The Museum of Stars- 2 of 4

The Museum of Stars- Part 2 of 4

Chapter 7

I went back to work on Friday. The guys welcomed me

back by pretending I’d never been away. I hung around

the break room after they went to work in the shop,

waiting for Four to arrive. I had to convince him I

was going to heal and be productive again.

I was to meet with him in his office as soon as he

arrived. It was decorated like he was some big time

CEO. Cherry paneled walls, huge oak desk topped with

a slab of marble. Wet bar, TV, the whole nine yards.

The office building was the first project he oversaw

once his dad died. The offices in the Works were

abandoned to Gabby, the foreman, and the people who

did the drafting. Gabby took the biggest one and used

another to pile broken tools into.

Four’s secretary saw me in. He was seated behind his

desk, scribbling away at something. He didn’t make

sales calls or do bids or anything. We couldn’t

figure out what work he did at all. If it resembled

work, he hired somebody to do it.

“Sit down Tim, sit down.” Four closed the leather

folder. He was dressed like he was in the office for

the morning but had planned on playing eighteen after

lunch. It could be ten below out and you’d swear Four

had a 2:30 tee time.

I sat down in one of the most comfortable chairs ever

and felt immediately guilty. It was like enjoying

anything in Four’s world was aiding and abetting. In

all the years I’d worked there I’d never been in

Four’s office. There just wasn’t any reason. I came

in every day and did my job and went home. Some of

the guys were into coming up with ‘ideas’ to make the

company better and spent a lot of time in Four’s

office explaining them. I just enjoyed losing myself

in the cutting of a stone. It was the only time

during my day I was able to focus completely and

forget everything in the outside world.

Four stood up and walked around his desk, leaning back

on it right in front of me.

“Let me see that hand.”

I held it up and he grasped onto the bandage from

below. I didn’t like keeping my fingers covered, so

you could see almost everything that had been done.

Four stared carefully at each of the fingers as if he

were going to grading the surgeon on his work.

“How does it feel?”

I wanted to have a clear head so I hadn’t taken any

pains meds in the morning. My blood pressure was up

from being in his office and it made my hand throb.

It was hurting like hell.

“Not bad at all Mr. Robertson,” I told him.

“It looks horribly sore.”

“Those pins make is look worse than it really is. As

soon as those are gone it’ll start to look normal

again.”

He let the hand go and I set it back down on my lap.

He walked behind the desk and sat down. His chair was

oversized and when he leaned back he looked like a

little kid still growing into a man-sized world.

“How long have you been working at the restaurant Tim?”

“About three years.”

“That long? If you wanted to earn some extra money

why didn’t you just come in here and ask for overtime?”

“I’m not quite sure Mr. Robertson.”

“Well, in the future, if you feel you need to work a

few extra hours don’t be afraid to ask. You’ve been a

member of this family for a long time now. You’re

entitled to ask a few favors now and then.”

His cell phone rang. He dug around on his desk trying

to locate it. He found it in his jacket pocket and

answered. He held up one finger to me and then talked

to one his buddies who must have found a late season

deal on a weekday 18. They bantered back and forth

for a few minutes. He hung up after they had agreed

on a tee time.

“Now Tim,” he continued, “when did the doctor say you

were going to be back to full strength?”

“He thought about two months. Is there some way I

could still work in the meantime? Maybe help Gabby or

something?”

Four thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to him, see if

he could use a little help for while.”

He looked at his watch and stood up. “Well, I’ve got

to get going. Tim, listen. Let me give you some

advice. Quit the restaurant job. What kind of life

can that be, slaving away after your regular job? If

you want some more hours just come in and say so.

Like I said, you’re part of the family. Now get a

couple days rest and I’ll talk to Gabby in the

meantime.”

“Thanks Mr. Robertson.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He had his putter in hand as I was walking out. A

couple of practice swings in the office before he left

for the course. He’d considered putting an entire

practice green in one of the rooms of the new office

building, but nixed it after it didn’t qualify as a

business write off.

I walked over to the stone shop and found Colfax and

Potter standing over a piece of stone, pondering.

“What in the hell are you guys doing?” I asked.

“This is it Tim, the last one,” said Colfax.

It was one of the caps for the housing projects. I

couldn’t believe it was over. It seemed like we had

been working on that job forever.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not a bit. But it doesn’t get any better from here.

Four got us another one someplace else. Same pieces,

you know the drill.”

“You’re the only lucky one around here Tim,” Potter

said. But then he looked down at my hand. “I’m

really sorry I said that Tim. I didn’t mean it one

bit.”

“Don’t worry Vince. I know exactly what you meant.

I’m alright.”

Vince Potter was one of a kind. As a young man he

apprenticed with some of the best stone carvers in

America. He traveled around the country to wherever

the work was at the time. A church in one city, a

library in another. He worked in Indiana for a while

at the stone shops near the limestone quarries. When

there was no stonework to be found he took whatever

job he could find. But, as soon as he heard of

another project coming up somewhere, he packed his

bags and headed off.

