And Then. Donald Breckenridge
Puerto Rican mother passed by with her black haired boy in tow. The sweet stench of garbage fermenting in the metal cans. The orange tomcat slipped beneath the front wheels of a parked Toyota before crossing the street. It wasn’t even eleven and it was already too hot. The rhythmic alarm of the delivery truck as it slowly backed up. Thunderstorms were forecasted for the afternoon.
I asked the waitress for a chocolate donut and told her I didn’t need a bag. She handed me the donut with a serrated sheet of wax paper folded over it, “That will be ninety cents,” and two napkins. I removed a dollar from my wallet and gave it to her. She rang up my purchase then handed me a dime. When I thanked her she told me to have a nice day. I pocketed the dime, pushed open the door and ate the donut while walking to the corner. I wiped my mouth with the napkins then dropped them and the wax paper into a trashcan before descending the stairs at the subway station entrance.
“Why are you doing this again,” Suzanne cleared her throat before adding, “after promising me you wouldn’t?” Another cold Sunday with intermittent rain all weekend. Brian finally roused Suzanne out of bed and onto the phone, “It just happened,” faint light seeping through the blinds, “but I guess you’ve got,” in the front windows, “every reason to be pissed off,” of the grey tenement across the street. She discovered her Marlboros on the kitchen table, “That you’re fucking up again,” and shuffled across the Linoleum in a thick pair of wool socks, “Or because you’ve been calling all day?” The headline atop the bundle of newspapers piled near the curb Sadat In Jerusalem As Israel Bombs Lebanon was accompanied by grainy black and white images of a cratered city intersection and a burning hospital. “I’m sorry but,” Brian sunk his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, “I haven’t slept in five days.” Steam hissed through the narrow pipe to the left of the window. She removed a cigarette from the pack, “This is exactly,” put it between her lips, “this is exactly what happened,” pulled a match from the book, “we had this conversation,” and struck it twice on the back, “a week ago,” finally lighting the cigarette, “Why are you so afraid of me?” All his doubts about her turned into a sinking feeling of betrayal. “It was more like a month ago … and don’t say that because I know that you know better.” She dropped the match in the glass ashtray, “You promised me that you weren’t doing this anymore,” sat in a chair before exhaling, “and nobody is up here with me.” “I just walked here from Brooklyn,” the army knapsack slung over his right shoulder contained his Nikon, “I don’t want to go home,” and the color photographs of her from Rockaway Beach, “so let me in.”
The skinny young man with the black suitcase and bulging shopping bags paused in front of the building. Tenacity was an eight-letter word for courage. He eyed the number stenciled above the door and set the bags down. The old man on the stoop, “Who are you looking for?” resembled a run-down version of Gene Hackman. “Nobody,” the address inked on his palm was still legible, “but I think I might be in the right place.” His smile exposed three crooked teeth, “There aren’t any nobodies living here,” in an otherwise vacant mouth, “this is the most exclusive building in the neighborhood,” the cigarette planted between two thick fingers was trailing smoke. The suitcase his mother insisted on packing for him had killed his right arm, “I’m staying at professor Avloniti’s place for the summer,” the shopping bags were filled with books, “I’m watching her cat while she’s in Greece.” The old man removed his cap and scratched his forehead, “Which floor?” He pulled a ring of numbered keys out of his pocket, “The fourth.” “That’s Paula,” he examined his nails, “our resident scholar,” before fixing the cap on his head, “Did she tell you about the garbage days?” “No, but she said she was leaving me instruct—” “Monday and Wednesday for regular garbage.” The young man nodded, “Okay.” Taking a final drag off the cigarette, “Friday for recycling,” then exhaling smoke. Another nod, “Okay.” In some past life he was giving orders, “All of your cans and bottles go in that big blue one over there,” now his hand trembled while pointing at the garbage cans, “Bundle up all of your newspapers.” He dropped the cigarette on the step, “Because if you don’t separate your trash,” and crushed it beneath the heel, “I’ll have