I walked down the center aisle, dwarfed by the cardboard walls at my sides. A kid I knew gave me a short horn-blast of recognition as he motored by on his forklift.
The barn was loaded. I took note of what we were heavy on as I walked. I would have to start dumping some of these goods, or, more likely, advertise the bait that would lead into the overstocks.
At the end of the aisle I turned left to the far corner of the warehouse, the section entirely occupied by videocassette recorders. I noticed the Kotekna VCRs that Rosen had purchased at the electronics show. Virtually none of them had moved. I made a mental note to remind Fisher that these “dogs” would have to be shipped out to the floors.
Aware of someone behind me, I turned to face two warehousemen I had never met. They were standing four feet apart and looking at me with solid stares. I nodded but got no response.
The man on the left was leaning on a pushbroom. He was of average height, with a dark, bony face and a careless goatee. His nose was narrow and flat, his eyes almost Oriental in shape. A red knit cap was cocked on his head, filled high with dreadlocks. He wore a vest over a thermal shirt, and had the loose-limbed stance of a fighter.
His partner was a black albino with mustard skin and eyes the color of a bad scrape. There was one small braid coming from the back of his shaved head. He wore striped baggies, a faded denim shirt, and leather gloves. He was so tall that his posture and bone structure suggested deformity. There was a dead, soulless look in their eyes that I had seen increasingly on the faces of men in Washington’s streets as the eighties dragged murderously on.
I walked towards them. When it was clear that they weren’t going to move, I walked around them. I felt an inexplicable humiliation, like a child who later regrets walking away from a certain ass-kicking at the hands of the schoolyard bully.
I heard them chuckle behind me, and I turned. The dark one with the pushbroom blew me a kiss. Then they both laughed.
I walked out of the warehouse. In the parking lot I noticed that my fists were balled and shoved deeply in my pockets. Climbing behind the wheel of my car, I felt weak and very small.
Joe Dane lived in old Silver Spring, on a street where the houses were built very close to the curb and had large, open porches and deep backyards. I parked my heap in front of his place and was up on his porch in six short steps.
I knocked on the door, behind which I could hear children laughing and playing and falling harmlessly to the floor. After that came a woman’s voice, raised halfheartedly to attempt sternness, then footsteps.
The door opened and Sarah Dane stood in the frame, wiping her hands dry with a dishrag. The lines around her eyes deepened as she smiled up at my face.
“Hi, Nick.”
“Sarah.” I leaned s.“H in and kissed her on the cheek.
Her baggy pants were frumpy and her sweatshirt featured a circular medallion of vomit centered between her breasts. Four kids and the raising of them had widened her hips and prematurely aged her face. But she had the relaxed beauty of contentment.
“Is Joe around?” I asked.
“He’s in the backyard,” she said, tugging gently on my jacket and pulling me through the doorway. “Come on in.”
I followed her into the living room as she made a path through the toys scattered on the throwrug. The arms of the sofa had been shredded by cats. As we walked, she touched the heads of two children orbiting her legs.
We moved into the warm kitchen where a cat was haunched down, its face buried in a small yellow dish. Water boiled in a tall pot on the gas stove. Next to it sat an open box of pasta.
I looked through the screen of the dark back porch. Joe Dane was walking slowly through their garden, his hands in his pockets. Sarah folded her arms and leaned against the refrigerator.
“You look good, Nick,” she said, focusing on the fading purplish area below my eye. “But I see you’re not really staying out of trouble.”
“I don’t go looking for it,” I said. “You look good too, Sarah.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Nicky. I look like hell.” She grabbed some hair off her face and wound it behind an ear. It was fairly useless to tell her that I was being sincere.
“What have you all been up to?” I asked.
A small towhead, wearing fatigues and carrying a plastic machine gun, ran by. I tapped him on the shoulder. He ran back, socked me on the knee, and disappeared into another room.
“You’re looking at it,” she said, without a trace of regret.
“You’re awfully lucky to have all this.”
“All this,” she laughed. “The funny thing is, I do feel lucky. This is what I want.”
“How about him?” I asked, jerking my head in the direction of the backyard.
“Joe’s the worrier of the family. Of course, he’s out in the world every day, he sees other people with more than we’ve got. More money, that is. And this town can influence you, make you feel like if you’re not wearing the four hundred dollar suit or driving the right import, you’re lower than dirt. I’m insulated from all that crap, here with the kids.” She looked me over. “How about you? You seeing anyone?”
“Not really.”
“Talk to Karen?”
“No.” The four of us had spent many evenings together in the early days of our marriages.
“Here,” she said, handing me two can sng of ours of beer from the refrigerator. “Go talk to him. He could use it.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
I stepped out onto the porch, which creaked beneath my feet, and pushed open the screen door. As I walked across the yard, I noticed the kids’ Big Wheels had worn a semicircular track in the grass.
Joe Dane was a broad, bearlike guy whose gut had begun to creep unapologetically over his belt. Though he was only a few years my senior, his graying beard made him look much older. There was a look nearing relief on his creased face as I approached.
We had befriended each other early on at Nathan’s. He came to me for advice on record purchases, and I to him on the latest films to catch. My opinions on music were solely based on taste, but his movie knowledge came from advanced studies and a Master’s in Film Theory, a degree he had earned but never used professionally.
“Nick,” he said tiredly. “What brings you out here to ‘Pottersville’?”
I let that slide and said, “Just wanted to say hi. Your kid sick?”
“No, I just bugged out a little early.”
I cracked both beers and handed him one. He winked and had a long swallow. I pulled on his shirtsleeve and brought him out of the garden to two ripped beach chairs that faced back towards the house. A calico cat slunk across the yard, brushed my shins, and settled into a ball beneath my chair.
“So, what’s happening in music?” he asked, though he appeared uninterested. “I’ve been out of touch.”
“You haven’t missed much. This year it’s the neo-folk movement, though there’s nothing ‘neo’ about it. Tracy Chapman comes out doing the same shit Joan Armatrading was doing ten years ago, only Tracy’s younger and has a funkier haircut, and she walks away with all the press and the awards.”
“It’s the same in film,” he said. “There’s very little in the way of originality right now. The film schools are cranking out mimics and technicians, but there isn’t any soul.”
“What about your boys, Scorsese and De Palma?”
“Scorsese’s still a true visionary, a genius. Goodfellas, man, that was a piece of work. The first time I ever saw a cocaine high, visualized, up on the screen. And the violence was real, not stylized. Real. But De Palma?” Dane snorted and dismissed the director with a wave of his hand. “De Palma used to have that crippling Hitchcock fixation, and the critics hated him. I got a kick out of him, though. I mean, I had the sense, when I was watching his films, that I was witnessing the work of a madman. Then he does The Untouchables, and the critics love it. But it was pretty much just a straight narrative thing, don’t you think? And the centerpiece of the film, the shootout at the train station-he managed to rip off both Eisenstein’s Odessa steps sequence and himself at the same time.”