Edwin Balder took a deep breath and the rang George Pollard Jr.’s buzzer, secretly hoping that no one would hear it and that he could leave this wretched place. Edwin didn’t bother to look around his old corner, for behind him was where that dog had died. There was hardly a sound on Luquer Street, a far cry from the good old days of gang bangers and murderous Pit Bull’s. The only sound came from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in the near distance, the constant clatter of commuters stuck in the constant and unforgiving traffic in New York City, a traffic whose tide never abated and never quelled; a traffic who never gave one single human soul a bit of solace on their journey from home to work and back again. New York traffic was vicious and vile, Edwin thought, standing there. Of course so were Luquer Street and George Pollard.
The solid red door of the apartment building began to open after some struggle. Well, at least they haven’t improved that yet, Edwin thought. Then it opened and before him stood a beautiful brunette woman dressed in a blue flannel shirt and baggy cargo pants. Her eyes were in ice blue yet immaculately kind. “Edwin?” she said
“Hello, Guillermo,” Edwin began. “Have the girls arrived safely?”
The flannelled woman gave him an odd look. “Excuse me?”
“Ah, you would have had to have been there.”
“Okay. What are you doing here? Lawson said that you weren’t coming.”
“Well, you know…” Edwin started. He tried to remember the woman’s name but, sadly, could not. However, he was intrigued by her retro ensemble of flannel shirt and baggy pants, and wondered if perhaps Pollard’s birthday party was some sort of costumed gig. “Do we know each other?”
“Edwin, it’s me, George’s sister, Arlene.”
“That’s it,” Edwin said, snapping his fingers. “I’d forgotten that the Pollard’s had found it necessary to spawn again. Well, long time no see.”
“That’s because you don’t come around much,” Arlene said. Then she sniffed into the night air. Edwin wondered if she was sniffing for dog. “What’s that smell?”
“Depression? Car Exhaust? The pungent remnants of sour cream and cheddar potato chips with a dash of grape cola, perhaps?”
“Edwin, have you been drinking?” Arlene said.
Edwin extended his thumb and index finger. “A smidge. But only in the spirit of the night.”
Arlene smiled at him. He liked her smile and smiled back, but let it drop when he remembered that he was fraternizing with the enemy. “Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s cold out here.”
Arlene led Edwin into the lobby of the apartment. The neighborhood may have changed, he thought, but the building had remained just as decrepit and dilapidated as that front door. The stairwell was still a cracked, wobbling lawsuit waiting to happen, and the floors were a dusty gray and white, faded Linoleum, and Isaac Cole had his assortment of ladders and buckets stacked toward the back of the hallway just as he had in Edwin and Natalie’s heyday. He never used them to fix anything back then, and Edwin supposed that he did nothing with his assorted maintenance tools now. The lobby still smelled of cabbage and ass sweat. Edwin turned up his nose to it. Some things you just never got used to.
“It’s a pleasant odor isn’t it?” Arlene said.
“I believe they developed it in Nazi Germany,” Edwin said, causing the sister of Pollard to laugh. It was something that surprised him and made him smile.
“So where have you been keeping yourself?”
“I’ve been here and there,” Edwin said.
“Still processing invoices?” Arlene asked, although not to be smart, he noticed. Edwin reasoned that she could live.
“Yes,” he said. “I hope to be the manager soon.”
“Are you up for a promotion?”
“No. But my supervisor, Mr. Chase, is an overweight buffoon. He’s bound to choke on a chicken wing or a tub of white cheddar flavored Crisco on another of his lonely Saturday nights.”
“Gross,” Arlene said.
“May I ask you the purpose for you ensemble tonight? It’s very retro, the whole flannel shirt and baggy pants get-up.” Arlene gave a slight spin on the steps, as if modeling. “I like it.”
“But it’s not retro,” she said. “Check the fashion mags, Balder. The 90’s are coming back.”
“Had they ever gone anywhere?” Edwin asked. He liked talking to Arlene. Where they flirting? He wondered.
But then the door opened from the second floor and George Pollard Jr.’s ugly goateed face peered over the railing. “Who was at the door, Arl?” he asked.
Arlene ducked, exposing Edwin. “Good evening, Pollard,” he said.
“Hey, Edwin,” Pollard said, a little too chummy for Edwin’s liking. “Lawson said that you were busy tonight.”
“Lawson Thomas is a compulsive liar. It was my every intention to come here tonight.”
Arlene and Edwin reached the top of the stairs. Pollard tried to embrace him in one of those “bro hugs,” but Edwin wasn’t having it. He settled for the handshake instead, and then they went inside. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Scotch and water on the rocks,” Edwin said handing George his coat, as he looked around his old kitchen. Pollard had kept up the yellowed blinds, and the floor was the same gray as in the lobby. The ceiling still had that brown spot from the time the neighbor’s pipes had burst, creating brown water puddles on the kitchen floor.
“I don’t know if we have any scotch,” Pollard said, tossing the jacket the kitchen table with a pile of other coats.
Edwin sighed. “Fine. Then I’ll take a beer or a brewski, or whatever it is that you call it.”
“Arl.” Arlene rolled her eyes at her brother and then went to the fridge to fetch their new guest a beer.
Edwin looked around the apartment. People were crowding the tight rooms and the apartment felt claustrophobic, which was precisely why he and Natalie had never hosted any parties. That, and according to Natalie, which she’d told Edwin at the climax of their relationship, their friends simply did not like him anymore. If only she could see him now, Edwin thought. Back in Pollard’s apartment, surrounded by the very people whose opinion helped to break them up. Edwin began picking some of the people off in his mind. Charles Shorter and his nag of a wife, Shannon. Shannon had been good friends with Natalie, and had always hated Edwin. Well, she left the both of us, didn’t she, Edwin said to himself, making slight eye contact with the couple. And there was Seth Weeks. Poor, unlucky Seth Weeks. What was he now? Thirty-six, thirty-seven? Most probably still in the closet and living with his mother, using New York City as an excuse to keep his growth stunted. Edwin told himself that he must sit down with Weeks and get the low down on his life. That would be good for a laugh in his down time, he thought.
Arlene came back with a beer, and handed it to Edwin. Mechanically, he took a drink and then cringed. The brew was American and bland, just the sort of beer George Pollard Jr. would have at an intimate gathering of friends. It was sad that his tastes had not evolved since the college days. And Pollard with a graduate degree, Edwin thought. It just went to show that education did not account for taste and knowledge. He looked around some more, at all of his old friends and associates sitting in their tight spaces, having banal conversations and still trying to dress the part of hip, city dweller, when many of them had turned gray and had begun to wrinkle under their tired eyes. Many of them had gotten fat, or were getting fat. Why the poet, Barzillai Ray, hardly looked the part of angry, black militant anymore. He looked like an old man wearing his son’s clothing. Edwin had to laugh. Arlene took a sip on her beer too, and then clinked bottles with him, as if they were co-conspirators in the pedestrian happenings of the night. Edwin felt some kind of private connection with her in doing this. Pollard just stood there looking confused.
“So, you want a tour of the place?” he asked. Edwin looked at him. “I guess you know it pretty well.”
Edwin looked into the eyes of his estranged, old friend, and felt a new, blazing hatred. “Why not? I’m sure you’ve done loads with the place since I moved.”
“Uh, okay.”
Pollard took the lead and Edwin and Arlene followed. First it was the narrow room right off of the kitchen. Edwin had put his bookshelves and computer in that room. It was to be the writing room, the place where the magic happened. Mostly it had become a staging area for any new household furniture that had to be assembled, or where Natalie wrote out their bills every Sunday morning while Edwin paced the narrow strip of the apartment, his head in his hands, moaning that they were broke, when he knew damned well that there was plenty of money in their bank account. Edwin felt the negative drama heightened his joy when Natalie rose from her seat to inform him that they were not only not broke, but had managed to save money in abundance. Pollard had left the room a blank. He had an old couch in there, and his bike was fastened to one of the walls.
Next it was the bedroom, and Pollard hesitated in walking Edwin through there at first, which just confirmed his guilt in Edwin’s mind. To be honest, Edwin did not even want to go into that room. There were too many memories held within its sliver of walls. There were too many days wasted in bed, a bottle of wine on the floor, as Natalie and he read books or made love, or listened to the classical station instead of the neighbor’s bass. When they entered, Edwin nearly passed out.
“Are you all right?” Arlene asked.
Edwin put his cold beer to his head and turned to Pollard, motioning toward his unmade bed. The bed was so big and the room so small that the three of them had to stand sideways in the room. This had also been the case for Edwin and Natalie. “So, is this where it happened?”
“Edwin, God damn it,” Pollard said. “I knew you would do this.”
“How was she, George? Level with me. Was she desperate? Could you tell it as you rode her on this vile, soiled mattress? Did you take her with reckless abandon and make it all better?”
“Christ, Balder. You know damned well where Natalie slept when she was here.”
“Yes, in your thick, hunky arms!”
“She slept on the fucking couch, man!”
“Whoa,” Arlene said, coming between Edwin and George. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re brother made a cuckold of me with my long-term girlfriend, near fiancé, if you will.”
“George?”
“He’s lying,” Pollard said, turning to his sister. “We…we were all friends. They were having problems.” He looked at Edwin. “Problems for a long time. And Natalie was fed up. Frankly I understood why. You can only take so much lunacy in your life.”
“Ha!” Edwin said.
Pollard returned his gaze to his sister. “It’s true. Natalie left him. She had nowhere else to go, so she came here for two days. Two Goddamned days, Edwin! And she slept on the couch, before taking the train up to her folks.”
“A likely story, you philandering public servant!” Edwin said. He pointed back down to Pollard’s bed. “This bed is a bed of sin!”
“It’s not even the same bed, Edwin,” Pollard said.
“Well, I’m sure the old one was of a similar make, or it was placed as such in the room.” He took a pull on his beer; felt his face flushed, burning. “You get my drift.”
It was then that Edwin’s best, black friend, Lawson Thomas, entered the tail end of the bedroom. “I thought I heard you,” he said to Edwin. “I thought you had that thing tonight.”
Edwin turned to Lawson. “That thing came home with her rock star, skater boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’re doing ollies or fakies or grinds, or whatever it is that skaters say.”
“You’re up on you skater terminology,” Arlene said.
“Just because my clothes have suddenly become retro, doesn’t mean that I am outdated,” Edwin said to her. He turned back to Lawson. “I came here tonight to confront the damage done.”
“He’s still going on about me sleeping with Natalie,” George said. He turned back to Edwin. “I don’t know what it’s going to take to convince you that I didn’t.”
“I told you two years ago what it would take,” Edwin said.
“I’m not giving you my blood and semen, and taking a lie detector test, dude.”
“Then our relationship must continue to hang in limbo.”
“Whatever,” Pollard said. He left Edwin, Lawson, and Arlene standing over the bed, going back the way that he came, toward more understanding friends back in the kitchen.
“So that’s why I haven’t seen you around,” Arlene said to Edwin.
“That and this neighborhood you live in gives me the night sweats and tremors,” Edwin said.
“I don’t live in Brooklyn.” Arlene looked at Edwin as if he’d insulted her. “I live in Manhattan.”
“You do?” Edwin turned to Arlene. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, as it was rare to meet a person who could actually afford to live in Manhattan. It was Edwin’s deep, dark dream to live in Manhattan. “My Manhattan.”
“If you say so.”
“Edwin fancies himself a Manhattanite in training,” Lawson added.
“What part?” Edwin asked, ignoring his friend’s comment.
“East Village.”
“Ah!” Edwin clutched his chest, for it was too much to bear.
“I pegged you for an Upper East Side kind of guy,” Arlene said.
“Why?” Edwin asked. “Don’t you know it’s not correct to presume?”
“Oh yeah? Then why are you giving my brother a hard time?”
“Because I have fact and God on my side.”
“No you don’t, Edwin,” Lawson said.
“Shut up, you!” He turned to Arlene. “Your brother was attracted to my Natalie. He said as much.”
“Yeah, when we were all like twenty and no one was dating her yet,” Lawson said.
“Still.”
“Still nothing.”
“She chose you,” Lawson said.
“And look what happened,” Edwin said. He took a pull on his beer, and tried to forget the past. “I need real alcohol this evening, if I’m going to make it.”
“I think George has some bourbon,” Arlene said. “If you promise to leave him alone, I’ll go and fix you one.”
“I’ll do more than that,” Edwin said. “I’ll even be civil toward him.”
“Good. It is his birthday, after all.”
Arlene left the bedroom, and Edwin watched her as she moved. Retro and she lives in Manhattan. If only she weren’t a Pollard, he thought.
“Do you need to sit down?” Lawson asked, motioning toward the living room, where Edwin could hear Mary Baldacci flapping her gums to another small set of Edwin’s former friends.
“I believe I do,” Edwin said.
Lawson smiled and put his arm around his best, white friend. “Come on then.”
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Party: Part 1
Edwin Balder rode the subway up to George Pollard’s apartment. It was a terrible subway ride. All Edwin wanted was to be alone with his anger and his thoughts, but the two Hispanic girls who got on the R train at 69th Street had made it nearly impossible for him to do so. Edwin had made the mistake of sitting in the middle seat of a three seat bench, as he hated sitting on the corner seats, getting crushed into the metal pole when one of the many and varied obese denizens of New York City got on the train and sat next to him. If Edwin was going to be crushed by American girth, it was going to be on his own terms, he reasoned. That said, he didn’t expect two Hispanic girls to get on the subway, sit on either side of him, and begin a loud and boisterous debate about which one of them was going “get their’s” tonight by a man named Guillermo.
Edwin put up with the girls for as long as he could. He put up with their shouting and cackling, the potato chip scent of their breath, their sweat and perfume plastered flesh, and their inane conversation in the spirit of diversity. Edwin tried to focus on Molly Brown and Matthew Joy doing “whatever,” to use the parlance of our times, in her apartment. They were mostly probably fixing that God awful Italian meal, he thought, blasting rap music and dancing around the apartment, stopping only to kiss and grope in the way that young idiots had learned to do by watching their club videos and assorted PG-13 party films. Edwin couldn’t stand the thought of it. Still, the idea of kissing and groping Molly Brown made him break out in a slight sweat. Edwin closed his eyes amidst the babble of the Hispanic girls and imagined himself in Matthew Joy’s shoes. He felt his loins rise at the thought, and he grew embarrassed. Then one of the girls cackled and burped. The smell was vile, a mixture of potato chip, breath, and some kind of flavored soda. Edwin was all for diversity but this was too much. He stood up.
