Ed Henry
the walls, like
thunder
came closing in
Ed tried cupping his ears, burying his head in his pillow, but nothing worked. In a fit of misdirected anger he pushed Maxine's fat ass back to her side of the bed. Finally, he managed to get some sleep.
He dreamt he was stuck in a room not much bigger than himself. The air was stuffy and the walls were blocks of rough, unfinished concrete. They kept getting closer, and soon he couldn't move at all. A human sardine, pickled and soft.
Grrrrrrrunk.
Rat. Ratatatatatatatatat.
Now the madness was really beginning. Was someone breaking in from the outside? Was someone tearing down the walls? Who will save me? Who could it be?
Ratatatatatatatatat. Tat.
It was getting closer, that terrible mechanical thunder. The walls were shaking, he was trembling. What could be on the outside? He imagined sunshine and endless fields of grass and mud and air pregnant with life.
Rat. Tat. Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatat.
Rat.
“Hey. Check that out.”
“Aw yeah.”
“Heeeeyyyyy! Heeeeyyyyy! God I love you baby!”
“Yeah! Yeah!”
“Heeeeyyyyy! Heeeeyyyyyy! You are fine baby. Ahhhh what I can do widdat!”
“Look man. She's leaving.”
“Heeeeyyyy! Don't leave me baby! I love you! Damn. Did you see that body?”
“Damn.”
Rat. Ratatatatatatatatatat.
His nightmare moved on to more familiar settings. For a moment he was hanging out with a couple of the boys from work, over at the Charleston Club, a seedy dive downtown. Sharky and Angry Steve were getting loaded and harassing the barmaid again. Ed was next to them and alone. It wouldn't be long until they were asked to leave and he'd have to walk with the two of them to their hotel. There they would drink some more - straight from the plastic bottle, sometimes mixed with a little juice, sometimes not. Then, Ratatatatat , and he was back in the concrete room, then, RATATATATAT , and he was back in his room, the room of his waking life, with Maxine grunting and sweating profusely in her sleep beside him. He jabbed his feet into his lopsided slippers, threw on his fuzzy blue bathrobe, grabbed a set of keys from the coffee table, and left the apartment. He walked down three flights of stairs, his mind feebly trying to catch up with his body. When he opened the door and stood outside under the tattered awning his mind and body were one again.
Ratatatatatatatatatat.
He felt a migraine coming on.
Rat. Ratat. Ratatatatatatatatat.
He walked to the right, to the corner where his building met the intersection of Leavenworth and O'Farrell, and looked downhill. The culprits stood in a shallow ditch about five feet away from the curb, about halfway down the block. They were resting on their jackhammers and had earmuffs around their necks. They saw a raggedy man approach from the top of the hill: blue fuzzy robe, stringy long hair, gaunt life-worn face and all.
“Check that dude out. Looks like he's comin' over here.”
“Sure does.”
“Let me handle this. This guy looks sketchy.”
Ed walked to an invisible line drawn between two orange pylons. He stood there and looked at the two sun burnt racket-makers in their orange utility outfits. The workers stood their respective grounds and stared back at him.
“It's Sunday for fuck's sake! Where's your humanity? Don't you ever stop? Isn't this illegal?”
“What?”
“Don't you think you're making enough noise with your goddamn hammers?”
“Can't hear a word you're saying, mister.”
Ed cupped his hands around his mouth and projected at the two workers:
“What are you doing?”
One of the men got out of the ditch, took his hardhat off, and bounded towards Ed. He stood on his side of the imaginary line and looked down on him.
“WHAT?”
“Dude. You're right in front of me!”
“Look, man. We don't have all day here.”
“I want to know why, on a Sunday morning, when everybody is trying to get some sleep, one of the only days we can get any sleep, you have to make that horrible racket in the streets.”
The worker cocked his head to one side, then the other, then rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at an overcast sky.
“Dave!” he yelled, turning towards his co-worker. “Turn around and show Mr Neighborhood Watchman the back of your jacket.”
His co-worker back in the ditch turned around, just long enough for Ed to be able to read in blocky black letters: Big City Telephone. Ed was still in the dark. He looked up at the worker who was impatiently tapping his hardhat. He just nodded and had that smug I told you so look on his face. Ed couldn't stand people like this. Mindless robots. Cogs in the machine. Arbeit macht frei.
“Yeah, so what. I don't give a fuck about Big City Telephone. I just want some rest!”
The worker leaned over his side of the imaginary line, and with a big, false smile said, “What are you? Stupid or something? Don't you read the notices? Don't you read the newspapers? BCT is putting in fiber-optic cables.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“That means, dumb-ass, optimization and efficiency. Broadband . Fucking internet, bro. Digital technology. What are you? Living in a cave or something?”
“I don't give a flying fuck for fiber-optic digital cables. It's Sunday. Some people still consider it a day of REST.”
The worker stepped over the imaginary line and Ed backed up a few steps, his ratty robe flapping in a breeze.
“I don't like your tone of voice, neighbor. We're behind schedule and the company sent us here to install a router. If you got a problem with that you can call them yourself. Now back off or I'll take this hammer to your head!”
He faked a jab and Ed jumped back. He sniggered along with his co-worker, then walked back and joined him in the ditch. They put their hard hats on, then their ear and eye protection, and positioned their tools. Ed watched dejectedly from his spot uphill.
Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatatatat.
Tatatatatatatatatatat. Rat.
He couldn't believe it, fiber-optic cables. Fucking Big City Telephone. He leaned up against a monkey shit brown Honda with chrome rims.
Oweeeeeeoweeeeeeeoweeeeeeeeoweeeeeeee.
He bounced off the car like it was electric. Goddamn car alarms! The two workers pounded away into the open wound.
Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatat.
Oweeeeeeoweeeeeeeoweeeeeeeeoweeeeeeee.
Goddamn car alarms! Goddamn fiber-optic cables! Ed stuffed his hands into his pockets and dragged himself back up hill. He walked across the street to the Palestinian market and approached the deli counter in the back. He asked for a cup of coffee and the cashier grabbed a stained jug from a hotplate and poured it into a styrofoam cup. At that moment it hit Ed that he had left all his change upstairs.
“Hey man. Shit. I left my money upstairs. Can you... hey man don't do that.”
The cashier went and poured the coffee out into the sink.
“You just wasted that coffee!”
The cashier crumpled up the cup and tossed it at a trashcan. It feathered down and rested on top of some more plastic debris. Pathetic .
“I come in here all the time. I live across the street. You know me. Can't you cut me some slack!”
“Sorry buddy. I do this today, and tomorrow you come back and do the same thing. We have rules.”
“Fuck rules!”
Ed walked out to the street, those gray skies peeking through the buildings, the symphony of jackhammers, and cursed the modern age. Then he crossed the street and entered his big white building.
§
Big City Telephone. Big City Telephone. Fuckin' Big City Telephone. Just have to ruin my one day of rest. Ed made a mental note to himself to call them as he climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He also made a mental note to talk to the building manager about finally fixing the elevators. Three months now, taking these stairs, and Maxine's ass wasn't getting any smaller, that's for sure. Nothing ever works around here. Modern convenience just leaves you stranded with shreds of hope. It is all propaganda. Nothing is as it seems. We are big fat gullible children. Eat it all up.
As he took the stairs to the third floor - overcome by an apocalyptic mood, his head drooping - a kid carrying a large duffel bag bustled by him. It was his neighbor's boyfriend, Rick.
