Everything Must Go. Elizabeth Flock
hauled her off to some nut hut and her son took over. Anyway, I think about it—” again the visual aid indicates where his thoughts are taking place “—and I think the man’s place isn’t half bad. If you want to know the God’s honest truth, I was thinking that to myself even when I was measuring him—this place is great, I thought. So I let a few days go by, but I’ll tell you in this market you can’t wait too long, things get snapped up. I called the son and voilà!” Henry’s French teacher would have disapproved of the v pronounced as a w. Mr. Beardsley continues, “I’m signing a contract before he’s got all the old guy’s stuff cleared out. I looked around and told him I had half a mind to keep some of it, if it weren’t already spoken for and you know what the son said? Two birds, one stone. That’s what he said to me. Two birds, one stone. Great guy.”
Mr. Beardsley beams. “Soooo,” he says with a monologue-ending stretch, “you never know what a customer’s going to come out with, I’ll tell you what,” he says. “Little did I know that day the woman came in the store I’d end up with a whole new life by the end of it.”
“Two birds, one stone,” Henry says, flush with happiness that the never-ending story has, in fact, ended. “That’s something.”
“Qué peso, Ramon?” Mr. Beardsley calls over to his other guest, unaware that Ramon Rodriguez doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish even if the greeting were correct.
The rooftop door clanks against the brick and Mr. Beardsley’s smile fades. “4-C,” he mutters.
“A-hem,” he loudly clears his throat, a signal Henry recognizes as being a precursor to Mr. Beardsley’s version of anger. “Can we help you?”
“No, thanks,” the woman says, unfurling an oversize beach towel that says “Love is … never having to say you’re sorry” underneath a cherubic cartoon couple holding hands. But before 4-C can grease up an arm with the baby oil she’s pulled out, Mr. Beardsley descends.
“Aah, hold up there. I signed up for roof use a month ago,” he says. “Check the sign-up sheet. I reserved the roof—what was it?—a month ago. Henry, Ramon? When did I first talk to you about the picnic? About a month ago, right? Anyway, you’ll see my name there, clear as day. Ned Beardsley. 14-D.”
“Okay, okay,” 4-C is folding up her towel. “Take it easy. No biggie. I’ll go to the park down the street.” It strikes Henry that 4-C looks like Patty Hearst from the side. Patty-pre-SLA not Tanya, he thinks, noting that 4-C’s breasts are not half as big as Patty Hearst’s.
Mr. Beardsley clears his throat, this time more gently. “Thanks,” he says. “If I hadn’t signed up it wouldn’t be a problem but I signed up and everything …” He trails off, unsure what to say, so unaccustomed to getting his way so easily. He brushes an invisible fly off his short-sleeve madras buttondown Henry knows was remaindered and finally set aside to donate to Goodwill before being rescued by his boss who praised its “classic cut” that would no doubt come back into style once all the hippies grew up and shaved, he said.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Henry asks, eager to walk down with 4-C.
“Sure, sure.” Mr. Beardsley turns from 4-C, grateful for the diversion from the awkwardness. He reaches into his breast pocket and hands Henry a single key. “You know the way, right? Want me to come with you to let you in?”
“No, no.” Henry waves him off and holds the roof door open for 4-C. Richard Marx comes on the radio and once his back’s turned to Mr. Beardsley Henry rolls his eyes theatrically for the sunbather’s benefit.
“Sorry about that,” he says to her once the metal door falls back against the brick.
“No biggie,” she says again, her flip-flops slapping down the stairs. “Is that your family?”
“No!” Henry’s voice seems louder as it echoes in the concrete-and-metal stairwell. “No.” He lowers the volume back to a level that is meant to indicate he’s cool. “He’s my boss. He has this cookout thing every year. It’s like—Jesus. It’s painful. Every year.”
“Here’s your stop.” She smiles, and thumb-points at the hallway entry door with “14” stenciled on it army-style so the lines on the number four don’t exactly meet. “See ya later.”
“Yeah,” Henry says. “See ya.” 4-C’s flip-flops clack down the stairs so quickly she does not notice the deflation of Henry’s shoulders.
Mr. Beardsley’s hallway is dark and smells of disinfectant. The key works so well Henry suspects Mr. Beardsley polishes it and then uses some vacuum attachment to suck any intruders out of the lock. No detail is too small for Mr. Beardsley.
Mr. Beardsley’s apartment, Henry thinks, could be an advertisement for the witness-relocation program, so generic, so devoid of any personal effect. Even the record albums are covered in brown wrapping, like schoolbooks meant to be passed down from one class to another. Ned Beardsley has carefully erased any clues to his personality; any crumb of identifying style has been banished from this clean, airless living area. The furnishings, if not rented, are equally noncommittal. The couch merely serviceable, a place to sit. The overhead light simply existing to eliminate darkness—no mod globes here. Nor are there any trendy macramé hanging plant holders.
In the bathroom, a towel rack across from the sink offers three neatly folded medium-size towels Henry knows Mr. Beardsley positioned with deliberate care should one of his guests have to use his bathroom. Curious, he pulls back the blue-and-white seersucker shower curtain and sees the one thing that he knows gave Mr. Beardsley pause for thought this morning. It is the towel used for the morning’s shower. Since it would have been too wet to put into the hamper lest it mildew or emit a strange smell, Henry could picture his boss struggling with what to do before deciding on spreading it out from end to end on the towel rack. A pragmatic and neat solution. But one that leaves Henry sick. That very morning, after dragging himself numbly out of bed and showering, he too stretched his towel perfectly between ends of the towel rod, even untucking the final inch or so of the right side so every centimeter of towel would air dry evenly.
And so Henry Powell uses the toilet, flushes and leaves the seat up. Just like that. An act of defiance that restores the acids in his stomach and puts a smile on his face that becomes even broader when he emerges into the sunny rooftop where, according to the song on the radio, Brandy is a fine girl (though, sadly, not fine enough for a seaman to marry) and Mr. Beardsley is flipping the flank steak.
“Hey.” Ramon juts his chin out at him.
“Hey,” Henry says. “How’s it going?” He reaches into the cooler for another beer.
“Oh, you know,” Ramon says. Though Henry doesn’t know. He’s never really clicked with Ramon and has attributed this to the fact that they went to rival high schools.
Henry is uncomfortably aware that to Ramon, Henry is another rich white guy who feels working in a retail store beneath him. It’s like a pebble in his shoe; this thought chafes every time he sees Ramon.
“How’d it go with 4-C?” Ramon asks. But not too eagerly. He looks out at the view while Henry tries to decipher Ramon’s sphinx smile.
“I’m too much of a man for her,” Henry says. Fake chuckle.
Ramon nods and chuckles back. But Henry can’t tell if it, too, is disingenuous laughter—one trapped picnic guest to another.
“How’s Melissa?” he asks. Ramon’s wife has managed to be “busy” at every single company picnic.
“Oh, you know,” Ramon says.
Chapter five
1985
Six fifty-nine. Every day it’s the same. The alarm is set to go off at seven but Henry’s eyes blink open at exactly 6:59. Henry Powell has never overslept in his life. Not once. Much to