“You don’t even say excuse me,” he said to the offending girl.
“What?” she said, her lips pursed, her face belligerent. Edwin wanted to grab one of the girl’s large, golden earrings and rip it out of her ear. “What did you say?”
“You have no respect.”
‘Why I gotta respect you, nigga?”
“I’m not…” Edwin started. “You’re not…”
The girls laughed at him.
“Animals,” Edwin said.
“What?”
“You heard me, you deaf little minx.” Edwin decided to take a portion of his anger out on these she-beasts. “Who do you think you are, sitting on an evening train, burping and farting, and talking about ‘getting yours’ from someone named Guillermo.”
“Who am I?” the girl said. “Who are you, nigga?”
“Stop using that word,” Edwin said. “Let’s all make a conscious effort to stop using that word.”
“Fuck you.”
“Much better,” Edwin said. “I’m willing to bet that you’re tops in your class.”
“Look at you, faggot,” the girl said.
“At least I respect my elders, young lady.”
“You ain’t respectin’ her,” the other girl said.
Edwin looked at her. She was dressed head to toe in a pink velvet jumpsuit. Edwin knew that you couldn’t argue with someone dressed to the nines in pink velvet. You just couldn’t argue with those types, he thought. Of course, Edwin felt guilty for thinking that. Teasing Lawson was one thing, but entertaining a wholly stereotypical and, let’s face it, racist point of view, even for a moment, was not a road that he wanted to go down. Edwin Balder refused to be associated with discrimination in any form, even if he was in the right. So he turned and walked to the other end of the subway car, as the girls laughed at him and then forgot all about his existence, going back to Guillermo and who was going to “get it” harder that night.
Edwin transferred to the F train at 9th Street, walking the seemingly endless flight of stairs that led up to the train platform. He was happy that he was in such fitful shape. Edwin passed several people on their way up the steps, and simply assumed that many of them would die before they reached the top. One old man looked at Edwin and held out his hand, as if they were both fleeing refugees in an old war movie. Edwin didn’t know whether to help the old man, or to scold him for not keeping himself in decent enough shape to tackle this monster of a subway station. What was he? Seventy? Life Expectancy was now up to eighty-one, he thought. This old man had no excuse to reach out to a stranger for help. Shame on him! The older generation was getting to be just as bad as the younger one. No wonder young girls found it commonplace to discuss their sex lives on the subway, to burp into someone’s face, and then demand respect. Edwin shook his head. This certainly wasn’t the country our Founding Fathers had created.
He got off at the Carroll Street station. Edwin always got an eerie feeling getting off the F train at this stop, and he was glad that he and Pollard weren’t close anymore so that he didn’t have to make the trip too frequently or at all for that matter. Edwin had once lived in this neighborhood with Natalie. They lived in Carroll Gardens when it wasn’t trendy to do so. Edwin and Natalie had lived in a red-bricked railroad apartment on Luquer Street, and to really think back to those two years of hell should’ve been enough to send him running back to the F train. But Edwin was in a mood already, so he figured why not. As he walked to Pollard’s he thought about the cockroaches that used to scale the walls and cover the doors. Edwin remembered the sound of bass, from the upstairs neighbor, pounding down on him and Natalie as they tried to read or watch a movie. He thought about the super, a Mr. Isaac Cole, who was over three hundred pounds and smelled of cabbage and ass sweat. Edwin remembered the gang members on the street, this group of Hispanic kids that all dressed in red. Natalie called them the Flaming Red Dragons, so as to make them seem less scary. It worked sometimes, Edwin thought.
He thought about that last winter they’d spent in the apartment before fleeing to Bay Ridge, and a better peace of mind. Edwin remembered President’s Day weekend almost a decade ago. He remembered killing an unseasonably warm Sunday eating bagels and reading the Times, and making love in the bedroom barely big enough to hold the bed. Edwin remembered opening the first of two bottles of Muscadet, and telling Natalie how the grapes grew near the sea on the Loire Valley, which paired the wine really well with seafood. Natalie laughed and told Edwin too bad that he didn’t like seafood. He’d put on some Tom Waits, agreeing with her through smile. It was turning out to be the best day they’d ever spent in that apartment. There was nary a cockroach in sight. There was no bass raining down on them. Then the barking and squealing started.
It was deathly, Edwin thought, as he walked Court Street, passing their old bars and restaurants, a favorite pizza joint, reminding himself of the old times. It was enough of a racket that he and Natalie stopped their little game of paring wines up with cuisine. Edwin turned down the Tom Waits and looked out the window. He expected an injured child at best, the barking from an anxious and concerned dog. What he saw would stay with him for the rest of his existence, and would be the final tainted memory that ruined the apartment for good.
There was a German Sheppard, owned by this old codger, chained up across the street. The dog was a minor bother. It often barked but not enough to send Edwin and Natalie into a tizzy, as the Flaming Red Dragons playing dominoes and blasting rap music into the night were much worse. The German Sheppard was howling and crying because a Pit Bull had attached its jaws to the dog’s neck, and was pulling and tugging on the old beast. Blood was everywhere. The old codger was doing his best to beat away the Pit Bull but it was to no avail. The dog simply would not budge, its white coat pink colored from the blood pouring out of the German Sheppard. Neighbors were screaming. Street kids were crying. The Flaming Red Dragons came out of their den to see what the fuss was all about. The German Sheppard wailed and cried until it had nothing left. It fell limp and the Pit Bull tugged and pulled on the animal until it was no more. Then it simply let go of the Sheppard’s neck, and trotted off down Luquer Street as if it were nothing but another passing moment in his dog day.
Edwin and Natalie subletted that apartment to George Pollard, and were living in Bay Ridge by the middle of March. Pollard was moving back to Brooklyn after losing his librarian job in Philadelphia, and was intrigued by the idea of living on a gritty street where dogs were murdered by other dogs, and gang members played dominoes by the light of the moon. But that was George Pollard in a nutshell, Edwin thought, making the familiar right turn off of Court Street and down Luquer. Pollard was an overeducated wannabe thug. He grew up a wealthy suburban, New Jersey clam-head moron with an overactive imagination brought on by too many gangster rap albums from the early 1990s. He was a white home boy with a master’s degree and a cushy city job to boot.
Still, Edwin had to give Pollard credit for sticking it out in this neighborhood, putting up with Pit Bulls and gang members until fleets of posh hipsters came to the rescue and gentrified the living hell out of the street, out of the whole of Carroll Gardens. Now Luquer Street was brand new condos and refurbished red-bricked buildings with price tags beyond human reach. Carroll Gardens was Thai restaurants, Tapas bars, and gourmet markets with enough aristocratic cheese to clog the arteries of a whole French fleet. It was wine bars and import beer emporiums for everyone in this little corner of the world. Edwin stood in front of George Pollard’s apartment building, his and Natalie’s old apartment building, the building where they’d conspired and made a cuckold out of him, and he listened to the noise coming from that familiar second floor apartment. He was drunkish and he wanted to leave. But Edwin recognized Lawson’s voice above the cacophony of human sound, and he felt somewhat at ease. It was a beacon of friendship in an otherwise cruel and foreign land. Plus he’d come all of this way, and really needed a scotch and water on the rocks.
Edwin put up with the girls for as long as he could. He put up with their shouting and cackling, the potato chip scent of their breath, their sweat and perfume plastered flesh, and their inane conversation in the spirit of diversity. Edwin tried to focus on Molly Brown and Matthew Joy doing “whatever,” to use the parlance of our times, in her apartment. They were mostly probably fixing that God awful Italian meal, he thought, blasting rap music and dancing around the apartment, stopping only to kiss and grope in the way that young idiots had learned to do by watching their club videos and assorted PG-13 party films. Edwin couldn’t stand the thought of it. Still, the idea of kissing and groping Molly Brown made him break out in a slight sweat. Edwin closed his eyes amidst the babble of the Hispanic girls and imagined himself in Matthew Joy’s shoes. He felt his loins rise at the thought, and he grew embarrassed. Then one of the girls cackled and burped. The smell was vile, a mixture of potato chip, breath, and some kind of flavored soda. Edwin was all for diversity but this was too much. He stood up.
“You don’t even say excuse me,” he said to the offending girl.
“What?” she said, her lips pursed, her face belligerent. Edwin wanted to grab one of the girl’s large, golden earrings and rip it out of her ear. “What did you say?”
“You have no respect.”
‘Why I gotta respect you, nigga?”
“I’m not…” Edwin started. “You’re not…”
The girls laughed at him.
“Animals,” Edwin said.
“What?”
“You heard me, you deaf little minx.” Edwin decided to take a portion of his anger out on these she-beasts. “Who do you think you are, sitting on an evening train, burping and farting, and talking about ‘getting yours’ from someone named Guillermo.”
“Who am I?” the girl said. “Who are you, nigga?”
“Stop using that word,” Edwin said. “Let’s all make a conscious effort to stop using that word.”
“Fuck you.”
“Much better,” Edwin said. “I’m willing to bet that you’re tops in your class.”
“Look at you, faggot,” the girl said.
“At least I respect my elders, young lady.”
“You ain’t respectin’ her,” the other girl said.
Edwin looked at her. She was dressed head to toe in a pink velvet jumpsuit. Edwin knew that you couldn’t argue with someone dressed to the nines in pink velvet. You just couldn’t argue with those types, he thought. Of course, Edwin felt guilty for thinking that. Teasing Lawson was one thing, but entertaining a wholly stereotypical and, let’s face it, racist point of view, even for a moment, was not a road that he wanted to go down. Edwin Balder refused to be associated with discrimination in any form, even if he was in the right. So he turned and walked to the other end of the subway car, as the girls laughed at him and then forgot all about his existence, going back to Guillermo and who was going to “get it” harder that night.
Edwin transferred to the F train at 9th Street, walking the seemingly endless flight of stairs that led up to the train platform. He was happy that he was in such fitful shape. Edwin passed several people on their way up the steps, and simply assumed that many of them would die before they reached the top. One old man looked at Edwin and held out his hand, as if they were both fleeing refugees in an old war movie. Edwin didn’t know whether to help the old man, or to scold him for not keeping himself in decent enough shape to tackle this monster of a subway station. What was he? Seventy? Life Expectancy was now up to eighty-one, he thought. This old man had no excuse to reach out to a stranger for help. Shame on him! The older generation was getting to be just as bad as the younger one. No wonder young girls found it commonplace to discuss their sex lives on the subway, to burp into someone’s face, and then demand respect. Edwin shook his head. This certainly wasn’t the country our Founding Fathers had created.
He got off at the Carroll Street station. Edwin always got an eerie feeling getting off the F train at this stop, and he was glad that he and Pollard weren’t close anymore so that he didn’t have to make the trip too frequently or at all for that matter. Edwin had once lived in this neighborhood with Natalie. They lived in Carroll Gardens when it wasn’t trendy to do so. Edwin and Natalie had lived in a red-bricked railroad apartment on Luquer Street, and to really think back to those two years of hell should’ve been enough to send him running back to the F train. But Edwin was in a mood already, so he figured why not. As he walked to Pollard’s he thought about the cockroaches that used to scale the walls and cover the doors. Edwin remembered the sound of bass, from the upstairs neighbor, pounding down on him and Natalie as they tried to read or watch a movie. He thought about the super, a Mr. Isaac Cole, who was over three hundred pounds and smelled of cabbage and ass sweat. Edwin remembered the gang members on the street, this group of Hispanic kids that all dressed in red. Natalie called them the Flaming Red Dragons, so as to make them seem less scary. It worked sometimes, Edwin thought.
He thought about that last winter they’d spent in the apartment before fleeing to Bay Ridge, and a better peace of mind. Edwin remembered President’s Day weekend almost a decade ago. He remembered killing an unseasonably warm Sunday eating bagels and reading the Times, and making love in the bedroom barely big enough to hold the bed. Edwin remembered opening the first of two bottles of Muscadet, and telling Natalie how the grapes grew near the sea on the Loire Valley, which paired the wine really well with seafood. Natalie laughed and told Edwin too bad that he didn’t like seafood. He’d put on some Tom Waits, agreeing with her through smile. It was turning out to be the best day they’d ever spent in that apartment. There was nary a cockroach in sight. There was no bass raining down on them. Then the barking and squealing started.
It was deathly, Edwin thought, as he walked Court Street, passing their old bars and restaurants, a favorite pizza joint, reminding himself of the old times. It was enough of a racket that he and Natalie stopped their little game of paring wines up with cuisine. Edwin turned down the Tom Waits and looked out the window. He expected an injured child at best, the barking from an anxious and concerned dog. What he saw would stay with him for the rest of his existence, and would be the final tainted memory that ruined the apartment for good.
There was a German Sheppard, owned by this old codger, chained up across the street. The dog was a minor bother. It often barked but not enough to send Edwin and Natalie into a tizzy, as the Flaming Red Dragons playing dominoes and blasting rap music into the night were much worse. The German Sheppard was howling and crying because a Pit Bull had attached its jaws to the dog’s neck, and was pulling and tugging on the old beast. Blood was everywhere. The old codger was doing his best to beat away the Pit Bull but it was to no avail. The dog simply would not budge, its white coat pink colored from the blood pouring out of the German Sheppard. Neighbors were screaming. Street kids were crying. The Flaming Red Dragons came out of their den to see what the fuss was all about. The German Sheppard wailed and cried until it had nothing left. It fell limp and the Pit Bull tugged and pulled on the animal until it was no more. Then it simply let go of the Sheppard’s neck, and trotted off down Luquer Street as if it were nothing but another passing moment in his dog day.
Edwin and Natalie subletted that apartment to George Pollard, and were living in Bay Ridge by the middle of March. Pollard was moving back to Brooklyn after losing his librarian job in Philadelphia, and was intrigued by the idea of living on a gritty street where dogs were murdered by other dogs, and gang members played dominoes by the light of the moon. But that was George Pollard in a nutshell, Edwin thought, making the familiar right turn off of Court Street and down Luquer. Pollard was an overeducated wannabe thug. He grew up a wealthy suburban, New Jersey clam-head moron with an overactive imagination brought on by too many gangster rap albums from the early 1990s. He was a white home boy with a master’s degree and a cushy city job to boot.
