Fall and Rise (13 page)

“Like a nice flower, mister?” boy's voice behind me. I turn. Foot shorter, slim, around fourteen, dark-skinned, seems like black hair, olive skin more like it, Mideastern, smiling, insincerely, continuously, tiny chipped front teeth, gypsy could be, seen plenty but much more aggressively and usually choosing to go after a man holding a woman's hand or two men doing the same, holding out to me a carnation and I say “No thanks, just window-shopping.”

“Yes, from me,” and sticks it in my hand, closes my fingers around the stem, “Looks nice,” and I say “Christs, what do I do with you?” and he says “Buy it,” and I say “Maybe just to get rid of you,” and think quarter? two? and he says “A dollar please.”

“A dollar please? Thought you were giving them away at first, though figured pretty quickly once it came back to me what city I was still in that—forget it. I've really nothing against this city. Don't want to make generalizations about it either and no doubt because this city doesn't make it easy to make them, though I knew soon enough I'd have to cough up something to you, but a buck?”

“No, not giving—selling. Beautiful red rose. One no more anywhere like it in the city. True. You shake no but flower is fresh, like new. Smell it.”

“I know what it smells like. And it's a beautiful red carnation—at least one of those in the caryo I think it is family—and not wilted but certainly not new. But okay. Let me smell one again. I can use a big lift.” I sniff. Nothing much. Harder. I smell car and bus exhaust. Even deeper. Trace of burnt coffee from someplace, but didn't May say that was toxic to noxious petrochemical fumes drifting over the ridge and river from New Jersey's gasworks? “Gorgeous. Never smelt a flower that smelt so much like a flower before. Seriously, I've a cold in my nose, but thanks,” and I try giving it back to him.

“No, true. Brand-new. And cost me not a dollar each but close.”

“Come on, kid, what do you take me for? This is my city. I used to shine shoes on these streets when I was half your age, but only in the daytime.”

“So what do you say to me this for?”

“So what am I saying?” He nods. “I'm saying, you work this late, it's not healthy for a kid your age. I'm also saying, up and down Brooklyn's biggest boulevards I went with my wooden shoeshine box my dad made me pay him back for on time payments, so I'm saying I've known the price of things and value of a nickel and dime. So if you paid twenty-five cents, I'm saying finally, for one of these flowers, it was a lot, not that I'm saying anything bad or angry against you, remember that.”

“No, wrong. Ten dollars a dozen to me. Maybe I was cheated, because they tell me where they sell them that Mexico flower fields where they grow are drowned by rain all year. Still, give it to a beautiful lady. Wish her on it. She make you her first mate.”

“Now that's what I'd like, no horsing around there, but not a dollar. Let's say fifty cents, since you sure ain't looking at a pile of money, my friend. And just for the smell and to have held it, because right after I pay I'll give it back for you to sell to someone else.”

“No, you pay for, you keep. That's the fair bargain, so a dollar,” and smiling again he sticks out his hand. Hungarian or Basque or even Berber letters though familiar numbers except for what looks like an upside-down nine are tattooed on his palm.

“What language is that?”

“Of what?” Closes his hand.

“Those letters and numbers mean anything? No harm in telling me. Numbers aren't, except for at the top and bottom of pages, but written words are my business.”

“You want to know?” Opens his palm, presses it over his right eye and closes the left eye. His smile widens. Carious too. Lights flash off them, move. From streetlights, headlights. “They say things only my people know.”

“And what's that and who are they?”

“Plenty.” Presses the same palm against his left eye and closes the right. “Always many different things to many different people on many different times of the nights and days of the years in the ways only we have in our heads of telling, so only we can say. But they go back thousands before the Roman and Etruscan gods, and no two messages in all time to any two people or to the same person the same.” Takes his hand away, right eye stays closed. “You pay for what it will say to you, only one more dollar, and I am allowed to tell.”

“You're not saying what language it is then?”

“I haven't said? Our own. But what people me and my language is from I can only say for that one more dollar, so two.”

