since i'm back to dealing with fucking literary agents after taking about 4 months off from whoring myself out, i figure i'd let you guys read the YA Novels too. so i'll be updating this first with the Hipsters and then with Slide Away.
1
It began because I was lonely.
They were both across the bar. Calvin was waving frantically for me to join them. His face was almost orgasmic. The thin blonde next to him looked both amused and frightened at her situation. But she was beautiful. She was youthful with fair skin, an elegantly pointed chin and nose, and blue eyes. Amanda Evarts. I knew her by reputation. She had been Calvin’s outright obsession for nearly a year. I mean he always talked about her, and in an epic manner. Amanda this. Amanda that. Amanda slew dragons. Amanda slew men. She peaked Everest, and still had time to turn on all the guys in the break room. Amanda Evarts was Calvin’s grand muse. I wish I had one of her for myself.
But there were no other girls for me at that moment in my life. School was done, and I’d pretty much used up whatever girl-chasing time I had on Sarah Browne. Three wasted years. But then she dumped me right after graduation. She said she wanted a clean slate for when she went to college. Sarah said she wasn’t actually sure she loved me at all. Nice. The fact depressed me a little, just a little. Anyway, I put on the last remaining shreds of my charm and winning smile, and got ready to walk over and join Calvin and the waiting girl.
“Javorski! Hey, Javorski!”
I looked toward the bar, and Noah was standing there staring at me. He was leaning over the bar with his long, thin hands outstretched. He looked kind of pissed. I guess I should tell a little something about Noah. Noah was older than anyone I hung around with. He was twenty-one, and when he wasn’t bartending at the Cage, Noah could be found fronting about three different bands in Pittsburgh. His primary band was this real avant-garde group call The Constructivists. I didn’t like their music very much. Sarah always said that it was too cerebral. I just thought it was noise. Noah was sort of the God of the hipster scene, this class of intellectuals and artists that lived in this commune of stone cottages in the Squirrel Hill section of Pittsburgh. Noah was also a Philosophy major at Pitt, and he had a minor in English Writing. Noah had brooding good looks, blonde jagged hair and piercing blue eyes. He was rail thin, and his shows brought down a Pittsburgh house.
Anyway, I met Noah through my buddy, Karl Rudolph. Karl and I both worked at the library, and he was the drummer in The Constructivists and in about ten other bands. Karl was a hipster too. He was always at rock shows and art openings. He knew the best and brightest bands, and he knew the best bars to go to. Karl was pretty cool, but he wasn’t as cool as Noah. Frankly, I don’t know why Karl or Noah liked me or kept me around. They were unlike any of my other friends. My friends were plain and dull. They could talk about nothing but baseball and football, and girls. Karl said they liked me because I was a pretty good writer. I wrote poems that I never showed to anyone but Karl...and then Noah. Noah said he liked me because I was tan and broad and looked like a running back. He said it was because I didn’t look like anyone else in their “pretty little scene” of pasty, thin guys and emaciated girls with thick glasses and tongues full of ironic wit. He said, I added color and a certain level of balance to the scene.
“Oh...hey Noah,” I said.
“Do you know those kids?” Noah pointed over to Calvin and Amanda.
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell them to meet you here?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
He laughed. “Yes. They’re underage. You’re underage.”
“I didn’t know...I...I just thought.”
“Come here, Alex,” Noah said. I went over to the bar, and he leaned in close with those piercing eyes. “I let you and Karl drink in here underage, get it?”
I nodded. “What should I do with my friends tonight?”
Noah backed away from the bar and looked over at my table. “The blonde is pretty cute. Tell you what, Javorski. I’m going to pour you guys a pitcher of Iron. One pitcher. You’re gonna give those kids the rock star treatment tonight, and then I don’t want to see them back in here until they’re twenty-one. Are we cool on that?”
“Yes,” I answered, thinking Noah was the greatest guy in the world for going out on a limb for me, yet again.
He got me the pitcher and three mugs. “Here you go.”
I took the pitcher. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me a lot, Javorski, but you can make it up to me by coming down to The Constructivists show at the 31st Street Pub. It’s an all-ages show, but we can probably get around it.”
“Cool.”
“Oh, and Javorski. I read those new poems. Good shit, man. You’re very plain spoken, like Bukowski or Robinson Jeffers.”
“Robinson who?”
“Jeffers. I’ll let you borrow some of him when I see you on Thursday.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
Then Noah shooed me toward Calvin and Amanda. “Don’t keep your little blonde waiting.”
My little blonde.
I went over to the table and sat down. Calvin was rambling on boastfully to Amanda Evarts without even introducing the two of us. I was used to it. Calvin was my best friend, but he was absent-minded most of the time. I’d known him since we were nine-years-old, and Calvin was never altogether there. He was sort of on to the next thing, before he finished the last thing. That’s why his parents used to hop him up on ADD meds. So I let Calvin talk to Amanda, and I poured us all a beer then fixed my gaze on a lackluster Pirate’s game playing above the bar on a cattycornered television set. I watched Noah flirt with a set of hipster chicks at the bar. They were drinking these dark lagers and running back and forth to the jukebox. Then Amanda got up.
“Amanda Evarts.” She extended her hand.
“Alex Javorski.” We shook.
“Oh jeez! I’m sorry!” Calvin shouted, fumbling all over himself. “Alex, Amanda. Amanda, Alex.”
“We’ve met,” I said.
Amanda laughed softly. She had a light weariness in her eyes that made them look humble and tired.
Amanda’s going to the university, too,” Calvin said.
“You look about fourteen,” I said to her.
“I’m eighteen.”
“How do you like this place?”
“It’s all right.” Amanda looked around the Cage. He eyes fixed on Noah and the set of hipster chicks. “You come in here a lot?”
I pointed toward the bar. “When Noah lets me. It beats going to a mall, or some pointless Starbucks.”
“This doesn’t seem like your kinda bar,” Amanda said.
I had to laugh at that. “How would you know what kind of bar I’d go to?”
“I wouldn’t. But those people, over there, don’t seem like you. There all, like, heroin-chic, like strung-out looking.” Amanda suddenly got flustered. “I mean I don’t know. Maybe you do go to these bars. I don’t know a thing about you.”
“I think Amanda’s just trying to say you look kinda straight-laced for this bar,” Calvin interrupted. “We all do, you know?”
“I know what I mean,” Amanda snapped.
“Sorry. I was just tryin’ to explain.”
“Well, I don’t need anyone explaining anything for...”
“Guys,” I broke in. “It’s cool. I come here because I’m a friend of the bartender. But it doesn’t matter.” I pushed new mugs of beer toward them. “Come on, let’s drink!”
They grabbed their mugs. Peace was restored. Calvin started talking about baseball and I listened to him, but I mostly stared at Amanda Evarts. She was looking at me a little bit, too. Amanda really was beautiful. I’d heard a lot about her from Calvin, about how smart she was, how sarcastic and slick Amanda Evarts could be. Calvin was practically in love with her, but was reluctant to do anything because Amanda was the evening and weekend secretary at Roadwise, the trucking company his dad co-owned with Steve Scanlon’s dad. Cal said dating Amanda would be a conflict of interest, especially now that he was working in the warehouse. To hell with conflicts of interest, I thought. If Amanda Evarts wanted me, I wouldn’t let much get in the way. But I think that’s about where Calvin was at this point.
“Amanda is going to be a math major,” Calvin said out of nowhere. His voice woke me from me a drooling stupor. Amanda seemed jarred too.
“I never got on with math,” I answered.
“What does any of that matter?” Calvin asked, laughing. “I was just trying to start up another conversation.”
He took a generous pull on his beer, and looked toward the Pirate’s game. Amanda kept her eyes on me, and I kept mine on her. Christ, there we were, flirting, kind of, right underneath my friend’s nose. Nothing could come of it, though, because Cal and I were so tight. It was kind of funny, really. I mean this sort of romantic thing happened in the movies or on television, in tangled dramas or stupid high school comedies, or whatever. It didn’t happen in a bar in Pittsburgh where three underage people shouldn’t be in the first place. Then I felt someone’s feet rub my leg. Yeah, it could’ve been Calvin, but they were bare feet and Calvin never joked about anything that could be construed as possibly homosexual. He also wasn’t wearing a smile like the one Amanda Evarts was wearing. It was my cue to exit the Cage for a moment.
“I need a pack of smokes. Do you guys need anything?” I said. But then I got up and left without waiting for them to answer me.
I was out there a minute, having a smoke, when Noah opened the Cage’s door.
“You okay, Big Al?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m just blowing off some steam,” I said.
“That blonde’s got you good, right?”
“Shut up, man. My friend is in love with her.”
Noah nodded and lit a smoke. “Love is fleeting,” he said. Then he went back into the bar.
Calvin was alone at our table, when I re-entered the Cage. He looked haggard. Amanda was doing him in little by little, just like she’d started working on me. But poor Cal was farther along this path. I looked at my friend. He looked old and tired. Calvin was already losing his hair. He had bags under his eyes, and he had this pencil-thin moustache, the kind that old men wore. Amanda was too good-looking a girl to put up with all of that. He had to know he was batting out of his league. And despite her indiscretion and groping of my leg, Calvin and I both had to realize that we were a couple of lucky fools to even be sitting at a table with the likes of Amanda Evarts in the first place. But I had to hand it to him. He was still upright and conscious. He was still a fighter, and he’d let this chick burn him before he’d give up.
“Where’s Amanda?” I asked
“She went to the bathroom.” Calvin was playing with a drink coaster and watching the Pirate’s game. He took a long drink on his beer then set it down, hard and empty, on the glossed wood of the bar. “Alex, do you think I got a chance with her?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“She seems to really like you already.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“I guess not.” Cal turned and fixed his gaze back toward a hallway. It led to the bathrooms. “She was asking about you when you went outside.”
“That’s just curiosity.”
Calvin shrugged.
“You see her almost everyday,” I said.
“That could be a good or bad thing.”
“She came here with you.”
“Yeah, because I promised her beer in a bar. What teenager wouldn’t come along?”
“Girls are different,” I said. I was running out of options. Truthfully, there weren’t really any options to run out of. “Girls don’t go out with guys that they don’t like.”
Calvin turned back to me as soon as the bathroom door swung open. “Amanda sort of makes a habit out of doing that.”
“Well, then let’s break her habit,” I said. “Be funny or something.”
Amanda sauntered back to our table. She sat with us for another hour, sipping on her beer, and laughing as I played awkward straight man to Calvin’s grating jokes. It was my favor to him, because he didn’t really have much of a hand for humor. Amanda asked me a lot of questions, though, whenever Calvin got silent. It was awkward because she’d hardly said a word to my lovesick friend. But that wasn’t my fault. Was it? I mean I tried my best to brush off Amanda’s queries about my life and interests. I tried to be dark and brooding, like Karl or Noah thought I was, but it seemed to turn her on even more. How was I supposed to know that she liked guys like that?