Still, Edwin had to give Pollard credit for sticking it out in this neighborhood, putting up with Pit Bulls and gang members until fleets of posh hipsters came to the rescue and gentrified the living hell out of the street, out of the whole of Carroll Gardens. Now Luquer Street was brand new condos and refurbished red-bricked buildings with price tags beyond human reach. Carroll Gardens was Thai restaurants, Tapas bars, and gourmet markets with enough aristocratic cheese to clog the arteries of a whole French fleet. It was wine bars and import beer emporiums for everyone in this little corner of the world. Edwin stood in front of George Pollard’s apartment building, his and Natalie’s old apartment building, the building where they’d conspired and made a cuckold out of him, and he listened to the noise coming from that familiar second floor apartment. He was drunkish and he wanted to leave. But Edwin recognized Lawson’s voice above the cacophony of human sound, and he felt somewhat at ease. It was a beacon of friendship in an otherwise cruel and foreign land. Plus he’d come all of this way, and really needed a scotch and water on the rocks.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Return
Edwin Balder sat in his sparsely decorated living room, flipping anxiously through his copy of McSweeny’s, and listening to the Chinese woman’s television as it sounded through the walls. Edwin wandered what she was watching that evening. It was probably one of those ubiquitous cop dramas that took place in locales such as Los Angeles or Miami. He listened in closer but could not make out the show to save his life. Whatever, Edwin thought. He didn’t watch television except for professional soccer at the English Pub on 3rd Avenue, or the occasional episode of Mad Men that he rented from the local library. That said, the Chinese woman’s television was annoying. That constant buzz could drive a man nuts. Edwin once tried being neighborly, going over to the woman’s door, and asking her to turn down the sound on the television, but she began waving her arms and squawking at him so loudly in Chinese that Edwin had no choice but to flee back into his apartment before one of the neighbors accused him of assault. He’d established his own détente with the sound since then.
Edwin looked around the apartment. There were four bookshelves full of classic novels that he’d never read, travel books for places that he’d never gone to, and art books full of the work of artists whom he’d never cared about. The only books shelf that he used was the one holding all of his current literary greats. It was filled with the likes of Michael, Jonathan, Jhumpa, David, Jonathan, Zatie, Jonathan, and Jonathan. There was one green couch in the apartment and this sort of hammock chair that Edwin had picked up during one of his runs to Ikea. He had a coffee table, a lamp, and the radio across the room, resting on an old telephone stand, was set on the classical station. The walls were asylum white. Edwin had always meant to paint them some kind of outrageous color, but he reasoned that living in New York City was sort of like living in an insane asylum, so why not keep the walls white. He had one photo hanging on the wall.
Edwin sat there looking at his apartment, holding his copy of McSweeny’s as the Chinese woman’s television bellowed through the walls, thinking that he really should fix the place up. He tossed the magazine on the coffee table and rose. Edwin grabbed his glass of scotch and took a macho slug from it, finishing it off. He felt like Marlon Brando. Brando would slug scotch like that, he thought. Or else he’d eat a dozen cheeseburgers. Edwin looked around his place with his hands on his hips, determined to create a new look. Joy rested deep inside of him. It was silly to think something like that, that joy rested deep. But that was how Edwin Balder felt in that moment. A deep joy. Who needed Molly Brown? Although he hoped that she was all right. Who needed Lawson, ugly Mary, and that ridiculous birthday party for that backstabbing failure, George Pollard Jr.? Edwin sure as hell didn’t. All he needed was the classical music, the Chinese woman’s television coming through the walls, and some interior design initiative. He also needed another scotch.
It was when Edwin was in the kitchen, humming a Gershwin tune and cracking a few ice cubes for his next drink that he heard a car pull up. Immediately he put the ice cube tray down and ran over to the window in his kitchen. Edwin pulled back the dirty, white blinds to see the long, black car parked in front of his apartment building. Molly had returned! Edwin shouted aloud. I wonder if the police know, he thought. I should contact them as soon as possible. Edwin shut the blinds so as to not seem such a nosy neighbor, but he could not contain his happiness. He smiled and squealed and did a triumphant dance all over the apartment. Edwin mimicked Ivan’s chicken dance from that night at the bar.
It felt good to really feel joy. It felt so good. It was better than the false joy that he got from momentarily trying to enhance his station in life by remodeling. Let suburban housewives remodel, Edwin thought, having his new scotch straight from the shot glass. One didn’t need to remodel when one was youngish and in love, okay infatuated, okay curious in a way that could possibly be infatuation or maybe just intense interest. Was it really infatuation or was it like? But like was a strong word. Of course Edwin has just used love, so like was kind of a step down from that. Were his feeling fading already? What in the hell did Molly look like again? Edwin shook his thoughts off. One didn’t need to remodel or think or give themselves a cheap, dime store analysis when one lived in the same city as Molly Brown.
Edwin Balder heard the lock click in the hallway and then the echoing of voices, and the sound of bags being dragged through the hallway. He wanted to burst right out of his apartment but thought that might seem pushy. It had to be casual. But how casual could one be. Edwin checked himself in the foyer mirror. Tight plaid shirt? Check. Trendy tight jeans? Check. Glasses on straight? Check. Trendy, wavy gray hair? Definitely Check. Grayish stubble from his four day old beard experiment? Check…ish. Edwin was mostly satisfied with himself. I look like one of the literary Jonathans, he thought, before patting himself down and opening his apartment door.
“Oh…hi,” Molly said when Edwin poked his head out of the door. She seemed semi-happy and surprised to see him, he thought. But who in the hell was that with her?
“Hello,” Edwin said. “I was just getting the mail. I see that you’re home. Not quite eleven days, but home nonetheless.”
Molly gave Edwin an odd look. “Oh, eleven days. Yeah, I stayed one day extra. Traded in my plane ticket for someone on standby, and got a good deal on a flight the next day.”
“A rarity in these troubled times.”
“Yeah. It was cool. I was able to spend more time with my family,” Molly said. She looked away from Edwin toward the turn in the hallway that lead to the stairway and elevator that constantly broke. “I see your face has healed.”
“Yes,” Edwin said. And then he remembered the mugging. “Oh, YES! Us Balders heal very well.”
“Edwin was mugged the night I left,” Molly said to the young man standing next to her. Edwin looked at him. He was thin, almost concave, and had long, greasy hair. You could tell that it was dyed black. He wore a t-shirt from some ancient band that never had a prime, and looked as though he had pimples on his face.
“And who is this, Molly?” Edwin asked.
“Um,” Molly began. She looked at the boy next to her and then back at Edwin, not making eye contact. “Matt.”
“The boyfriend!” Edwin shouted with false happiness. He shook Matthew’s hand. “Good to meet you, Matthew.”
“It’s Matt,” Matt said. Edwin withdrew his hand, as if recoiling from some gross terror, for he hated name truncation, unless one of his literary heroes chose to bestow a truncation upon himself. Also, Matthe…Matt’s hand was cold and clammy. “Matt Joy.”
“Ah,” Edwin said, thinking he’d never use to word joy to describe his emotions ever again. He looked the youngling over. Matt Joy was sullen looking, and seemed to have no emotion other than boredom. He was the antithesis of joy. He was walking irony. “And are you a student as well?”
“Matt’s in a band,” Molly said, as Mr. Joy (personified) put his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground.
“Of course,” Edwin said.
He felt his face reddening. Suddenly all of the feelings that he had for Molly Brown began to shrink. She dates a boy in a band, he said to himself. The kid probably skateboards as well. And he had expected so much more from Molly. She was a college student, after all; a soul engaged in higher education. But then Edwin remembered that she was a business major, which explained the skateboarding boy in a band. Plus Molly didn’t look like Babs Streisand. Babs was much more attractive, even at damn near seventy years old. Let’s see Molly Brown look hot at seventy. Let’s see her get out there and sing Somwhere nearly a dozen times a year at that age. It was official, Edwin thought, standing there silently, making Molly and Mathe…Matt more uncomfortable with each passing second. He disliked Molly Brown for sure. He hated Matt Joy for certain, obvious reasons. And he would masturbate to Barbra Streisand effective immediately.
“Well,” Molly said. “I’m kinda tired.”
“Sure,” Edwin said. “Well, goodnight.”
Molly squinted. “Weren’t you going to get the mail?”
“Ah, I forgot how perceptive you college kids were.” Edwin stepped out into the hallway, letting his whole trendy ensemble decorate the first floor of the apartment. He looked to see if Molly was impressed. It was his last attempt. She wasn’t. “Guess I’ll get the mail.”
He walked ahead of Molly and Matt JoyLESS, sure that she was checking out his behind in those tight jeans. Edwin made a show of it. He went around the corner and down the three steps to where the mail slots were. Of course he didn’t have his key, so he could not complete the rouse.
“Well, goodnight again,” Edwin called up to Molly and Matt as they began walking up the staircase.
“Goodnight, Edwin,” Molly said. She sounded tired and annoyed, whispered something to Matt that Edwin couldn’t make out.
“Nice meeting you, Matthew,” Edwin said.
“It’s Matt,” Matt said.
“Of course it is.”
Edwin waited until the pounding of their feet stopped (good Christ, that girl’s feet were like cement weights), and Molly and Joyless were safe inside her apartment, before returning to his. He got inside and just stood in the foyer, one hand resting on his kitchen table. Edwin felt nothing but hatred, humiliation, and sadness. He was devoid of joy, and would be for quite some time, or at least until the new issue of McSweeny’s arrived in the mail. What to do with the evening now? He looked around the apartment. To the right was the living room, holding the faint sound of the Chinese woman’s television. Also, Guitarzan had started plucking away on his guitar. When it rained it poured, Edwin thought. To the left was the bedroom, and the elephant footsteps of that harlot, Molly Brown, and her morose paramour. Edwin went straight ahead. He went into the kitchen and poured himself another scotch. The ice cubes were starting to melt, as he’d left them out, but that was okay. Imperfection suffocated the night. Edwin stood in his kitchen and drank.
He had to do something. He had to get out of this sweltering hell for the evening. But go where? Rooney’s? But it wasn’t even pizza night. Edwin only went to Rooney’s alone on pizza night. It was a treat to himself to have a few beers amongst those cloudy denizens and then head up to Vesuvio’s for a small pie. Pizza night was Edwin’s treat for putting up with Mr. Owen Chase, those like him, his neighbors, and for suffering the world at large. He’d originally concocted the idea of pizza night as a treat for buckling down and writing all week. Edwin had yet to start writing. And it wasn’t Wednesday night yet, so Rooney’s was out of the question.
Then Edwin remembered. He remembered Pollard’s Party. Sure, going there wouldn’t brighten Edwin’s mood any. In fact, it would probably add to his current malaise. But if one couldn’t spread…er…joy around, then spreading misery was the next best thing. Edwin smiled to himself. He felt like a super villain in one of his Marvel Comic books. Then he finished his scotch, looked at himself and the mirror again, and prepared for a night on the town with old friends.
Edwin looked around the apartment. There were four bookshelves full of classic novels that he’d never read, travel books for places that he’d never gone to, and art books full of the work of artists whom he’d never cared about. The only books shelf that he used was the one holding all of his current literary greats. It was filled with the likes of Michael, Jonathan, Jhumpa, David, Jonathan, Zatie, Jonathan, and Jonathan. There was one green couch in the apartment and this sort of hammock chair that Edwin had picked up during one of his runs to Ikea. He had a coffee table, a lamp, and the radio across the room, resting on an old telephone stand, was set on the classical station. The walls were asylum white. Edwin had always meant to paint them some kind of outrageous color, but he reasoned that living in New York City was sort of like living in an insane asylum, so why not keep the walls white. He had one photo hanging on the wall.
Edwin sat there looking at his apartment, holding his copy of McSweeny’s as the Chinese woman’s television bellowed through the walls, thinking that he really should fix the place up. He tossed the magazine on the coffee table and rose. Edwin grabbed his glass of scotch and took a macho slug from it, finishing it off. He felt like Marlon Brando. Brando would slug scotch like that, he thought. Or else he’d eat a dozen cheeseburgers. Edwin looked around his place with his hands on his hips, determined to create a new look. Joy rested deep inside of him. It was silly to think something like that, that joy rested deep. But that was how Edwin Balder felt in that moment. A deep joy. Who needed Molly Brown? Although he hoped that she was all right. Who needed Lawson, ugly Mary, and that ridiculous birthday party for that backstabbing failure, George Pollard Jr.? Edwin sure as hell didn’t. All he needed was the classical music, the Chinese woman’s television coming through the walls, and some interior design initiative. He also needed another scotch.
It was when Edwin was in the kitchen, humming a Gershwin tune and cracking a few ice cubes for his next drink that he heard a car pull up. Immediately he put the ice cube tray down and ran over to the window in his kitchen. Edwin pulled back the dirty, white blinds to see the long, black car parked in front of his apartment building. Molly had returned! Edwin shouted aloud. I wonder if the police know, he thought. I should contact them as soon as possible. Edwin shut the blinds so as to not seem such a nosy neighbor, but he could not contain his happiness. He smiled and squealed and did a triumphant dance all over the apartment. Edwin mimicked Ivan’s chicken dance from that night at the bar.
It felt good to really feel joy. It felt so good. It was better than the false joy that he got from momentarily trying to enhance his station in life by remodeling. Let suburban housewives remodel, Edwin thought, having his new scotch straight from the shot glass. One didn’t need to remodel when one was youngish and in love, okay infatuated, okay curious in a way that could possibly be infatuation or maybe just intense interest. Was it really infatuation or was it like? But like was a strong word. Of course Edwin has just used love, so like was kind of a step down from that. Were his feeling fading already? What in the hell did Molly look like again? Edwin shook his thoughts off. One didn’t need to remodel or think or give themselves a cheap, dime store analysis when one lived in the same city as Molly Brown.
Edwin Balder heard the lock click in the hallway and then the echoing of voices, and the sound of bags being dragged through the hallway. He wanted to burst right out of his apartment but thought that might seem pushy. It had to be casual. But how casual could one be. Edwin checked himself in the foyer mirror. Tight plaid shirt? Check. Trendy tight jeans? Check. Glasses on straight? Check. Trendy, wavy gray hair? Definitely Check. Grayish stubble from his four day old beard experiment? Check…ish. Edwin was mostly satisfied with himself. I look like one of the literary Jonathans, he thought, before patting himself down and opening his apartment door.
“Oh…hi,” Molly said when Edwin poked his head out of the door. She seemed semi-happy and surprised to see him, he thought. But who in the hell was that with her?