“Your people have a poetry?”

“One we talk to only to ourselves and the wise wings of the night and the wolves.”

“You mean real wolves in whatever country you and your language come from, and those wise night-wings are owls?”

“I mean no poetry but what is written into our hands and heads, like everything else in our language. Newspapers. Whole-day tales. You think that funny?” He opens his eye.

“I'm not laughing, I'm listening. This smile's my regular look.”

“So, also my aunt's books for cooking too. In the hand and head. Everything. Some on and on on their arms when these words go on too long. Histories. Travels. Lives. But you pay this hand,” which is out again with the letters and numbers on it, “two dollars, one for your message for which and other the language of what and who they are from.”

“Just for the message.” I give him a dollar. “I think I've memorized enough of the language on your hand to find out which one it is.”

“Never unless I tell you. But fifty cents more for the flower or language and people then. I'll do that now. I want to get home soon.”

“Really, I'm just about broke.” I give the flower to him and he drops it into a shopping bag with other flowers. “It's ruined now, you should pay, but okay. Now for your dollar.” He looks at that palm. “Tonight's November Twenty-something in your language. I know what day of. Friday. By us, a special alone dog day, one where the tail is down and can't wag. But you've how much age?”

“Forty-two. No, I had a birthday, July. -three.”

“And you lived many years here you said since your shoeshine box a half a boy my age ago, even if I guess now and then you moved. Say it's not true.”

“Is true.”

“That's all I must know. Not your father's name, not your mother's.” Closes his eyes, presses that palm to his ear, mumbles, opens his eyes on the palm. “It says for you this night in the city you were once very young in that you will stay young in for a while and will stay here for years and make it to be a big long life for a long time, but for now these next five weeks you will make or one time soon—let me count. One, two, three,” with his eyes closed and opens them on his palm. “Make the one, love, two, lot but not that lot of money, and three, keep the head and body strength you have if you still want it to do what work you like to and do best and succeed. But, it says, you must look and good and hard for all three in these next five weeks and not stop till you find, for they will not come out to look and find you. You know what all that means? I don't so much. I only repeat what I read and now unless you remember it, is gone.”

“That's it?”

“Not enough?”

“No, more than I ever hoped for.”

“For you don't like it, I give your dollar back, because I don't know what else you could wish for. Life forever? That goes for nobody, but if someone like me reads it in his palm for you or says ‘Never sickness,' tell him he lies.”

“Really, it's okay,” when he puts his hand in the pocket he put the dollar in. “I thought you were great.”

“Neh, maybe there's more. I don't want you to be unhappy with me or think I'm lazy and maybe left some for you behind.” Holds his palm up to his nose and shakes it. Puts it to his forehead and closes his eyes and his lashes start fluttering. Makes a fist, opens it, closes it, opens, closes, opens and opens his eyes, lashes stop fluttering, and looks at it. “If anything is hiding in there it needs sometimes to shake it apart or unlock.” Holds his fist to his ear, says “Wait, I hear, it's getting closer—here it is I think,” and looks at his palm. “Yes. And it still says it won't be easy what that message from my hand and head called out to you, but it gives words of advice how to go out and get them and again in numbers of three. One, be not as strong as young teeth, not as weak as old bones, not as quick as quick lips with swift tongues, but someplace inside each of these: easy and hard, fast and slow, throw and catch, the in-between.” He looks up. “That's all I can say. Even for many more dollars from you, because all there was of the message I read. Now I must go. Time is late. I'm not afraid, but sisters and mother who wait up for me are. And you don't want beautiful red flower, others along the way might. Goodnight,” and he picks up the shopping bag and goes. “Night,” and get home safe if home's where you're going, though bet he can handle himself on the street better than I, and take out my notebook to write down the letters and numbers that were on his palm, but have forgotten everything but a reverse S and the upside-down nine.