So then I opened up. Talking to Amanda was torture and bliss all at once. It was a sad science experiment into the division between temptation and loyalty. It didn’t help that Calvin eventually chose to become a mute. He said nothing. He just gave up. Someone had to talk to the chattering blonde, right? Someone had to keep the night going. If you don’t talk to a woman like Amanda Evarts, or make her laugh, then you might as well dry up inside. I was doing it to light a fire under Calvin’s ass. I kept thinking talk to her, Cal. Talk to her. I didn’t want him to fall away from his goal, and wilt. But talking to Amanda Evarts made me realize that I wasn’t quite ready to shrivel either.
I said goodbye to Noah, and he winked at me, smiling at Amanda as we left the Cage. Outside in the night, I stumbled behind Calvin as he walked her to her car. I tried to keep my distance to let them have some space. I thought I was doing the right thing by my friend. But she continuously looked back to include me in their conversations. Although I wanted to keep talking to the girl, humility and thoughts about the damage I might have caused overtook me, and I feigned ignorance. I faked a pre-mature and sudden deafness. I walked slower. It did no good. By the time we reached Amanda’s car we were an uncomfortable chain of three people, chattering away in the Pittsburgh night.
“So, what are you guys doing tomorrow night?” she asked.
“We’re all going down to the Metro,” Calvin answered for us. I gave him a look. He shrugged. I shrugged. “You should come down with us.”
There you go, Calvin.
“An under twenty-one club seems a step down after a night in a bar, doesn’t it?”
“The Metro is fun.”
“I’ve been to the Metro before.”
“Oh.”
Amanda looked at me. “Don’t you find the Metro to be a step-down, Alex?”
“I’m not much for clubs.”
“Not much for clubs, not much for math. What do you like?”
“Robinson Jeffers,” I answered.
“Didn’t he play for the Orioles?” Calvin asked.
“He’s a poet,” I said.
Amanda smiled. “You should read him to me sometime.”
“Are you sure he didn’t play for the Orioles?” Calvin asked again.
“Anyway,” Amanda interrupted, “you’re coming tomorrow night, right?”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I looked at Calvin. I don’t know why. He looked sour. He looked even more tired and defeated. He kept his gaze on the ugly pavement. Amanda hugged him lazily, and she and I hugged. We held on too long for good taste. Then she got in her car and rode off into the night, as if straining friendships was par for the course on a Friday. Calvin and I went over to his Mini Coop without a word. But drama hung between us as sure as Amanda Evart’s blue eyes. I felt guilty and full of myself. I’d fractured something that Calvin had worked so hard for, and I wasn’t even really sorry, if I had to admit it. I was under Amanda Evart’s spell now, too.
“Are you sure that I got a shot with her?” Calvin finally said.
“I’m surer than I was the first time you asked me,” I answered. “If you take the chance and ask her out I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“She seems to really like you a lot, you know?”
“I’m new blood,” I said. “She probably forgot me already.”
“I think Amanda just wants to be friends with me.”
“Most of them only want to be friends.”
“But you think I have a chance, right?”
“Cal, make me a promise and don’t worry about any of this until tomorrow night. Then get Amanda out onto the dance floor, and woo the pants off of her.”
“I think I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
We shook hands kindly, our fractured friendship restored. Calvin got in his car and pushed it out and down Forbes Avenue, until he was a faint blur of red light and bass. I stood in the quiet of the night and had another cigarette, and thought an awful lot about Amanda Evarts. Then I went back inside the Cage and sat at the bar, until Noah pulled himself away from his pack of hipster girls and came down to me.
“Can I have a draft of Iron?” I said.
“You’re pushing your luck tonight, Big Al,” Noah said. But he got me the draft anyway. “Say, who was that guy?”
“That’s Calvin DeFlino. He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Funny, he doesn’t look like someone you’d hang out with.”
I laughed. “I think I’m in between my taste in people these days.”
“But that girl,” Noah said, letting his sentence hang.
“Amanda Evarts.”
“That’s a dangerous name. She seems to like you.”
“You could tell that from over here?”
“Who couldn’t tell she liked you? It’s gonna get rough for you, Big Al, if you keep hanging around that duo.”
“I’m seeing her tomorrow night.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Well, I’m going to sit here and have this beer while you tell me everything there is to know about Robinson Jeffers.”
“That could take all night.”
“That’s cool. I’ll just have to break curfew.”
“Curfew? What an archaic concept.”
I had a pull on my draft. “Just start talking, barkeep.”
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Big Piece of Bread
He shot the last bit of scotch down, and then they got up from the couch.
“You ready for dinner?”
Maureen had the last of her drink. “What’re we having?”
“Something simple. I’m tired.”
They had a good set-up, Neal and Maureen. Paying the bills and balancing the checkbook made him nervous, so Maureen undertook the roll. In exchange Neal took care of the groceries and did all of the cooking. This didn’t bother him any. He was just so glad to not have to pay the bills. Even with Maureen paying them, he still couldn’t be in the apartment while she balanced the checkbook. Usually he would go outside and smoke, until she came out and told him it all was done. He never asked for the balance, just wanted to know if they were fine.
“How about some ravioli?” Neal said. He pulled out two bags of cheese ravioli from the freezer. Maureen nodded emphatically. She had a weak spot for pastas and red sauce. “I knew I bought that loaf of Italian bread for a reason.”
“What can I do?”
“Just stand there and look pretty.”
“I’ll get us some more scotch and set the table.”
Maureen went and fixed two more drinks, as Neal filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. She set the table, as he grabbed a couple cans of sauce from the cupboard. He swayed a little when he closed the door, wishing he hadn’t had the three scotches on an empty stomach. Plus he was tired. He hadn’t slept well the whole week, staying up in bed worrying about bills and his health, and listening for odd noises in the night. Maureen always slept fine. Most nights she was out before he was done running the day through his head. He always envied her that luxury.
“Here.” Maureen handed Neal his new drink.
“It’s strong.”
“Yeah, but I figure we hardly drink after dinner anyway, so why not make it strong.”
“I hope it puts me out tonight.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping?”
Neal nodded, took a nice pull on his drink.
“What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know. Just worried. Last night, every time I started drifting, I couldn’t help but feel that tingling in my chest again.”
“You still think it’s your heart, don’t you? The doctor said it was just gas. I mean you had your blood pressure done. He hooked you up to the machine and drew blood. The most he could find was a little bit of cholesterol.” Maureen smiled kindly. “Neal, honey, he told you to change your diet and you haven’t for months.”
He had more of his drink. “I’ve done better.”
“Yeah, but you’re reaching that age where you might have to start cutting things out of your life.”
“Look, baby, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Neal finished his drink. “Could you fix us another one? Make it weak.”
The water boiled and he put in the two bags of ravioli, stirring once so the pasta wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Then Neal opened the two cans of sauce and threw them in the microwave to heat. Maureen came back with two fresh drinks, and they nursed them in silence while watching the ravioli boil in the cascading water, until some started floating to the top.
“I forgot the goddamned bread!” he shouted.
Maureen had a pull on her drink and set it down. “I got it honey. You just take care of the pasta.”
She grabbed a knife then a cutting board from the bottom cupboard and got the loaf of bread from the top of the refrigerator, as Neal prodded the last of the ravioli to the surface. He grabbed the pot and poured the pasta into a colander, moving his head a little to avoid the rush of steam. Then Neal shook the pasta bundle once and set it in the sink. He had another pull on his drink.
“How’s this?” she asked, pointing the knife at a slice of the bread.
“Good. I’m hungry.” Maureen took another slice of bread, one much greater than the one she pointed to, and put it on Neal’s plate. “What are you doing?”
“Serving the bread.”
“But that’s like half the loaf you put on my plate.”
“So what? Just don’t eat it all.”
“Well, I thought you were giving me the one you pointed at.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, that one is normal sized. Cut mine down a little.” Neal gave her a moment, but Maureen didn’t budge. He put down his drink and stormed over to the table. He picked the big hunk of bread off of his plate, and ripped a good portion off the end off of it. Neal threw it away in the small garbage can underneath the sink. “I don’t want some goddamned hunk of bread taking up my plate, like I’m some kind of fat fuck or something.”
“I didn’t call you fat.”
“Just sit down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.
“Fine. Stand the whole time.” Neal went and got the ravioli, as Maureen stood there and watched him. When he was done he brushed past her and got the sauce out of the microwave. “Are you really gonna stand there the whole time?” he asked, sitting down.
“No.” Maureen came over to the table and sat down. She didn’t touch her food, but Neal began to eat. “What just happened?” she finally asked.
“Nothing. I told you I didn’t want that big hunk of bread, so I took care of it.”
“By ripping it like an animal?”
“I asked you to cut it for me, but you just looked at me.”
“You’re insane,” she said. “People don’t get irate over things like bread.”
“Oh, I’m insane?” Neal asked. He stood. “I’ll show you insane.” He lifted the plate of ravioli and made like he was going to throw it, but instead slammed the plate back down on the table. The violent motion shook Maureen’s iced tea glass, and some of the drink went onto her plate. “Goddamn!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she said, wiping some of the tea away with her napkin. Maureen started to eat as Neal brooded over the situation. Then he started eating again. He grabbed the bottle of Romano cheese and shook it over his ravioli and sauce. Neal slammed the bottle down just as Maureen reached for it. The sound of the bottle connecting with flesh and bone made a dull thud. She hopped up out of her chair clutching her right middle finger. “Shit, shit.”
“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said, jumping out of his seat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He went over to her, but Maureen walked away into the living room, still clutching her hand. “It’s fine. It just stings,” she said, through tears.
“I didn’t know you were going to reach for it,” he said. “I didn’t know. I didn’t do it on purpose, honestly.”
Maureen let go of her hand and shook the finger a few times. She came back over to her seat and sat down. The food looked like a coagulating mess. Neal followed soon after. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” she said.
“Honestly, I didn’t.”
They sat there for a moment, neither touching their food. Then Neal had some of his iced tea, and raised a hand to Maureen, asking to see her finger. She leaned over and gave him her right hand. He held it tenderly then began stroking the finger, trying his best to make it all better.
“You ready for dinner?”
Maureen had the last of her drink. “What’re we having?”
“Something simple. I’m tired.”