“Hello,” Edwin said. “I was just getting the mail. I see that you’re home. Not quite eleven days, but home nonetheless.”
Molly gave Edwin an odd look. “Oh, eleven days. Yeah, I stayed one day extra. Traded in my plane ticket for someone on standby, and got a good deal on a flight the next day.”
“A rarity in these troubled times.”
“Yeah. It was cool. I was able to spend more time with my family,” Molly said. She looked away from Edwin toward the turn in the hallway that lead to the stairway and elevator that constantly broke. “I see your face has healed.”
“Yes,” Edwin said. And then he remembered the mugging. “Oh, YES! Us Balders heal very well.”
“Edwin was mugged the night I left,” Molly said to the young man standing next to her. Edwin looked at him. He was thin, almost concave, and had long, greasy hair. You could tell that it was dyed black. He wore a t-shirt from some ancient band that never had a prime, and looked as though he had pimples on his face.
“And who is this, Molly?” Edwin asked.
“Um,” Molly began. She looked at the boy next to her and then back at Edwin, not making eye contact. “Matt.”
“The boyfriend!” Edwin shouted with false happiness. He shook Matthew’s hand. “Good to meet you, Matthew.”
“It’s Matt,” Matt said. Edwin withdrew his hand, as if recoiling from some gross terror, for he hated name truncation, unless one of his literary heroes chose to bestow a truncation upon himself. Also, Matthe…Matt’s hand was cold and clammy. “Matt Joy.”
“Ah,” Edwin said, thinking he’d never use to word joy to describe his emotions ever again. He looked the youngling over. Matt Joy was sullen looking, and seemed to have no emotion other than boredom. He was the antithesis of joy. He was walking irony. “And are you a student as well?”
“Matt’s in a band,” Molly said, as Mr. Joy (personified) put his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground.
“Of course,” Edwin said.
He felt his face reddening. Suddenly all of the feelings that he had for Molly Brown began to shrink. She dates a boy in a band, he said to himself. The kid probably skateboards as well. And he had expected so much more from Molly. She was a college student, after all; a soul engaged in higher education. But then Edwin remembered that she was a business major, which explained the skateboarding boy in a band. Plus Molly didn’t look like Babs Streisand. Babs was much more attractive, even at damn near seventy years old. Let’s see Molly Brown look hot at seventy. Let’s see her get out there and sing Somwhere nearly a dozen times a year at that age. It was official, Edwin thought, standing there silently, making Molly and Mathe…Matt more uncomfortable with each passing second. He disliked Molly Brown for sure. He hated Matt Joy for certain, obvious reasons. And he would masturbate to Barbra Streisand effective immediately.
“Well,” Molly said. “I’m kinda tired.”
“Sure,” Edwin said. “Well, goodnight.”
Molly squinted. “Weren’t you going to get the mail?”
“Ah, I forgot how perceptive you college kids were.” Edwin stepped out into the hallway, letting his whole trendy ensemble decorate the first floor of the apartment. He looked to see if Molly was impressed. It was his last attempt. She wasn’t. “Guess I’ll get the mail.”
He walked ahead of Molly and Matt JoyLESS, sure that she was checking out his behind in those tight jeans. Edwin made a show of it. He went around the corner and down the three steps to where the mail slots were. Of course he didn’t have his key, so he could not complete the rouse.
“Well, goodnight again,” Edwin called up to Molly and Matt as they began walking up the staircase.
“Goodnight, Edwin,” Molly said. She sounded tired and annoyed, whispered something to Matt that Edwin couldn’t make out.
“Nice meeting you, Matthew,” Edwin said.
“It’s Matt,” Matt said.
“Of course it is.”
Edwin waited until the pounding of their feet stopped (good Christ, that girl’s feet were like cement weights), and Molly and Joyless were safe inside her apartment, before returning to his. He got inside and just stood in the foyer, one hand resting on his kitchen table. Edwin felt nothing but hatred, humiliation, and sadness. He was devoid of joy, and would be for quite some time, or at least until the new issue of McSweeny’s arrived in the mail. What to do with the evening now? He looked around the apartment. To the right was the living room, holding the faint sound of the Chinese woman’s television. Also, Guitarzan had started plucking away on his guitar. When it rained it poured, Edwin thought. To the left was the bedroom, and the elephant footsteps of that harlot, Molly Brown, and her morose paramour. Edwin went straight ahead. He went into the kitchen and poured himself another scotch. The ice cubes were starting to melt, as he’d left them out, but that was okay. Imperfection suffocated the night. Edwin stood in his kitchen and drank.
He had to do something. He had to get out of this sweltering hell for the evening. But go where? Rooney’s? But it wasn’t even pizza night. Edwin only went to Rooney’s alone on pizza night. It was a treat to himself to have a few beers amongst those cloudy denizens and then head up to Vesuvio’s for a small pie. Pizza night was Edwin’s treat for putting up with Mr. Owen Chase, those like him, his neighbors, and for suffering the world at large. He’d originally concocted the idea of pizza night as a treat for buckling down and writing all week. Edwin had yet to start writing. And it wasn’t Wednesday night yet, so Rooney’s was out of the question.
Then Edwin remembered. He remembered Pollard’s Party. Sure, going there wouldn’t brighten Edwin’s mood any. In fact, it would probably add to his current malaise. But if one couldn’t spread…er…joy around, then spreading misery was the next best thing. Edwin smiled to himself. He felt like a super villain in one of his Marvel Comic books. Then he finished his scotch, looked at himself and the mirror again, and prepared for a night on the town with old friends.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
12 Days Later
“Balder!”
Edwin Balder was sitting in his usual stall in the bathroom of the singular office outpost of the Insert Multinational Conglomerate Here Invoicing Company (not its real name), reading the latest edition of McSweeny’s, when he heard his boss, one Mr. Owen Chase, call to him with such a passion that his voice reverberated heavily against the bathroom walls. Edwin hadn’t heard Chase call for him since that day when the tile had fallen on Mary’s head, and all hell had broken loose. That was twelve days ago, Edwin thought, flipping through McSweeny’s and glancing at the latest article by Michael Chabon concerning his long, lost novel. That was the day that I met Molly Brown, Edwin thought, again, flipping the pages and waiting for Owen Chase’s next bellowing call. Had it really been twelve days since such a fateful meeting? Was the meeting even fateful? Molly had been due back in Brooklyn yesterday by Edwin’s best estimation, which was an exact actuality in terms of the passage of time. But she had not arrived home. Molly’s floor and Edwin’s ceiling had made no sound. And no planes had crashed from what Edwin Balder gathered from the ceaseless babbling on the nightly network news. Where was Molly? He thought, before Chase called to him again.
“Balder!”
Edwin sighed. He closed the issue of McSweeny’s and rose off of the cold toilet seat, his backside a tad bit numb from the time he’d spent in there. There’d be no rest for the weary, Edwin thought. Where could a man go and make a living where he didn’t actually have to go and make a living? Such a ponderous question for a Tuesday. Was it even Tuesday? Time had ceased to exist the moment Molly Brown got into that long, black car and drove off toward the Rust Belt and out of his life. It had ceased moving. The ebb and flow of life had come to a complete standstill for Edwin Balder. It took all of his energy to make the slightest bit of conversation, to “nuke” his evening meals, as the hooligans at Rooney’s Pub referred to the art of fine dining, or to even come to this job on a daily basis. What if Molly was not coming back? Edwin would not allow for such a silly thought to truly penetrate his mind.
“Who is that?” Mr. Owen Chase said, the minute Edwin appeared at his side, the copy of McSweeny’s discretely rolled up and shoved down the back of his tight and trendy pants. Edwin looked beyond Chase’s sweat stained armpits to the jovial black man sitting on the edge of Mary’s desk and talking very closely to her. “Balder?”
“Mandingo, Sir?” Edwin said.
“What?”
“The White Man’s Burden?”
Chase looked at Edwin. “Talk sense, son!”
“That’s Mary’s new man.”
“Really?”
“I’m as surprised as you,” Edwin said. “Seems our mousy little harlot has finished with the drunken masses of the club scene, and has moved on to bigger, darker meat.”
“I don’t like him sitting on the desk,” Chase said.
“Of course not, Sir. It’s bad for business.”
Again Chase looked at Edwin. Edwin removed his eyes from Mary’s desk, where his friend, Lawson Thomas, had been moving himself closer and closer to her by the second. “And what’s with all of this ‘Sir’ business, Balder?”
“Something that I’m trying out,” Edwin said.
“I can’t tell whether or not I like it,” Chase said.
“Neither can I. Shall I call security and have the Negro removed?”
“I don’t think you can say Negro these days, Balder. And if he’s a friend of Mary’s, I don’t want to cause too much of a problem. It could be construed as harassment if I went over there and asked that man to leave.”
“Not to mention the racial entanglement of you calling him a Negro,” Edwin said.
“I…” Chase started.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Edwin walked over to Mary and Lawson under the watchful glare of Owen Chase. The ceiling above Mary’s desk was still missing a tile, and there was nothing but a black void and the faint traces of piping and wire. Many a moment during these twelve days of longing and misery did Edwin look up into that void, fancying it an escape route from this hell, a pathway to salvation. Of course, when the rat fell out of the ceiling and stood frozen on Mary’s desk before scurrying off into the hinterlands of the corporate Gulag, as she screamed bloody murder and nearly collapsed on the floor in a panic, Edwin decided that this hole in the ceiling would not be a proper escape route after all.
“Tell your boss to quit looking at me,” Lawson said, after Edwin came over. They gave each other a masculine hug and then Edwin turned to Mr. Owen Chase and winked, before Chase stomped off to his office and slammed the door. “I’ve only been coming here to see you for years now.”
“I think he thinks you’re going to rob the place,” Edwin said.
“There’s nothing to take.”
“Pens,” Mary said. “We have pens.”
“Why are you here?” Edwin asked.
“I’m taking Mary to lunch,” Lawson said.
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
Edwin swallowed, trying to keep down his breakfast Hot Pocket. Off all the nothingness that had abounded in his life these last twelve days, the one harsh slap in the face of change had been the budding relationship between his best friend, Lawson Thomas, and his co-worker, Mary Baldacci. Who knew that a couple innocent comments to Mary about Lawson’s interest would lead to this? It would be the last time Edwin would ever again make small talk with someone while soliciting an aspirin to nurse his hangover. He was sure of it. But a couple of kind words and a phone call to Lawson had resulted in over a week of constant companionship for these two lovebirds. They were like high school children. Didn’t either of them realize that the key to dating in the twenty-first century was an ironic disposition and a cold calculated hand and dealing with the feelings of others? Hell, Edwin thought. Those two were like dimwits in some romantic comedy, so free with their gaudy feelings that it made him ill. Plus he was in the middle of it, fielding evening phone calls from Lawson, gushing about Mary, or listening to Mary talk Lawson talk all day at work, in between her bouts of staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next rodent to descend from the heavens. Edwin was sick off all of this love, and he has a good mind to tell them both off.
“Don’t you have a job?” Edwin asked suddenly.
“If you listened to anything that I said, you’d know that the kids have spring break this week,” Lawson said, taking ahold of Mary’s hand.
“And what does that have to do with you?”
“I’m a lit teacher.”
“Oh that business again,” Edwin said. “Well, maybe if you spent more time talking to me about something other than my co-worker, I’d retain a bit more information.”
Mary looked up at Lawson with her wide almond eyes. “You talk about me?”
Lawson blushed. “Well…”
“Incessantly,” Edwin said. “The man is like an idiot savant. In fact, I watched Rainman again last night and saw a distinct similarity between Raymond and Mr. Thomas here.”
“That’s so sweet,” Mary said.
“It’s disturbing,” Edwin said.
“Don’t be such a sour bear.”
Edwin turned to Lawson. “Did you hear that? You date someone who says phrases such as ‘sour bear’.”
“So?” Lawson said. “You’re being a sour bear.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“You don’t even read Shakespeare,” Lawson said.
“Maybe you should ask out that girl from your apartment building,” Mary said.
“Oh, now Ms. Sour Bear is giving advice on love,” Edwin said. “In case you didn’t know, and judging by that lovelorn, drooling gaze, you hadn’t, the girl from my apartment building has gone missing.”
“Missing?” Lawson said.
“Yes. She was due back yesterday and has yet to return.”
“I didn’t know that,” Mary said.
“Well, you should have,” Edwin said. “I was only on the phone with the police for thirty minutes this morning, trying to get them to do a missing person’s report on her.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Lawson said.
Edwin turned angrily to his old friend. “I have a heart and I care. Sue me.”
“Maybe she just stayed an extra day,” Mary offered.
“It’s always so simple with you, isn’t it? Ms. Sour Bear,” Edwin said.
“All the same we need to get you out of that apartment.”
“Do we?”
“Why don’t you come with us tonight?” Mary said.
Edwin stepped back from Mary’s desk, giving her a traumatized look. Then he looked at Lawson. “How dare she even suggest that! Have you no heart, Ms. Sour Bear!”
“I…I just thought it would be fun,” Mary said, looking nervously from Edwin to Lawson.
“Has your girlfriend no sense of history?” Edwin asked Lawson. “No sense of virtue? Of good versus evil?”
Lawson, who had his head buried in his hands, lifted and looked at Edwin. “It’s just a birthday party for Pollard. This isn’t some moral platform.”
“Not for you, it’s not,” Edwin said. “But for me, he and I might as well be Roman combatants.”
“You were invited,” Lawson said. “Despite your attitude.”
“I refuse,” Edwin said, storming back toward his desk. He sat down and immediately grabbed his vintage Hulk doll for security purposes. “Even if I had something to wear I wouldn’t go.”
“It’s his birthday,” Mary said. “Isn’t George your friend?”
“For your information, Ms. Sour Bear, Pollard and I are no longer friends.”
“Stop calling her Ms. Sour Bear,” Lawson said. “And you two are friends.”
“Well, I refuse to enter into his den of sin,” Edwin said.
“Nothing happened between George and Natalie.” Lawson stroked Mary’s hair and then hopped off the edge of her desk. This caused Mr. Owen Chase to rise from his chair and look out his glass window. Lawson waved to him and then walked over to Edwin’s desk. “Besides, it’s not even the same apartment.”
“It’s the idea that counts,” Edwin said. “The memory.”
“You’re memory is clouded,” Lawson said.
Edwin put his Hulk doll down. “All the same, I refuse. I’d rather sit in my apartment all night, listening to a police radio in case something comes over the wire about Molly.”
