What Is All This? (37 page)

This afternoon—

Yes, what this afternoon? What?

Just a second. This afternoon I, uh—let me see; it started like this.

Like what?

Let me think. That's right. I was out walking and—

So what happened when you were out walking?

Give me a chance. I'm telling it. You keep butting in.

Butting in how?

Like that? Like saying “Butting in how?” Like saying “Like what?” Like saying “Yes, uh, what this afternoon? Um, well, tell me, come on, what happened, don't hold it in, what, what, what?”

I don't remember saying the last of those things. The “Like what?” and maybe some of what went before it, I admit to saying, but not that “Um, uh, well, what, what” stuff.

I was exaggerating. For effect. To show how much you butt in. But you don't expect me to remember everything you said all those times you butted in.

No, I don't. That's true. But go on. Where were you? Something about the other day—

This afternoon.

Right. Doing your three-mile daily run.

Walking. I said I was out walking. And I don't run that far anymore. Six miles a week total. Mile a day. Sunday I take off.

How come? You used to do three to six miles a day without taking a single day off.

I'm getting up there in years, man, what do you think?

That shouldn't stop you. Look at those guys who are fifty-five, sixty-five, even seventy-five. The women too. Let's not forget the ladies. One's around eighty. I see her lots of times when I'm in the park. Running. Well: walking-running. Maybe not even that. Maybe only walking fast, if that. But going. Arms pumping. And not walking a little faster than normal just to look at the birdies and trees. She's out there for good healthy exercise, and has the exercise suit to go with it: light blue with a white stripe down the jacket arms and trouser legs, and a sweatband around her forehead. Eighty, if a day.

You want me to go on or not?

About what you were saying before? Sure, why not?

Because suddenly you're telling a story about a running-walking woman in a blue and white exercise suit. Really, who cares?

And who cares about your story, if you want to know?

You did, it seemed. I came home, you said “What'd you do today?” and I started to tell you, and probably would have been finished by now if I didn't have this slight speech problem which—

And what's that, by the way?

My speech problem which enables you to butt in.

I meant, what exactly is this speech problem you say you have?

You're saying you don't know by now?

Would I have asked if I did?

Yes, you would have. To distract me. To butt in again. Because you know what speech problem I have. My problem with speech. I go “Uh, um, what, oh, this afternoon I was, well, uh, walking”—like that.

You're not doing it now. I mean, you were in imitation of yourself, and before that in your exaggeration of me. But just now you spoke clearly, precisely, uninterrupted—by me or yourself—and articulately. Definitely articulately. For example, the way you said “Yes, you would. To distract me. To butt in again. You know what speech problem I have. My problem with speech.” I think those were your words, minus or plus one or two. And amazing how I remembered them, no?

They sound like the words I used. And you're right: I did speak clearly then. But that's my point. Which is—

What?

Will you let me finish without any more “Whats”?

Okay, what? I'm sorry—I mean, what? Damn, I can't help myself. I'll be quiet. I will. So, speak. Go on. Oh, God. I'm really impossible.

You're intentional, not impossible. You were having fun on me, intentionally, or making a joke of me. But something. What were you doing, and why? Don't answer that. Two questions? I'll be here all night. Let me just finish my story. Then, if you wish, we can talk about other things.

Is that what you really want?

Yes.

Then go ahead. Your story. I'll just listen. But let me find a good place to sit first. I don't think I can stand another second. I know I can't. It's been, well—if I say it's been some day, and emphasize the some, you'll know what I mean. That's the kind of day it's been.

I see.

An incredible day. Unbelievable. First I get lip from the chief exec; then, from the one right under him. Then another exec comes in, not as big as the first two, and gives me lip, and all for different things. Three lips in a row and the day isn't even an hour old. That's a record for me. For all I know, maybe a record for all working mankind for the first hour of a working day. Then I get a phone call. Who do you think?

Let me guess.