They had a good set-up, Neal and Maureen. Paying the bills and balancing the checkbook made him nervous, so Maureen undertook the roll. In exchange Neal took care of the groceries and did all of the cooking. This didn’t bother him any. He was just so glad to not have to pay the bills. Even with Maureen paying them, he still couldn’t be in the apartment while she balanced the checkbook. Usually he would go outside and smoke, until she came out and told him it all was done. He never asked for the balance, just wanted to know if they were fine.
“How about some ravioli?” Neal said. He pulled out two bags of cheese ravioli from the freezer. Maureen nodded emphatically. She had a weak spot for pastas and red sauce. “I knew I bought that loaf of Italian bread for a reason.”
“What can I do?”
“Just stand there and look pretty.”
“I’ll get us some more scotch and set the table.”
Maureen went and fixed two more drinks, as Neal filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. She set the table, as he grabbed a couple cans of sauce from the cupboard. He swayed a little when he closed the door, wishing he hadn’t had the three scotches on an empty stomach. Plus he was tired. He hadn’t slept well the whole week, staying up in bed worrying about bills and his health, and listening for odd noises in the night. Maureen always slept fine. Most nights she was out before he was done running the day through his head. He always envied her that luxury.
“Here.” Maureen handed Neal his new drink.
“It’s strong.”
“Yeah, but I figure we hardly drink after dinner anyway, so why not make it strong.”
“I hope it puts me out tonight.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping?”
Neal nodded, took a nice pull on his drink.
“What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know. Just worried. Last night, every time I started drifting, I couldn’t help but feel that tingling in my chest again.”
“You still think it’s your heart, don’t you? The doctor said it was just gas. I mean you had your blood pressure done. He hooked you up to the machine and drew blood. The most he could find was a little bit of cholesterol.” Maureen smiled kindly. “Neal, honey, he told you to change your diet and you haven’t for months.”
He had more of his drink. “I’ve done better.”
“Yeah, but you’re reaching that age where you might have to start cutting things out of your life.”
“Look, baby, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Neal finished his drink. “Could you fix us another one? Make it weak.”
The water boiled and he put in the two bags of ravioli, stirring once so the pasta wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Then Neal opened the two cans of sauce and threw them in the microwave to heat. Maureen came back with two fresh drinks, and they nursed them in silence while watching the ravioli boil in the cascading water, until some started floating to the top.
“I forgot the goddamned bread!” he shouted.
Maureen had a pull on her drink and set it down. “I got it honey. You just take care of the pasta.”
She grabbed a knife then a cutting board from the bottom cupboard and got the loaf of bread from the top of the refrigerator, as Neal prodded the last of the ravioli to the surface. He grabbed the pot and poured the pasta into a colander, moving his head a little to avoid the rush of steam. Then Neal shook the pasta bundle once and set it in the sink. He had another pull on his drink.
“How’s this?” she asked, pointing the knife at a slice of the bread.
“Good. I’m hungry.” Maureen took another slice of bread, one much greater than the one she pointed to, and put it on Neal’s plate. “What are you doing?”
“Serving the bread.”
“But that’s like half the loaf you put on my plate.”
“So what? Just don’t eat it all.”
“Well, I thought you were giving me the one you pointed at.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, that one is normal sized. Cut mine down a little.” Neal gave her a moment, but Maureen didn’t budge. He put down his drink and stormed over to the table. He picked the big hunk of bread off of his plate, and ripped a good portion off the end off of it. Neal threw it away in the small garbage can underneath the sink. “I don’t want some goddamned hunk of bread taking up my plate, like I’m some kind of fat fuck or something.”
“I didn’t call you fat.”
“Just sit down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.
“Fine. Stand the whole time.” Neal went and got the ravioli, as Maureen stood there and watched him. When he was done he brushed past her and got the sauce out of the microwave. “Are you really gonna stand there the whole time?” he asked, sitting down.
“No.” Maureen came over to the table and sat down. She didn’t touch her food, but Neal began to eat. “What just happened?” she finally asked.
“Nothing. I told you I didn’t want that big hunk of bread, so I took care of it.”
“By ripping it like an animal?”
“I asked you to cut it for me, but you just looked at me.”
“You’re insane,” she said. “People don’t get irate over things like bread.”
“Oh, I’m insane?” Neal asked. He stood. “I’ll show you insane.” He lifted the plate of ravioli and made like he was going to throw it, but instead slammed the plate back down on the table. The violent motion shook Maureen’s iced tea glass, and some of the drink went onto her plate. “Goddamn!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she said, wiping some of the tea away with her napkin. Maureen started to eat as Neal brooded over the situation. Then he started eating again. He grabbed the bottle of Romano cheese and shook it over his ravioli and sauce. Neal slammed the bottle down just as Maureen reached for it. The sound of the bottle connecting with flesh and bone made a dull thud. She hopped up out of her chair clutching her right middle finger. “Shit, shit.”
“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said, jumping out of his seat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He went over to her, but Maureen walked away into the living room, still clutching her hand. “It’s fine. It just stings,” she said, through tears.
“I didn’t know you were going to reach for it,” he said. “I didn’t know. I didn’t do it on purpose, honestly.”
Maureen let go of her hand and shook the finger a few times. She came back over to her seat and sat down. The food looked like a coagulating mess. Neal followed soon after. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” she said.
“Honestly, I didn’t.”
They sat there for a moment, neither touching their food. Then Neal had some of his iced tea, and raised a hand to Maureen, asking to see her finger. She leaned over and gave him her right hand. He held it tenderly then began stroking the finger, trying his best to make it all better.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
But It's Our Night
“I’m getting sick of him coming in here on Wednesdays,” Rich said.
Mary looked down toward the loud end of the bar where Mick stood, entertaining all of the other after-work drunks. He was one of those neighborhood Brooklyn types: loud, talked with that pseudo-thug accent, had probably never been to Manhattan, and his voice was a high-pitched whine making the elongation of vowels and consonants a painful endeavor for all around. He had to be the center of attention no matter what was going on that night. He had to be the big, tough guy, the king with a cast of cronies hanging on his every word. The only adjective and adverb that Mick knew was “fucking,” as in “I’m here at the fucking bar. Yeah I had to fucking run down here from work.”
“I wonder why he started coming this night?” Mary asked.
“Probably because he got kicked out of wherever he usually went.”
Mary looked at Mick again. He wore the same kind of clothes, usually some tight sweater with no shirt underneath, tight jeans, and these boots that clicked when he walked around the bar shouting and yelling. Mick was a fit guy. You could see the muscle tone under his sweater. But he wasn’t attractive by any stretch. You could have the body. Add that voice, that obnoxious tone, and Mick was as ugly as anyone else. Plus he had these piercing bug eyes that could rip through you.
“I just hate him.” Rich paused to take a quick look at the end of the bar, and then went back to his beer. “He’s the type with that fake tan, and that fucking low-grade mafia, slicked back comb job.”
“I wonder why he started coming this night?” Mary asked again.
Rich shrugged, finished his beer. Mary finished her beer too. They always seemed to finish a draft at the same time. The bartender appreciated this. He joked with them that they should go into business as synchronized drinkers. It was the same joke every Wednesday night, until last week, when Mick started showing up. Then the jokes stopped. And tonight the bartender just filled the drafts for Rich and Mary with little more than a cursory hello, then went down to the other end of the bar where Mick was holding court with a conversation about his woman
“I mean the bitch is out of her mind,” he said, to end the story. Everyone laughed. “Marone!”
“I swear it’s the same goddamned story every week,” Rich said.
Mary touched his arm. “I know. Look, why don’t we forget about him? We got a night planned, right? Our Wednesday usual, right? A few beers at the bar, some pizza and wine at home; I was thinking tonight might be a good night to watch that movie...you know the one,” Mary snapped her fingers trying to get the title right, “uh, that one with Wells.”
“Citizen Kane?”
“Yeah. We bought that like how many years ago? And we haven’t even watched it.”
“You wanna watch Citizen Kane?”
Mary shrugged. “Sure. Anything’s good tonight.”
“You got the wine?”
“Right under my seat.”
Rich nodded and took a fresh pull on his beer. “Okay. Anyway so how was work?”
“You don’t want to know,” Mary began. “The bosses came in today. It was just a routine check of the storage room, right? But then Darren has to shoot off his mouth about us not having enough help and blah, blah, blah, and the next thing I know I’m in this fucking all-day meeting with my bosses and their bosses, and everyone telling us how much of a lousy job where doing over there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Didn’t you read my email?”
“I read it,” Rich said, “I must not have been paying attention.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, not really. Well, you remember James?” Mary nodded. “James and I came up together at the job. I don’t know. Today I get this email about this new buildings committee, and so I read the thing thinking whatever, until I get to the bottom and see that James is co-chairing the committee with Bob Braxton. Bob “fucking” Braxton.”
“So?” Mary took a pull on her beer.
“So, James and I came up together. We’ve been to the same meetings. We’ve done the same goddamned jobs. So how in the hell does James end up co-chairing a committee with Bob Braxton?”
“He probably asked to co-chair the committee.”
“Get out. Things don’t work like that.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Whatever.”
“Who’s Bob Braxton again?”
“Christ.” Rich rubbed his forehead and leaned in. It was going to be a lecture, Mary could tell. “I told you this already. There’s like a chain of command at work. Me and James and some other guys are the newer ones, the lackies. We work under guys like Braxton, you know, helping them with whatever projects they set up. We do the grunt work and they get the payoff. But, see, guys like Braxton notice the hard work. They keep an eye out. And a good way to advance in the place is to get in good with guys like Braxton and....”
“Marone!” Came the shout from the other end of the bar. Everyone laughed. Glasses clinked. Rich stopped his story and looked down the end of the bar where Mick was standing there, erect, looking like a proud duck.
“I hate that fucking guy.”
Mary turned Rich’s face toward her. “Forget him. Why don’t you finish the story.”
“It’s not important. But, Christ, that guy’s nothing but a fucking distraction. ‘Marone,’ ‘Marone.’ What does that even mean?”
“I think it’s Italian.”
“Yeah? Well it stays in my head for hours after we leave here. I think I hear it in my sleep.”
“You get too hung up and worried about everyone else all of the time.”
“But this is our night.”
“What do you want me to say? It’s a free country,” Mary said. She had more of her beer while Rich let his sit. “People can come and go as they please.”
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“Here.” She took a dollar from the pile and handed it to him. “Why don’t you go and play us something on the jukebox.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know. Something good.”
