearing she would quit if they could afford it.
(3) Ask him if he’d had ‘any luck’.
(4) Sniff at the aroma of the roast that was cooking and smile, thanking him for all he did.
He would nod, leaving unsaid the shared truth that this was all he could do anymore. Those long nights of loving which made her forget the economic wreckage of his accumulated failures were a distant memory, a faded photo of happier times.
The roast showed the perfect amount of pink, the potatoes soft inside while crispy outside, the asparagus tender yet firm. They ate slowly, savoring every bite.
“I wish I could stay home every day.”
“Me too. I would go out early, while you're still asleep. Coffee, fresh air, say hello.”
“What do you get from it?”
“Get?”
“Is it that, important?”
“Important? Pet the dog of a perfect stranger, acknowledge that we share the sidewalk, the city, the world.”
“That’s hopeful.” Making her pouty smile.
He touched her forearm, smooth and dewy. She still charmed him, that smile especially.
He kissed her on the forehead, the way he did with his Mother, near the end.
Then he kissed her lips.
She whispered. “I miss you.”
“I miss everything.” He kissed her again, hungrily, and she sighed, murmuring. “We should do this some time when I’m awake.”
Closing the bedroom door he whispered. “See you soon.”
He drank a glass of water, urinated, tucked the roll of plastic bags under one arm then climbed the narrow stairway to the roof. The sky was cloudless though misty, crescent moon a pale flabby sickle. Unrolling the bags he tore the perforations to separate them. Would they fit inside each other? After he put one over his head how would he do the second and third? Then he saw it. Midway along the parapet wall sat a small brick flue: four feet high, two courses by three courses. A vent pipe stuck out the top. He touched it; cold. Slipping one bag over, then the others, he grinned. Perfect. He stuck his arm up under and lifted the three off as a unit, then kneeling laid it on a clean section of the roof near the center, where it was flat. Kicking off his shoes he crouched then crawled squirming into the plastic envelope which soon moistened from his heat. He stretched out then slightly crooked his legs. The curved end of the rifle’s stock would fit over his thigh as he slid his mouth over the barrel. She never comes up here. Someone will call the police. Would the blast explode out the top, tearing thru the plastic? He didn’t want a mess. Should he buy a motorcycle helmet to contain it? Football helmet? He remembered a big iron pot in the kitchen. When his sister’s kids were little he would play ‘the tin man’ wearing it over his head, and they laughed forever. His wife made soup in it. Weekends, during the winter. It made her happy and peaceful.
Watching her cook he felt safe.
"If necessary." The instructor was surprised.
"How would I know?"
Another applicant bellowed: "When you stink so bad your passengers beg you to open the windows even though it's a hundred plus degrees with a smog alert."
The room erupted; close to a hundred young, middle aged, and older men of dark, medium and light complexion hooting and howling. Some slapped, drummed, or pounded the 'writing surface / arm' of the beat up junior high school ‘desk & chair combination’ into which they were crammed.
The instructor stood still, a pained half smile morphing into a smirk which finally drooped to a frown. "City of Angels Executive Car Service trusts our associates to use adult judgment. A freshly laundered, crisply ironed white shirt creates a positive initial impression on clients which helps them feel comfortable. Remember, it is quite likely that the person entering your vehicle is a visitor, and perhaps he or she has been traveling for many hours or even days. You are a big part of that person's initial experience in the Los Angeles area."
Walter raised his hand. "If you trust us to drive your cars I suppose you expect us to wear a clean shirt."
"Thank you." Breathing a sigh of relief. “Class dismissed.”
Driving home Walter realized he did not own a single white shirt. Classes all day tomorrow then driving for the first time that night. He took the next exit, calling Madeline to tell her he would be late.
The Venice Salvation Army was huge. A rack of white shirts stretched twenty feet along one wall. Prices ranged from $2.50 to $6, 'fifty fifty' shirts the cheapest. Many had a slightly soiled look; Walter remembered one summer when he worked as a busboy his sister warning that you couldn't use Clorox on them, the polyester would yellow. A friend said: "Wash 'em in the sink with fucking dish soap for Christ' sake; rinse, shake 'em out, button 'em up, another shake then hang 'em up in the shower and by morning, perfecto." He chose two of the less yellowed fifty fifties and one 100% primo Egyptian cotton styled by Marco for the elegant man. He handed the 'volunteer' at the register a ten and a five, receiving a few singles plus 'thank you, have a beautiful night'. Then she winked. Wow; three shirts cost less than his morning latte and croissant without barista attitude.