“ Yoooo, Ed my man! ”
Rick took the third flight down in three bounds, his dread locks bouncing all over the place. He disappeared around the next bend of stairs without waiting for Ed's reply. Ed walked down the corridor to his apartment and stuck his key in his door. He was turning it when he heard a muffled sound. It sounded like someone crying. He slowly pulled the key out and waited in the corridor's silence. It wasn't coming from his apartment. It wasn't Maxine. It was very near, however. In a moment it started up again and he tip-toed a couple steps further down the corridor and pinpointed the source of the sound. It was coming from his neighbor's apartment. He knocked lightly on the door. A voice sobbed through it:
“ Who is it? ”
“Sara? Is that you? It's me, Ed. Your neighbor.”
He heard some shuffling inside, then some light footsteps approaching. The door opened about half a foot and Ed nudged it the rest of the way open. The apartment had the pungent smell of smoke and empty beer bottles. Clothes and furniture were strewn about, and the mirror in the hallway was cracked in the middle. He padded further in and saw Sara on her couch sobbing with her head face down in some cushions. He walked back to the door, stepping over some broken records, and shut it. Then he walked back in, approached her, and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
“ Hey. What's up? What happened here? ”
She looked up at him, her face wet with tears. Last night's mascara was smeared around her eyes. She's a pretty girl. Even with all those piercings in her nose and lip. Even with her insomniac's complexion. Behind it all is a pretty girl named Sara , he thought.
She tried to push her mop of dyed-black hair back to get a better look at him, but before she could, Ed took her right hand.
“Damn! So you must have done that to the mirror in the hallway.”
Ed went to the kitchen and found a clean rag and brought it back to her. She held out her hand and he wrapped it around her gashed knuckles.
“There. You know, I don't want to act like a schoolmarm or anything, but you really should wash that cut out and bandage it as soon as possible.”
She reached out and pulled him closer, hugging him. Then she shifted to the side and made room for him on the couch. He sat down and smiled at her.
“Thank you so much for coming, Ed.”
“I just heard you crying and I did what any normal person would do.”
She looked at him, a weak smile spreading across her face. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, messing up her mascara even more. He liked the way she looked in this moment: puffy cheeks, rosy nose, both from her long sobs, and her imperfect hair and runny make up - all on such a young, fresh face. The irony attracted Ed. She was a blank slate that someone had scribbled on, messed up a bit. He felt vulgar just talking to her. Like a dirty old man. Me, Ed. Husband of Maxine. Messenger. Drunk. Continuing, he said:
“I ran into Rick. He seemed to be in a hurry. Does this have anything to do with him?”
“I made him leave. I'm sick of his bullshit and his lies.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday he took off with my computer and was gone all day. I called around for him... all his friends, even his dealer. I eventually went out and walked around, in a hopeless attempt to just bump into him. I was furious... walking up and down the streets, taking this bus and that. Then I came back here and waited for the son of a bitch. When he finally got back I found out that he had pawned it off and used the money to buy tweak and some records. Tweak! And some more fucking records! No one even hires him for gigs anymore, he's so strung out. God! What'll I tell my parents?”
“This has nothing to do with them.”
“No. You don't understand. They gave me that computer for my school work. I never go anyway. But I was working on some papers and now it's all gone. For some fucking tweak. He never tells me about anything.”
“And now you're stuck here, no computer, and... how you gonna get by? Did he take anything else? Do you need any help? I'm sure I could scrape up some money if you need it.”
“Oh you're a sweetheart, Ed. But my parents'll send me money. They pay the rent, everything... I'm just supposed to go to school.”
Ed just nodded and tried to think of more comforting words.
“You know what I like about you Ed?” She had a droll, bird-like expression in her eyes, as if Ed were a worm rising out of a dewy field. She decided not to pluck him out, not just yet. “You. I just like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean the way you are. Your presence. Your look. So non-threatening. Just a guy. I bet you have a hard time making people take you seriously.”
“I guess that's a compliment. Thanks.”
“It's true. You're the guy next door. Perfect!”
Her face was dry again and her eyes were bright. Her improved mood radiated over Ed. Whatever he had done, it worked.
“There isn't anybody else I would've wanted to talk to right now.”
Ed watched her mouth as she talked, losing himself in its different shapes. He realized it was his turn to say something.
“Ummm. I got something for you. Just a little something... to help you out right now.”
He got up and hurried out of her apartment. When he got inside his apartment he went to some cupboards near the kitchen. He cleared away some loose-leaf papers and found what he was looking for. Maxine called out from the bedroom:
“Ed? What are you doing?”
“ Just a minute Maxie. I'll be right back.”
He hurried back out of his apartment and stopped to collect himself in front of Sara's door. He entered, placed a case on the coffee table in front of her, and opened its lid.
“Wow. That's cool,” she said.
“It's been sitting on my shelf for some time now. I used it back when I was your age. Wrote a couple things with it, never got further than that. The ribbon might need replacing, but otherwise it's a good machine. Don't make'em like that anymore.”
“It's great! It's a relic. Just like the movies.”
Sara got up and rummaged through a pile of clothes in the corner. Underneath it all she found a piece of paper.
“This was for my computer. Here, let's try the other side. It's blank.”
She rolled the paper in and pressed a key.
“Guess you don't need a new ribbon,” she said, indicating the inky impression. Then she placed both hands in position and began typing, slowly and deliberately. She sat back and smiled at Ed.
“That's really nice of you.”
She got up and pecked him on the cheek.
“Go on. Read it.”
“What?”
“ The paper , dummy.”
He rolled the paper out and read it. It was poetry of some sort.
Empty people
Empty streets
Nobody understands the
girl in the black dress...
Ed didn't know what to say. It was downright silly. But she's young, just a kid...
“Not that side. What I just wrote... on the other side.”
Ed turned it around and scanned down the page. In the middle it read:
make mad love to me ed.
He shook his head, no this couldn't be , and read the line again.
made my day ed.
Then, a few spaces further down, it read: you rock!
Ed grinned at Sara; he found her childish expressions amusing. Could she ever see something in him? Take me seriously?, he asked himself. He felt it was time to excuse himself.
“Look. I gotta go. Maxine was calling me. You know. Got some stuff to do around the house.”
He walked back to his apartment. Back to Maxine. My Maxine. My nagging Maxine. My, poor neglected Maxine. My big big Maxine.
§
Ed walked downhill a couple blocks to his old pickup truck. On the way he walked around several obstacle courses of stolen junk laid out by crackhead vendors. Up ahead at a corner he saw it. He got in and it started up right away. At least this old thing is reliable. He drove to Golden Gate street and took that down and crossed Market street, humming along with a transistor radio he had glued to his dashboard. It was a sweet song about love. Then the DJ announced in a shrill, piercing voice that it was from the greatest movie of all time, Titanic . Ed had never heard of it.
He parked illegally and ran into Larry's Messengers' dispatch office. Things were already at full speed. On the shelf, behind Raul the dispatcher, he saw his slot, full and ready to go. Raul had a Mexican station playing on the radio and was jigging along with it. He winked at Ed and handed him his first batch of deliveries for the day: three heavy cardboard rolls and a package wrapped in brown paper. “Para ti, Sr. Ed.”
“Muchas gracias, Raul.”
Raul went back to his dancing, shaking his hips, clapping his hands and singing, “Ay ay ay ay. Canta y no llores!”
The lesson was lost on Ed.
He lugged the packages to his pickup and placed them in the back. Then he got in and drove off - to the internet start-ups and the architects and the bankers...
Stopped the car. Parked illegally.
Ran in.
Got looks . Who is that filthy man? Oh, the messenger.
Da da da. Signed name.
See you later.
Uh huh.
Dashed out.
Slam.
Off again. Address? Checked the guide. Off.
Stuck. Traffic. Turned radio on. Nothing. All the same shit. Turned it off.
I'm here.
Ran in.
Didn't get looks. Hip, minimalist design. Busy young people. Fancy eyewear.
Excuse me.
Got looks. Who is that filthy man? Oh, the messenger.
Whack. Snatch.