He finally settled down when he got to Robertson.

Here was an owner who always found work, no matter how

the economy was going. After he turned sixty-five

Jerry encouraged him to retire. He never did. He

hadn’t married, didn’t have any hobbies. He just

wanted to carve stone. Vince was the last of his

kind. The machines were getting better at carving and

duplicating pieces, and pretty soon they’d be able to

carve anything.

“Four told me to come back on Monday to help Gabby.

And we’ll keep going.”

“Yeah,” said Colfax. “Let’s keep going.”

Vince looked down at his feet and kicked some of the

dust.

It was mid morning when I left the shop. It was an

overcast day with scattered showers and I hoped Four

was going to get wet. This was my favorite kind of

day when I was young. When it rained I didn’t have to

feel guilty about not playing outside with the other

kids. I could sit in the house and read books and

every once in a while get a snack.

I took the bus again for the third day in a row. I

still had my nervous feeling, even in the middle of

the day with the blue lights turned off. I couldn’t

remember the last time I’d been away from work at this

hour. I never took a vacation, I just cashed in my

days at the end of the year. I got back to my

apartment and sat for a while. I had a TV but it

didn’t work too well and I didn’t want to blow my few

hours of freedom on that. I got on the bus once again

and took it downtown to the university library.

The library was huge. I loved going there and hanging

out because they had complete collections of

magazines. I spent my time reading copies of National

Geographic from the 20’s and 30’s and even earlier. I

was captivated by the accounts from explorers. I knew

I’d probably never leave the states again, so I

relished the hours I spent reading articles from the

men and women who had made courageous treks. The

library had small green reading cubicles the color of

moss, so it felt like I was entering into some sort of

fantasyland. I read about exotic places and they

seemed more fantastic than ever sitting in a small

green cubicle. No one ever bothered you. I’d bring

along a sandwich and spend an entire Saturday inside,

riding my bike from there to the restaurant when it

was time to work.

I read for a while, but I wasn’t into it. I wanted to

go see Melissa, but I was unsure. I was afraid of her

thinking I couldn’t come up with anything more

productive to do with my day than ask her out for a

cup of coffee. She was so focused she was probably

busy doing schoolwork anyway.

I decided I’d go see how things were at the

restaurant. I sat on the bus and watched the city go

by under heavy gray skies.

It was the middle of the afternoon so the restaurant

was slow. Ed was behind the bar, looking in good

spirits. He came around and gave me a hug.

“Hey buddy, not too hard,” I said. “The ribs,

remember?”

“Oh shit. I didn’t hurt anything, did I?”

“Nah, but just relax.”

“Yeah, got ya.”

He poured us a couple tumblers of whiskey. It was

warm and beautiful going down. Drinking whiskey in

the daytime is what it must be like to be really free

and have money in your pocket.

Ed had come to see me a couple of times in the

hospital, but he was a mess. He felt so bad he could

barely talk. He didn’t stay long.

We finished our first and he poured us another.

“December 19th, my friend, is the end,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m graduating. Just found out today that everything

is good to go.”

“Congrats man. That’s great. I’m really glad for

you.”

“You think you’re glad, you should have heard my

wife. She’s already spent the first couple paychecks

from a job I haven’t even started yet.”

“Around here?”

“Nope, California. With our families back there and

everything, I figured I’d better take it.”

That kind of planning was unknown in the stone shop.

Except for the chefs and the occasional manager who

were lifers, everyone in the restaurant always had a

plan. No one ever imagined still waitering or

bartending in five years. They were all working on

something bigger and better. The guys in the stone

shop would plan to the extent that they knew where

they were going to get drunk on the upcoming Friday

and what football game they were going to watch on

Sunday. For most of them they were lucky if five

years down the road didn’t look any different than

today.

“Are you having a party?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Right here, my friend. Melissa and

I are going to have one together.”

“She’s graduating too?”

“Yeah, done with her master’s.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t tell me that.”

Ed poured us another round. We drank them down and

talked for a while and then had one more. By this

time there were a few more people in the place. The

bar was about half full, just how Ed liked it. With a

couple of drinks under his belt he was in a jolly

mood, even if the Friday fish fry crush was only hours

away. He was finishing school and he’d managed not to

kill me. Things were working out for him.

I was drunk by the time I left, which was kind of

becoming par for the course. I’d sworn off the pain

pills and chucked them after my meeting with Four. My

head was backward enough without them. Besides, it

was more fun to drink with others and dull the pain

than it was to pop a pill or two alone.

I waited at the bus stop for quite a while, seated on

the aluminum bench. The rain dotted against the

plastic shelter. The bus I needed ran to the western

edge Farwell and they only ran every half hour or so.

I wanted to go see Unc.