Madeline was at the door, sipping a glass of white wine. He told her how cheap the shirts were.
"Honey, don't expect me to wash them for you. Long day."
“I’ll do it in the sink. Long as the shirt is basically clean and pressed. Who could tell, sitting in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car at LAX if my shirt is not blinding white? When we used to make out in the movies did you ever notice that my teeth didn't gleam like those studs in the Pepsodent ads?"
“Puleeeze. Drink?"
Nodding ‘no’. “Lot of reading for class.”
“Honey, it’s smart of you to get those shirts for driving.”
"Long as I don't smell."
"I love the way you smell, it drives me crazy, and you don't do anything. It's not fair, It's just... you!"
Pulling him down to the couch she tongued his ear and a few buttons of her blouse eased open so he kissed her swelling cleavage all creamy and fragrant as her hand went to his crotch.
Insistent rapping at the door crashed their spontaneous passion. Loaded, squirming from her embrace Walter did the stiff legged duck walk to the door.
"Norman, what are you doing here?" It was Walter's older half brother, recently divorced.
Spreading his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I feel like, with Mom and Dad gone, I have nowhere to go."
"Yeah, it's ok. Come in."
"I don't mean to be a bother." Craning his head to see Madeline, who in standing up from the couch had caused the rest of the buttons to pop, her beautiful breasts tumbling from the scanty lace bra.
Madeline, on cue. "It's not a bother."
Norman, mouth watering. "Well, I just..."
Walter, motioning with a glance. "Honey!"
Madeline, finally noticing, giggles. "Sorry."
Norman, too stupid to be devious. "It's ok."
Walter, through clenched teeth. "I'm sure."
Madeline, casually buttoning up. "Have a seat Norman. Hungry? I bet you miss her cooking."
"Not so much. Ate take out most of the time."
"Drink?"
"What've you got?"
"What do you like?"
"Scotch."
"Johnny Red OK?"
"Oh yeah, with a splash. No ice."
"Make yourself comfortable. Walt?"
“Wish I could. Too much reading."
"What about the lady of the house?" Norman loved corny expressions.
At the fridge. "Thanks, I've got wine." Handing Norman his drink.
Taking his first sip. "Wish my buddy would join us."
Madeline, sitting near Walter. "You O.K.?"
"I'm fine. Orientation meeting was actually informative, but it went on forever."
"I can dig that bro, I really can." Raising his glass in salute. Previously, Norman had never addressed Walter as 'bro'.
Norman didn't have any particular problem to discuss, just needed to hang out. The room he rented was fine but he didn't feel comfortable in the rest of the house although use of the kitchen was included.
"Everything was too perfect, not like here." A smile of appreciation. During this needy, self deprecating monolog Walter noticed his half brother ogling his future wife.
After twenty minutes Walter excused himself. Driving for City of Angels Executive Car Service could be the perfect part time job. Left plenty of quality time for school.
Norman pumped his hand. "Good luck buddy."
Madeline held him close, whispering in his ear. "See you soon." Her breath was hot and slightly rancid around the edges.
He climbed the stairs slowly, glancing down at the living room. The couch faced the love seat so people could sprawl comfortably while having a conversation. Her brilliant idea.
He washed a white shirt in the bathroom sink then rinsed, squeezed, shook, hung, buttoned and shook it again. Hanging it in the shower he heard Norman's deep chuckle followed by Madeline's laugh.
He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and began reading an article in Scientific American which his professor had assigned. It said that Neanderthals, the last evolutionary step before modern humans, had large skulls.
In the quiet bedroom the muted conversation downstairs soothed him, the way the rumble of his Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen used to.
The article went on to say that Neanderthals also had very thick skulls, so the proportion of brain capacity to skull size was lower than that of humans. Subdued laughter from below was a perfect backdrop to his reading.
"Norman, would you like a refill?'