Rich got up and went over to the digital jukebox that hung on the wall next to a hunting video game. There were a couple of guys at the game drinking Jack and Cokes. They were both lanky with shaved heads, leather coats, earrings, and these well-sculpted goatees. They were laughing and slapping each other while they shot at the video ducks. They’d come in with Mick, and were just as loud as he was. Mary turned to watch them while Rich put in the dollar and started selecting songs. Then she turned back toward Mick, watching him as he upturned a fresh bottle of beer and drank it down in nearly a gulp. He put the empty bottle down and stared directly at Mary with those bug eyes. They were frozen for a second like that, but then Rich came back to the bar. Soon, the sound of a pedal steel filled the place.
“Good choice,” she said.
“Ryan Adams,” Rich said. He took a pull on his beer, and she finished hers.
The bartender came over and grabbed her glass. He gave it an odd look. “You guys off tonight, or something?”
“Rich was just playing songs,” Mary said. “You know he’s a lightweight anyway.”
The bartender laughed and went to fill her pint. “Wait,” Rich said. He stopped and waited while Rich upturned his pint and drank the rest of the beer. He leaned over the bar and handed his glass to the bartender. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
“You never do,” the bartender said, filling the first of the pints.
“We drink because we care.” Rich said. The three of them laughed.
Then Mick shouted from the other end of the bar. “What is this shit?”
“What, Mick?” The bartender said.
“This fucking music! I mean, hey, come on? Who fucking played this shit?”
Rich made a move, but Mary held him still.
“Hey Guys!” Mick called down to his two buddies at the video game machine. “You guys fucking play this?”
Both turned up toward the bar and shook their heads.
“Marone!” Mick walked from his spot in the corner of the bar, and came down toward the jukebox with his boots clicking. He stood in front of the illuminated blue light and searched through his wallet. Then he came over to the bar and stood right next to Mary. “Kenny, come on.” He threw a five on the bar. “Gimme some ones or somethin’.”
The bartender, Kenny, took Mick’s five and gave him five ones out of Mary’s pile of money. He laid the five where the ones had been.
“Thanks,” Mick said, looking at Mary. He went back over to the jukebox and began selecting songs. When Rich’s choice ended the bar was filled with the sound of bass and hip-hop loops.
“God, I hate that fucking guy,” Rich said, after Mick walked by.
“I know you do,” Mary answered. She took a good pull on her beer, finishing nearly half the pint. Then she took her cell phone out of her pocket and got off her stool.”
“Where are you going?”
“Outside. I’m going to call for our pizza so we can go home and have a night.”
Rich looked at his watch. “It’s still early.”
“I don’t care,” Mary said. She flipped the phone open and turned it on. “I’ve had enough.”
“But it’s our night.”
“It’s still our night.”
She headed toward the end of the bar. Mick was there with a fresh new beer. The other drunks were talking to him but he stared at Mary the whole way, until she was outside. She stood in the cold a moment then looked back inside the bar. She looked at the back of Mick’s head. He had a bald spot beginning just at the crown. Then she scanned the joint for Rich. He was sitting in their spot with his head down almost to the top of his pint glass. Mary called the pizza shop.
“Ten minutes,” she said, when she sat back down.
“Marone!” Came Mick from the other end of the bar. Everyone laughed.
“Ten minutes?” Rich asked, finishing his beer. “Good. I can’t take another minute of this.”
Mary grabbed her pint glass. “Well, I still have beer left.”
“Oh.” She looked at his sad face then poured him half of what she had. “What’re you doing?”
“Come on,” she began, before downing her drink. Rich drank his beer too. “Let’s get out of here.”
They got up and put on their coats. Mary handed Rich the bottle of wine and the two of them headed toward the end of the bar, as the bad hip-hop music continued to blare from the digital juke and Mick’s two cronies got into a shoving match over the video game.
“Good night, Kenny,” they both said in unison to the bartender.
Kenny looked up from the bar. “Good night, guys. See you next time.”
“Yeah, yeah, good night,” Mick added. Rich just stared at him.
Outside the bar Rich buttoned his coat, and put an arm around Mary. She smiled at him and he smiled back, and the two of them began walking 4th Avenue toward the pizza shop. But it was at the next block that Rich tripped over the curb and hit the pavement, and went tumbling to the ground. He smacked his elbow and knee, but was fine. The wine bottle, however, smashed on the sidewalk sending a river of dark booze down to a gully in the pavement where it collected like a blood red lake.
“Rich!” Mary screamed.
“I’m fine,” he said. He sat up. “I’m fucking fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes...but the goddamned wine.”
She helped Rich up off the ground, and together they looked down at the mess. “It’s fine. Listen, you go and get the pizza. I’m going to walk down to the Stop and Go and get us a six pack of beer.”
“It won’t be the same,” Rich said. “Everything is a mess.”
“But it’s still our night,” Mary said, assuredly.
Then she turned and went the half block back to where the Stop and Go was located. Before she opened the door, Mary looked back to where Rich was standing, but he’d already gone off toward the pizza shop.
Mary looked down toward the loud end of the bar where Mick stood, entertaining all of the other after-work drunks. He was one of those neighborhood Brooklyn types: loud, talked with that pseudo-thug accent, had probably never been to Manhattan, and his voice was a high-pitched whine making the elongation of vowels and consonants a painful endeavor for all around. He had to be the center of attention no matter what was going on that night. He had to be the big, tough guy, the king with a cast of cronies hanging on his every word. The only adjective and adverb that Mick knew was “fucking,” as in “I’m here at the fucking bar. Yeah I had to fucking run down here from work.”
“I wonder why he started coming this night?” Mary asked.
“Probably because he got kicked out of wherever he usually went.”
Mary looked at Mick again. He wore the same kind of clothes, usually some tight sweater with no shirt underneath, tight jeans, and these boots that clicked when he walked around the bar shouting and yelling. Mick was a fit guy. You could see the muscle tone under his sweater. But he wasn’t attractive by any stretch. You could have the body. Add that voice, that obnoxious tone, and Mick was as ugly as anyone else. Plus he had these piercing bug eyes that could rip through you.
“I just hate him.” Rich paused to take a quick look at the end of the bar, and then went back to his beer. “He’s the type with that fake tan, and that fucking low-grade mafia, slicked back comb job.”
“I wonder why he started coming this night?” Mary asked again.
Rich shrugged, finished his beer. Mary finished her beer too. They always seemed to finish a draft at the same time. The bartender appreciated this. He joked with them that they should go into business as synchronized drinkers. It was the same joke every Wednesday night, until last week, when Mick started showing up. Then the jokes stopped. And tonight the bartender just filled the drafts for Rich and Mary with little more than a cursory hello, then went down to the other end of the bar where Mick was holding court with a conversation about his woman
“I mean the bitch is out of her mind,” he said, to end the story. Everyone laughed. “Marone!”
“I swear it’s the same goddamned story every week,” Rich said.
Mary touched his arm. “I know. Look, why don’t we forget about him? We got a night planned, right? Our Wednesday usual, right? A few beers at the bar, some pizza and wine at home; I was thinking tonight might be a good night to watch that movie...you know the one,” Mary snapped her fingers trying to get the title right, “uh, that one with Wells.”
“Citizen Kane?”
“Yeah. We bought that like how many years ago? And we haven’t even watched it.”
“You wanna watch Citizen Kane?”
Mary shrugged. “Sure. Anything’s good tonight.”
“You got the wine?”
“Right under my seat.”
Rich nodded and took a fresh pull on his beer. “Okay. Anyway so how was work?”
“You don’t want to know,” Mary began. “The bosses came in today. It was just a routine check of the storage room, right? But then Darren has to shoot off his mouth about us not having enough help and blah, blah, blah, and the next thing I know I’m in this fucking all-day meeting with my bosses and their bosses, and everyone telling us how much of a lousy job where doing over there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Didn’t you read my email?”
“I read it,” Rich said, “I must not have been paying attention.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, not really. Well, you remember James?” Mary nodded. “James and I came up together at the job. I don’t know. Today I get this email about this new buildings committee, and so I read the thing thinking whatever, until I get to the bottom and see that James is co-chairing the committee with Bob Braxton. Bob “fucking” Braxton.”
“So?” Mary took a pull on her beer.
“So, James and I came up together. We’ve been to the same meetings. We’ve done the same goddamned jobs. So how in the hell does James end up co-chairing a committee with Bob Braxton?”
“He probably asked to co-chair the committee.”
“Get out. Things don’t work like that.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Whatever.”
“Who’s Bob Braxton again?”
“Christ.” Rich rubbed his forehead and leaned in. It was going to be a lecture, Mary could tell. “I told you this already. There’s like a chain of command at work. Me and James and some other guys are the newer ones, the lackies. We work under guys like Braxton, you know, helping them with whatever projects they set up. We do the grunt work and they get the payoff. But, see, guys like Braxton notice the hard work. They keep an eye out. And a good way to advance in the place is to get in good with guys like Braxton and....”
“Marone!” Came the shout from the other end of the bar. Everyone laughed. Glasses clinked. Rich stopped his story and looked down the end of the bar where Mick was standing there, erect, looking like a proud duck.
“I hate that fucking guy.”
Mary turned Rich’s face toward her. “Forget him. Why don’t you finish the story.”
“It’s not important. But, Christ, that guy’s nothing but a fucking distraction. ‘Marone,’ ‘Marone.’ What does that even mean?”
“I think it’s Italian.”
“Yeah? Well it stays in my head for hours after we leave here. I think I hear it in my sleep.”
“You get too hung up and worried about everyone else all of the time.”
“But this is our night.”
“What do you want me to say? It’s a free country,” Mary said. She had more of her beer while Rich let his sit. “People can come and go as they please.”
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“Here.” She took a dollar from the pile and handed it to him. “Why don’t you go and play us something on the jukebox.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know. Something good.”
Rich got up and went over to the digital jukebox that hung on the wall next to a hunting video game. There were a couple of guys at the game drinking Jack and Cokes. They were both lanky with shaved heads, leather coats, earrings, and these well-sculpted goatees. They were laughing and slapping each other while they shot at the video ducks. They’d come in with Mick, and were just as loud as he was. Mary turned to watch them while Rich put in the dollar and started selecting songs. Then she turned back toward Mick, watching him as he upturned a fresh bottle of beer and drank it down in nearly a gulp. He put the empty bottle down and stared directly at Mary with those bug eyes. They were frozen for a second like that, but then Rich came back to the bar. Soon, the sound of a pedal steel filled the place.
“Good choice,” she said.
“Ryan Adams,” Rich said. He took a pull on his beer, and she finished hers.
The bartender came over and grabbed her glass. He gave it an odd look. “You guys off tonight, or something?”
“Rich was just playing songs,” Mary said. “You know he’s a lightweight anyway.”
The bartender laughed and went to fill her pint. “Wait,” Rich said. He stopped and waited while Rich upturned his pint and drank the rest of the beer. He leaned over the bar and handed his glass to the bartender. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
“You never do,” the bartender said, filling the first of the pints.