Uptown. Shoes and socks seem nearly dry. Shoeshine box. Bit of a lie. Went out a number of times with one my father bought originally for the home, though he wasn't against me trying to make some money on the street and I was probably around twelve. Said I had to be home before dark and if I broke any part of the box I had to pay for it and also for the shoeshining supplies. But almost everyone I shined for said I gave a lousy shine and most didn't tip and a few wouldn't pay the dime. Smeared and maybe stained too many socks and skin and cuffs above them with shoe polish and a few men said something like “You know what the cost of a new pair of socks is compared to this stinking shine?” Soon gave up shining with that box except at home for my uncles and parents' friends, though free for my father, and later for myself and my father when he was in bed convalescing or in his wheelchair eating or watching TV and I'd take a few pairs of his shoes out of his closet shoe rack and say “Just doing it because the leather's cracking and for when you'll be up and around wearing them again,” and in front of him also to have something to do in front of him gave them a good shine.

I go over to two attached pay-phones. Receiver of one hangs by its cord below the shelf. Other's on its stirrup and I lift it. Operational tone so so far the phone's fine. I put my dime in and wait for the dial tone. None comes. Dial? Don't. I start to, stop. But what I got at first was probably the dial tone, even if the sign on the phone says to wait for the operational tone before putting a dime in. I punch out the remaining numbers. Man's recorded voice says “Your phone requires a ten-cent deposit before dialing. Please hang up and—” I hang up. Coin's not returned. I press the coin-return lever and coin comes. Other phone? Something tells me the odds are better with this one, and my coin was returned. I try again. Same thing. Same man's voice imparting self-confidence, forbearance, anyone can make a mistake, next time please try to read the instruction plate first, I am a man who makes his living through his diction and believable tone, lever repeatedly, coin comes. I leave the receiver hanging below the shelf, lift the receiver of the other phone and press its stirrup. Dial or operational tone, dime in, dialing dial tone, punch out the numbers to my mother's home. Phone's ringing. Most people I wait a minimum of four rings. My mother, because she might be resting or sleeping or on her breathing machine any time of the day, I usually hang up after the third ring, when she answers with a hello.

“Mom, it's me, how are you? I have to drag you to the phone?”

“Oh, Dan. I was wondering who'd be calling me so late.”

“I shouldn't have, right? But I felt I really owed you a call and I tend to forget—Actually I almost never tend to forget, got a memory like a you-know-what, but thought you might be up because you've said your hours are so erratic. But did I get you out of bed or from any place inconvenient? Because if you hadn't answered after the third ring—”

“It's all right, and good hearing your voice. How are you too? You sound fine. We have no heat you know.”

“Because it's past eleven?”

“Because we never had heat. For two days. On Thanksgiving, imagine?”

“Thanksgiving? Yesterday? Christ—never called to see what you were doing.”

“I went to your cousin Bernard's and Dotty's as I usually do. They again asked if they should invite you but I told them you'd never come. They picked me up and sent me home by hired car.”

“That was very nice of them. How are they?”

“Fine and their kids are wonderful. You eat out last night?”

“Nope. Bought a thick veal steak and a good bottle of bock for the occasion. But your heat.”

“Boiler oil shouldn't run out. Not at the average old age of the tenants in this building. It's the landlord who should run and keep running till we never see him again. I wish it weren't so, but sometimes everything people I don't normally listen to say about landlords turns out to be true.”

“You used to speak very highly about the ones who owned the building before the current guy. Mrs. Innerstein for instance.”

“She lived in the building so went through what we all did, and think she would jeopardize her cats' health? Cats like a hot place. Maybe the expense of oil today would make even Mrs. In greedy. They say it's regulated by computer, the amount of oil the building needs. But either he's draining our tank to heat his buildings till twelve where the apartments go for more, or he's finagled with the oil company to once a month let the oil run out on the two most freezing days it takes to bring in a delivery. But do I sound too caustic and paranoid? I try not to be, it's unhealthy, but occasionally in this building it's impossible not to. Who knows? Maybe this time the landlord has a pardonable excuse.”