"Only if you join me."
"Of course." Fridge wincing open.
Walter read the complex passages twice. The author explained that there was a period, approximately four hundred thousand years ago, when both early humans and Neanderthals ‘coexisted’ on earth.
"You poor guy, living in a rented room."
"It's only temporary."
The clink of glasses. "I'm lucky to have you two."
A snatch of silence.
Walter was intrigued to learn that even as Neanderthals were sliding into extinction, they mated with early humans.
Below, rolling chuckles stretched into a groan, a giggle flowing into a murmur.
Based on ‘representative sampling’ the author estimated that modern human DNA shares
between three and seven percent of it’s genetic material with Neanderthals.
Walter finally dozed off.
A furniture leg scraped hardwood floor.
"God, what are we doing?"
"He sleeps like a log."
"Oh, sweet Jesus."
Her wine glass fell, shattering like silver bells.
In his dream, Walter stirred.
DeWalt
It’s always the projects that seem so simple. Disarming. Guy reeks of greasy food and tobacco, calls his wife a piranha, you’re on guard. But Jerry Karsman was perfect. Intelligent, sensitive. Described his children as ‘friends’. Spoke softly. Even Bobby, jaundiced and cynical, whose experience had produced a professional, enlightened paranoia, never suspected. A few years after 9 - 11 so people wanted to see the good.
A simple cabinet; fifty four inches wide, twenty inches deep, thirty two inches high. Cherry veneer top with a solid, curved edge. Solid legs. Three doors; solid frame with recessed veneer panels. One major dilemma; two doors open together and one singly. Odd compartment on the left or right? Karsman consulted with his wife and daughters and finally decided. Right side. Three more meetings to pick the finish color.
We built it in ten days, milling the solid legs and shaped top edge by hand. The process was the way it should be. Not like one of those situations when a couple rips a picture out of the House and Home section that costs three times their budget and you try to explain how unhappy they will be if you substitute every detail and material choice for something cheaper. To prove it you take them to a cut rate furniture store full of knockoffs made by starving people halfway around the globe. Guess what? They love everything they see.
It was a rainy Tuesday when I called Karsman to tell him that we would be delivering his piece on Friday, depending on the next few day’s weather, explaining that the finishing process was taking longer due to the dampness. Initially he was disappointed, but Karsman appreciated technical information in small doses and enjoyed being ‘included’ in decisions. I assured him that we would rather bring it sooner than later, as we had other projects in the shop, but the impulse to save a day or two must be resisted; after all, he was going to own this piece, use it, live with it, for many years. I was preaching an old world perspective on time and craftsmanship and he ate it up.
On Friday morning I called him before he went to work, reminding him to alert the people at the front desk. He was excited, and decided to leave the office early. My initial contract was very specific about terms for the final payment, so though I didn’t mention it, I expected a check upon delivery.
We arrived a half hour ahead of Karsman, carried the piece in, unwrapped the padding, attached the doors, made a few adjustments and gave it a quick buff. With a little effort I remembered approximately where he wanted the piece so we nudged a few items aside and inserted it. Suddenly, everything else looked shabby.
“He’s gonna want it all matching now.”
“Kept the approved finish sample.” I happily reminded Bobby as he went to the bathroom. Thinking about what to charge for the other pieces when our client walked in.
“Hello Mister Karsman” Snaking around me he focused on the piece. A narrow shaft of afternoon sun, diffused by the bedroom window, lit it softly and the cherry glowed. I stood in silence, waiting for the moment’s transcendent loveliness to enrapture him.
He screamed: “Built in. I said built in. It was supposed to be built in!”
“Mister Karsman, installed does not mean built in.”
“What the fuck does it mean then?”
“Installed?”
“No… motherhood ! Yes, I mean installed.”
“Installed means carried up those three flights of stairs and placed where the client requests.”
“And I’m requesting, there.” A trembling, rigid finger flipped like a switchblade from his pink, clenched fist. He pointed to a location where the cabinet in it’s present size and shape would never fit.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but this cabinet won’t fit there.”
Wringing his hands Bobby emerged from the bathroom.
“Then make a new one!”