Sign here. OK. Thanks. See you later.
Uh huh.
Off again.
Checked address. It was close. I'm here.
Entered.
May I help you?
Lifted big brown package. Cute receptionist with foreign accent got up, took package. Ed watched her breasts through her tight Bebe shirt. Noticed that they pushed against the gold print, actually changing the shape of the lettering. Lost concentration. She is a marvel...
Yes?
Oh, yeah. Sign here.
Signed.
See you later.
Uh huh.
Ran out.
Drove off. Saw roach coach. Stopped. Got coffee.
Off.
Less traffic. Turned radio on. Rolled dial. Guitar solo. Boston, More Than A Feeling. Turned it up.
Arrived.
Big, airy office. Got looks. Must be the messenger.
Handed roll over.
Little late.
Traffic.
Uh huh.
Sign here. Thanks. See you later.
Uh huh.
Off again...
Nine hours later, when Ed had finished his last delivery for the day, he drove back to Mission Street, next to Larry's Messengers, parked in an alley, and walked to the Charleston Club. Damn, do I need a drink. He saw Sharky and Angry Steve's bicycles parked out front already. He couldn't understand how they could drink themselves into the ground every night, then wake up the next morning and ride their bikes all around the city delivering packages. It was a superhuman feat as far as Ed was concerned. He found them just where he expected, in their usual stools, right near the entrance. They were already into their second beers. Ed took a seat next to them and ordered a beer from the geriatric Barbie behind the counter.
“Hey,” said Ed.
“Hey,” they replied in unison.
“Monday.”
“That it is.”
Sharky and Angry Steve were exhausted and obviously in no mood to talk. Ed knew the routine well. He would wait it out until the fourth or fifth round. Then they would come around. Brought down by the prospect of four more workdays they sipped sullenly on their beers and shots: the one-dollar special of rotgut liquor that was the fame of the Charleston Club for blocks around. Ed stayed away from the one-dollar special and stayed strictly with the beer. He'd taken the one-dollar express train straight out of his stomach one too many times. Sharky and Angry Steve were better, more resilient men then he.
The usual gang of barflies started drifting in towards eight and the scene picked up. Sharky and Angry Steve were on their fifth one-dollar special and were lustier and happier for it too. Sharky watched the geriatric Barbie at the end of the bar lashing tongues with her new boyfriend, a sleazy looking guy dressed in a business suit. His wrists flashed gold and his slicked back hair gave off a complementing sheen. He reminded Ed of Rocky LaDuke, his blood-sucking landlord.
“Man, I'd like to get me a piece of that,” said Sharky.
Angry Steve shook his head in a liquor-driven wonder and joined in. “She ain't bad at all man. Look at that ass! ”
Ed didn't quite agree, but decided to join in anyway. “Lookin' better every beer.”
“Got that straight,” said Sharky.
Angry Steve nudged his fellow bike messenger on the arm and said, “You know what Sharky? Maybe you should make your move tonight. ‘Me' and Ed'll take out her new boyfriend. A couple smacks'll set him straight. Right Ed?”
“Sure. All right.”
Ed played along only because he knew Angry Steve rarely backed up his belligerent words with action. Angry Steve shook his fist.
“Our man Sharky got first dibs on her. Our man Sharky!”
The Barbie and her boyfriend looked at the three worn down men at the end of the bar. They sniggered and resumed their tongue duel.
“ She's got a name, man. It's Lucy,” said Sharky.
“Loose – eee. Fits her perfect,” shot back Angry Steve.
“It don't matter man. Says she don't go out with guys like me. Not enough class.”
“What? The audacity.”
Angry Steve was getting angrier. Ed sighed. Honestly, sometimes it's like I'm on a bad TV show…
“She says that Sharky is a gangster's name and that she's through dating roughnecks. That was back in the day.”
“The fool! You couldn't even hurt a fly. Sharky, a gangster. Ha!”
“Hey man. Watch it,” said Sharky, somewhat hurt by Angry Steve's chip at his masculinity. He stood up and puffed out his chest.
“C'mon man. C'mon!”
“All right! Let's roll!” yelled Angry Steve. He got up and they faced each other, chests puffed out for a tense second while the Barbie and her sleazy friend watched in mild amusement from the end of the bar. Ed calmly sipped on his beer wondering how much of his life he was missing by hanging out with these two characters. Sharky was extremely tall and bony with bucked out teeth. Angry Steve was small and round and so red he looked as if he were about to burst. The two of them were the odd couple all right. Ed was medium, right in-between. He always felt like he was making cameo appearances on their rejected sitcom. Good guys, though. Deep down, they're all right. The brief showdown ended with a couple friendly slaps on the back, and the two of them took their stools once again. Ed decided to change the topic.
“What kind of name is Sharky anyway?”
“What do you mean? That's what everybody calls me. And besides, you've known me all these years and you decide to ask me now?”
“Don't know. Never thought about it. But I mean, that's not a normal name and all. Nobody calls their kid Sharky.”
“Shit man, it's a long story. It was way back when I split up with Juanita... shit... about eight years ago.”
“And he hasn't gotten laid since.” interjected Angry Steve.
“Shut up man. You ain't no Casanova either.”
“He's just embarrassed about it. That's what it is,” said Angry Steve.
“Why're you embarrassed about it? Everybody goes through their low periods,” said Ed.
Angry Steve laughed and said, “ It's not that, Ed. It's on account of HEMORRHOIDS.”
“Why don't you say that a little louder,” quipped Sharky. Then he stared gloomily at his empty one-dollar special.
“Hemorrhoids? What do hemorrhoids have to do with it?” asked Ed.
“Go on man. Tell him, or I will!” said Angry Steve.
“All right. All right. But you owe me a round.”
“Comin' up,” said Steve, signaling the barmaid. Then Sharky spilled out the history of his moniker:
“Well, as I said, it was when I broke up with Juanita, who, despite her terrible temper, was a great cook... man could she cook up a mean chicken mole... chicken this, chicken that... it was great man ... I blew it big time with her... anyway, she kicked me out of the house on account of jealousy, completely unjustifiable, but there it was, because of jealousy... I mean, a man has his needs right? Damn did I blow it... she smelled it all over me as soon as I got home that night... anyway, I'm out of the apartment, got my few things, and renting out a room in the Golden Eagle up in North Beach... you know, just tryin' to get by, gettin' over my depression... so I'm living the single life again, eatin' real bad... hamburgers and hotdogs and fries and Philly cheese steaks and pizza and beer everyday for a few months, and I'm pretty sure that's what caused it...”
“Your hemorrhoids,” added Angry Steve.
“Yeah. On account of my terrible diet. Man my ass hurt so bad, and that was when I was first workin' for Larry's, you know doin' the bike thing... anyway, you know, my ass was really inflamed and causing me a lot of pain and the last thing I'm gonna do is ride a bike around all day... I mean, that's just plain stupid and outright masochistic to do that to your ass if you got a bad case of ‘roids, you know, with the seat rubbin' up and down on your ass... but I needed the money, and it was the only thing I had available so I had to stick it out...”
“So what did you do?” asked Ed.
“Oh I stayed on, man. I stayed on. I was clever about it... the solution was real simple... I just took off my bike seat so I was forced to stand up, you know, just like I do now, sort of became my trademark... the standing up bit, that is... so I was riding around for a month like that, standing up, my ass burning like a motherfucker, delivering packages...”
“And this is where the name comes in,” interjected Angry Steve.
