He continues talking to himself. It's Monday morning, you're on the train, on the way to work. You ate pancakes for breakfast, you walked your boys to school, you had a good time, you played a game they invented-You Call It.
They started off in a line arranged by height, shortest to tallest, with Sammy in the lead.
"Age," Daniel called out. "Oldest first," and they switched places, filing themselves accordingly.
"Funniest walk," Sammy yelled, and they did their odd walks, waddling down the sidewalk like a family of palsied ducks.
"IQ," Daniel called, and they stumbled out of order, weaving stupidly, crashing into each other, all of it part of the joke. Sammy laughed wildly.
"Fattest to thinnest," Daniel called, and Paul took the lead.
"Bluest eyes," Paul said, and Sammy stepped in front.
Father and sons, brothers, boys, men.
"Don't play without me," Sammy said when they dropped him at school.
"Wouldn't think of it," Paul said.
Daniel and Paul stood at the bottom of the school steps, watching Sammy go in, and then they walked on. There were things Paul wanted to ask Danieclass="underline" Do you really think Meaders is something special? Does Willy strike you as a little weird? How serious is the Scouting thing? And what's the deal with you and the fat girls? A thousand things he wanted to know, but he asked nothing, opting to savor the moment, the relative calm.
On the train, the palm kisser, Mr. Mental Candy, comes up from behind and sits down next to Paul.
"Did you eat your candy?"
"Most of it."
"Favorite color?"
"Couldn't really tell the difference," Paul says.
"Try two of something, that'll show you. Want some more?"
Paul puts out his hand. "Is it addictive?"
"Only if you like the way it makes you feel," the palm kisser says, filling both of Paul's hands.
"What's that mean?" "You should come visit me sometime. Take a dip in my pool."
"Out in the country?" Paul asks, sliding the pills into his pocket.
"Or at the office. I'm in the water a lot. It helps me think. I tread water while I make decisions. I like to stay fluid, liquid, calm. I have a lap pool in my office-we're on the first floor."
"Any thoughts on desk chairs?" Paul asks, seeing that the guy obviously has a certain flair for things.
"Some are better than others," the man says.
"What do you sit on?"
"A cushion," the man says.
Paul nods. Why did he ask?
The train pulls into the 125th Street station.
"We're almost there," Paul says.
"You are your own beginning. Every day, every hour, every minute, you start again. There is no point wishing you were someone else, you are who you are-start there," the palm kisser offers.
"I was just thinking the same thing," Paul says.
The palm kisser looks at him, checking to see if Paul is teasing.
"Seriously," Paul says. "Something right along that line-odd, isn't it?"
"Or not," the palm kisser says.
The train pulls in. "Grand Central Station, New York City," the conductor announces.
The palm kisser bends. Paul thinks he's going to kiss Paul's hand again, maybe put his head in Paul's lap. Paul pulls away, abruptly. The palm kisser bends and picks a quarter off the floor. "Accept the things you find," he says.
Paul hurries off the train.
Monolithic skyscrapers push out of the ground, steely and
strong. Shafts of light cut between the buildings, punctuating the boulevard. Park Avenue is like a Grand Canal filled with shining black town cars-gondolas of good fortune. Every morning the streets are filled with Pauls-scrubbed and polished men in thousand-dollar suits thinking they are something. One hundred thousand offices, a million windowless cubicles, creativity and commerce. The metropolis hums-sings of the spirit, of the romance of trade, of the glory of the great game-things bought and sold. Paul is flooded with the anticipation of doing a good day's work.
He takes off his jacket, hangs it over his shoulder, using his finger as the hook, and strides up Park Avenue. He makes a right onto Fiftieth Street.
She is there, waiting outside the building. He doesn't notice until it is too late-he swerves, he goes out wide on the sidewalk. He walks past the entrance, pretending he doesn't see her. He walks around the block. On Friday, he dismissed her. He phoned her and told her it had to stop.
"Why are you calling me?" she said. "Are you afraid to see me?"
"No," he lied. "I'm calling to tell you that I can't see you, I can't talk to you, I can't do this anymore. It's too much."
"What makes you think you can just call me up and say something like that, that you can dictate the way things are going to be?"
"I'm not dictating."
"What about me? Don't I have a say in this?"
He didn't say anything.
"You don't boss me," she said. "I do what I want-that's who I am."
"This is not a negotiation," Paul said. "I have to go now." He hung up, drenched in sweat.
Paul comes around the corner again, sticking close to the edge of the building, hoping all she wants to do is scare him, hoping she'll be gone when he gets to the door.
She's still there. Waiting. She calls out, "Forgot where you work? Thought I'd just disappear?"
"It's Monday morning," he says, as though that gives him some immunity. "You're not supposed to be here," he clarifies.
"Free country," she says.
"Henry's very upset," Paul says. "You're not being nice to him. You should call him."
"He's not the one telling me to fuck off," she says loudly.
Paul tries to slip past her and into the revolving door. She blocks his way.
"Stop it," he says. "I have to go to work. You're harassing me."
"No," she shouts, snapping like a thing suddenly sprung. "You're harassing me." She speaks sharply enough that heads turn.
"Leave the girl alone," someone says.
Cold panic, Paul sees the way things can get turned around.
"I'm going to work," he hisses.
She presses into the revolving door ahead of him, turning to face him, talking through the glass. He goes around twice, hoping she'll finish quickly, hoping to lose her along the way.
"What makes you think you can dictate the way things are going to be?" she says, repeating her Friday line.
"I'm not dictating," he says, his breath fogging the glass. "I'm simply telling you that I can't see you anymore."
"You don't make the rules," she says.
"Leave me alone," he whispers as he slips out of the revolving door and into the marble lobby. "Go away."
She follows him. He ignores her. He makes himself steely. He gets into a crowded elevator. She crams in after him. This is exactly why it has to stop. She has no control, no reason, no logic. She rides up. Paul's tattoo is suddenly itching, burning as though it recognizes danger. He worries what she'll do when they get to his floor. Will she get off when he does? Will she follow him, biting at his heels? Will someone have to call security? Will he have to have her removed like a malignancy? Will she ruin everything?
At the forty-fourth floor the doors open. Paul gets off. She stays on.
"See you later," she says as the elevator doors close.
"Would you like a muffin?" his secretary asks.
Paul stares. He has no idea what she's talking about.
"A breakfast muffin? Corn, blueberry, bran?"
He shakes his head no.
"A doughnut then?"
"I had pancakes," he says, and goes into his office.