I waited for his fury to spend itself. In less than a week Jerry Karsman had gone from enthusiastic and appreciative to demanding and suspicious. Typical middle management type. Knows the way the world works but has neither the ability nor desire to change it; his job is to understand his limitations and maximize efficiency. Values time with his family. The scary secret about those mild mannered types is that at home, in their own realm, they can be demons.
Bobby was silent, his tight grin ready to burst. Just then Karsman’s wife Janet walked in with their two daughters, aged twelve and sixteen.
“Daddy, I love it!” Jennifer, the younger girl, with undeveloped editing skills, hadn’t registered the tense confrontational vibe.
Mrs Karsman did, probing gently. “Dear, are you happy?”
“No, not by a long shot!”
“What’s wrong, it’s gorgeous!” Jessica, the teenager, with long legs, perfect butt and skin tight jeans sashayed to the cabinet and bent over to inspect it, stroking the wood.
“Gorgeous, I think it’s gorgeous too!” Bobby could not resist.
“Mister Karsman, we’ve spent a lot of time on this cabinet, and you’ve approved the drawings which state clearly the dimensions.” I produced a folded, faded shop drawing with his jittery blue Bic pen signature.
“I can’t read those things. I asked you, can I put it in the corner, and you assured me that would be possible. I remember the day perfectly. We made a mark on the wall, where I wanted it to be!” He stalked to the corner and sure enough, a few feet up the wall were two faint pencil crosses, roughly three feet apart, obviously closer than the cabinet’s width.
“I do remember that day. You commented on the weather. So muggy, you couldn’t understand how we could work. You came home at lunchtime to meet me.”
“Couldn’t wait to get back to my office, God bless air conditioning! Believe it or not, I was worried about you working in that heat.”
“I remember you mentioning that. Appreciated your concern.”
“I was thinking what good shape you must be in.”
“Certain discipline, when you do physical work.”
“I should lose some weight.”
“So that was August?”
“Yeah. Third week. A Tuesday. Started our vacation that Friday.”
Mrs Karsman had been quiet way too long. “Saturday.”
“What did you say?”
“We went away on Saturday, early in the morning. Jessica had a date on Friday night. They went to hear music. Nice boy, nephew of that couple near First Avenue.”
Bewildered, Karsman processed this. It had nothing to do with our issue but seemed to discolor his rosy memory of the family vacation.
“Ever see him again dear?” Janet Karsman was a master of diversion.
Jessica wrinkled her nose and shook her hair. “Went back to Rhode Island.”
“Did you have a nice time, at the music?”
“I guess. Ok I guess.”
Bobby glanced at her, a filthy movie in his eyes.
“So, it was August?”
Karsman came out swinging. ”Yeah, August, what’s the difference?”
I hesitated. “This drawing you signed, it’s dated October ninth.”
Cornered. “What’s the difference?”
“Sir, we had a lot of conversations. At one point we even discussed mahogany.”
“You talked me out of it with that crap about the rainforest.”
“Cherry cost you a couple hundred less, too.”
“It’s always about that, isn’t it?”
Spreading my hands. “Can’t give it away sir.”
“All these conversations are confusing.”
“That’s why I always work from an approved drawing. Mister Karsman, I think it’s fair to expect my final payment.”
He looked really sad. “You know, on the contract, next to the final balance it says: ‘to the client’s satisfaction’ and I’m far from satisfied.” He began peering at every detail, every joint. Shoving the cabinet away from the wall he ran his hand down behind it. “Feels really rough.”
“Unfinished back.” I pointed to the specification on the drawing.
“Enough already! Honey, give the man his money. We’ll make this work. He’s obviously not going to to make you happy.”
But he wasn’t done. “What’s the balance, anyway?”
“Thousand.” I cursed myself for leaving such a big balance. Thirty per cent. I wanted the job, he seemed an honest guy.
“Seven, we’re even, ok ?”
“Sir, we made a deal.”
“Seven hundred.”
“So, for a difference of three hundred dollars you’re happy?”
“Don’t put it that way, ok? Don’t trivialize this.” Writing the check.
“I don’t want to take your cabinet away Mister Karsman. Please.”
“Honey, call Ernie.” Karsman held out the check like a wand. “You’re not taking that thing anywhere.”