“So the other messengers were always asking me why I'm riding around standing up like that, and I told them because I like it... that's all... just because I liked it , and that seemed good enough for them... and, you know what, man? I started to dig riding around all high like that, bein' able to look over cars and stuff... and then one day, after a few weeks, a messenger, just a random messenger, can't even remember his name, said to me... Man, I can spot you a few blocks away through any kind of traffic , on account of me standing up, that is, then he said, Yeah man. You're like a shark. A shark swimming in a sea of cars! And so the name stuck... I was nicknamed The Shark, on account of my head looking like a shark fin as I rode through traffic... for artistic purposes I started introducing myself as Sharky because I felt it had a nicer ring... I mean, you can't go around introducing yourself as The Shark ‘cause you might scare people off, especially women, and now why the hell you gonna do that?”
“Man, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” said Ed.
“Shut up,” snapped Sharky.
“But it's true, every single word of it. I met him when he was still just The Shark,” said Angry Steve.
“Yup.”
“Damn. You guys are too much,” said Ed. “GREAT story though. Nice character development. Next round's on me.”
He got them their one-dollar specials and himself a draft beer. He slammed it, then got up and said, “Boys, I'm headin' out early tonight.”
With that he walked out. The streets were swollen with urban zombies and everything was buzzing with tension. He decided to leave his car where it was and walk to work the next morning. It wasn't that far away anyway. He walked uphill to his place. The hookers and the pimps and the johns were out in force. He stopped at the Palestinian market and bought a pack of cigarettes before going up to his apartment.
§
It was dark and quiet except for the dripping sink in the kitchen. Maxine must be over at a friend's place , he thought, though he couldn't think of who that might be. She rarely left the apartment anymore. Maybe that strange woman down the hall with the deformed cats . It didn't matter to Ed anyway. He enjoyed the privacy that her absence provided him. It was truly a luxurious moment. Ed alone in his apartment, with no one to bother him: no nagging, no dispatches, no Sharky and Angry Steve, no nothing. One thing did preoccupy him however, and that was his dinner. Maxine always had something prepared for him when he got home, and her absence in this respect worried him. He flipped on the light in the hallway and walked to the kitchen. On the counter she had left a plate of mashed potatoes next to a strip of steak. Relieved, he rammed it into the microwave and waited a couple minutes while it heated up. He grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and popped it. Beep went the microwave and he took his dish out, holding it by the rim to avoid getting burned, and walked to the sofa. He sat down and ate his meal fast. It was standard Maxine fare so he didn't give it a second thought. Left him satisfied, though. He burped and noticed a pile of mail on the table. On top was an opened, official looking letter. More bills. He took it and sunk back into his sofa. The letter was impersonal - written using the language of business and death notices. The language of cowards. Ed eventually recognized the words:
irregularities...
past due...
regret to inform you...
30 days...
He couldn't believe it. An eviction notice. Just for some late payments the last few months. But he had been waiting for his new landlord, Rocky LaDuke, to exploit an excuse like this. One by one he was kicking out the old tenants so he could jack up the rent. Just what I need. Where the hell are we gonna go now? The trouble weighed down on him like the world itself and he closed his eyes, exhausted from it all.
He awoke when the door to his apartment shut. He saw Maxine walk in - or what looked like Maxine. A powerful, cheap smelling perfume assaulted him. He reached over and turned on a lamp by the sofa. When his eyes adjusted he saw her clearly. He couldn't believe his eyes. Incredible. It was Maxine all right. She looked like a giant glazed over donut with garters. Barely containing her generous proportions was a shiny red dress that had known her in her thinner days. Her face was painted so that it looked like a cross between a geisha and a tranny on Polk Street.
She was a nagging regret.
She was Maxine.
His incredible blown up wife.
“This is the last thing I need... the last thing,” said Ed, truly miserable now, pulling at his hair in disbelief.
“ What are you doing? Where's the circus? ”
“I just went out for a walk. That's all.” She stopped by the telephone and set her purse down. Then she wobbled to a chair next to the sofa and sat down. She took off one high heel, then the other.
“You gotta be kidding me. A walk? Dressed like that? You trying to give me a heart attack or something? I thought you were Rocky LaDuke dressed in drag coming to collect the rent!”
“I just went out for a walk, Ed... just dressed up a bit... is there anything wrong with that?”
“Oh god, if you exist, strike me dead at this very moment a spare from another agonizing moment in this world.”
“And besides... what do you care... you're always off drinking with Sharky and Angry Steve...”
“Here we go again.”
“You come home late and you hardly say a word to me... it's like I don't exist.”
“Oh, you exist all right. How could I miss you? You look like a giant hazard sign! Where's my wife? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone ever heard of Maxine?”
“My name's Kandy with a K when I wear this dress.”
Ed looked up towards the heavens and instead saw the cracks in his ceiling. He invoked St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and shook both hands, pleading for divine intervention.
“I'm going outside for a smoke,” he said.
§
Ed opened the door to his building and stepped out under the awning. He took out his cigarettes, patted one up, and lit it. When he exhaled he heard a feminine voice.
“Hi Ed.”
He looked to his side and there was Sara, leaning on a post, also smoking a cigarette.
“Didn't see you, sorry. I'm a little preoccupied.”
“No big deal. Aren't we all sometimes?”
“Yeah. Forget about it. How's your hand? You look better, by the way.”
She waved her cut hand in front of her, indicating a dry, scabbed over wound.
“Better. Thanks. I slept all day today. I feel a lot better, I guess.” She paused, then asked, “Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you forget about yesterday? I feel pretty stupid about the show I put on. I mean, I'm sure you got enough things to worry about besides the neurotic little girl next door to you.”
“I don't think that way about you at all.”
They watched the endless flow of traffic. How can there always be so much activity? When do people rest? It was a clear, crisp night. Random people straggled around. At the other corner was a group of hookers scattering uphill. Ed noticed that Sara was watching them and said:
“That's either their pimp or the five-o”
“I bet it's there pimp.”
Sure enough at that very moment a pimp in a purple suit came power walking across the street. He yelled after them:
“Yo bitch! Yo bitch! Where you goin'? You in the red! Yo bitch!”
“Damn,” said Ed.
Some of the girls took off there heels and ran up hill with their shoes in hand.
“I bet they got some crazy stories to tell,” said Sara.
“You should've seen it ten years ago. This neighborhood was something else back then. It's actually cleaned up a good bit.”
“You've been here for that long?”
“Yeah. About.”
Sara finished her cigarette and flicked it out to the street. It bloomed orange sparks before a car sped by and swept it off.
“I like this neighborhood even though it's a little fucked up. I've been thinking of moving out to the Mission District, though. After this business with Rick.”
“How's that?”
“Same. Haven't talked to him and don't care either. Just want to take care of my shit and go back to school.”
“Is that typewriter helping you out at all?”
“To tell you the truth I haven't had time to do anything with it yet... you know what?”
“No. What.”
“It's actually kind of intimidating. It's so final. BOOM, you press the key and there's the letter, right on the paper. Everything is more pronounced.”
“That's a nice way of putting it.”
“Didn't you say you used to write with it?”
Ed finished his cigarette and flicked it out to the street. Another orange blossom of sparks bounced along the asphalt.
“Yeah. A little, back in the day. Pretty stupid stuff though. I think Maxine's the only person to have read any.”
“Then make me the second.”
“Really? No. You gotta be kidding me.”
“I got some spare time on my hands. Let me check it out.”
“All right. But I warned you.”
All was quiet and the lights were off when he entered his apartment. Maxine must have gone to bed already. He flipped on the light near the kitchen and rummaged through the shelf where he had stashed the typewriter. Among the junk he found a folder with a quarter inch thick stack of paper inside it. There it was. Random notes, more like a diary, and the odd poem here and there. Tales from a life he no longer had confidence in. He walked back to Sara's apartment with the folder and found her door cracked open. He entered.
“What a difference! I see you had your work cut out for you cleaning up this place.”
“It's only superficial. You should see the closets. Stuffed with shit.”
He handed her the folder.