Lawson shrugged. “Suit yourself, man.” He turned to Mary. “You ready, Babe?”
“Babe,” Edwin mocked Lawson. “There’s irony for you.”
Lawson slammed his fist on Edwin’s desk, causing Mary to jump as she went for her coat. “Shut up, Edwin.”
Lawson walked over to Mary and put an arm around her. “I hope you change your mind,” Mary said to Edwin.
“I’m a stubborn man,” Edwin said. “Enjoy your lunch with the militant, Ms. Sour Bear.”
With that Lawson and Mary left the office, and Edwin sat at his desk. He felt something poking him in the backside. It was the copy of McSweeny’s. Edwin reached behind him and pulled it out. He stared at the cover. He read the names of all those important writers, and imagined that he was one of them. Edwin saw himself in Northern Brooklyn again. He saw the crowds flocking into his reading. He saw himself and Molly at some pretentious restaurant, laughing over expensive food that no one really wanted to eat, drinking wine that was probably dyed horse piss, and generally having a good time. If only Edwin remembered exactly what Molly looked like. For now he’d just picture Barbra Streisand.
“Balder!” Chase shouted, coming out of his office. “Is the coast clear?”
“I don’t know,” Edwin said. “That man was dangerous. You saw him man handled me, right? Then he stood there speaking in the basest form of Ebonics that I’ve ever heard, before slamming his meaty fist on my desk!”
“Where’s Mary?” Chase asked.
“He took her.”
“Oh my God! Should we be informing someone?”
Edwin nodded down toward his phone. “I’ve got the FBI on hold right now, Sir.”
Edwin Balder was sitting in his usual stall in the bathroom of the singular office outpost of the Insert Multinational Conglomerate Here Invoicing Company (not its real name), reading the latest edition of McSweeny’s, when he heard his boss, one Mr. Owen Chase, call to him with such a passion that his voice reverberated heavily against the bathroom walls. Edwin hadn’t heard Chase call for him since that day when the tile had fallen on Mary’s head, and all hell had broken loose. That was twelve days ago, Edwin thought, flipping through McSweeny’s and glancing at the latest article by Michael Chabon concerning his long, lost novel. That was the day that I met Molly Brown, Edwin thought, again, flipping the pages and waiting for Owen Chase’s next bellowing call. Had it really been twelve days since such a fateful meeting? Was the meeting even fateful? Molly had been due back in Brooklyn yesterday by Edwin’s best estimation, which was an exact actuality in terms of the passage of time. But she had not arrived home. Molly’s floor and Edwin’s ceiling had made no sound. And no planes had crashed from what Edwin Balder gathered from the ceaseless babbling on the nightly network news. Where was Molly? He thought, before Chase called to him again.
“Balder!”
Edwin sighed. He closed the issue of McSweeny’s and rose off of the cold toilet seat, his backside a tad bit numb from the time he’d spent in there. There’d be no rest for the weary, Edwin thought. Where could a man go and make a living where he didn’t actually have to go and make a living? Such a ponderous question for a Tuesday. Was it even Tuesday? Time had ceased to exist the moment Molly Brown got into that long, black car and drove off toward the Rust Belt and out of his life. It had ceased moving. The ebb and flow of life had come to a complete standstill for Edwin Balder. It took all of his energy to make the slightest bit of conversation, to “nuke” his evening meals, as the hooligans at Rooney’s Pub referred to the art of fine dining, or to even come to this job on a daily basis. What if Molly was not coming back? Edwin would not allow for such a silly thought to truly penetrate his mind.
“Who is that?” Mr. Owen Chase said, the minute Edwin appeared at his side, the copy of McSweeny’s discretely rolled up and shoved down the back of his tight and trendy pants. Edwin looked beyond Chase’s sweat stained armpits to the jovial black man sitting on the edge of Mary’s desk and talking very closely to her. “Balder?”
“Mandingo, Sir?” Edwin said.
“What?”
“The White Man’s Burden?”
Chase looked at Edwin. “Talk sense, son!”
“That’s Mary’s new man.”
“Really?”
“I’m as surprised as you,” Edwin said. “Seems our mousy little harlot has finished with the drunken masses of the club scene, and has moved on to bigger, darker meat.”
“I don’t like him sitting on the desk,” Chase said.
“Of course not, Sir. It’s bad for business.”
Again Chase looked at Edwin. Edwin removed his eyes from Mary’s desk, where his friend, Lawson Thomas, had been moving himself closer and closer to her by the second. “And what’s with all of this ‘Sir’ business, Balder?”
“Something that I’m trying out,” Edwin said.
“I can’t tell whether or not I like it,” Chase said.
“Neither can I. Shall I call security and have the Negro removed?”
“I don’t think you can say Negro these days, Balder. And if he’s a friend of Mary’s, I don’t want to cause too much of a problem. It could be construed as harassment if I went over there and asked that man to leave.”
“Not to mention the racial entanglement of you calling him a Negro,” Edwin said.
“I…” Chase started.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Edwin walked over to Mary and Lawson under the watchful glare of Owen Chase. The ceiling above Mary’s desk was still missing a tile, and there was nothing but a black void and the faint traces of piping and wire. Many a moment during these twelve days of longing and misery did Edwin look up into that void, fancying it an escape route from this hell, a pathway to salvation. Of course, when the rat fell out of the ceiling and stood frozen on Mary’s desk before scurrying off into the hinterlands of the corporate Gulag, as she screamed bloody murder and nearly collapsed on the floor in a panic, Edwin decided that this hole in the ceiling would not be a proper escape route after all.
“Tell your boss to quit looking at me,” Lawson said, after Edwin came over. They gave each other a masculine hug and then Edwin turned to Mr. Owen Chase and winked, before Chase stomped off to his office and slammed the door. “I’ve only been coming here to see you for years now.”
“I think he thinks you’re going to rob the place,” Edwin said.
“There’s nothing to take.”
“Pens,” Mary said. “We have pens.”
“Why are you here?” Edwin asked.
“I’m taking Mary to lunch,” Lawson said.
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
Edwin swallowed, trying to keep down his breakfast Hot Pocket. Off all the nothingness that had abounded in his life these last twelve days, the one harsh slap in the face of change had been the budding relationship between his best friend, Lawson Thomas, and his co-worker, Mary Baldacci. Who knew that a couple innocent comments to Mary about Lawson’s interest would lead to this? It would be the last time Edwin would ever again make small talk with someone while soliciting an aspirin to nurse his hangover. He was sure of it. But a couple of kind words and a phone call to Lawson had resulted in over a week of constant companionship for these two lovebirds. They were like high school children. Didn’t either of them realize that the key to dating in the twenty-first century was an ironic disposition and a cold calculated hand and dealing with the feelings of others? Hell, Edwin thought. Those two were like dimwits in some romantic comedy, so free with their gaudy feelings that it made him ill. Plus he was in the middle of it, fielding evening phone calls from Lawson, gushing about Mary, or listening to Mary talk Lawson talk all day at work, in between her bouts of staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next rodent to descend from the heavens. Edwin was sick off all of this love, and he has a good mind to tell them both off.
“Don’t you have a job?” Edwin asked suddenly.
“If you listened to anything that I said, you’d know that the kids have spring break this week,” Lawson said, taking ahold of Mary’s hand.
“And what does that have to do with you?”
“I’m a lit teacher.”
“Oh that business again,” Edwin said. “Well, maybe if you spent more time talking to me about something other than my co-worker, I’d retain a bit more information.”
Mary looked up at Lawson with her wide almond eyes. “You talk about me?”
Lawson blushed. “Well…”
“Incessantly,” Edwin said. “The man is like an idiot savant. In fact, I watched Rainman again last night and saw a distinct similarity between Raymond and Mr. Thomas here.”
“That’s so sweet,” Mary said.
“It’s disturbing,” Edwin said.
“Don’t be such a sour bear.”
Edwin turned to Lawson. “Did you hear that? You date someone who says phrases such as ‘sour bear’.”
“So?” Lawson said. “You’re being a sour bear.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“You don’t even read Shakespeare,” Lawson said.
“Maybe you should ask out that girl from your apartment building,” Mary said.
“Oh, now Ms. Sour Bear is giving advice on love,” Edwin said. “In case you didn’t know, and judging by that lovelorn, drooling gaze, you hadn’t, the girl from my apartment building has gone missing.”
“Missing?” Lawson said.
“Yes. She was due back yesterday and has yet to return.”
“I didn’t know that,” Mary said.
“Well, you should have,” Edwin said. “I was only on the phone with the police for thirty minutes this morning, trying to get them to do a missing person’s report on her.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Lawson said.
Edwin turned angrily to his old friend. “I have a heart and I care. Sue me.”
“Maybe she just stayed an extra day,” Mary offered.
“It’s always so simple with you, isn’t it? Ms. Sour Bear,” Edwin said.
“All the same we need to get you out of that apartment.”
“Do we?”
“Why don’t you come with us tonight?” Mary said.
Edwin stepped back from Mary’s desk, giving her a traumatized look. Then he looked at Lawson. “How dare she even suggest that! Have you no heart, Ms. Sour Bear!”
“I…I just thought it would be fun,” Mary said, looking nervously from Edwin to Lawson.
“Has your girlfriend no sense of history?” Edwin asked Lawson. “No sense of virtue? Of good versus evil?”
Lawson, who had his head buried in his hands, lifted and looked at Edwin. “It’s just a birthday party for Pollard. This isn’t some moral platform.”
“Not for you, it’s not,” Edwin said. “But for me, he and I might as well be Roman combatants.”
“You were invited,” Lawson said. “Despite your attitude.”
“I refuse,” Edwin said, storming back toward his desk. He sat down and immediately grabbed his vintage Hulk doll for security purposes. “Even if I had something to wear I wouldn’t go.”
“It’s his birthday,” Mary said. “Isn’t George your friend?”
“For your information, Ms. Sour Bear, Pollard and I are no longer friends.”
“Stop calling her Ms. Sour Bear,” Lawson said. “And you two are friends.”
“Well, I refuse to enter into his den of sin,” Edwin said.
“Nothing happened between George and Natalie.” Lawson stroked Mary’s hair and then hopped off the edge of her desk. This caused Mr. Owen Chase to rise from his chair and look out his glass window. Lawson waved to him and then walked over to Edwin’s desk. “Besides, it’s not even the same apartment.”
“It’s the idea that counts,” Edwin said. “The memory.”
“You’re memory is clouded,” Lawson said.
Edwin put his Hulk doll down. “All the same, I refuse. I’d rather sit in my apartment all night, listening to a police radio in case something comes over the wire about Molly.”
Lawson shrugged. “Suit yourself, man.” He turned to Mary. “You ready, Babe?”
“Babe,” Edwin mocked Lawson. “There’s irony for you.”
Lawson slammed his fist on Edwin’s desk, causing Mary to jump as she went for her coat. “Shut up, Edwin.”
Lawson walked over to Mary and put an arm around her. “I hope you change your mind,” Mary said to Edwin.
“I’m a stubborn man,” Edwin said. “Enjoy your lunch with the militant, Ms. Sour Bear.”
With that Lawson and Mary left the office, and Edwin sat at his desk. He felt something poking him in the backside. It was the copy of McSweeny’s. Edwin reached behind him and pulled it out. He stared at the cover. He read the names of all those important writers, and imagined that he was one of them. Edwin saw himself in Northern Brooklyn again. He saw the crowds flocking into his reading. He saw himself and Molly at some pretentious restaurant, laughing over expensive food that no one really wanted to eat, drinking wine that was probably dyed horse piss, and generally having a good time. If only Edwin remembered exactly what Molly looked like. For now he’d just picture Barbra Streisand.
“Balder!” Chase shouted, coming out of his office. “Is the coast clear?”
“I don’t know,” Edwin said. “That man was dangerous. You saw him man handled me, right? Then he stood there speaking in the basest form of Ebonics that I’ve ever heard, before slamming his meaty fist on my desk!”
“Where’s Mary?” Chase asked.
“He took her.”
“Oh my God! Should we be informing someone?”
Edwin nodded down toward his phone. “I’ve got the FBI on hold right now, Sir.”
Friday, March 18, 2011
Good Night
Edwin Balder stumbled back to his apartment building, the wind from the estuary blowing in his face the whole time. Edwin hated the wind. It burned the sore spots on his face where the mugger had punched and slapped him. His stomach hurt too. What once had been pangs of hunger had turned into good old pain. Edwin had, by his own estimation, had enough of the day. But the day had just begun, he reasoned. Fine. Then he’d had enough of the previous day, and certainly wasn’t getting on very well with the new one. Edwin stopped in front of his building and looked up into the night sky. The single star was gone. Fucking helicopter, he thought. Then he took out his key and walked into the foyer, which smelled of cigarette smoke. Fucking Superintendent Isaiah Sheppard.
“Oh my God, Edwin are you all right,” Molly Brown said. Edwin looked up and there she sat on a pink marble bench. Molly had a long black coat on and her hair was pulled back. He looked at her long nose. She looked nothing like Barbra Streisand, Edwin thought. Not that Babs was a bad looking lady at damn near seventy. Edwin Balder could admit freely to himself a small amount of jealousy toward one James Brolin.
“I’m fine,” Edwin said. Still, Molly got up from the bench and took ahold of Edwin’s arm. His first reaction was to pull back; too many immediate memories of Ivan and the mugger. But when he realized that it was only the unsinkable Molly Brown, Edwin loosened his body and let her help him up to the pink bench.
“Who did this to you?”
“Oswald Spengler.”
“Huh?”
“I was mugged,” Edwin said.
“Where?”
“Up the street.”
Molly sat next to Edwin. She pulled her coat tighter, as if it were a blanket. “Really? I thought that this neighborhood was safe.”
“It isn’t,” Edwin said. “Nowhere is safe in Idiot America.”
“Jesus.”
Edwin turned to Molly. “I don’t mean to scare you. It was nothing. It was random. My glasses didn’t even fall off.”
“What did he take?” Molly said.
“Seven dollars. And then he berated me for not having a cellular phone.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Edwin shrugged. “I couldn’t even tell you at this point. Stubbornness? A general distaste for the current zeitgeist?”
“Have you seen what some of those phones can do?” Molly said.
“Oh cruel night!” Edwin shouted into the near empty hallway. He turned away from Molly Brown, bent over, and put his head in his hands.
“Edwin, can I get you anything?” He felt Molly put a hand on his back. “Like water or a drink?”