“We drink because we care.” Rich said. The three of them laughed.
Then Mick shouted from the other end of the bar. “What is this shit?”
“What, Mick?” The bartender said.
“This fucking music! I mean, hey, come on? Who fucking played this shit?”
Rich made a move, but Mary held him still.
“Hey Guys!” Mick called down to his two buddies at the video game machine. “You guys fucking play this?”
Both turned up toward the bar and shook their heads.
“Marone!” Mick walked from his spot in the corner of the bar, and came down toward the jukebox with his boots clicking. He stood in front of the illuminated blue light and searched through his wallet. Then he came over to the bar and stood right next to Mary. “Kenny, come on.” He threw a five on the bar. “Gimme some ones or somethin’.”
The bartender, Kenny, took Mick’s five and gave him five ones out of Mary’s pile of money. He laid the five where the ones had been.
“Thanks,” Mick said, looking at Mary. He went back over to the jukebox and began selecting songs. When Rich’s choice ended the bar was filled with the sound of bass and hip-hop loops.
“God, I hate that fucking guy,” Rich said, after Mick walked by.
“I know you do,” Mary answered. She took a good pull on her beer, finishing nearly half the pint. Then she took her cell phone out of her pocket and got off her stool.”
“Where are you going?”
“Outside. I’m going to call for our pizza so we can go home and have a night.”
Rich looked at his watch. “It’s still early.”
“I don’t care,” Mary said. She flipped the phone open and turned it on. “I’ve had enough.”
“But it’s our night.”
“It’s still our night.”
She headed toward the end of the bar. Mick was there with a fresh new beer. The other drunks were talking to him but he stared at Mary the whole way, until she was outside. She stood in the cold a moment then looked back inside the bar. She looked at the back of Mick’s head. He had a bald spot beginning just at the crown. Then she scanned the joint for Rich. He was sitting in their spot with his head down almost to the top of his pint glass. Mary called the pizza shop.
“Ten minutes,” she said, when she sat back down.
“Marone!” Came Mick from the other end of the bar. Everyone laughed.
“Ten minutes?” Rich asked, finishing his beer. “Good. I can’t take another minute of this.”
Mary grabbed her pint glass. “Well, I still have beer left.”
“Oh.” She looked at his sad face then poured him half of what she had. “What’re you doing?”
“Come on,” she began, before downing her drink. Rich drank his beer too. “Let’s get out of here.”
They got up and put on their coats. Mary handed Rich the bottle of wine and the two of them headed toward the end of the bar, as the bad hip-hop music continued to blare from the digital juke and Mick’s two cronies got into a shoving match over the video game.
“Good night, Kenny,” they both said in unison to the bartender.
Kenny looked up from the bar. “Good night, guys. See you next time.”
“Yeah, yeah, good night,” Mick added. Rich just stared at him.
Outside the bar Rich buttoned his coat, and put an arm around Mary. She smiled at him and he smiled back, and the two of them began walking 4th Avenue toward the pizza shop. But it was at the next block that Rich tripped over the curb and hit the pavement, and went tumbling to the ground. He smacked his elbow and knee, but was fine. The wine bottle, however, smashed on the sidewalk sending a river of dark booze down to a gully in the pavement where it collected like a blood red lake.
“Rich!” Mary screamed.
“I’m fine,” he said. He sat up. “I’m fucking fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes...but the goddamned wine.”
She helped Rich up off the ground, and together they looked down at the mess. “It’s fine. Listen, you go and get the pizza. I’m going to walk down to the Stop and Go and get us a six pack of beer.”
“It won’t be the same,” Rich said. “Everything is a mess.”
“But it’s still our night,” Mary said, assuredly.
Then she turned and went the half block back to where the Stop and Go was located. Before she opened the door, Mary looked back to where Rich was standing, but he’d already gone off toward the pizza shop.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Fix It
Gene had been sleeping soundly when he heard his wife’s voice. It came to him toward the tail end of something that he was feeling strongly about, but knew he wouldn’t remember once he opened the eyes and took in the big, sad, brown ones of his wife. A dream. Gene never remembered his dreams. His wife. Gene heard her thick accent again, Georgian, but simply “European” to make it easier on the people in the building whenever they complained to him about how they couldn’t understand a word she said. She has a thick “European” accent that we just couldn’t beat out of her, Gene would say, and then let it go and set about fixing whatever needed to be fixed, careful not to screw up and light a smoke inside of someone’s apartment. Gene had learned to hide the remnants of his accent under a thick mangling of New York syllables.
“Gene, you mus’ wake up,” Alyona said. “De people in 1R want deir light fix.”
“What?” Gene said. He raised his head and saw the shadow of his wife blocking the light in the hallway. No big, sad, brown eyes. Then Gene held the left side of his head. It still rang from where the pipe fell on it a day ago at the construction site in Park Slope. He missed most work because of it.
“Gene.”
“I heard you.” He rose from the bed, swung his legs, and sat rubbing his eyes. Gene grabbed his pack of smokes of the nightstand and lit one. His mouth was dry and the first drag burned, but he liked feeling the smoke entering the lungs, engorging the nostrils. “What time they call?”
“She come over,” Alyona said, coming deeper into the room. Gene braced himself. The overhead light came on. It illuminated the room, hurt his eyes, and made the pain in his head pound even more.
“The little light,” he said, pointing.
“Sorry.” Alyona walked past him and turned on the little light on the nightstand. She went back over to the door and shut off the overhead light. “Yes, she come over about an hour ago.”
“Needs the light fixed?”
“Said you promise since August.”
“I didn’t promise anything,” Gene said. “I told them that as soon as the landlord gave me the part, I’d be over to fix it.”
Alyona stepped in closer again. “De part came. It came two weeks ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Two weeks ago.”
Gene looked up at his wife. He felt tired and disgusted. He got like that sometimes. It was hard not to, working a construction site, doing weekend landscaping and odd jobs, and then spending evenings acting as superintendent of this building. Goddamned place was falling apart. Rusty pipes making horrible noises in apartments. Leaky faucets and toilets, and puddles with no beginning in random places in the basement. The gas pipes never worked. People didn’t put their recyclables in the right place, if they hauled their garbage to the staging center at all. Elevator always needed service. Everyone on every floor always complaining over ever little thing, like light fixtures busting a circuit. Gene held his head, and had another deep pull on his smoke.
“Coffee,” he said. He made sure to say it “cauw-fee,” like a New Yorker would. Maybe Alyona would get the hint. “I need a cup of coffee.”
Gene sat there while Alyona went to fetch the coffee. He heard her rattling around in the kitchen, getting his cup out of the cupboard, fiddling with the pot, pouring, opening the fridge to get out the milk. Gene thought about his wife. In Georgia, in “Europe,” she’d been a trained economist. Alyona had a master’s degree. He had little education beyond classes comparable to high school. She had him beat 3 to 1 in the intelligence game, and he knew it. But Gene had a trade. He had a knack for building and fixing things, even if he hated doing that. America was about progress then. And when they came there Gene gave Alyona a choice. You go ahead with your master’s in economics, and your thick “European” accent from right off the goddamned boat, and you see who hires you. Or you stay home and raise the kids. Guys like me; they pick us up in morning trucks along with the Mexicans lining 5th Avenue. Guys like me can always make a good buck here.
Alyona listened to Gene because he knew better. She stayed home and raised the kids while he moved from job to job, and got them settled in this apartment building as its superintendent. She stayed home and raised kids and fetched packages for tenants, and took tenant complaints. She tried to do the light maintenance stuff that Gene had shown her, like getting the gas to power through in the basement washers and dryers when they went out, or sweeping away the leaves outside, or salting the pavement if there was snow or ice. Alyona had done this work; she’d lived this life of banal servitude for twenty years. Gene thought about this. He thought about his wife.
“Here’s coffee,” Alyona said, coming back in the room.
Gene took the cup from her hands, and put it to his mouth. It was warm not hot. It was the way he liked it, so that he could almost shoot it down. Alyona had perfected the art of a lukewarm cup of coffee. He took a sip. Then he had two good gulps, alternating them with the last of his cigarette, while she stood there watching him. He looked up at her. Her wide eyes were expectant, anticipatory, as if watching Gene prepare to fix a light fixture was the highlight of her day. Christ, was it? He shook his head and felt a dull pain. He had one more gulp on the coffee then set the mug down. Alyona came to fetch it while he stubbed out his smoke.
“1R you said?” he asked.
“Yes,” Alyona said. Then she left the bedroom.
Gene shook his head. 1R; they were okay tenants. They were a couple of intellectuals from Buffalo, playing at New Yorkers. Writers. Librarians somewhere. They had problems with the psycho up in 2R who thought the rusting, wailing pipes were them intentionally banging on them at five in the morning. Gene felt a little bit bad for 1R dealing with that guy. A sixty-five year old man with no one and nothing to do but cause problems for everyone else when the mood struck him. It really had been since August for their overhead light. 1R was okay, even if they complained about his cigarette smoking getting in their window from time to time in the summer.
“Here’s you shirt,” Alyona said, coming back in the room. She went to hand Gene the white Dickies shirt that he always wore for the superintendent job. He looked at the shirt a second then took it.
He stood up and put the shirt on as she waited. “This shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, a half-hour tops.” Alyona nodded. “Foyer needs to be swept.”
“I’ll do.”
“No, I can when I get back,” he said.
“But you head?”
“Head’s fine.” Gene smiled at his wife. “You think that’s the only knock I’ve taken.”
She laughed.
He left with the light fixture package. He took the elevator down to the basement to get his ladder. While down there he noticed that someone had left their trash in the wrong place again. Building management put up a sign threatening a $150 fine for the next person doing that, but what was the point, Gene thought. You can’t fine people if you don’t know who’s doing it in the first place. Ugh. Something else to think about, and something else to do before the night was over. Gene stared at the garbage then grabbed his ladder. He took the elevator back up.
He rang the buzzer at 1R then waited. He could hear muffled voices. Then the deadbolt clicked, and the regular lock clicked.
“Hey Gene,” John said, opening the door.
“Johnny,” Gene stepped inside. He liked John. He seemed down to earth enough. “I got the light fixture.” He held it up for John to see.
“Cool. Here, let me put a light on for you.”
Gene waved to Alyssa, the wife, and then followed John down the hall. He liked the look of 1R. The apartment had large pointed archways. The floors were decent. John and Alyssa had decorated the place with photos of cities that Gene assumed they’d been to, and pictures of musicians and writers. In the bedroom, John had a large collection of photographs that were tapped above his desk. Inspiration, he said, the one time Gene was in their bedroom to install the air conditioner.