Ernie is the super, a two hundred thirty pound five by five cement block of a man who probably has zero pain receptors anywhere on his face and a few scattered around his body. Real puzzle.
Honey buzzed repeatedly. Finally, the scratchy voice. “Yeah?”
“Ernie, could you come up?”
“Be a few minutes, I’m under Mrs Schwartzes sink.”
Karsman grabbed the intercom. “It’s sort of an emergency, and bring Hector.”
“Leak?”
“No.”
“Not a leak or a fire, you’ll have to wait a bit, I’m sorry Mister Karsman.”
“Shit! Guess two hundred cash at Christmas ain’t enough anymore.”
“Her sink’s always a problem. She flushes stuff down her drain. Doesn’t understand.”
“Maybe he’s hosing her!” I had never heard Karsman talk this way.
Jessica got really angry. “Daddy, Mrs Schwartz is seventy eight years old!”
“Ernie won’t be necessary. I’m not going to take the cabinet away.”
“Thousand? You’re lucky to get half of that for this kind of work.” Handing me the check.
“Let’s go Bobby.” We stuck tools in backpacks, folded the moving blanket, shrugged on our coats and started out. Suddenly I remembered that I had left my DeWalt biscuit joiner in the closet, brought it from another job. “I’m sorry, I forgot a tool in your closet, if you don’t mind.”
When I started to get it Karsman shouted. “I’ll get it. I know the trick. Take a couple doors off, right? Hinges snap open pretty easy.” He went to the bedroom and came back, walking lopsided to exaggerate his burden and dropped it on the floor. “What the hell’s in there?”
“Biscuit Joiner.” I dropped to a knee and opened the bright yellow steel case, partly to show him but also to make sure everything was there.
“Did you use that here?”
Wondering why he asked me. “Different job, left it here then forgot it.” I renegotiated the stuff I was carrying, picking up the DeWalt, then stopped in the doorway. Looking at Karsman, his family behind him, I held the check up. “Are you sure this is how you want to do this?”
“Be happy with seven hundred.”
I handed him the check. “I’ll see you in court.”
Miserable, we walked to the train together.
“Beer?”
“Yeah. I dunno. Don’t feel like it, actually. Late”
“Me neither. Shit. Tired.”
“Lookin’ forward to that money.”
“Need me to lend you some?”
“Seven woulda been better’n nothin’”
“Never get the rest.”
“Really?”
“How it works.”
“Shit. How long?”
“What?”
“If you go to court.”
“Month, six weeks”
“Should fuck the daughter, older one.”
“Expensive piece.”
“Cabinet’s perfect.”
“Don’t fit.”
“Re do it, he’s payin’ the thou first.”
“Be simple.”
“What?”
“What were we just talkin’ about?”
“Don’t get like that, ok?”
“Like what?”
“You know….impatient.”
“Bobby, I’m only human. You have your outbursts.”
“To insult me ‘cause I ask a question. Like I was stupid.”
“Did I ever call you stupid?” As we turned the corner the wind blasted us so I had to scream. “Remove the top, legs, doors. Cut the case and top down by an exact dimension so two doors work, we’re not making any new doors. Just redo the case.”
“Just this and just that. Some refinishing too.”
“Two days?”
“Full days. Two long days.”
“Get the thousand first.”
“Five for the redo, no material.”
“What I was thinking.”
“Good deal for him.”
“Doesn’t understand enough to appreciate that fact.”
“The fuck. I’m freezin’ man. Shit, three blocks crosstown.”
I stopped at the side entrance to Grand Central, on Lexington. “This is me.”
“Later.” Bobby started the long walk to his train, shaking his head as I squeezed through the revolving doors.
The long arcade from Lex to the main hall was lined with fancy food stalls and knots of police. State, Feds, City, MTA. Few years after nine eleven, still like this. Not many people. Sign for the subway too small, like it was the least important thing.
When I entered the main hall the light blaring in from high up made me feel like I was in a sort of grimy Rennaisance painting. DeWalt got heavy, trying to pull my arm out of the shoulder so I stop, lean over in the middle of the central hall and it slips the last few inches. Quite a concussion against the stone floor in such a huge space. NYPD zeroes in on sound, I smile wide, his is more controlled. I flex my arm to work out the strain, illustrating to him what caused the noise, then pick the thing up again. It’s ok. Working guy.