Ross. Ross wants this, Ross wants that. Ross says I didn't do it right yesterday and to do it right today. Ross lets me have it. Ross, if you want my opinion, is a louse.

If you say so.

I'm definitely saying so and have said it, and not just today have I said it, because not just today has he been a louse. He's almost always a louse. Or close to being almost always a louse as any person could be. Ross, in other words, is an A-1 louse. Then I get another call.

Don't tell me who from.

You're right the first time. Benjamin. Benjamin also with the barbs and complaints. Not as much of a louse as Ross, but he's closing in. In a year or so he'll be solid competition against Ross for louse-of-the-year award. In ten years, the way he's going, and the way I know Ross will stay or even get worse, they'll be the sole competitors for louse-of-the-century award, or at least the decade. Yes, the decade. Louse of the decade. So far, Ross had that prize wrapped up, but Benjamin could give him a run for it. An A-2 louse, Benjamin is, know what I mean?

One and two. Ross is one, Benjamin is two.

Right. A-2 louse. He said to me “Remember last week?” I said “Last week?” He said “Yeah, you know, don't kid me: last week. I wish I could forget last week also,” he said, “forever, because you really cost us, kid, you really did. Don't do it again, damnit—don't,” and he hung up. I'm in big trouble with the company; big, big trouble.

Sounds like it.

Three of the top hotshots and two of their underlings, all down my bed? But that's not even half of it. Or it is half, but there's plenty more. I go out for lunch today and who do you think I see?

Um—

You got it. The one and only. And oh, still so goddamn beautiful. I died when I saw her—a hundred times. She walked right past me. Didn't say hi—not a peep. Didn't say zero or even look at me—nothing.

She must have it in for you.

She hates my guts. It's been how long now?—and it's interesting when you think how different our feelings are for each other. Love and hate. Love and hate. If a cup of hot coffee had been near her, she would have dumped it on me and then hit me over the head with the cup. A mug? Even better, because it would have been heavier. Good thing I was standing by the entrance when she passed, away from any food. Know why she feels this way about me?

No, why?

Because—Haven't I told you before?

Come to think of it—

Because of everything, that's why. Everything I did and she didn't and the other way around. Everything I said and she didn't and the other way around. That last week we had. That last month and maybe that entire last year too. I thought she'd get over it. Well, it's obvious she didn't. What could be more obvious, am I right?

From everything you've said—

So that's lunch. But it's not over. I haven't even sat down yet. We're still waiting for a table, Hesh and I. Then it's our turn, the woman who seats the customers says. Maitre d'? Nah, place isn't fancy enough for that. Hostess or host. She points to our table. We start for it when a waiter comes tearing down the aisle shouting “Hot soup, hot soup.” I don't know about you, but to me that had always meant “I got food of any sort on my tray or in my hands and I'm in a rush because I've too many tables to serve or this one customer's been kvetching like mad that my service is too slow, so let me by fast,” or something like that. Not necessarily hot soup, is what I mean, right? A warning for people to get out of the way. A blinking red light for them to stand back if they're going to cross his path. A verbal word to the wise to “Watch out, I'm barreling through and nothing's going to stop me, so if you get hit it's your own damn fault.” So we step aside. The expression's always meant the same to you, hasn't it?

Sure, I suppose so, though I don't know. Yes.

Of course, yes. Hot soup. What else could it mean? So we've stepped aside, but no, this guy actually has hot soup on his tray, two big bowls of it, not cups, and he trips over his own feet or something, and it goes all over me. Hot soup. Not a drop on Hesh. Just me.

That's terrible.

Scalded—my wrist, my neck, the creep. They had to take me to the hospital.

No
.

No, they didn't. Just wanted to see if you were listening. You were, though I did get a little burn on my hand and greasy noodles and crap on my jacket and shirt. I'm suing the joint. Captain Brey's might have the best lunch in town for the money and a reputation as long as—well, as long as anything; one of the best. But to me, from now on it's just a joint I'm going to sue, and you watch me, buddy, I'm going to win.

