“It’s innocent. It’s getting late and I thought you might like something to drink and maybe to talk. I would.”
“You’ve got other things on your mind, I can tell. And I’m busy. I still have to meet all the people in your building and now I’ve something great to read and rub against my face while I wait. I already met one printer and writer and a restaurant manager who’s also a film producer and Mrs. Balin who was a dancer and actress. Did you know that?”
“She once showed me her programs.”
“Danced in the Scandals she said. When was that? When you were a boy?”
“Way before.”
“Well she says there’s nothing but real cool tenants in this building. Some younger dancers also, women, and a handsome young man who looks like a leading film star of today with a big white dog. I love dogs. She said ‘hound,’ And I can tell from the ferns hanging in the third floor windows that young people live there too. The wall colors on the second floor also. One long one a bright orange, the rest an electric blue. No older person would do that.”
“Last chance to accompany me.”
“And last to give me a hundredten votes. You can afford two beers, why not a magazine? Soul over the mind, Will.”
“I’m sorry, Denise.” I touch her head with my hand.
“I’m from Ohio, you know. Think I should light up a joint?”
“Not for me.”
“I meant for myself. Is it safe here like this from the law?”
“If they come it’ll be by patrol car, so I don’t think they’ll see you. But that’s your business.”
“I think I will. It’s been a long day without one and the aroma will knock a lot of the good people out of their rooms to see what’s cooking. I’m only kidding. But I want to meet all your neighbors if they went in before when I was phoning down the street, or if they never left the building since I started to stay here tonight.”
“Then I’ll see you.”
“Last last chance.”
I wave, take a short walk, have a quick beer, walk at a good clip back to my building, hoping Denise is still there. It’s fairly late. She might have no place to stay tonight or be too far away from it to want to take the bus or train. I don’t care about the consequences. I’ll tell her I spent the few dollars I had on me drinking and the money for the subscription I’ll take is upstairs. She’ll come. I’ll get her to stay. She’ll probably even want to and be thinking about it when she walks with me upstairs. She’s not there.
“Say Will, hold it a second,” Ed says, getting off the same parked car. “Who was that young lady you sent over to sell me books before and vote for her for president or something?”
“Magazines. I thought you might be interested. She was pretty weird, huh?”
“Magazines were they? I thought books. And I don’t know if she was that weird. Times are tough. People are doing anything and working all hours for extra change. In fact, she was kind of a cute kid, physically, with a nice shape and personality. Sparkling. She would have happily bounced down the street to buy me a newspaper if I didn’t insist no. I like kids that way and helpful when most seem so out of it and depressed. Though she had a line all right. Glib. She could have sold me anything if I’d had the dough. And when I came back here and sat on that car, what do you think but she was still on the steps but with a young man now and then went across the street with him to his building while I did my best not to look. I’d say they sold themselves on each other, wouldn’t you?”
“Actually, she was kind of nice in many of the ways you said. But how you doing tonight?”
“Me? Great. Had a fantastic sandwich before at Philly Mignon. Boy, you should have seen all the sliced steak they put on it for two bucks — a meal and a half for me.”
“Glad you can still chew it. See you, Ed.”
“Chew it? Funny guy. That’s not nice. You’ll be losing all your teeth yet yourself.”
Will as a Boy
My father walks down the hall. My father stands by the door. He looks at me from the door. He’s standing with one foot on the threshhold, other just a little inside the room. I’m in bed, sick, not that sick, not sick to death, not sick with an illness that’ll take a couple of months to recuperate from, that’ll even take a month. That’s what they tell me. I’ll be up in a week, at the most two. Altogether that’ll make three. Can I believe them? I want to. I do. In a week, most two. I’m sick though, sick enough not to go to school. To be excused from school. To have my lessons brought home from school. Sick enough not to do them too.
My father’s holding the doorjamb with one hand. With the other he waves. Smiles. I’m sitting up against two pillows, knees raised about level with my neck. I’ve a metal car half the size of my hand. I’ve played with it so much for two years that it could use a new paint job. It’s parked beside me on the bed. I parked it after driving it around on the bed, up and down my covered legs, around my knees, made it jump from one knee to the other, do a few aerial stunts and then land on my chest. Sometimes I let it tide all the way down my thighs by itself. A few times when I did that its ride down was smooth. Most times it rolled over and over as if in a bad crash. Sometimes when I steered it down I rolled it over in a crash. I made noises for the car. R-r-rrr. Crash, bang, boom-m-m. So what am I saying, trying to say? Will as a boy. Father by the door. Hand on the jamb. Smiles, waves, keeps smiling, no longer waves. “So how’s my little Juney-boy today?” he says.
“Fine.”
“Sure you’re fine. You’re always fine. You should change your name to Fine. Will Fine. I bet Will Fine says he’s fine next time I ask.” I laugh. “That a boy. Will really must be fine even if he isn’t a Fine if he can laugh like that. Hey, I can’t come in the room because the doctor says not to. He told your mother you still might be contagious, know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“Though something you’ll be getting over pretty soon.”
“I know.”
“You know everything. So why am I telling you? Your mother’s allowed to come in because she’s nursing you. Oh heck, I won’t get sick — I’m coming in.”
He comes in. He gets about two feet from me when he stops. “I don’t feel faint yet, so how contagious can you be?” Lamp on the night table’s on. Only light on. My father has a tie on, stain in the middle a little below the tie clasp. Has a suit on. He’s just come from his office. He usually gets home around this time. Sometimes when he’s about to close up someone will come in to get a tooth fixed fast. Sometimes on his way home he drops off work at the dental lab so he can have it first thing the next day. I heard my mother say this morning “How can you go out of the house with a tie stained like that?” and he said “I’m only going back and forth on the subway. The jacket and coat cover it. In the office I wear my smock.” “At least wear the clasp over it,” and he said “I don’t fasten the clasp that low.” “Well this time maybe you should try to,” and he said “Don’t worry. I haven’t brought shame to the family yet and I doubt I will with a single gravy stain.”
It’s dark outside. It’s nearly winter and around six o’clock. I’m in the boys’ room. It has a double decker bed and a single bed. My oldest brother, Robert, sleeps in the single bed. He’s five years older than I. My other brother Peter is three years older than I and sleeps on the top bunk of the doubledecker. He doesn’t have to. He could sleep in the lower bunk, where I sleep, but he wants to sleep on top. He could have his choice because he’s older. He can’t sleep in the single bed so long as Robert wants to. That’s the way it works in this family. But both my brothers for the last three days have been sleeping in the living room on mattresses pulled off their beds. Because I might be contagious, which today the doctor who saw me here said I still might be but he’s a little less sure. I think I got that clear. So my father’s in the room. Clear about who sleeps where, why my brothers aren’t sleeping in the boys’ room. Just two feet away from me, taking chances with his health. He says “I wish I could give you a big kiss hello, but I was told not to. Your mother said Doctor Aronoff told her to tell me not to. Oh heck, if I didn’t faint when I came in here, I won’t when I kiss you, and besides, I’m as healthy as a horse,” and he gets down on one knee, puts out his arms. I look at him. “Well come on,” and he shakes his arms.