Edwin lifted his head, his mood instantly brightened. Molly removed her hand from his back. “Do you want to come inside and listen to Gershwin? I think I still have some scotch left.”
Molly smiled a sad smile. “I can’t. I’m leaving.”
“For good?”
“No, silly. I just moved here. I’m going away to visit my family.”
“Where do they live?” Edwin asked.
“Rochester,” Molly said.
“My God! Why would anyone willingly travel there? It’s damned good that you got away from that place. Don’t go back, Molly. They’ll suck you in with all of their folksy Rust Belt voodoo and then you won’t know Knut Hamsun from D.H. Lawrence.”
“I don’t know them now.” Molly smiled at Edwin. “Rochester is nice. It’s home. Don’t you miss home, Edwin?”
“Maybe,” Edwin said. “When a Jefferson Airplane songs comes on the jukebox, or I catch Easy Rider on the television.”
“So you understand what I mean.”
“I understand most everything to a degree,” Edwin said. “How long will you be gone?”
“Eleven days,” Molly said.
“Eleven days? Is there some kind of mathematical code in the arbitrary set of days that you’ve chosen?”
Molly laughed. “You crack me up.”
“I’m serious. I love mathematical codes. I’ve watched Good Will Hunting more times that I can count.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“How could you not?” Edwin said. “Ben Affleck. Matt Damon. Surely you had some sort of crush on them.”
“They’re old,” Molly said.
“They’re in my relative age group. They’re not old.”
“Well, how old are you, Edwin?”’
“I refuse to say now,” Edwin said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” Molly said.
“My God!” Edwin shouted for the second time in the near empty hallway. “You’re a child.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Theoretically.”
“I can drink,” Molly said.
“You can’t even rent a car.”
“So. That’s why I call for cars.”
“I thought you were at least twenty-two. Twenty-three tops.”
“As if that would make a difference,” Molly said. She put her hand on Edwin’s. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight,” Edwin said, sadly.
“You don’t look thirty-eight.”
“I have gray hair.”
“True,” Molly said. “But it’s wavy and kind of trendy.”
“That’s exactly the look I was going for!”
“Well, you’ve achieved it.”
They were silent a moment. “What about school?” Edwin asked. “Won’t you miss school while you’re in Rochester?”
“Just a couple of classes,” Molly said. “I’ve already spoken to the professors, and I have work that I’ll be doing up there.”
“What do you study?”
“Business.”
“Ah, preparing to take Wall Street by storm, are you?” Edwin said.
“Something like that.” Molly looked at Edwin. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“What? These bruises? It takes more than some technocrat with a knife to wound Edwin Balder.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What about the boyfriend, Molly. Won’t you miss him?”
“Matthew? I…we need some time away from each other.”
“I thought that was the reason for the apartment.”
“I mean geographically away from each other,” Molly said.
Just then a car pulled up in front of the building. It was long and black, not a limo, but not far from it. The driver didn’t honk, just idled there.
“That’s for me,” Molly said.
“Very fancy,” Edwin said.
“Yeah.” Molly stood up and grabbed her bag. It had been resting to the left of her, and Edwin had not noticed it until that moment.
He stood. “Well, I guess this is goodbye then.”
“For eleven days,” Molly said.
“Eleven. Fascinating!”
She leaned in and gave him a quick hug. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone, Edwin Balder.”
“I will,” Edwin said.
Molly grabbed her bag and walked toward the first set of glass doors. Edwin, though sore, ran ahead and opened it for her. He watched as Molly walked down the steps and out the second set of glass doors. She turned to Edwin and waved, and then turned back and walked over to the long, black car. A faceless driver was there to greet her. He was a shroud as well, Edwin thought, as he continued to stand there. Perhaps Molly would turn back and wave a second time. But she did not. The driver opened up the backdoor on the passenger side, and Molly Brown got in. Then the driver got in and they drove away, leaving Edwin Balder in the brightly lit foyer, the one still smelling a bit like cigarette smoke.
Blood Drips will be on a break until monday march 28th....aproximately 11 days from now.
“Oh my God, Edwin are you all right,” Molly Brown said. Edwin looked up and there she sat on a pink marble bench. Molly had a long black coat on and her hair was pulled back. He looked at her long nose. She looked nothing like Barbra Streisand, Edwin thought. Not that Babs was a bad looking lady at damn near seventy. Edwin Balder could admit freely to himself a small amount of jealousy toward one James Brolin.
“I’m fine,” Edwin said. Still, Molly got up from the bench and took ahold of Edwin’s arm. His first reaction was to pull back; too many immediate memories of Ivan and the mugger. But when he realized that it was only the unsinkable Molly Brown, Edwin loosened his body and let her help him up to the pink bench.
“Who did this to you?”
“Oswald Spengler.”
“Huh?”
“I was mugged,” Edwin said.
“Where?”
“Up the street.”
Molly sat next to Edwin. She pulled her coat tighter, as if it were a blanket. “Really? I thought that this neighborhood was safe.”
“It isn’t,” Edwin said. “Nowhere is safe in Idiot America.”
“Jesus.”
Edwin turned to Molly. “I don’t mean to scare you. It was nothing. It was random. My glasses didn’t even fall off.”
“What did he take?” Molly said.
“Seven dollars. And then he berated me for not having a cellular phone.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Edwin shrugged. “I couldn’t even tell you at this point. Stubbornness? A general distaste for the current zeitgeist?”
“Have you seen what some of those phones can do?” Molly said.
“Oh cruel night!” Edwin shouted into the near empty hallway. He turned away from Molly Brown, bent over, and put his head in his hands.
“Edwin, can I get you anything?” He felt Molly put a hand on his back. “Like water or a drink?”
Edwin lifted his head, his mood instantly brightened. Molly removed her hand from his back. “Do you want to come inside and listen to Gershwin? I think I still have some scotch left.”
Molly smiled a sad smile. “I can’t. I’m leaving.”
“For good?”
“No, silly. I just moved here. I’m going away to visit my family.”
“Where do they live?” Edwin asked.
“Rochester,” Molly said.
“My God! Why would anyone willingly travel there? It’s damned good that you got away from that place. Don’t go back, Molly. They’ll suck you in with all of their folksy Rust Belt voodoo and then you won’t know Knut Hamsun from D.H. Lawrence.”
“I don’t know them now.” Molly smiled at Edwin. “Rochester is nice. It’s home. Don’t you miss home, Edwin?”
“Maybe,” Edwin said. “When a Jefferson Airplane songs comes on the jukebox, or I catch Easy Rider on the television.”
“So you understand what I mean.”
“I understand most everything to a degree,” Edwin said. “How long will you be gone?”
“Eleven days,” Molly said.
“Eleven days? Is there some kind of mathematical code in the arbitrary set of days that you’ve chosen?”
Molly laughed. “You crack me up.”
“I’m serious. I love mathematical codes. I’ve watched Good Will Hunting more times that I can count.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“How could you not?” Edwin said. “Ben Affleck. Matt Damon. Surely you had some sort of crush on them.”
“They’re old,” Molly said.
“They’re in my relative age group. They’re not old.”
“Well, how old are you, Edwin?”’
“I refuse to say now,” Edwin said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” Molly said.
“My God!” Edwin shouted for the second time in the near empty hallway. “You’re a child.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Theoretically.”
“I can drink,” Molly said.
“You can’t even rent a car.”
“So. That’s why I call for cars.”
“I thought you were at least twenty-two. Twenty-three tops.”
“As if that would make a difference,” Molly said. She put her hand on Edwin’s. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight,” Edwin said, sadly.
“You don’t look thirty-eight.”
“I have gray hair.”
“True,” Molly said. “But it’s wavy and kind of trendy.”
“That’s exactly the look I was going for!”
“Well, you’ve achieved it.”
They were silent a moment. “What about school?” Edwin asked. “Won’t you miss school while you’re in Rochester?”
“Just a couple of classes,” Molly said. “I’ve already spoken to the professors, and I have work that I’ll be doing up there.”
“What do you study?”
“Business.”
“Ah, preparing to take Wall Street by storm, are you?” Edwin said.
“Something like that.” Molly looked at Edwin. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“What? These bruises? It takes more than some technocrat with a knife to wound Edwin Balder.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What about the boyfriend, Molly. Won’t you miss him?”
“Matthew? I…we need some time away from each other.”
“I thought that was the reason for the apartment.”
“I mean geographically away from each other,” Molly said.
Just then a car pulled up in front of the building. It was long and black, not a limo, but not far from it. The driver didn’t honk, just idled there.
“That’s for me,” Molly said.
“Very fancy,” Edwin said.
“Yeah.” Molly stood up and grabbed her bag. It had been resting to the left of her, and Edwin had not noticed it until that moment.
He stood. “Well, I guess this is goodbye then.”
“For eleven days,” Molly said.
“Eleven. Fascinating!”
She leaned in and gave him a quick hug. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone, Edwin Balder.”
“I will,” Edwin said.
Molly grabbed her bag and walked toward the first set of glass doors. Edwin, though sore, ran ahead and opened it for her. He watched as Molly walked down the steps and out the second set of glass doors. She turned to Edwin and waved, and then turned back and walked over to the long, black car. A faceless driver was there to greet her. He was a shroud as well, Edwin thought, as he continued to stand there. Perhaps Molly would turn back and wave a second time. But she did not. The driver opened up the backdoor on the passenger side, and Molly Brown got in. Then the driver got in and they drove away, leaving Edwin Balder in the brightly lit foyer, the one still smelling a bit like cigarette smoke.
Blood Drips will be on a break until monday march 28th....aproximately 11 days from now.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Mugging (A Comedic Interlude)
Edwin Balder realized that he was very drunk around the time that he turned off of 3rd Avenue, and began the longish decent down 75th Street. He had drunk too many scotches and made quite an ass out of himself once again. It was that damned Pollard, Edwin thought. If only Lawson would quite bringing that Benedict Arnold, two-faced librarian around then they could have a peaceful evening at the joint; at least as peaceful as that Geritol swilling den could get. How long had he been mad at George Pollard Jr.? At least two years. Of course, two years! Edwin shouted into the cold night. He tried emulating Ivan’s dance, chicken arms and all. Edwin stopped dancing. He sighed, looked at the one star shining in the Gotham sky (it was, in fact, a helicopter lingering over the bay), and started walking back to his apartment.
It was at Ridge Avenue that someone crudely took ahold of Edwin’s arm. Instantly he thought of Ivan and that lousy chicken dance, wanting to do it again. But when Edwin felt what seemed like a knife in his back, he began along a much different line of thought.
“Don’t look back at me, don’t say a word,” the mugger said. In that moment, Edwin knew that this was going to be an old fashioned, classic New York mugging. If he wasn’t so scared he’d be excited by the honor. “Just move.”
The mugger lead Edwin half way down the block and then turned him left into a small alleyway between apartment buildings. He turned Edwin around but between the dark and shadows of the alleyway, the streetlights casting a glare, Edwin could not make out the mugger’s face. What he saw was a shroud in a hooded sweatshirt.
“Are you going to mug me?” Edwin asked.
“I said don’t say a word,” the mugger said. He leaned in. “Damn, what have you been drinking?”
“Scotch and water…and I had a Hot Pocket earlier this evening.”
“A ham and cheese Hot Pocket?”
“Yes.”
“You need to brush your teeth, nigga,” the mugger said.
“As soon as we conclude this transaction, my nigga,” Edwin said.
The mugger pushed him into the cold brick and alley wall, smacking the back of Edwin’s head a little rougher than he’d have liked. “Who you calling a nigga?”
“It’s a term of friendship,” Edwin said.
“It’s racist. And I’m not your friend.”
“Well, you said it first. Plus we’re standing in a dark alleyway together a few short hours before the witching one, so I’d say we’re at least intimate.”
“What are you? Some kind of fag?”
“Fag? Nice. Now who’s being vulgar?” Edwin said. “I was merely pointing out a fact.”
The mugger put the blade up to Edwin’s face. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
“You addressed me first.”
“Did not.”
“Did too,” Edwin said. “You asked me what I had been drinking.”
The mugger was quiet a moment. “Right, right. The whole Hot Pocket and scotch thing.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m telling you to be quiet now.”
“As you wish,” Edwin said.
The mugger withdrew his knife a little bit, and began to pat down Edwin Balder in the alleyway. He opened the buttons on Edwin’s pea coat and searched the pockets. He patted Edwin’s pants until he found his wallet and took it out. Then the mugger backed away into the darkness of the alley to check the wallet’s contents.
“Seven dollars,” he said, coming back into the shadows and light. “You only have seven goddamned dollars.”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Edwin said. “What did you expect that I’d have on me, a stack of Benjamins?”
“I expected more than seven dollars,” the mugger said.
“Well, Rooney’s doesn’t accept credit cards. I’m just putting that out there.”
The mugger hit Edwin in his stomach twice, and Edwin fell to the ground. This was an unexpected turn of events. Edwin thought that the witty repartee that he was in the midst of establishing with his assailant would have prevented any random act of violence. He was wrong. Oh why did everyone have to be so violent and base in this country? Edwin went to rub his stomach but the mugger kicked his hand away.
“Get up,” he said. Edwin slowly rose until he was face to face with the black void that stood in for the mugger’s visage. “Where’s your phone?”
“I don’t carry one,” Edwin said.
“Bullshit. Show me your phone.”
“I told you that I do not carry a cellular phone.”
“Everyone carries a cell phone,” the mugger said. He pushed Edwin into the wall again, this time a little bit harder than the last. Edwin wanted to clasp the back of his head, for he feared eventual brain damage from this prolonged assault, but the mugger made him put his hands above his head while he frisked Edwin once again. “Shit.”
“I told you I don’t have a cell phone,” Edwin said., for the third time.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like them.”
“What’s not to like?” the mugger asked.
“I don’t see the need to be in constant contact with the world like most of these thumb typing philistines do.”
“Have you seen what some of these phones can do?”
“Yes. And I don’t care.”
The mugger slapped Edwin across the face. Edwin screamed like a woman, although he didn’t mean to. “Fucking Luddite.”
“What did you call me?” Edwin said, recovering his masculine composure.
“I called you a fucking Luddite, bitch,” the mugger said. “How can you not have a cell phone?”
“I…I just don’t.”
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“Like this?”
“Yeah,” the mugger said. “Or something else.”
“Then I guess I lose,” Edwin said.
“What if something happened to your boyfriend or your parents?”