to do it,” of a paint splattered loafer. One final nod, “Okay.” Softening his tone, “I’m Russell,” while sizing him up, “What’s your name?” With a cautious smile, “I’m Tom.” Resting his palms on his knees, “Have you got a dollar?” Tom reached into his back pocket, “I might,” and removed his wallet. “I’ll pay you back this afternoon,” the promise accompanied a gruff confession, “I’m short for beer.” Handing over the dollar, “That’s okay,” left Tom with a five, “don’t worry about it,” which was all the money he had until his father’s check finally cleared. The bill was folded in half, “Thanks,” and tucked into his shirt pocket, “You need some help?” Tom collected the bags in his left hand, “I got it,” and gripped the suitcase handle with his right, “but thanks,” hoisting everything up the stairs. A shopping bag ripped open—Marx, Engels, Trotsky, The Oxford History of the French Revolution, and volume two of Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks tumbled down the steps. “I knew that was going to happen.” “I’ll keep an eye on these,” Russell gathered up the books, “take the rest upstairs,” and stacked them in a pile, “the front door is unlocked.” Tom shouldered open the door, “Thanks a lot,” unlocked the inner one with the key marked 2, “I’ll be back in a minute,” crossed the darkened lobby then struggled up four flights of stairs.
I was washing the dishes when the phone rang. “Can you get that?” A cigarette was burning between his fingers, “It’s not for me,” another one smoldered in the ashtray. Poker chips, two soft packs of Marlboro 100’s, wallet, magnifying glass, notepad, checkbook, beige coffee mug filled with ballpoint pens, and a worn deck of cards were crowding his end of the table. “Of course it’s for you.” Three chairs with split brown vinyl cushions that leaked powdery chunks of yellow foam all over the floor. “It’s your birthday.” “So?” December sunlight filled the broad row of casement windows in the living room. “Why would they be calling here if it wasn’t for you?” Brown paper grocery bags, empty cigarette cartons, five or six months worth of the Washington Post, beige plastic shopping bags overflowing with the blue plastic bags the Post was delivered in, glossy color circulars for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Labor Day, Back to School, July 4th piled on the floor. He tried sounding resolute, “You get it.” Pizza boxes stacked atop the microwave. My hands were submerged in warm water, “I’m busy.” Blackened chunks of rotten countertop surrounding the sink held puddles of suds. My sister hired a maid service to come and clean his townhouse twice a month but they quit a few years ago. My father got up, “It’s a robot,” and made his way into the kitchen. I turned to him while saying, “You can’t know that until you pick it up.” He was wearing flip flops and tube socks, jeans that were baggy at the knees and stained with urine from the crotch to the waist, an oversized grey cable-knit wool sweater pocked with cigarette burns, long wispy grey beard, an eye patch coated with dried mucus, and a Band-Aid that covered most of the large open sore near his right temple. “Someone is trying to sell me something.” I saw him once and sometimes twice a month during the last few years of his life. “You shouldn’t be getting those calls anymore.” He cleared his throat, “They still call.” I washed the dishes and did his laundry, bought groceries, vacuumed the carpet, and occasionally cleaned the bathroom. “A hundred dollars says it’s not a robot.” Coffee grounds, dropped food, ashes, spilled milk, strands of pasta glued to the splintered linoleum floor. He had a distinctive smokers croak that I still hear while recalling this conversation. “Are you sure?” I would open the window above the kitchen sink to get some air and frequently lingered there—especially in winter. “Absolutely.” The window overlooked a well-tended lawn, clusters of bushes and trees, rows of two-story red brick townhouses constructed during the Second World War, and a park bench at the foot of a towering Sweet Gum tree. A high-rise dominated the skyline while the faint drone of traffic from 395 accompanied the view. Despite his grumbling, “We’ll see about that,” there was no mistaking the anticipation in his voice. He picked up the phone and said hello. I turned off the faucet then dried my hands with a paper towel. He told the caller he had and muttered thanks before hanging up. Tomato sauce was smeared on my elbow. “And?” He walked