“Have a good day.” I trudge on, State cop watching me. Trooper type, wide brimmed hat, high boots, aviator shades. Wondering how many American flags adorn his SUV I nod. Tool box, worn clothes, dirty shoes, make me one of them, guy who eats brats, guzzles a few longneck Buds and screams for The Giants every Sunday. Only thing missing is the hard hat with a torn union sticker pasted on it and the rusty scrape I got in that near miss back when I did ironwork. I’m limping a bit, DeWalt plumetting plumbob straight from stretched arm.
Finally at the turnstile, Two black lady cops, one full figured, one petite, smiling like sunrise. “How you doin’?”
“OK thanks, you?”
“Oh, wonderful!” Sliding DeWalt along the flat part where the slot is to free a hand, dig out my Metrocard and swipe. “Hope you have a nice boring evening.” Grabbing DeWalt in stride.
Scary silence until they appreciate the humor and as I crab walk to my train I hear first the high twittering giggle then the deep belly laugh.
Platform’s pretty empty, barely nine on a weekday, deadest part of winter, month after Christmas. Good season to stay home, make dinner, drink red wine and hold each other. Early enough, the F train still running frequently. Get a seat, read The Times, drink a whisky at my local, maybe talk to that woman with the shy smile. Home to a good night’s sleep and forget everything. Until tomorrow, when that gaping hole in my bank account sprouts a fresh set of teeth.
Five minutes, train arrives. I sit, spreading my mess around. Soon as we’re rolling the conductor’s voice, actually audible, informing us that we’ll be held up a few minutes due to another train crossing ahead of us at Union Square. Normal. Young couple a few years out of college across from me whisper and giggle. Thirtyish single career woman a few seats up hardens her face a little more. Guy in suit raises his head like a bird dog listening for some clue, then back to The Wall Street Journal. I read The Times. We sit in the station. Career woman leaning back, eyes jammed shut. Glances my way, I release a wry smile so she tightens glossy lips against perfect teeth.
Train grinds forward into Union Square station. People on the platform expecting to press into the car but the doors never open so their faces drop as the conductor bursts the air with his grotesquely loud horn then tells us the train will not be stopping at Union Square, will not stop until Jay Street in Brooklyn. Without apology he outlines the manner by which passengers can get to the skipped stations by catching a Manhattan bound train at Jay Street. For me it’s fine because I live in Brooklyn. Lady exec exhales.
Crawling to the end of the long platform the train shudders then stops though the doors remain closed. Through greasy fingerprints I watch a dumb show on the platform. A slightly built man, impeccably dressed in a tweedy business suit and wire rimmed glasses surrounded by a few cops. Bald head, olive skin, high cheekbones, trim moustache. One cop is burly and white, one is slender and Asian, one burly and black. Though they are smiling the suspect seems serious. In a supplicating gesture he holds out his hand, palm flat supporting a white cardboard bakery box with the sides collapsed and a mess of dough and frosting. Wad of that skinny red and white striped string they use in bakeries drooping off a corner. He talks quickly and with great emotion, never threatening. Few feet behind the cops is a soldier with a big dog, shepherd mix. On the filthy platform squats an amorphous white mass. Dog licking at some of it stuck on his snout. Birthday cake. The cops finally write something down and hand it to him. The man looks at the paper a long time, silently mouthing. I guess it’s a phone number. Cops walk away, shrugging. Carefully skirting the dog’s zone man finds a trash can and discards the ruined cake, licking each finger with reverence. Finally noticing the train he approaches, blinking through the closed doors at me. Stands, expecting the doors to open. Staring at him I wish it was an elevator where you push the button with the triangles pointing away from each other. A sharp blast and he hops backwards, blinking even more rapidly. We plunge screaming into darkness.
At Jay street a transit cop, an NYPD, and a man in a gray suit board the train. I’m thinking it’s late, probably should forget stopping at my local, maybe she’ll be there tomorrow. Open bottle of Cabernet from two days ago on the window sill. Nodding to me suit glances at DeWalt, looking lethal. “Hammer drill?”