“Well. Here. Don't judge me too harshly for it. I wrote it a while ago, and you'll probably understand why I gave it up. It's lousy stuff.”
“Ah you're a bum. Let me be the judge of that.”
Ed suddenly felt his age, felt the gap between them, and wondered where his twenties had gone to, for that matter, where his thirties had gone to. His dreams were there in her hands, enveloped in a dog-eared manila folder. At least what was left of them. He had burned or torn most everything he had written in fits of frustration. Maxine had been the one to stop him from destroying everything, and thanks to her, he still had this small sample of his work. For a brief moment he was lost in his memories. Then he remembered he had to work the next day. He was tired. And besides, it's getting late.
“I'm gonna hit the sack. It's late and I have to get up early tomorrow.”
Sara kissed him on the cheek, catching him off his guard.
“Thanks Ed!”
She hopped onto her sofa and waved to him as he walked out.
When he got inside he stripped down to his underwear and slipped into bed next to Maxine. She had showered, thankfully washing off her offensive perfume, and was sleeping soundly. Ed lay awake, listening to the muffled sounds of the streets outside. He remembered many years back when he and Maxine were happy, when there was passion, when he was driven, when everything was a little adventure, new and vibrant. Now where was he? Still poor, stuck in a dead end job, and about to be evicted. And Maxine. He felt her mass next to him, her presence, and felt a nostalgic compassion for her. He fell into sleep, feeling somewhat sorry for scolding her earlier for her bizarre behavior.
§
He woke up the next morning after more claustrophobic nightmares. Maxine had already left, presumably to run some errands. He decided to call Big City Telephone. The hammering outside showed no signs of letting up, and he wanted to avoid another incident like last Sunday's. If I don't call them, nobody will. He dialed information and was transferred automatically to BCT's phone network. After one ring a compressed, piercing voice shot out of the receiver. Ed gritted his teeth. It was a recorded greeting.
“ Hello! Welcome to Big City Telephone, now a proud partner of American Electronic Services! AES/BCT Communications Incorporated is your future, the future of communication!”
Ed almost hung up, but managed to keep on.
“AES/BCT is committed to providing satisfaction to all its customers, 24 hours a day!”
Ed held the receiver away from his head to minimize the attack on his eardrums. The recording continued:
“This service is brought to you by Cityfed Banks: making banking an investment on your future!”
Ed listened through a musical jingle, almost ready to give up. Then the voice boomed back:
“Si usted habla español, marque el 1! If you speak english, press 2!”
Finally, some interaction, even if he was just following a recording's instructions. He pressed the 2 on his phone and was re-routed to another recording:
“If you're inquiring about AES/BCT's newest services, press 3! If you're inquiring about AES/BCT's premium link special, press 4! If you're inquiring about AES/BCT's available services in your neighborhood, press 5! If you want to install AES/BCT, press 6! If you are inquiring about the status of your AES/BCT connection, press 7! If you are inquiring about your AES/BCT telephone bill, press 8! All other inquiries, press 9!”
The blood was singing in his head and he wasn't sure what number he had to push. The main point, he thought, would be to get through to a live operator and avoid another recorded message. There was only so much that he could tolerate this early in the morning. Besides, he needed to get to work soon. He figured he would be safe in pressing 9, for “All Other Inquiries”. Click. The recorded voice was back, but this time with fractured inflections: cut and paste dialogue announcing another re-routing in BCT's networks:
“You will be attended by unit... 4! 3! 8! 2!”
After two rings the line picked up again, and Ed, relieved, waited for a human voice. After some brief static:
“Hi, you've reached customer service representative Jennifer Johnson. Due to the high call volume I am unable to take your call, but if you leave a brief message with your name and phone number and the reason for your call, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank You! Have a great day!”
The phone beeped and Ed nervously spewed out his gripe:
“Ummm... yeah... ummm... my name is Edward Henry, and uhhh... I'm calling about the fiber-optic cables that you're installing in front of my building. I was wondering... uhhh... if the construction is going to take much longer, and if it is really necessary to work on Sunday mornings. Uhhh... that's it... uhhh... my number is 555-5683.”
Ed hung up the phone and looked at the clock: 7:52. He had eight minutes to get to work. He rushed out of his building and took the ten minute walk downhill to Larry's Messengers.
He got to the office at five minutes past eight; he had stopped at a cafe on the corner to get a coffee. Immediately, once he entered, he noticed something was wrong. The radio was off. Raul's dispatch chair was empty and no one was in the office. He didn't notice any of the messengers hanging around outside smoking cigarettes or shooting the shit. He decided to wait it out until another messenger showed up. Maybe then he would know what was happening. As he sipped on his coffee outside he noticed something like powder on the ground next to him - like ground up cement. He followed an imaginary trail up to a spot where some holes had been drilled. Screwed into the holes was a mount with a video camera attached to it. It was aimed directly where he was standing, directly where all the messengers stood from time to time when they were taking short breaks. Well, that explains the absence of messengers out here, he thought , but that doesn't explain why nobody is in the office, why Raul isn't at his usual post. He stepped to the side, out of the camera's field of vision, and sipped on his coffee in peace. He took out a cigarette and lit it. As he puffed he thought, What next? Are they going to stitch tracking devices into our underwear? Then he heard Sharky's voice:
“Hey man, I knew you were out here. I told them I had to take a leak so I could come out and get you. What're you doing? The new boss was looking for you. You're late!”
“Only by a couple minutes. But when I got here no one was around. Not even Raul. What's going on? What the hell are you wearing? ”
“It's the new uniform. Larry's got bought by Super Messengers. I guess the deal just went through yesterday.”
Ed looked at his tall, lanky friend. Gone were his trademark sweatpants and brown leather bomber jacket. In their place were a pair of black pleated pants and a red and white striped T-shirt with Super Messengers printed across the breast. Even atop his head, taming his messy hair, was a cap with SM printed on it.
“They probably got one for you too. But hurry... just tell them what happened and I'm sure you'll be OK.”
Ed walked to the back office, behind Sharky. A small pink man wearing a Super Messengers T–shirt stood near a dry-erase board. On the board were various graphs, and above them was printed: Delivery Success Ratios. Then the man barked:
“All right! Any questions?”
Silence.
Then, continuing, “This is basic math guys. We are not Larry's Messenger service. We are Super Messengers, and we deliver super service. Cleanliness, punctuality, and above all, no complaints: these are the Holy Trinity of Super Messengers. Now before I dismiss you there is one last thing - sort of a treat from us at Super Messengers to our new teammates.” He called out:
“Don!”
On cue, a pumped-up blond kid came through the door, back first, pulling a cart with a television and a video machine. Ed, who hadn't yet found a seat, jumped to the side, making room for the cart to pass. The kid pulled the television to the front of the room and plugged it in. The fluorescent overhead lights turned off and everybody stared ahead at a black screen. The room was silent except for some coughing. Then the Super Messengers logo popped out of the screen followed by a tremendous electronic stinger, jarring everybody except for the pink man and Don. Then, over a montage of excited Super Messengers delivering packages to equally excited customers, a ringing melody and a funky guitar with a hip hop beat. Super! We're Super! went the chorus. Then a narrator announced over the music: Super Messengers was founded in 1994 by Preston Northwood! It started out as a small operation run out of a garage in Upper Manhattan! Now, just three years later, Super Messengers is the leading delivery service in the nation, represented in every major city! Then there were images of a tall, robotic looking Preston Northwood outside his new Manhattan office. He was high-fiving a racially diverse mix of Super Messengers: first Latino, then black, then Asian, then white. Then there were some fancy looking split screen shots of messengers sprinting out of buildings over more Super! We're Super! Then, in the next light hearted sequence, a young and eager Super Messenger brought a pet carrier to a woman's front door. When she opened it a poodle jumped out and landed in the Super Messenger's arms, not hers. The kid smiled and shrugged his shoulders and the woman shook her head. Super! We're Super! Then some images of Super Messenger cars and trucks and airplanes flashed across the screen, and to Ed's horror Preston Northwood rapped in a final, breath-taking sequence: From New York to the Bay Area! We're Super M and we deliv-a! Ed snickered and the small pink man looked disapprovingly at him. Then, with another flashy logo and another electronic stinger, the video ended. The room was silent. The fluorescent lights rippled on and the small pink man announced:
“Dismissed!”