John turned on two nightstand lights. “Hope that’s enough light.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Can’t really do much more light. My eyes. I got bumped.”
“Huh?”
“On the head. A pipe. At the job.”
John winced. “Christ.”
“Yeah, so my head. My head don’t feel so good.”
“Put some ice on it.” Gene looked at John. John looked like he had better things to be doing.
“Yeah, well, anyway, this shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, half hour tops.”
“Great.” Then John left the room.
Gene got to work. He put the light fixture package on the bed then set up the ladder. He grabbed the package and climbed. When he got to the top he realized he was still a few inches too far from the overhead light. It was right over the bed. So Gene stepped down the ladder and moved the bed to the right about two feet. He could hear John and Alyssa murmur in the living room after he did this. Gene looked down. On the floor where the bed had been, it was littered with dust. The dust was in mounds. There were also old pieces of tissue, and lost socks. He noticed a little bit of old cat vomit. He nodded at the mess. Then he moved the ladder and climbed back up.
The job took about twenty minutes, but when Gene was done the tenants had a new overhead light fixture, and two 100-watt bulbs to go with it. As he packed up the ladder, he heard the rattling of old pipes above and the hiss of the heating system as it worked its way through the apartment’s walls. They were the same old noises he’d heard in this building for twenty years.
“Johnny, it’s done,” Gene called down the hall.
More murmuring, but then John appeared. “Looks great,” he said, staring up at the light fixture. Then he looked down at the mess of dust and other sundries on the floor where the bed had been.
Gene looked at John. “Sorry, I, uh, had to move the bed a little.”
“No big deal. Actually I’m sorry you had to look at all of that shit.”
Gene shrugged. “Hey, no big deal. My apartment would look the exact same way, except I have Alyona there all the time, you know.”
John nodded but he didn’t know. He started walked Gene to the door, but something made Gene stop. “You know I messed up real bad,” he said.
“How’s that?” John asked.
“My wife, Alyona, she’s got all the brains, you know. She’s got a masters degree in economics...from Europe. But we come here and I tell her, no, you gotta raise the kids because that’s your job. I’ll go to work. And here I am twenty years later, doing three jobs like an idiot. We could’ve had something, you know, like a house or something.”
“I know,” John said, opening the front door. He didn’t know a thing, Gene thought. “Anyway thanks for getting that done. Alyssa and I have people staying with us this weekend...and....well, thanks. And take care of your head. Watch for falling pipes.”
“Yeah, I will,” Gene said, heading out into the hallway.
John shut the door. Gene listened for the regular lock first and then the deadbolt, before he made his way down the hall. Just when he turned the bend, Alyona came out of their apartment with a broom. She looked at him and smiled.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“You said we need sweep. I sweep,” she answered.
“No, no, no.” Gene put the ladder up against a wall then came over and took the broom from her. “It’s too damned cold outside for you to do that. I’ll sweep. You go inside and put on another pot of coffee.”
“But you need a hat. A coat.”
“It’ll only take me five minutes, ten tops.”
Alyona looked at Gene with concern. He stared at her until she smiled. Then he smiled back, and told her to get back into the house. She did as asked. Gene waited until she rounded the bend and he heard the door open and then close. Then he grabbed the broom tight, and went to the front door of the foyer. He opened it and could feel the cold air of the night seeping in. Then he went outside, lit a smoke, and began sweeping the old leaves away from the pavement in order to make room for the new ones that would be there tomorrow.
“Gene, you mus’ wake up,” Alyona said. “De people in 1R want deir light fix.”
“What?” Gene said. He raised his head and saw the shadow of his wife blocking the light in the hallway. No big, sad, brown eyes. Then Gene held the left side of his head. It still rang from where the pipe fell on it a day ago at the construction site in Park Slope. He missed most work because of it.
“Gene.”
“I heard you.” He rose from the bed, swung his legs, and sat rubbing his eyes. Gene grabbed his pack of smokes of the nightstand and lit one. His mouth was dry and the first drag burned, but he liked feeling the smoke entering the lungs, engorging the nostrils. “What time they call?”
“She come over,” Alyona said, coming deeper into the room. Gene braced himself. The overhead light came on. It illuminated the room, hurt his eyes, and made the pain in his head pound even more.
“The little light,” he said, pointing.
“Sorry.” Alyona walked past him and turned on the little light on the nightstand. She went back over to the door and shut off the overhead light. “Yes, she come over about an hour ago.”
“Needs the light fixed?”
“Said you promise since August.”
“I didn’t promise anything,” Gene said. “I told them that as soon as the landlord gave me the part, I’d be over to fix it.”
Alyona stepped in closer again. “De part came. It came two weeks ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Two weeks ago.”
Gene looked up at his wife. He felt tired and disgusted. He got like that sometimes. It was hard not to, working a construction site, doing weekend landscaping and odd jobs, and then spending evenings acting as superintendent of this building. Goddamned place was falling apart. Rusty pipes making horrible noises in apartments. Leaky faucets and toilets, and puddles with no beginning in random places in the basement. The gas pipes never worked. People didn’t put their recyclables in the right place, if they hauled their garbage to the staging center at all. Elevator always needed service. Everyone on every floor always complaining over ever little thing, like light fixtures busting a circuit. Gene held his head, and had another deep pull on his smoke.
“Coffee,” he said. He made sure to say it “cauw-fee,” like a New Yorker would. Maybe Alyona would get the hint. “I need a cup of coffee.”
Gene sat there while Alyona went to fetch the coffee. He heard her rattling around in the kitchen, getting his cup out of the cupboard, fiddling with the pot, pouring, opening the fridge to get out the milk. Gene thought about his wife. In Georgia, in “Europe,” she’d been a trained economist. Alyona had a master’s degree. He had little education beyond classes comparable to high school. She had him beat 3 to 1 in the intelligence game, and he knew it. But Gene had a trade. He had a knack for building and fixing things, even if he hated doing that. America was about progress then. And when they came there Gene gave Alyona a choice. You go ahead with your master’s in economics, and your thick “European” accent from right off the goddamned boat, and you see who hires you. Or you stay home and raise the kids. Guys like me; they pick us up in morning trucks along with the Mexicans lining 5th Avenue. Guys like me can always make a good buck here.
Alyona listened to Gene because he knew better. She stayed home and raised the kids while he moved from job to job, and got them settled in this apartment building as its superintendent. She stayed home and raised kids and fetched packages for tenants, and took tenant complaints. She tried to do the light maintenance stuff that Gene had shown her, like getting the gas to power through in the basement washers and dryers when they went out, or sweeping away the leaves outside, or salting the pavement if there was snow or ice. Alyona had done this work; she’d lived this life of banal servitude for twenty years. Gene thought about this. He thought about his wife.
“Here’s coffee,” Alyona said, coming back in the room.
Gene took the cup from her hands, and put it to his mouth. It was warm not hot. It was the way he liked it, so that he could almost shoot it down. Alyona had perfected the art of a lukewarm cup of coffee. He took a sip. Then he had two good gulps, alternating them with the last of his cigarette, while she stood there watching him. He looked up at her. Her wide eyes were expectant, anticipatory, as if watching Gene prepare to fix a light fixture was the highlight of her day. Christ, was it? He shook his head and felt a dull pain. He had one more gulp on the coffee then set the mug down. Alyona came to fetch it while he stubbed out his smoke.
“1R you said?” he asked.
“Yes,” Alyona said. Then she left the bedroom.
Gene shook his head. 1R; they were okay tenants. They were a couple of intellectuals from Buffalo, playing at New Yorkers. Writers. Librarians somewhere. They had problems with the psycho up in 2R who thought the rusting, wailing pipes were them intentionally banging on them at five in the morning. Gene felt a little bit bad for 1R dealing with that guy. A sixty-five year old man with no one and nothing to do but cause problems for everyone else when the mood struck him. It really had been since August for their overhead light. 1R was okay, even if they complained about his cigarette smoking getting in their window from time to time in the summer.
“Here’s you shirt,” Alyona said, coming back in the room. She went to hand Gene the white Dickies shirt that he always wore for the superintendent job. He looked at the shirt a second then took it.
He stood up and put the shirt on as she waited. “This shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, a half-hour tops.” Alyona nodded. “Foyer needs to be swept.”
“I’ll do.”
“No, I can when I get back,” he said.
“But you head?”
“Head’s fine.” Gene smiled at his wife. “You think that’s the only knock I’ve taken.”
She laughed.
He left with the light fixture package. He took the elevator down to the basement to get his ladder. While down there he noticed that someone had left their trash in the wrong place again. Building management put up a sign threatening a $150 fine for the next person doing that, but what was the point, Gene thought. You can’t fine people if you don’t know who’s doing it in the first place. Ugh. Something else to think about, and something else to do before the night was over. Gene stared at the garbage then grabbed his ladder. He took the elevator back up.
He rang the buzzer at 1R then waited. He could hear muffled voices. Then the deadbolt clicked, and the regular lock clicked.
“Hey Gene,” John said, opening the door.
“Johnny,” Gene stepped inside. He liked John. He seemed down to earth enough. “I got the light fixture.” He held it up for John to see.
“Cool. Here, let me put a light on for you.”
Gene waved to Alyssa, the wife, and then followed John down the hall. He liked the look of 1R. The apartment had large pointed archways. The floors were decent. John and Alyssa had decorated the place with photos of cities that Gene assumed they’d been to, and pictures of musicians and writers. In the bedroom, John had a large collection of photographs that were tapped above his desk. Inspiration, he said, the one time Gene was in their bedroom to install the air conditioner.
John turned on two nightstand lights. “Hope that’s enough light.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Can’t really do much more light. My eyes. I got bumped.”
“Huh?”
“On the head. A pipe. At the job.”
John winced. “Christ.”
“Yeah, so my head. My head don’t feel so good.”
“Put some ice on it.” Gene looked at John. John looked like he had better things to be doing.
“Yeah, well, anyway, this shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, half hour tops.”
“Great.” Then John left the room.
Gene got to work. He put the light fixture package on the bed then set up the ladder. He grabbed the package and climbed. When he got to the top he realized he was still a few inches too far from the overhead light. It was right over the bed. So Gene stepped down the ladder and moved the bed to the right about two feet. He could hear John and Alyssa murmur in the living room after he did this. Gene looked down. On the floor where the bed had been, it was littered with dust. The dust was in mounds. There were also old pieces of tissue, and lost socks. He noticed a little bit of old cat vomit. He nodded at the mess. Then he moved the ladder and climbed back up.