“Biscuit Joiner.”
He smiles. “You must be a pro.”
“Yeah.” Remembering when I got it. Bobby had just finished a big job, got himself a Milwaukee screw gun. Purchasing your first expensive, high end professional tool was an event that we celebrated. This was our work, not just a job, and the commitment freed us to care.
Carroll Street, I get out. Same guy always asking for change, I don’t have any and don’t feel like giving him a dollar but I meet his eyes.
“Have a good night sir.”
“Thanks. Catch you next time.”
“God bless you sir.”
God.
First Time
Tony’s, his neighborhood hardware store with it’s beat up floor and hand lettered signs sold a ‘super duty’ extra large trash bag especially for building supers and contractors in a six mil thickness for fifty cents each.
“Three should be enough Tony.”
“Cleaning up the basement again?”
“Of course.”
“Planning to sleep down there?”
“How’d you guess?”
“One sixty three. Receipt?”
“No thanks." Smiling to his friend. "Later.”
He quickly strode the five blocks, dodging Yoga Moms shoving double wides who continually pleaded ‘sorry’ glaring at tourists who bolted across the sidewalk to read dinner specials scrawled in pastel chalk and shouting ‘excuse me’ to oblivious young somethings.
He had time to check the want ads, write a few perfunctory e mails and ‘reach out’ leaving his actual human sound on a few voice mails. Then he prepared dinner.
His wife was working late and when she arrived home at eight thirty would:
(1) Beg like a child for ‘a good stiff one’ and upon receiving her favorite highball say; ‘Oh, I get a drink too?’ giggling at the double entendre.
(2) Say how exhausted she was, swearing she would quit if they could afford it.
(3) Ask him if he’d had ‘any luck’.
(4) Sniff at the aroma of the roast that was cooking and smile, thanking him for all he did.
He would nod, leaving unsaid the shared truth that this was all he could do anymore. Those long nights of loving which made her forget the economic wreckage of his accumulated failures were a distant memory, a faded photo of happier times.
The roast showed the perfect amount of pink, the potatoes soft inside while crispy outside, the asparagus tender yet firm. They ate slowly, savoring every bite.
“I wish I could stay home every day.”
“Me too. I would go out early, while you're still asleep. Coffee, fresh air, say hello.”
“What do you get from it?”
“Get?”
“Is it that, important?”
“Important? Pet the dog of a perfect stranger, acknowledge that we share the sidewalk, the city, the world.”
“That’s hopeful.” Making her pouty smile.
He touched her forearm, smooth and dewy. She still charmed him, that smile especially.
He kissed her on the forehead, the way he did with his Mother, near the end.
Then he kissed her lips.
She whispered. “I miss you.”
“I miss everything.” He kissed her again, hungrily, and she sighed, murmuring. “We should do this some time when I’m awake.”
Closing the bedroom door he whispered. “See you soon.”
He drank a glass of water, urinated, tucked the roll of plastic bags under one arm then climbed the narrow stairway to the roof. The sky was cloudless though misty, crescent moon a pale flabby sickle. Unrolling the bags he tore the perforations to separate them. Would they fit inside each other? After he put one over his head how would he do the second and third? Then he saw it. Midway along the parapet wall sat a small brick flue: four feet high, two courses by three courses. A vent pipe stuck out the top. He touched it; cold. Slipping one bag over, then the others, he grinned. Perfect. He stuck his arm up under and lifted the three off as a unit, then kneeling laid it on a clean section of the roof near the center, where it was flat. Kicking off his shoes he crouched then crawled squirming into the plastic envelope which soon moistened from his heat. He stretched out then slightly crooked his legs. The curved end of the rifle’s stock would fit over his thigh as he slid his mouth over the barrel. She never comes up here. Someone will call the police. Would the blast explode out the top, tearing thru the plastic? He didn’t want a mess. Should he buy a motorcycle helmet to contain it? Football helmet? He remembered a big iron pot in the kitchen. When his sister’s kids were little he would play ‘the tin man’ wearing it over his head, and they laughed forever. His wife made soup in it. Weekends, during the winter. It made her happy and peaceful.
Watching her cook he felt safe.