Everybody except for Ed shuffled for the door. Sharky looked at Ed and sighed. He walked out of the room followed by more messengers: some faces he hadn't seen before, Angry Steve, who looked angrier than ever, and Raul the dispatcher. Ed gulped and approached the small pink man.
“My name's Edward Henry. I arrived a couple minutes late and I didn't see anyone inside so I waited outside. I'm sorry I didn't realize you were in a meeting.”
Ed had his hand out, but the small pink man didn't take it. He was busy organizing his folders. Then he patted his tight helmet of red hair and turned around to erase the graphs and numbers on the board.
“I know who you are, Mr Henry,” he said as he made swipes at the board.
“Oh, you do?”
“It was pretty easy to figure that out. You were the only one who didn't show up to the meeting.”
“But I was here. I just didn't know you guys were in here .”
“Well, how come everyone else did? Did you see anybody else jerking around out there?”
Ed could see where this was going.
“Mr uhhh...”
“Shankly.”
“Mr Shankly it won't happen again. I didn't know...”
“Don't give me excuses. I know your type. ”
“What's that?”
“You're trouble. I can see it written all over you. You missed the lecture, now that's that. It disgusts me to think that Larry's Messengers had such a low level of employee loyalty. It makes me wonder about the rest of these guys. I mean, look at you.”
“What?”
“You probably noticed some of the new kids we brought on. Did you notice them? Bright and fresh. Clean. Respectable. Kids with a super future. A future in Super Messengers.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr Henry,” said Mr Shankly, whipping out a piece of paper from his folder. He dragged his finger down until he got to his name. “Oh yes, that's right, Edward Henry... Edward, if I may.” Without waiting for a response he went on. “May I be frank with you?”
“Of course.”
Mr Shankly's eyes were wide and vacant. “Let me put it this way. What do you expect to be doing in five years?”
“Ummm...”
“ Wrong! ”
“Working here?”
“ Wrong! ”
“All the same things, but a little worse? A little slower? Pissing a little more to the left? Hanging out in the back of darkened porno theaters copping feels?”
“Are you done? You're a smart ass, that's what you are . You're wrong from the moment you stepped in this office. Did you see those new kids? Well, I'm sure you did . That's what I want. I want ambition. The goal of every Super Messenger is to rise to the top! The top of Super Messengers. Not you, that's not what we want... some over the hill bum with bad hygiene and no ambition...”
“Hey!”
“ You're fired Henry! You never had a chance here anyway! ”
Ed was too stunned to defend himself. He left an even pinker Mr Shankly fuming in the back room and walked back through the dispatch office, back outside. The Super Messengers were rushing out of the office, over-taking him as he walked down the sidewalk. Sharky and Angry Steve weren't anywhere around. Ed felt a profound emptiness inside. He imagined himself without arms, without legs, floating around, bouncing off the events in his life like a pinball hurtling through a machine, bouncing precariously close to the abyss. Ed Henry. Unemployed. Homeless. Helpless.
§
Ed walked aimlessly through the streets, through the Financial district, along the Embarcadero, making an idiotic fly's pattern through downtown San Francisco. He got to one corner and couldn't remember how he got there. He stopped in a café and couldn't remember how he got there. He boarded a bus, got off and found himself in a park. After a good long sleep in the grass he wandered some more and found himself downtown again, starving. He slopped down some Vietnamese noodles and drained a coke. Eight hours went by like this and now he was there in the Charleston Club, sitting, waiting for Sharky and Angry Steve. Old habits die hard, they say. A couple Mexicans were shooting pool in the back and the geriatric Barbie was cooing into a cordless phone. Besides that, all was silent except for the buzz of the refrigerator and the clink of the pool balls.
He must have fallen asleep sitting on his barstool, because when he woke up Sharky and Angry Steve had just arrived, the cigarette he held had burned to his knuckles, and his untouched beer was dripping with condensation. The one-dollar specials came swiftly and Sharky and Angry Steve began their journey to the end of the night.
“So how's Super Messengers?” began Ed.
“Man, you did good by getting out when you did,” said Sharky.
Angry Steve slammed his glass of rotgut and got to work on his beer. He wore his cap backwards and his Super Messenger shirt open.
“I'm quitting tomorrow,” he said.
Sharky shook his head and said:
“You're not gonna quit, man. You've already been fired from all the other messenger companies... nobody's gonna hire your ass.”
“You did good man,” said Angry Steve glancing over at Ed. “Sharky was right, you did good.”
“That Mr Shankly's a fucking prick,” said Sharky.
“A small pink prick.”
“That's right.”
“I'm gonna kill him.”
“Shut up, man. I'd like to see you back your words up for once. Just once.”
Ed felt another showdown brewing, so before it could go any further he distracted them by ordering two more one-dollar specials. Then he called to the geriatric Barbie:
“And another beer for me!”
She whispered sweet-nothings into the phone and grabbed a conspicuous looking bottle of liquor and poured out their rations. Sharky looked at Ed.
“So what are you gonna do now? I mean, with no job an' all.”
“I haven't got around to thinking about it yet. Maybe Maxine'll have to go out and get a job. Maybe I'll have to file for unemployment. I just got too many things to worry about right now. This is just icing on the cake.”
“I hear that.”
They clinked their glasses together and Sharky said:
“To Ed for telling Mr Shankly to fuck off.”
“To Ed,” concurred Angry Steve.
After their third one-dollar special, Sharky and Angry Steve were on track for another raging drunk - the rot-got cheap and powerful fuel for their engines.
“I gotta take leak!” announced a suddenly buoyant Angry Steve. He got off his barstool and made his way towards the bathroom, past a growing crowd of the usual stragglers. At the end of the bar was Rocky LaDuke's double, who had just come in to charm his geriatric princess. After a few minutes Angry Steve came back and took his place.
“There's some freaky looking girl with metal stuck in her face bawling over by the bathroom,” he said.
“What do mean, metal stuck in her face? She have an accident or something?” asked Sharky.
“No. Just some metal things. Like the kids wear these days. She's a real freak. Besides, she wouldn't talk to me.”
“Those are called piercings, man. What's wrong with you?”
“What are called piercings?”
“The metal things, dipshit.”
Ed up until this point had only taken a mild interest in this exchange. Somehow, he knew had to go and investigate for himself. He got up.
“Where did you say she was?”
“Back there, right next to the bathroom, on the seat,” said Angry Steve, pointing towards the back.
Ed walked through clouds of G.P.C. smoke, past more drunken banter, to the back area that Angry Steve had indicated. On the cracked red vinyl seat next to the bathroom, sure enough, was a girl. She wasn't freaky looking though, at least not to Ed.
“Sara? Is that you?”
She looked up, and without a change in her expression made room for Ed on the cushion. Ed found himself in the same awkward position he was in the other day. Here was this young kid, crying and desperate.
“What are you doing in this place?” he asked.
“Hiding.”
“From who?”
“Rick.”
“What do you mean?”
“How did you find me here?” she said, ignoring his first question.
“I didn't. I'm always here. Practically everyday. But you aren't.”
“I just wanted to be somewhere where he wouldn't look. He threatened to kill me... and you.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He thinks I'm having an affair. He came back and found your writing, some of that stuff you wrote, I guess for Maxine or something... I left it all out on the coffee table.”