“First of all, I’m not gay. Second, I guess I’d find out in good time, the way we used to find out before the world was infested with those brain cancer causing devices.”
“That hasn’t been proven yet,” the mugger said. “The whole brain cancer thing.”
“Well, when you’re all talking gibberish and I’m your supreme ruler, you can come back and tell me I’m right. I’ll happily accept you apology. In fact, I won’t even say I told you so.”
The mugger raised his hand again but thought better of it. “You know the iPhone has like a way to talk to people so that they can see your face.”
“Why would I want that,” Edwin said. “What in anything that I’ve said bespeaks me wanting something as silly as that?”
“Because it’s cool,” the mugger said.
“So is walking home from the pub without being assaulted.”
“It’s like Star Trek.”
“And if I had one it would be yours now,” Edwin said. “And where would that leave me, Captain Kirk?"
“I already have a couple iPhones,” the mugger said. “What I’m really in the market for is an Android.”
“Well, I hope my seven dollars helps you out in getting one,” Edwin said. “Or I guess you could take my credit card for a one time purchase.”
“Yeah, right,” the mugger said. “You’ll have this card cancelled before I even get three blocks.”
“Like hell I will. Have you ever tried calling to get a credit card cancelled? Aside from the language barrier, those credit card reps ask you more questions than can be found on an SAT test.”
“Still,” the mugger said.
“You don’t want to take the risk,” Edwin said. “So can I have my wallet back?”
“Sure,” the mugger said. “If you can find it.”
He turned and tossed Edwin’s wallet down the dark alleyway. Then the mugger turned back and punched Edwin twice in the face. The first time he caught Edwin off guard, but with the second blow he was able to put up his hands and block the mugger’s punch. The second punch got Edwin on his wrist, and it hurt like hell. It must’ve hurt the mugger too, because he yelped and backed away in pain, shaking his right hand. The mugger looked as if he were doing one of Ivan’s dances. His movements made Edwin smile a little bit through the pain. But then the mugger righted himself, and came charging back. He kicked Edwin so hard in the stomach that he thought the scotch and Hot Pocket would come streaming out at any moment. Edwin hit the pavement and lay there on the cold concrete. It was as good as any bed to him.
“Get with the times, motherfucker,” the mugger said, leaning down to Edwin’s ear. Edwin could smell his breath. It was no picnic either.
It was at Ridge Avenue that someone crudely took ahold of Edwin’s arm. Instantly he thought of Ivan and that lousy chicken dance, wanting to do it again. But when Edwin felt what seemed like a knife in his back, he began along a much different line of thought.
“Don’t look back at me, don’t say a word,” the mugger said. In that moment, Edwin knew that this was going to be an old fashioned, classic New York mugging. If he wasn’t so scared he’d be excited by the honor. “Just move.”
The mugger lead Edwin half way down the block and then turned him left into a small alleyway between apartment buildings. He turned Edwin around but between the dark and shadows of the alleyway, the streetlights casting a glare, Edwin could not make out the mugger’s face. What he saw was a shroud in a hooded sweatshirt.
“Are you going to mug me?” Edwin asked.
“I said don’t say a word,” the mugger said. He leaned in. “Damn, what have you been drinking?”
“Scotch and water…and I had a Hot Pocket earlier this evening.”
“A ham and cheese Hot Pocket?”
“Yes.”
“You need to brush your teeth, nigga,” the mugger said.
“As soon as we conclude this transaction, my nigga,” Edwin said.
The mugger pushed him into the cold brick and alley wall, smacking the back of Edwin’s head a little rougher than he’d have liked. “Who you calling a nigga?”
“It’s a term of friendship,” Edwin said.
“It’s racist. And I’m not your friend.”
“Well, you said it first. Plus we’re standing in a dark alleyway together a few short hours before the witching one, so I’d say we’re at least intimate.”
“What are you? Some kind of fag?”
“Fag? Nice. Now who’s being vulgar?” Edwin said. “I was merely pointing out a fact.”
The mugger put the blade up to Edwin’s face. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
“You addressed me first.”
“Did not.”
“Did too,” Edwin said. “You asked me what I had been drinking.”
The mugger was quiet a moment. “Right, right. The whole Hot Pocket and scotch thing.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m telling you to be quiet now.”
“As you wish,” Edwin said.
The mugger withdrew his knife a little bit, and began to pat down Edwin Balder in the alleyway. He opened the buttons on Edwin’s pea coat and searched the pockets. He patted Edwin’s pants until he found his wallet and took it out. Then the mugger backed away into the darkness of the alley to check the wallet’s contents.
“Seven dollars,” he said, coming back into the shadows and light. “You only have seven goddamned dollars.”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Edwin said. “What did you expect that I’d have on me, a stack of Benjamins?”
“I expected more than seven dollars,” the mugger said.
“Well, Rooney’s doesn’t accept credit cards. I’m just putting that out there.”
The mugger hit Edwin in his stomach twice, and Edwin fell to the ground. This was an unexpected turn of events. Edwin thought that the witty repartee that he was in the midst of establishing with his assailant would have prevented any random act of violence. He was wrong. Oh why did everyone have to be so violent and base in this country? Edwin went to rub his stomach but the mugger kicked his hand away.
“Get up,” he said. Edwin slowly rose until he was face to face with the black void that stood in for the mugger’s visage. “Where’s your phone?”
“I don’t carry one,” Edwin said.
“Bullshit. Show me your phone.”
“I told you that I do not carry a cellular phone.”
“Everyone carries a cell phone,” the mugger said. He pushed Edwin into the wall again, this time a little bit harder than the last. Edwin wanted to clasp the back of his head, for he feared eventual brain damage from this prolonged assault, but the mugger made him put his hands above his head while he frisked Edwin once again. “Shit.”
“I told you I don’t have a cell phone,” Edwin said., for the third time.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like them.”
“What’s not to like?” the mugger asked.
“I don’t see the need to be in constant contact with the world like most of these thumb typing philistines do.”
“Have you seen what some of these phones can do?”
“Yes. And I don’t care.”
The mugger slapped Edwin across the face. Edwin screamed like a woman, although he didn’t mean to. “Fucking Luddite.”
“What did you call me?” Edwin said, recovering his masculine composure.
“I called you a fucking Luddite, bitch,” the mugger said. “How can you not have a cell phone?”
“I…I just don’t.”
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“Like this?”
“Yeah,” the mugger said. “Or something else.”
“Then I guess I lose,” Edwin said.
“What if something happened to your boyfriend or your parents?”
“First of all, I’m not gay. Second, I guess I’d find out in good time, the way we used to find out before the world was infested with those brain cancer causing devices.”
“That hasn’t been proven yet,” the mugger said. “The whole brain cancer thing.”
“Well, when you’re all talking gibberish and I’m your supreme ruler, you can come back and tell me I’m right. I’ll happily accept you apology. In fact, I won’t even say I told you so.”
The mugger raised his hand again but thought better of it. “You know the iPhone has like a way to talk to people so that they can see your face.”
“Why would I want that,” Edwin said. “What in anything that I’ve said bespeaks me wanting something as silly as that?”
“Because it’s cool,” the mugger said.
“So is walking home from the pub without being assaulted.”
“It’s like Star Trek.”
“And if I had one it would be yours now,” Edwin said. “And where would that leave me, Captain Kirk?"
“I already have a couple iPhones,” the mugger said. “What I’m really in the market for is an Android.”
“Well, I hope my seven dollars helps you out in getting one,” Edwin said. “Or I guess you could take my credit card for a one time purchase.”
“Yeah, right,” the mugger said. “You’ll have this card cancelled before I even get three blocks.”
“Like hell I will. Have you ever tried calling to get a credit card cancelled? Aside from the language barrier, those credit card reps ask you more questions than can be found on an SAT test.”
“Still,” the mugger said.
“You don’t want to take the risk,” Edwin said. “So can I have my wallet back?”
“Sure,” the mugger said. “If you can find it.”
He turned and tossed Edwin’s wallet down the dark alleyway. Then the mugger turned back and punched Edwin twice in the face. The first time he caught Edwin off guard, but with the second blow he was able to put up his hands and block the mugger’s punch. The second punch got Edwin on his wrist, and it hurt like hell. It must’ve hurt the mugger too, because he yelped and backed away in pain, shaking his right hand. The mugger looked as if he were doing one of Ivan’s dances. His movements made Edwin smile a little bit through the pain. But then the mugger righted himself, and came charging back. He kicked Edwin so hard in the stomach that he thought the scotch and Hot Pocket would come streaming out at any moment. Edwin hit the pavement and lay there on the cold concrete. It was as good as any bed to him.
“Get with the times, motherfucker,” the mugger said, leaning down to Edwin’s ear. Edwin could smell his breath. It was no picnic either.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Edwin Balder Vs. George Pollard Jr.
Edwin Balder tried to right himself in front of the urinal at Rooney’s Pub. How much had he drunk that evening? He wondered. Edwin unzipped and aimed as best as he could at a urinal full of ice cubes that were meant to quell the smell of stale urine, because the good people at Rooney’s had been lax in fixing the urinal for over two years now. Edwin held his breath and let her rip. He thought that if it didn’t smell so badly, he could stay in the bathroom the entire night. It would save him from the obnoxious ranting of George Pollard Jr., and the way Thomas Nickerson and Lawson Thomas sat there shaking their heads in agreement, laughing at everything that Pollard had to say, and agreeing with his every insufferable soliloquy. Edwin never laughed at him, or thought him brilliant. He never laughed and Pollard and company accused him of being sour or bitter because he did not have a woman. As if the two were even interrelated. Pollard simply was not funny, Edwin reasoned, or intelligent. Quoting raunchy comedies, David Sedaris, and late night talk show hosts didn’t make one a humorous or informed individual. It made them a crank, a con-artist, and a rip off. Edwin finished pissing and decided to hate George Pollard for the rest of the evening.
When he left the bathroom, someone grabbed him by the arm. Ivan.
“Wanna see my new dance?” Ivan asked.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Edwin said, his terror-based niceties toward these bar denizens deadening with each successive drink. “Dancing?”
“Yeah,” Ivan said. “I do dances. I’m a great dancer. You know, sometimes I watch that show on television, Dancin’ with the Stars. You ever watch that?”
“No. I believe I’m trying to commit Hari Kari at that time of night.”
“The old baseball announcer?”
“The very same,” Edwin said. “I believe you mentioned something about a dance.”
Ivan’s face lit up. “Oh, oh. Yeah so I do this dance.”
Ivan began moving his arms up and down as if doing the Chicken Dance. Then he started stomping his feet and clapping his hands, spinning in a circle as all of the guys playing darts began to hoot and holler, and Edwin stood there like a, to use a cliché, deer caught in the headlights. Edwin wondered why Ivan had picked him to dace for. Was it some kind of sick joke? A ritual for the newish patrons of the bar? A mating dance? Christ, perhaps this was a gay bar after all. Edwin didn’t like the idea, as his opinions on the homosexual community were very inchoate at this stage in his life. He had often been accused of being a homosexual as a child, and this may have added to his bias, made him slow to come around to the causes of the gay community. Sure, Edwin was liberal to a degree. But he wasn’t so sure that he wanted some big, red faced Russian shaking his ass for him in a local tavern, expecting some kind of quid pro quo once the joint had closed for the night. Edwin stood there for as long as he could, smiling, while Ivan danced and the men in the bar clapped and shouted. Then he gave up all pretense of enjoying this act, and went back to down the bar to join Lawson and the Captain and the Cabin Boy.
“Is this what you gentlemen do on an evening out together?” Edwin asked when he reached his friends. Each of his comrades were sitting there, silent, their drinks untouched, their faces buried in digital devices, and their faces lit by the horrid glow of the black lit screen.
“We were waiting for you to finish up dancing with your new friends,” Lawson said, not even lifting his head from his so-called “smart” phone.
“Oh, is that right?” Edwin ran a hand through his trendy, wavy gray hair. “I have the good mind to confiscate each and every one of those machines and hold them until our evening is done.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have one,” Pollard said.
“Right. I’m jealous.” Edwin went to reach for his drink but found it empty. He snapped for the bartender who came down without a moment’s hesitation and took his empty glass. “Yes, I’m so jealous of your wonder devices. So jealous that I can’t update my Facebook status every moment of the day. I can just picture yours now, Pollard: Chillin’ in the bar with my hommies. What wisdom! It amazes me that the whole world isn’t waiting on bated breath for your next haiku.”
George Pollard Jr. looked up from his device and rolled his eyes. “Because yours is so much better: Met the hottest chick in the world tonight. Did you mean that guy dancing back there, or someone else?”
“I refuse to discuss her with you,” Edwin said. “How can a man who does not understand refined modern literature, know anything about the foibles of modern love?”
“So you admit there is a woman?”
“I’ll admit nothing to you, you half-wit.”
“Edwin, back off,” Lawson said, just as the bartender had placed a new drink in front of Edwin.
“See, at least this nigga got my back,” Pollard said.
“Nigga?” Edwin said. He turned to Lawson. “How does it feel to be George Pollard Jr.’s….nigga?”
“It’s just a term of friendship now,” Pollard said. “Everyone uses it.”
“I’m sure Emmett Till would be happy to hear the news.”
“It’s not like that,” Thomas Nickerson added.
“Or Dr. King for that matter,” Edwin continued. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he meant by I have a dream. I’m sure it was his deep hope that one day in the future a mixed group of races could sit in a bar together, playing on mind-numbing devices, and calling each other a bunch of niggas.”
“You’re always so literal, Edwin,” Pollard said.
“Yeah? And you’re ugly.”
“What the fuck man?” Pollard slammed his drink down, stood up, and got in Edwin’s face. Edwin could smell the evening meal on him, spaghetti, most probably out of a can. It amazed him that George Pollard Jr. had an undergraduate degree let alone a Master’s degree. “Why are you always pushing my buttons? What in the hell did I ever do to you, Balder?”
“Balder?” Edwin said. “So we’ve resorted to last name calling?”
Pollard shook his head and pulled back. “You’re fucking unreal, man.” He sat back in his stool and had a pull on his bottle of Coors Light. “A guy just tries to talk to you, and he gets shit for it.”
“Conversation is over-rated,” Edwin said. He took a long drink on his scotch, feeling less and less like Dick Burton as the night moved on.
“Maybe you should chill with that stuff,” Lawson said.
“Chill? Maybe I should chill, my nigga.”