The job took about twenty minutes, but when Gene was done the tenants had a new overhead light fixture, and two 100-watt bulbs to go with it. As he packed up the ladder, he heard the rattling of old pipes above and the hiss of the heating system as it worked its way through the apartment’s walls. They were the same old noises he’d heard in this building for twenty years.
“Johnny, it’s done,” Gene called down the hall.
More murmuring, but then John appeared. “Looks great,” he said, staring up at the light fixture. Then he looked down at the mess of dust and other sundries on the floor where the bed had been.
Gene looked at John. “Sorry, I, uh, had to move the bed a little.”
“No big deal. Actually I’m sorry you had to look at all of that shit.”
Gene shrugged. “Hey, no big deal. My apartment would look the exact same way, except I have Alyona there all the time, you know.”
John nodded but he didn’t know. He started walked Gene to the door, but something made Gene stop. “You know I messed up real bad,” he said.
“How’s that?” John asked.
“My wife, Alyona, she’s got all the brains, you know. She’s got a masters degree in economics...from Europe. But we come here and I tell her, no, you gotta raise the kids because that’s your job. I’ll go to work. And here I am twenty years later, doing three jobs like an idiot. We could’ve had something, you know, like a house or something.”
“I know,” John said, opening the front door. He didn’t know a thing, Gene thought. “Anyway thanks for getting that done. Alyssa and I have people staying with us this weekend...and....well, thanks. And take care of your head. Watch for falling pipes.”
“Yeah, I will,” Gene said, heading out into the hallway.
John shut the door. Gene listened for the regular lock first and then the deadbolt, before he made his way down the hall. Just when he turned the bend, Alyona came out of their apartment with a broom. She looked at him and smiled.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“You said we need sweep. I sweep,” she answered.
“No, no, no.” Gene put the ladder up against a wall then came over and took the broom from her. “It’s too damned cold outside for you to do that. I’ll sweep. You go inside and put on another pot of coffee.”
“But you need a hat. A coat.”
“It’ll only take me five minutes, ten tops.”
Alyona looked at Gene with concern. He stared at her until she smiled. Then he smiled back, and told her to get back into the house. She did as asked. Gene waited until she rounded the bend and he heard the door open and then close. Then he grabbed the broom tight, and went to the front door of the foyer. He opened it and could feel the cold air of the night seeping in. Then he went outside, lit a smoke, and began sweeping the old leaves away from the pavement in order to make room for the new ones that would be there tomorrow.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Cold Pizza
When he came in the apartment smelt of the cat shit he’d forgotten to change all week. It was hot and stuffy in there, too. New York City was nothing like Buffalo in the winter. He didn’t even feel a chill. He took off his coat and set the pizza down on the kitchen table, flipped the light switch, but the super hadn’t been by to fix it yet.
“Great,” he said, searching around the dark place for the nearest switch. He could still smell the beer on his breath from the local joint he stopped at.
He found a light switch in the hallway then looked around the apartment. No trace of her. She hadn’t been home.
“Even better,” he said, heading toward the bedroom.
He turned the light on and changed out of his work clothes. He threw them on the bedroom floor. A pair of work dirtied jeans and a blue flannel shirt. He’d wear them tomorrow again for the same job. Then he found some sweats and an old Bills t-shirt, put them on, and went back into the darkened kitchen to grab a beer from the refrigerator. That’s when he found her note.
It was tact to the fridge door underneath a magnet they’d bought last summer in Boston. It was a picture of the Boston skyline, lit up, in front of a sky that was shading from orange to red to purple, and then into a rich midnight blue. He looked at the magnet a moment, grabbed the note, opened the fridge, and pulled out the last beer in there. Then he closed the fridge door, sat down at the kitchen table, opened the beer, and took a long pull. He put the note on top of the pizza box, and thought about what he’d have to do at work the next day to get the job done, while he drained half of the beer and his stomach growled.
“Great,” he said, searching around the dark place for the nearest switch. He could still smell the beer on his breath from the local joint he stopped at.
He found a light switch in the hallway then looked around the apartment. No trace of her. She hadn’t been home.
“Even better,” he said, heading toward the bedroom.
He turned the light on and changed out of his work clothes. He threw them on the bedroom floor. A pair of work dirtied jeans and a blue flannel shirt. He’d wear them tomorrow again for the same job. Then he found some sweats and an old Bills t-shirt, put them on, and went back into the darkened kitchen to grab a beer from the refrigerator. That’s when he found her note.
It was tact to the fridge door underneath a magnet they’d bought last summer in Boston. It was a picture of the Boston skyline, lit up, in front of a sky that was shading from orange to red to purple, and then into a rich midnight blue. He looked at the magnet a moment, grabbed the note, opened the fridge, and pulled out the last beer in there. Then he closed the fridge door, sat down at the kitchen table, opened the beer, and took a long pull. He put the note on top of the pizza box, and thought about what he’d have to do at work the next day to get the job done, while he drained half of the beer and his stomach growled.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Curtain
It hadn’t been that long since Earl had been without a woman, but it had been long enough. He couldn’t sleep that night, so he lay in bed and watched the curtains billow from the wind of the fan. It was nearly November and the nights were cold, but Earl kept his fans running all year long as a way to block out noise from the neighbors and the street. This process had all started simply because Earl was working nights. When he tried to sleep during the day he couldn’t because of neighbors moving around above and below him, because of their music and televisions playing, and because of one neighborhood dog that barked from the street into his bedroom window nearly all afternoon.
Earl hated that dog, a German Shepherd mix of some kind. And he got a strange satisfaction that President’s Day weekend as he stood enveloped in the curtain, drinking a Schlitz, watching as the neighbor’s Pit Bull clamped on to the dog’s neck and shook the very life out of it. Earl watched the carnage and drank with absolutely no emotion. He felt like it wasn’t really happening, at first.
“I guess you’re happy now,” was all that Beth said at the time, when he saw her in passing. She worked days as a secretary in a law firm in the city.
But all Earl could remember was the blood. Blood was everywhere. It was on the Pit Bull. It was on the street. It was on the clothes of the German Shepherd’s owner, as he tried to beat the Pit Bull away with his cain. For two weeks when Earl left for work or to get his mail, he could see the dried spot of blood as it waited to be washed away by snow and cold rain. Earl felt bad, but he couldn’t help thinking that with the dog gone he’d finally get to sleep without the use of the fans. Funny thing was Earl had become addicted to the droning noise the fans made, and he couldn’t get rid of them no matter what. They were stuck together.
He kept watching the curtain billow, imagining it a shapely woman doing a dance just for him, like one of those belly dancers. Earl remembered that he was once in a restaurant in Atlantic City where they had fleets of belly dancers go around to tables and dance for people as they ate and drank. Then Earl turned over to his nightstand and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and took a final slug on the glass of scotch that was sitting next to his night-light. The ice had melted in the drink so it tasted watered down. For some reason this made Earl’s throat clamp tighter than if he’d made a strong one. He wanted a strong one.
So Earl got out of bed with his cigarette casting a dim light. He looked at the curtain as it continued to dance, but he felt no real sensuality for it. He needed a woman. Still, he went over to it. He pulled at the thick blue fabric for a second, held it, and then pushed it away to look outside. The street was dead. One car passed. Earl looked across the street toward where the German Shepherd mix had died, and then he closed the curtain and went and got his drink.
Earl hated that dog, a German Shepherd mix of some kind. And he got a strange satisfaction that President’s Day weekend as he stood enveloped in the curtain, drinking a Schlitz, watching as the neighbor’s Pit Bull clamped on to the dog’s neck and shook the very life out of it. Earl watched the carnage and drank with absolutely no emotion. He felt like it wasn’t really happening, at first.
“I guess you’re happy now,” was all that Beth said at the time, when he saw her in passing. She worked days as a secretary in a law firm in the city.
But all Earl could remember was the blood. Blood was everywhere. It was on the Pit Bull. It was on the street. It was on the clothes of the German Shepherd’s owner, as he tried to beat the Pit Bull away with his cain. For two weeks when Earl left for work or to get his mail, he could see the dried spot of blood as it waited to be washed away by snow and cold rain. Earl felt bad, but he couldn’t help thinking that with the dog gone he’d finally get to sleep without the use of the fans. Funny thing was Earl had become addicted to the droning noise the fans made, and he couldn’t get rid of them no matter what. They were stuck together.
He kept watching the curtain billow, imagining it a shapely woman doing a dance just for him, like one of those belly dancers. Earl remembered that he was once in a restaurant in Atlantic City where they had fleets of belly dancers go around to tables and dance for people as they ate and drank. Then Earl turned over to his nightstand and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and took a final slug on the glass of scotch that was sitting next to his night-light. The ice had melted in the drink so it tasted watered down. For some reason this made Earl’s throat clamp tighter than if he’d made a strong one. He wanted a strong one.
So Earl got out of bed with his cigarette casting a dim light. He looked at the curtain as it continued to dance, but he felt no real sensuality for it. He needed a woman. Still, he went over to it. He pulled at the thick blue fabric for a second, held it, and then pushed it away to look outside. The street was dead. One car passed. Earl looked across the street toward where the German Shepherd mix had died, and then he closed the curtain and went and got his drink.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Symphony #1: Roger Castleman
It was Friday, and Roger Castleman was beginning his workday the way he always did, by jacking off in the third stall of the corporate bathroom. It was a pathetic habit, and Roger knew it. But he couldn’t help himself. It was that goddamned redheaded secretary. Every morning Roger said he wouldn’t jack it in the corporate bathroom anymore, but then he’d get up to his floor, see that redhead swiveling her quaking ass in that chair, and he was a goner. Roger would be down the hall and in the can, his pants down, that red rod in his hand, before he even had a cup of coffee. He was powerless to the female beast.
Anyway Roger sat in that stall and imagined the redhead leaning over her big, soft work chair, her ringed fingers tightly gripping the top of the seat. She had her skirt off and her panties down at the knees, and Roger was banging her away from behind, in a most glorious fashion. He even had a finger up the redhead’s rosy asshole. What reckless abandon! What a daydream on another drab Friday! That secretary never had it so good, Roger mused. He stroked away. He could almost feel the inside of the redhead’s cunt. It was tight and warm, like a double shot-glass full of bathwater. They were rocking back and forth, shaking the chair, and almost tipping the fucking thing over. Red sucked on Roger’s fingers and moaned, as he continued to hump her. He bent at the knees and plowed upward into that pussy. Roger was getting ready to come. He stroked his cock harder. He moved his fingers faster along the head and shaft. Roger’s cock was ready; it was about to explode. Then the goddamned bathroom door opened and a couple of assholes walked in, and Roger had to stop.
“How was your weekend, Todd?” It was Phil. Todd was the big boss, and Phil was his flunky.