“And he wants to kill me now? I didn't know Rick was the literary type. Didn't know he was so critical.”
“ It's not that. He thinks that stuff was for me. He thinks someone is writing me letters.”
“Someone... that means he doesn't know it was me.”
“If he sees me talking to you he'll kill you. He's crazy. When I left the apartment I saw him across the street. I was lucky I saw him. I beat around the block and caught a bus and lost him.”
“That's crazy. Do you realize what you're saying? That's completely crazy! ”
“It's the speed. He's so wired he gets paranoid about anything. I don't even want to go home anymore. That's it, I'm leaving... fuck this place.”
“Leaving?”
“At least to another neighborhood or something.”
“Do you need any help? I mean, do you feel safe?”
“My brother's gonna come and stay the night. We'll see from there.”
“That's good... I mean, that your brother's gonna be there. And all on account of poetry. Stuff I wrote years ago and can't even remember.”
“He's just fucked up... it could have been anything... he's just looking for an excuse to justify his stupidity...”
“You know, you're pretty smart for a kid.” He really meant it. His buddies at the bar weren't half as perceptive. “I'm not exactly a fighter or anything, but don't worry. Believe it or not, I got connections in this neighborhood... a couple, but I can count on them.”
There was a tension building up between them. He wasn't exactly sure what it was, maybe the proximity , but he could feel it. She scooted closer to Ed and hugged him, rubbing her hand along his back. Then she spoke close to his ear. He could feel and hear her breath and he felt a rush of blood down below. I'm sick... I'm sick. She's just a girl.
“You're sweet Ed... I like what you wrote... can't really understand some of it, but I like it. It's got rhythm and force. You should never have stopped.”
“It's terrible stuff... it needs to be burned...”
“And there was something called The Flesh Prisoners . You had written a couple chapters for it... I thought it was incredible...”
“Oh that thing... forgot all about it.”
“I like the part where they make love in the street in the middle of the riots... it's great... the whole city was burning down and there they are in the middle of it, fucking their brains out.”
“It was the least offensive of most the things I wrote... another one of my unfinished endeavors.”
“You need to finish it. You need to write instead of hanging out in places like this.”
“What's wrong with this place? You're in it, if you haven't noticed.”
“Only because no one would ever try to look for me here.”
“It's all right. Convenient and cheap at least.”
“I can see you got your money's worth.”
Ed, suddenly self-conscious, suggested that they take a walk.
“I need some fresh air anyway... wanna join me?”
It was a rhetorical question because he already knew the answer. They got up off of the busted vinyl seat and walked back through the Charleston Club, to the entrance. Ed made parting remarks to Sharky and Angry Steve and they walked out.
“No wonder you're not doing anything. Hanging out with creeps like that.”
“Who, Angry Steve?”
“ Angry Steve? ”
“He's just pissed because you blew him off.”
“Birds of a feather flock together.”
“They're good guys, really.”
It was a few minutes before dusk. It had been a nice clear day and a granite colored sky hovered protectively above them. Ed told her about his predicaments - his job and his apartment - while they walked uphill. Sara seemed to take a genuine interest as he told his sad tale, but Ed only ran it off as a defense mechanism; he was afraid of what was happening. They were just empty, meaningless words, used to fill in space. If we were alone, together, if we had a place, then it would happen. Sure as the moon rolls around the earth. His subconscious raced - just paces ahead of his running dialogue with her. They were a couple blocks away from their building when they reached an alley. There was a group of kids kicking a ball around, screaming and laughing. They had marked off boundaries with chalk on two opposing walls, and each side had its goalkeeper. Suddenly, Sara tugged on his arm, interrupting his meaningless speech.
“C'mon. Let's try this way.”
Ed followed her lead and they cut a swath through the spontaneous soccer game. They were about halfway down the alley, having passed several drifting locals, when she stopped and pulled him into a stoop that looked like the back exit to a shop. She placed his back against the door. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and her hands groped around down below. She started to undo his belt, panting with anticipation, when he stopped her.
“My pants. They're going to fall off like that.”
Just another half-assed attempt by Ed Henry to extricate himself from the inevitable.
“I know,” she whispered.
Then they connected there in the alley, in the spontaneous playground, in the forgotten back street. It had been years since his last time with Maxine, and this was so intense and unanticipated that it wiped out any notion of the world around them. Then one of the kids screamed out and a ball rolled past them, further down the alley. They froze and he pulled her in even tighter as one of the kids ran past in pursuit of his ball. When the kid retrieved it he ran past them and stopped and gazed at the two of them entwined in the stoop, then he ran back to his playmates.
“I don't think that kid could tell what we were doing,” he said.
They went at it again. Things at the end of the alley had gotten suspiciously quiet however, and Sara leaned back just enough to be able to peer out of the stoop to the end of the darkening alley.
“They're talking to someone.”
“The kids?”
“Yeah. They're talking to an adult. Could be one of their parents. One of them is pointing down here.”
He worked himself back into his pants. When she was ready they walked off without even looking back in the direction of the kids. By the time they reached their building night had completely fallen.
“Are you sure you're going to be all right?” he asked as they entered the building.
“My brother'll be here in a minute. Don't worry about me.”
When they got to the third floor they parted in front of their respective apartments. She opened the door to her apartment and looked over at Ed, who was still watching her. She smiled and said:
“See you later.”
It was as simple as that: “ See you later. ”
A simple sentence, a clichéd departure, yet it was charged with the remnants of their unfinished affair. Ed knew before he even got her letter the next morning that this would be the last time that he saw her.
§
Thankfully, Maxine wasn't there when he arrived, giving him ample time to eliminate telltale evidence like lipstick traces or strands of hair. Even a cold shower couldn't shake him from the state that Sara had left him in. He dried off quickly and walked into his empty apartment. What could she be up to now? he thought as he rammed some spaghetti she had prepared for him into the microwave. Following his custom, he popped a can of beer, grabbed his hot plate of spaghetti and walked to the couch. When he finished it he lit a cigarette and sunk into the cushions. A couple minutes later he was dozing. It must have been two or three hours later when Maxine's keys rattled outside the door, waking him up. She walked into their dimly lit apartment dressed in her shiny red dress, balancing her generous proportions precariously atop her high heels. Ed stared at the gargantuan woman. But unlike yesterday, he wasn't irritated by her gaudy get-up. Instead, he was caught in a vortex of his own emotion, combining the day's events with his virile temper. He had a revelation. Maxine, in her red dress, her clumsy gait, was his. She had been there in the beginning, and continued to stay by his side, even now in their worst hour. My Maxine. My three hundred pounds of joy. She went about her business casually, only exchanging perfuctory greetings with him. But when she sat down to take her shoes off Ed got up from the couch and approached her. He ran his hand down over the slick surface of her dress and she paused, confused by his unexpected gesture. By now she had both shoes off and Ed pulled her up to him. Her cheap, man-killing aroma intoxicated him. He turned her around and her eyes were wet and glistening.
“Ed! But it's been so long!”
She was right. Ed couldn't even remember the last time that he had laid a loving hand on her. Years ago. A hundred and fifty pounds ago. They locked in an uneven embrace, Ed struggling to reach all the way around her, sinking into her pendulous breasts, his hands kneading her warm malleable rolls of flesh. Years ago. A hundred and fifty pounds ago, he kept repeating to himself. Ed had a hard-on that defied his years, his utter sexual neglect, and the void in their dwindling romance. He came charging out of his fuzzy blue robe like a prize fighter . He was going to give it to her for all she was worth.
His three hundred pounds of joy.
“Ed! What's happening to you!”