“Man.”
“Doesn’t sound so good, does it?” Edwin said.
“It just sounds stupid coming from you,” Lawson said.
“That’s me. Stupidity incarnate. At least I don’t type with my thumbs.” Edwin had more scotch.
“Do you know what I don’t like about you, Pollard?”
“Enlighten me,” Pollard said.
“You act all high and mighty, as if being a glorified public servant is a religious calling.”
“I like what I do. Is that so wrong?”
“It wouldn’t be if you weren’t such an absolute asshole about it,” Edwin said, blushing at using such profanity on a weeknight. “Oh, I’m a librarian. I do this. And I do that. And I help the public find James fucking Patterson novels. Just for the record, even subtle nuance of your job does not make for interesting conversation.”
“Yeah, I guess processing invoices is so much better,” Pollard said.
“You couldn’t do my job for an hour,” Edwin said. “I remember before you had your cushy little job. I remember you working at warehouses or in that grocery store. I remember you doing data entry and failing at it. In fact, you failed at all of those jobs. If you were the captain of a ship, you’d probably sink that as well.”
“Right, because you haven’t failed.” Pollard took a pull on his beer. “Should I even mention Natalie?”
Edwin finished the rest of his drink. “You do and I’ll strike you with this glass.”
“Gee, look at the time,” Lawson said, standing. He put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder and gave him a rub. “I got to get to work tomorrow, if you know what I mean.”
“Me too,” Nickerson said.
“And I don’t think I like the company tonight,” Pollard said.
“That makes two of us,” Edwin said. “Barbarian.”
“Sure, Edwin. I’m the Barbarian.”
Edwin Balder and his friends left Rooney’s Pub and stepped out into the cold night. Edwin went up to the corner of 3rd Avenue and 77th Street and waited alone while Lawson said goodbye to George Pollard Jr. and Thomas Nickerson. He tried not to think back to the time when he, Pollard, and Lawson had been nearly inseparable all those years ago. He tried not to think back to when they were just three students at NYU, hanging around the last vestiges of bohemia in the West and East Villages, trying to sneak into the Grassroots Tavern on St. Mark’s Place, and drinking more coffee than was humanly possible. He tried not to think about how time and circumstances could rip people apart, or make them mostly foreign to each other. Most of all, Edwin Balder tried not to think of Natalie.
“You want to tell me what all of that shit was about tonight?” Lawson said when he reached Edwin. “I thought we were just going out to have fun.”
“It’s impossible to have fun with George Pollard Jr.,” Edwin said.
“You used to be close.”
“Our friendship was a humbug.”
“Humbug?” Lawson said.
“Why’d he have to mention her?”
“You egged him on.”
“And what’s with this Thomas Nickerson? When did he enter the picture? Where does Thomas Nickerson fit in our timeline?”
“Are you even listening to me, Edwin?”
“Sho’ my nigga,” Edwin said.
“Stop that shit.”
“Sorry. Drunk.”
“You are a sorry drunk.” Lawson said. “But you’re my friend.”
“Care for a nightcap?’ Edwin motioned back down toward Rooney’s Pub.
“No. I think we’ve both had enough.” Lawson hunched his shoulders, and rubbed the sleeves on his thick, flannel coat. “Besides, man, I got to catch the R train before it turns into a pumpkin. I don’t want to get stuck in this neighborhood once the racial profiling begins.”
“We’re very tolerant here in Bay Ridge,” Edwin said. “We have a strong Muslim population which is a feat in and of itself in post-9/11 New York City.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll take my chances on the subway.” Lawson and Edwin were quiet for a moment. “You okay?”
“Aside from listening to you gush about my foul co-worker and having to drink with George Pollard all evening, I’d say I’m doing fine.”
“George is all right,” Lawson said. “He’s your friend.”
“No, Law. He’s your friend. He used to be my friend.”
“You have a skewed sense of history.”
“Perhaps,” Edwin said, simply, “that time and chance have ruined me.”
“Are you okay getting home?” Lawson asked.
“I’m the perfect specimen of soused manhood,” Edwin said. “Plus I only live a few blocks away.”
Lawson gave Edwin a man hug. “Drink some water before you go to bed. And eat something.”
“I was thinking water and a second Hot Pocket were the order of the night. But thank you for the advice and concern, mother.”
“You’re crazy, Edwin,” Lawson said.
“I know.”
Lawson Thomas began walking down 3rd Avenue, leaving Edwin Balder to stand alone in the electric white light of a bodega. “Tell Mary good things about me.”
“I’ll tell her that you’re hung like a horse,” Edwin shouted to a few stares of the remaining people on the street.
Lawson shrugged. “I’m black. She already knows that. Tell her something else.”
He crossed the street. Edwin watched his friend until he disappeared; the two of them waving like old lovers until Lawson passed behind a closed Middle Eastern restaurant. It was their ritual to wave as such. Then Edwin turned up the collar on his Pea Coat and began the short yet lonely walk home, hoping he’d hear Molly pound around upstairs before he fell into a thick, drunken slumber.
When he left the bathroom, someone grabbed him by the arm. Ivan.
“Wanna see my new dance?” Ivan asked.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Edwin said, his terror-based niceties toward these bar denizens deadening with each successive drink. “Dancing?”
“Yeah,” Ivan said. “I do dances. I’m a great dancer. You know, sometimes I watch that show on television, Dancin’ with the Stars. You ever watch that?”
“No. I believe I’m trying to commit Hari Kari at that time of night.”
“The old baseball announcer?”
“The very same,” Edwin said. “I believe you mentioned something about a dance.”
Ivan’s face lit up. “Oh, oh. Yeah so I do this dance.”
Ivan began moving his arms up and down as if doing the Chicken Dance. Then he started stomping his feet and clapping his hands, spinning in a circle as all of the guys playing darts began to hoot and holler, and Edwin stood there like a, to use a cliché, deer caught in the headlights. Edwin wondered why Ivan had picked him to dace for. Was it some kind of sick joke? A ritual for the newish patrons of the bar? A mating dance? Christ, perhaps this was a gay bar after all. Edwin didn’t like the idea, as his opinions on the homosexual community were very inchoate at this stage in his life. He had often been accused of being a homosexual as a child, and this may have added to his bias, made him slow to come around to the causes of the gay community. Sure, Edwin was liberal to a degree. But he wasn’t so sure that he wanted some big, red faced Russian shaking his ass for him in a local tavern, expecting some kind of quid pro quo once the joint had closed for the night. Edwin stood there for as long as he could, smiling, while Ivan danced and the men in the bar clapped and shouted. Then he gave up all pretense of enjoying this act, and went back to down the bar to join Lawson and the Captain and the Cabin Boy.
“Is this what you gentlemen do on an evening out together?” Edwin asked when he reached his friends. Each of his comrades were sitting there, silent, their drinks untouched, their faces buried in digital devices, and their faces lit by the horrid glow of the black lit screen.
“We were waiting for you to finish up dancing with your new friends,” Lawson said, not even lifting his head from his so-called “smart” phone.
“Oh, is that right?” Edwin ran a hand through his trendy, wavy gray hair. “I have the good mind to confiscate each and every one of those machines and hold them until our evening is done.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have one,” Pollard said.
“Right. I’m jealous.” Edwin went to reach for his drink but found it empty. He snapped for the bartender who came down without a moment’s hesitation and took his empty glass. “Yes, I’m so jealous of your wonder devices. So jealous that I can’t update my Facebook status every moment of the day. I can just picture yours now, Pollard: Chillin’ in the bar with my hommies. What wisdom! It amazes me that the whole world isn’t waiting on bated breath for your next haiku.”
George Pollard Jr. looked up from his device and rolled his eyes. “Because yours is so much better: Met the hottest chick in the world tonight. Did you mean that guy dancing back there, or someone else?”
“I refuse to discuss her with you,” Edwin said. “How can a man who does not understand refined modern literature, know anything about the foibles of modern love?”
“So you admit there is a woman?”
“I’ll admit nothing to you, you half-wit.”
“Edwin, back off,” Lawson said, just as the bartender had placed a new drink in front of Edwin.
“See, at least this nigga got my back,” Pollard said.
“Nigga?” Edwin said. He turned to Lawson. “How does it feel to be George Pollard Jr.’s….nigga?”
“It’s just a term of friendship now,” Pollard said. “Everyone uses it.”
“I’m sure Emmett Till would be happy to hear the news.”
“It’s not like that,” Thomas Nickerson added.
“Or Dr. King for that matter,” Edwin continued. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he meant by I have a dream. I’m sure it was his deep hope that one day in the future a mixed group of races could sit in a bar together, playing on mind-numbing devices, and calling each other a bunch of niggas.”
“You’re always so literal, Edwin,” Pollard said.
“Yeah? And you’re ugly.”
“What the fuck man?” Pollard slammed his drink down, stood up, and got in Edwin’s face. Edwin could smell the evening meal on him, spaghetti, most probably out of a can. It amazed him that George Pollard Jr. had an undergraduate degree let alone a Master’s degree. “Why are you always pushing my buttons? What in the hell did I ever do to you, Balder?”
“Balder?” Edwin said. “So we’ve resorted to last name calling?”
Pollard shook his head and pulled back. “You’re fucking unreal, man.” He sat back in his stool and had a pull on his bottle of Coors Light. “A guy just tries to talk to you, and he gets shit for it.”
“Conversation is over-rated,” Edwin said. He took a long drink on his scotch, feeling less and less like Dick Burton as the night moved on.
“Maybe you should chill with that stuff,” Lawson said.
“Chill? Maybe I should chill, my nigga.”
“Man.”
“Doesn’t sound so good, does it?” Edwin said.
“It just sounds stupid coming from you,” Lawson said.
“That’s me. Stupidity incarnate. At least I don’t type with my thumbs.” Edwin had more scotch.
“Do you know what I don’t like about you, Pollard?”
“Enlighten me,” Pollard said.
“You act all high and mighty, as if being a glorified public servant is a religious calling.”
“I like what I do. Is that so wrong?”
“It wouldn’t be if you weren’t such an absolute asshole about it,” Edwin said, blushing at using such profanity on a weeknight. “Oh, I’m a librarian. I do this. And I do that. And I help the public find James fucking Patterson novels. Just for the record, even subtle nuance of your job does not make for interesting conversation.”
“Yeah, I guess processing invoices is so much better,” Pollard said.
“You couldn’t do my job for an hour,” Edwin said. “I remember before you had your cushy little job. I remember you working at warehouses or in that grocery store. I remember you doing data entry and failing at it. In fact, you failed at all of those jobs. If you were the captain of a ship, you’d probably sink that as well.”
“Right, because you haven’t failed.” Pollard took a pull on his beer. “Should I even mention Natalie?”
Edwin finished the rest of his drink. “You do and I’ll strike you with this glass.”
“Gee, look at the time,” Lawson said, standing. He put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder and gave him a rub. “I got to get to work tomorrow, if you know what I mean.”
“Me too,” Nickerson said.
“And I don’t think I like the company tonight,” Pollard said.
“That makes two of us,” Edwin said. “Barbarian.”
“Sure, Edwin. I’m the Barbarian.”
Edwin Balder and his friends left Rooney’s Pub and stepped out into the cold night. Edwin went up to the corner of 3rd Avenue and 77th Street and waited alone while Lawson said goodbye to George Pollard Jr. and Thomas Nickerson. He tried not to think back to the time when he, Pollard, and Lawson had been nearly inseparable all those years ago. He tried not to think back to when they were just three students at NYU, hanging around the last vestiges of bohemia in the West and East Villages, trying to sneak into the Grassroots Tavern on St. Mark’s Place, and drinking more coffee than was humanly possible. He tried not to think about how time and circumstances could rip people apart, or make them mostly foreign to each other. Most of all, Edwin Balder tried not to think of Natalie.
“You want to tell me what all of that shit was about tonight?” Lawson said when he reached Edwin. “I thought we were just going out to have fun.”
“It’s impossible to have fun with George Pollard Jr.,” Edwin said.
“You used to be close.”
“Our friendship was a humbug.”
“Humbug?” Lawson said.
“Why’d he have to mention her?”
“You egged him on.”
“And what’s with this Thomas Nickerson? When did he enter the picture? Where does Thomas Nickerson fit in our timeline?”
“Are you even listening to me, Edwin?”
“Sho’ my nigga,” Edwin said.
“Stop that shit.”
“Sorry. Drunk.”
“You are a sorry drunk.” Lawson said. “But you’re my friend.”
“Care for a nightcap?’ Edwin motioned back down toward Rooney’s Pub.
“No. I think we’ve both had enough.” Lawson hunched his shoulders, and rubbed the sleeves on his thick, flannel coat. “Besides, man, I got to catch the R train before it turns into a pumpkin. I don’t want to get stuck in this neighborhood once the racial profiling begins.”
“We’re very tolerant here in Bay Ridge,” Edwin said. “We have a strong Muslim population which is a feat in and of itself in post-9/11 New York City.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll take my chances on the subway.” Lawson and Edwin were quiet for a moment. “You okay?”
“Aside from listening to you gush about my foul co-worker and having to drink with George Pollard all evening, I’d say I’m doing fine.”
“George is all right,” Lawson said. “He’s your friend.”
“No, Law. He’s your friend. He used to be my friend.”
“You have a skewed sense of history.”
“Perhaps,” Edwin said, simply, “that time and chance have ruined me.”
“Are you okay getting home?” Lawson asked.
“I’m the perfect specimen of soused manhood,” Edwin said. “Plus I only live a few blocks away.”
Lawson gave Edwin a man hug. “Drink some water before you go to bed. And eat something.”
“I was thinking water and a second Hot Pocket were the order of the night. But thank you for the advice and concern, mother.”
“You’re crazy, Edwin,” Lawson said.
“I know.”
Lawson Thomas began walking down 3rd Avenue, leaving Edwin Balder to stand alone in the electric white light of a bodega. “Tell Mary good things about me.”
“I’ll tell her that you’re hung like a horse,” Edwin shouted to a few stares of the remaining people on the street.
Lawson shrugged. “I’m black. She already knows that. Tell her something else.”
He crossed the street. Edwin watched his friend until he disappeared; the two of them waving like old lovers until Lawson passed behind a closed Middle Eastern restaurant. It was their ritual to wave as such. Then Edwin turned up the collar on his Pea Coat and began the short yet lonely walk home, hoping he’d hear Molly pound around upstairs before he fell into a thick, drunken slumber.
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