“Not bad,” Todd answered. He unzipped his fly and started pissing. Phil did too. He did everything Todd did. “I didn’t do much. Some yard work. Watched the big game. I gave it to the wife a little, so she’d quit nagging me.” Todd and Phil laughed at this like a couple of little girls. “You?”
“About the same. I watched the big game too. I love football.”
“I do too. I live for Football.”
“Football is the best,” Phil added.
Todd coughed and flushed, and zipped his fly. Phil did too.
“So Todd what’s the whole deal with today, just so I know.”
“The deal is this,” Todd began. Roger watched them through a crack in the stall door. Todd stood before the bathroom mirror, looking at himself, and fixing his tie. He was a good-looking guy. Tall and blonde. A fucking Ken doll. The CEO loved Todd. “We have a meeting at one o’clock, after the whole team has gone to lunch. Skip will be there. So will our attorney and a psychiatric councilor, just in case anyone loses it. I’ll be the one to talk. I’ll tell the team that because of certain budgetary concerns we have to let half of them go.”
“Sounds simple,” Phil added.
“It’s not really. Letting people go is hard business, even if it’s ultimately good for the corporation. I don’t look forward to these things. But Skip trusts me, and I’d go to war for that man.”
“Me too,” Phil said. He sounded like a good little lap dog. Phil stepped into Roger’s view. He was an attractive guy, too: dark-haired and close cut with well-kept sideburns, and not a trace of stubble on his face. Roger often saw Phil with the redheaded secretary. They went to lunch sometimes, or he hung around her desk telling banal jokes. Roger hated Phil. He often daydreamed of strangling the prick. “So who’s getting the ax?”
Todd laughed. “Philly, now you know I can’t tell you that.”
“Come on, Todd. I won’t say. You can trust me. After all, we were frat brothers. Hell, you even got me this job. Now why would I go and jeopardize that?”
“I don’t know,” Todd continued.
“Come on.”
“Alright, you’ve broken me.” They laughed. Roger let go of his wilted cock, and listened in. “Williams is going. So is McCabe. Oh, and Darren Bachorski, the one who never goes to the corporate functions, he’s fucking gonzo too.”
“What about Charice Johnson?” Phil asked.
Todd laughed. “We can’t fire a woman, let alone a black one. The ACLU and the NAACP would be all over Skip’s ass. Nah, Charice gets to stay. We’re dumping off Roger Castleman instead.”
Phil laughed. “It’s about time. Christ how long has that fat fucker been with the company?”
“Seventeen years. According to Skip, seventeen long years. Roger is actually the one person I’m looking forward to getting rid of. He’s a blight on the company. He comes into work every day looking unwashed and unshaved, and most of the time he smells like a distillery. I hate the sight of him in my boardroom. I’ve had my eye on dumping Castleman ever since Skip gave me the job.” Todd laughed. “Remember when he was our boss? But the time has come, Phillyboy. Production is down and so is the stock. We have too many middle-management people cluttering up these halls. So Castleman is out the door. You can’t argue with the bottom line.”
“You sure can’t,” Phil said. Both of the goons laughed again, and continued to check themselves out in the mirror. “Christ, I’ve never sat in on a firing before.”
“A reorganization,” Todd said.
“Huh?”
“We’re calling the firings a reorganization. Skip hates the word fire. He says it’s too negative. I agree.”
“Oh okay,” Phil said. “Well I’ve never been in on a reorganization.”
Todd nodded.
“But money is the bottom line,” Phil continued. “That’s why we got into this business.”
“You said it, Philly. So anyway,” Todd continued, “after we have that meeting, Skip is taking me out for dinner and a few drinks. He thinks it’ll calm my nerves.”
“Skip is an all right kinda guy,” Phil said.
“Yeah, well he understands how tough it is to be in my shoes. Hey you wanna come? I’m sure Skip won’t mind. The dinner and the drinks are on the corporate expense account. Plus it might be good for you to meet the old man, you know, away from today.”
“Really?” Phil said. The asshole sounded excited. “Hey Todd, I’m glad you’re making those cuts. They’ll really help the company out. At least you’re not getting rid of that redhead.”
“Are you kidding me?” Todd asked. “Do you honestly think I’d unload my favorite piece of ass candy?”
They laughed.
“You kill me, Todd,” Phil said. “Maybe next weekend we can get together and watch the big game?”
“Sure,” Todd answered. “But it’s gotta be the later game. I have a church function in the morning.”
“I understand.”
They left the bathroom. Roger sat on the can until his legs got numb. Then he grabbed his cock and began messaging it again. He worked himself up. The redhead was leaning over the chair, and Roger was behind her, sweating, giving it to her hard. He stroked his cock. In no time the juices were flowing. Roger stuck a finger in the redhead’s rosy ass, and she moaned. She sucked on his fingers, and looked back and smiled. This time Roger would have her the whole way. This time he’d get his.
Anyway Roger sat in that stall and imagined the redhead leaning over her big, soft work chair, her ringed fingers tightly gripping the top of the seat. She had her skirt off and her panties down at the knees, and Roger was banging her away from behind, in a most glorious fashion. He even had a finger up the redhead’s rosy asshole. What reckless abandon! What a daydream on another drab Friday! That secretary never had it so good, Roger mused. He stroked away. He could almost feel the inside of the redhead’s cunt. It was tight and warm, like a double shot-glass full of bathwater. They were rocking back and forth, shaking the chair, and almost tipping the fucking thing over. Red sucked on Roger’s fingers and moaned, as he continued to hump her. He bent at the knees and plowed upward into that pussy. Roger was getting ready to come. He stroked his cock harder. He moved his fingers faster along the head and shaft. Roger’s cock was ready; it was about to explode. Then the goddamned bathroom door opened and a couple of assholes walked in, and Roger had to stop.
“How was your weekend, Todd?” It was Phil. Todd was the big boss, and Phil was his flunky.
“Not bad,” Todd answered. He unzipped his fly and started pissing. Phil did too. He did everything Todd did. “I didn’t do much. Some yard work. Watched the big game. I gave it to the wife a little, so she’d quit nagging me.” Todd and Phil laughed at this like a couple of little girls. “You?”
“About the same. I watched the big game too. I love football.”
“I do too. I live for Football.”
“Football is the best,” Phil added.
Todd coughed and flushed, and zipped his fly. Phil did too.
“So Todd what’s the whole deal with today, just so I know.”
“The deal is this,” Todd began. Roger watched them through a crack in the stall door. Todd stood before the bathroom mirror, looking at himself, and fixing his tie. He was a good-looking guy. Tall and blonde. A fucking Ken doll. The CEO loved Todd. “We have a meeting at one o’clock, after the whole team has gone to lunch. Skip will be there. So will our attorney and a psychiatric councilor, just in case anyone loses it. I’ll be the one to talk. I’ll tell the team that because of certain budgetary concerns we have to let half of them go.”
“Sounds simple,” Phil added.
“It’s not really. Letting people go is hard business, even if it’s ultimately good for the corporation. I don’t look forward to these things. But Skip trusts me, and I’d go to war for that man.”
“Me too,” Phil said. He sounded like a good little lap dog. Phil stepped into Roger’s view. He was an attractive guy, too: dark-haired and close cut with well-kept sideburns, and not a trace of stubble on his face. Roger often saw Phil with the redheaded secretary. They went to lunch sometimes, or he hung around her desk telling banal jokes. Roger hated Phil. He often daydreamed of strangling the prick. “So who’s getting the ax?”
Todd laughed. “Philly, now you know I can’t tell you that.”
“Come on, Todd. I won’t say. You can trust me. After all, we were frat brothers. Hell, you even got me this job. Now why would I go and jeopardize that?”
“I don’t know,” Todd continued.
“Come on.”
“Alright, you’ve broken me.” They laughed. Roger let go of his wilted cock, and listened in. “Williams is going. So is McCabe. Oh, and Darren Bachorski, the one who never goes to the corporate functions, he’s fucking gonzo too.”
“What about Charice Johnson?” Phil asked.
Todd laughed. “We can’t fire a woman, let alone a black one. The ACLU and the NAACP would be all over Skip’s ass. Nah, Charice gets to stay. We’re dumping off Roger Castleman instead.”
Phil laughed. “It’s about time. Christ how long has that fat fucker been with the company?”
“Seventeen years. According to Skip, seventeen long years. Roger is actually the one person I’m looking forward to getting rid of. He’s a blight on the company. He comes into work every day looking unwashed and unshaved, and most of the time he smells like a distillery. I hate the sight of him in my boardroom. I’ve had my eye on dumping Castleman ever since Skip gave me the job.” Todd laughed. “Remember when he was our boss? But the time has come, Phillyboy. Production is down and so is the stock. We have too many middle-management people cluttering up these halls. So Castleman is out the door. You can’t argue with the bottom line.”
“You sure can’t,” Phil said. Both of the goons laughed again, and continued to check themselves out in the mirror. “Christ, I’ve never sat in on a firing before.”
“A reorganization,” Todd said.
“Huh?”
“We’re calling the firings a reorganization. Skip hates the word fire. He says it’s too negative. I agree.”
“Oh okay,” Phil said. “Well I’ve never been in on a reorganization.”
Todd nodded.
“But money is the bottom line,” Phil continued. “That’s why we got into this business.”
“You said it, Philly. So anyway,” Todd continued, “after we have that meeting, Skip is taking me out for dinner and a few drinks. He thinks it’ll calm my nerves.”
“Skip is an all right kinda guy,” Phil said.
“Yeah, well he understands how tough it is to be in my shoes. Hey you wanna come? I’m sure Skip won’t mind. The dinner and the drinks are on the corporate expense account. Plus it might be good for you to meet the old man, you know, away from today.”
“Really?” Phil said. The asshole sounded excited. “Hey Todd, I’m glad you’re making those cuts. They’ll really help the company out. At least you’re not getting rid of that redhead.”
“Are you kidding me?” Todd asked. “Do you honestly think I’d unload my favorite piece of ass candy?”
They laughed.
“You kill me, Todd,” Phil said. “Maybe next weekend we can get together and watch the big game?”
“Sure,” Todd answered. “But it’s gotta be the later game. I have a church function in the morning.”
“I understand.”
They left the bathroom. Roger sat on the can until his legs got numb. Then he grabbed his cock and began messaging it again. He worked himself up. The redhead was leaning over the chair, and Roger was behind her, sweating, giving it to her hard. He stroked his cock. In no time the juices were flowing. Roger stuck a finger in the redhead’s rosy ass, and she moaned. She sucked on his fingers, and looked back and smiled. This time Roger would have her the whole way. This time he’d get his.
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