Where will you eat lunch now? You go there almost every day.

What does it matter where? Their waiters should be more careful. But that's not all.

There's more.

Would I say “But that's not all” if there wasn't more?

That's what I meant.

Don't tell me.

It's true. You said “But that's not all,” and though I said There's more,” I said it uninterrogatively because I knew there was more. It's just an expression I use. Doesn't mean anything more than that.

Well, there was more. Plenty more. I left that joint with the stained jacket and shirt and also a stained silk tie. I forgot to mention that. My tie was destroyed. I went straight to Tabor's—without having lunch, you understand—and bought a new jacket and shirt and tie and brought the other jacket and shirt—

The dirty jacket and shirt.

The stained, ruined, probably forever-useless jacket and shirt to the cleaner's to see if they could be salvaged. The tie I kept in a bag for future proof against Captain Brey's. Wait till the judge sees that tie when I pull it out of the bag. The stained jacket and shirt I'll have photos of. Someone at Tabor's—the stockboy. It's his hobby, photography—always carries his camera with him—and he took them for a small fee. Buying the jacket, shirt and tie went smoothly enough. Chose the clothes, gave my charge card–easy. I'm wearing them now—what do you think?

Oh, nice, nice.

Cost me a pretty penny, but I'll get it back. But the cleaner's. To make a long story short—to abbreviate it, in other words, because I realize I've been running at the mouth too long, and you're getting to look uncomfortable standing there. Why don't you take a seat?

I like standing.

Someone standing while I'm sitting and talking always gives me the feeling that person's about to run away. Come on, sit down.

No, really, what happened? I'm not tired and I won't run away.

Then your day couldn't have been too rough.

Actually, that's what I was about to tell you when—

Before you go into your story, let me finish mine–especially at the most harrowing part. I was robbed. It's the truth. At the cleaner's. Cleaned out at the cleaner's. Taken to it. You know the expression.

Yes.

Well, I was, and so was the cleaner—Mr. Samet—and so was his tailor, Archie, and his presser, Nat, and his seamstress, or whatever she does with her sewing machine in back. What's her name again?

The woman, around fiftyish, with blond hair?

Redhead. What blond do you think works there?

So I'm a little colorblind. I thought she was a blond.

That's not being colorblind; you can't see. Her red hair is a light red, yes—almost orange—but several shades away from being blond. Anyway, we were all robbed. Hesh, the lucky stiff, walked me part of the way there and then ducked into a luncheonette to eat. Two hoods came into the shop with guns out and emptied the cash register and took everything we had. Wallets, pocketbook, watches, rings, change—even my new fountain pen. The one Lillian gave me.

The one for your birthday?

That one. A hundred dollars it cost her, she said.

She told you the price?

I asked her. When she gave it. I wanted to know how valuable it was, just so I'd take better care of it.

A lot of money for a pen.

Did you ever see the way it wrote? And it never leaked. I wanted to have that pen for life. I'm so mad.

I can see why. It's been quite a day.

But I'm not even finished with it. See what I mean about it being unbelievable? I went back to work penniless, though they did leave me my keys. I thought of calling you to come over to bring me money to get home, but one of the women at work loaned me a twenty. But the cabby couldn't break it—wouldn't, is more like it—nor would he let me out of the cab in front here till someone walked by who'd be able to break it. I didn't want to fool with him. He was insane. Wouldn't listen to reason. Ranted, raged—I thought he was going to kill me. Tell me, how does a man like that get a hack license?

I suppose the Taxi Commission doesn't give them the tests they used to years back—police checks, things like that. I hope you got his number.

I got it, all right, but think I'm going to use it? He said he had a club and I wasn't to leave the cab till someone—but I told you that. I even told him, keep the twenty, but he wouldn't hear of it—said that would be as if he'd robbed me. No, I don't want him coming around and clubbing my head if I pressed charges against him. He was an A-1 psychopath. All I eventually told him was “Anything you say, sir, anything.”