By the time they landed on their bed, nearly obliterating it with their combined impact, he had torn off her dress, unhitched her bra from its enormous burdens, and had managed to work his hand into her panties. When they were all the way off she mounted him and nearly suffocated him in waves of trembling flesh. The bed creaked and groaned and the aging walls could barely contain their scandalous verbal acrobatics.
My three!
Hundred!
Pounds!
Of!
Joy!
Maxine fell asleep still reeling, still overcome by Ed's renewed vitality. Ed lay awake in the darkness, his mind finally freed from his lame, self-pitying thoughts. Somehow, all his internal strife, his confusion and frustration with the world, was released within that one primal act. It was all too clear: Ed Henry knew exactly what he had to do to save Maxine and himself. My Maxine, my grand pedestal for all womanhood... tomorrow is a new day for both of us. The night was black and deep, and outside the frantic noise of the city barely registered.
§
Ed woke up next to Maxine. He got out of bed, found his robe in a heap on the ground and put it on. Then he picked up the remnants of her dress, torn beyond recognition.
“Maxie?”
“Yeah,” she called back sleepily from the bedroom. “What is it?”
“What were you doing the last few nights? Running around dressed up like that.”
“I don't know. I just wanted to look sexy.”
“But you don't look sexy dressed like that. You look like a whore!”
“But I like the attention... you know, men talk to me... cars honk... it feels good!”
Oh Maxine... have I been so low? I'm not worth the dirt on the soles of your shoes. Ed took the remains of her dress and walked towards the window. He opened it and dangled it out. Maxine came out of the bedroom just then. She rubbed her eyes and looked at Ed, who held her fantasies sixty feet high in a breeze. The sun reflected off the smooth red fabric. He released it and the wind caught it and lifted it momentarily, twisting its shapeless form. Then it dropped unceremoniously into the intersection. The gesture was mutually understood. They embraced and locked mouths like a couple of teenagers.
It was when she was frying up some eggs and potatoes that he noticed a piece of paper that had been slipped underneath the door. He picked it up and read:
Ed!
Had to run. Thanks for everything.
S.
PS: Your typewriter is still there. Get it and use it. The door is unlocked.
He walked out the door to her apartment. Unlocked, just like she said. When he opened the door, the breeze circulated through and whipped up her dusty curtains. He entered the aftermath of a tornado: overturned chairs, the odd item of clothing, and there on the ground before him was a page from his folder. The sudden gust of wind had blown it off the table. There in the middle of the table was his old typewriter, just where he had left it the other day. Next to it were his disorganized notes and poetry. He gathered his papers in one arm and his typewriter in the other and walked back to his apartment. Maxine had just finished with the eggs when he entered. He placed the typewriter on his coffee table just as she came in with a loaded breakfast tray.
After finishing their greasy meals Ed took her back to the bedroom and screwed her again. He left her dozing. Then he looked at the clock: 2:16. That gave him enough time to do what he wanted. After kissing Maxine good-bye he left the building and went back down the hill in the direction of Super Messengers, down to the alley where he had left his pickup a couple days before. He got in and drove to a used car lot out on Mission and sold it for five hundred dollars in cash. He stuffed a wad of twenties into his pocket and took the BART train back to the Civic Center and got out. He walked up Taylor street and found a Walgreen's. Once inside he bought 10 bottles of No Doze, 5 plastic jugs of water (the most he could fit into his cart), and two handfuls of candy bars. He left the store with the shopping cart and pushed it to his building. Once inside, he hauled the cart up three flights, one step at a time. Then he pushed it to his apartment and placed its contents in the center of the room. Maxine was still in her sexed up daze in the bedroom. He entered and screwed her again, leaving her purring like a giant lioness in her den. Then he left the apartment with the cart and pushed it to the Palestinian market across the street. He filled it with cans of stewed meat, beans, soups, vegetables and fruits. He even found room for a sack of rice and two more jugs of water. On the television in the background were images of war. He paid the amazed cashier and pushed the loaded cart back across the street to his building, hauled it up the three flights, and again placed everything in the center of the room. Then he walked to the bedroom and saw Maxine there sound asleep. He left her in peace and pushed his cart back out the building and up towards a hardware store a couple blocks away on Geary Street. He bought three boxes of nails, several two by fours, emergency flares, candles, four boxes of strike-anywhere matches, and a small gas stove. He left the store with a loaded cart and just a little under 200 hundred dollars left. After dropping off the supplies in his apartment he took the cart again and pushed it towards Union Square, towards a stationary store. Once inside he filled the cart with thousands of blank sheets of typing paper, three spare ribbons, and two bottles of White-Out. He left the store and pushed the cart back to the apartment building, for the first time realizing that he was still wearing his robe and slippers. No wonder everybody's been looking at me funny. No matter , he thought, I've got more important business to attend to than my appearance . When he got the cart back up to his apartment he placed the two and a half foot stack of typing paper on the table next to the typewriter along with the spare ribbons and bottles of White-Out. Something was still missing, and lost in thought he walked to the bedroom and watched Maxine, still slumbering. He watched her undulating mass and it came to him. He left the apartment without the cart this time, and walked to Powell Street. There he bought a dozen red roses, then walked into a sporting goods store and bought a wooden baseball bat. He had about fifty dollars left. When he left the store he gave the rest of his cash to a homeless man he saw in front of a diner. Then he walked home. Night was setting on the city when he entered his apartment. Maxine was still sleeping when he got in, so he placed eleven of the roses in a vase in the living room and took the twelfth rose, made sure it was safely stripped of its thorns, and entered the bedroom. Maxine was on her side, her tremendous ass exposed. Ed lovingly placed the stem of the rose in-between her two mammoth cheeks. She didn't wake up. The red rose sticking out went up with each breath, then down. He watched it for an moment, hypnotized, then decided to get to work. He started by organizing the enormous pile of that day's purchases, placing the canned food and the stove and the matches and the candles in the kitchen. Then he grabbed the hardware supplies and a hammer from a cupboard and got to work on the door. He nailed in the two by fours across the width of the door, directly into the walls. When he was done he sat down, right there in the hallway next to the door, and took a deep breath. It was then that he realized that Maxine had been behind him, watching him. She had the twelfth rose in her hand and was sniffing the bud.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm not sure yet.”
She watched his eyes, recognizing that distant, dreamy look from years ago, that electric aura that she had almost forgotten, that she had fallen in love with. Ed stood before his barricaded door, waiting for her response. But instead of prying further, she said:
“Thank you for the flowers, my sweet Ed.”
She lifted him up and mashed him into her mountainous womanhood and cooed with delight.
“You're so exciting like this Ed!”
He walked back to the couch and sat in front of his typewriter and the stacks of blank paper, his enormous unwritten message to the world. He grabbed the tattered remains of his notes and poetry from years ago. On top was page one of The Flesh Prisoners. He went to the window with the pile and threw it out. The sheets blew off in different directions, each finding its own resting place on the battered intersection below. The last chapter for that was written yesterday , he said to himself. Then he walked back in and picked up the baseball bat. He approached her and placed it in her hands, closing them around the smooth, lacquered surface.
“This is for you. We're going to need it.”
Then he went to the couch and sat in front of his machine. He took a sheet of paper from the stack and rolled it in. He centered it.
BOOM went each key as he pounded his words home.
“You're crazy, Ed. You're completely nuts.”
“I've been insane for forty years, trying to cope with this world... this is our ticket out.”
“I'm with you to the end you crazy son of a bitch.” She gripped the bat even tighter.
“I never doubted it.”
Maxine stood there in the doorway larger and more powerful than ten thousand centurions, blooming with passion for her mad, inspired lover. She stood there in her extra extra extra large slip ready to take on the phone company, the electric company, Rocky LaDuke, the police, the swat team, the reporters, the groupies, and the tidal wave of curious humans that was about to come. Ed Henry was about to destroy the world as he knew it, one word at a time.
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