Chapter 8

Back when Grandma and Grandpa bought the farm it was

still out in the country. But the country was now

gone, swallowed up by the city. Unc had sold off most

of the land and was down to the forty acres

surrounding the house. Grandpa had planted acres and

acres of trees for reasons only known to him. Now

that they were mature they sealed the house off from

the rest of the world. The city was growing around

him, but when Unc was home he didn’t have to watch it

coming. House after house was built right up to his

property line. The development was like lava flowing

away from the center of the city, eating everything

green in its path.

The woods surrounding the house had grown up

beautifully. Unc maintained them the best he could.

I knew they were his favorite place in the world and

the thought of it depressed me. When he was gone,

they were surely gone too, to make way for more

houses. I suddenly wished I had a favorite place. My

mossy cubicle in the library suddenly seemed really

pathetic.

The bus finally arrived. I paid my fare and dropped

into a seat. It only took five minutes to get out

there, but I damn near fell asleep on the way. The

whiskey had gone to my head and I was drained from my

morning conversation with Four.

The bus dropped me off at the start of a dead end

street. Dead end meaning only that Unc’s house was at

the end of it. The developers had planned the street

so that it ran right into Unc’s long driveway. When

the time came they could just turn the driveway into

road and keep going with more houses. In the back of

my mind I hoped maybe they would keep the woods and

turn it into a place for a few luxury homes. They

could give it a fancy name and do some ad campaign

celebrating life in the suburban forest.

Walking down his drive was truly leaving the city

behind. It was clear from the tree forts and garbage

that the kids of the neighborhood used the outskirts

of the forest as a playground. I imagined my dad

playing in these woods with his brothers and sisters

when the trees were much smaller.

When the trees started to get really thick, all signs

of humanity stopped. After about two blocks the drive

took a turn to the left and the house came into view.

It was a pretty average looking farmhouse that could

have used a good paint job sometime in the last twenty

years. Moss grew on some of the outside walls from

the lack of sunlight. Rotten boards had been replaced

but were never painted. It was beyond explanation why

he never hired someone to come in and paint.

Unc answered the door quickly when I got there. He’d

been in the kitchen doing dishes and had a towel over

his shoulder. He’d never gotten a dishwasher or a

vacuum cleaner. He did everything by hand. Unc’s

house was really clean on the inside too. There

wasn’t much for furniture, but the spaces were well

kept.

The kitchen was a lesson in durability. There wasn’t

a utensil or appliance in it that was younger than

me. Most of the kitchenware was stuff grandma had

used when she wasn’t away somewhere praying.

He looked me up and down when he opened the door. “He

fire ya?”

“No, just going to help the foreman for a while.

Report back on Monday.”

I walked in and sat down at the kitchen table. It was

one of those from way back, with the linoleum top and

the stainless steel wrapped around the edge. Unc was

pouring us coffee before I had even asked. He served

it like they did at his café, with a saucer and

spoon. The older guys poured a little coffee in their

saucer and dipped sugar cubes in it for dessert.

Being at Unc’s house usually made me feel great. But

this time I sat there feeling suddenly miserable, like

in all my life I had never learned a damn thing and

every effort I made was just trivial. When my mom and

dad weren’t helping me out it fell on Unc and once he

was gone who in the hell would get me out of the

trouble that I would inevitably create. I imagined

I’d be one of those guys who kept going back to prison

for stupid reasons. The whole damn thing bummed me

out.

“What’re ya gone do this weekend?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Probably just hang around. Go

to the library.”

“No good. Come fishing with me tomorrow. Last time

this year.”

I raised my injured hand in the air.

“I don’t care if you can’t fish. You’re not very good

anyway.”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

Unc refilled my cup. “Talked to your dad again. Told

him you were gonna be all right.”

“Am I?”

“Hell yeah. You’re out of the woods now. You’re

fine.”

I hadn’t told Unc I’d never be able to carve again.

Hadn’t told him about trying to bankrupt Four. I

guess in the end I hadn’t told him much.

We talked for a while after that, but only about the

upcoming duck-hunting season. I tried to get the

timing right on catching the bus but ended up standing

at the stop for half an hour. It was dark by the time

I boarded and the damn blue lights were on again. I

thought about Melissa as we drove through the city

center. I figured I’d call her tonight, get the ball

rolling. She’d tell me she was busy, but maybe next

week. I’d wait a few days and call, but this time

we’d play a little phone tag and our plans would fall

through. Then to try again would just be too damn

awkward and doomed to fail, even if I was in love with

her. She was way out of my league anyway, and I knew

it.

I called her as soon as I got in and to my surprise

she invited me to dinner. I took another rough shower

and tried to find something to wear that wasn’t

technically work clothes. There was nothing. I guess

sometimes it just takes you over and your whole person

is your work. I figured normal people probably

divided their closets into work clothes and non-work

clothes. I only had work clothes. I picked the

cleanest looking ones and put them on. I cleaned all

the dust off my belt and my shoes and put them on too.

I got money out of my secret fund for a bottle of wine

and enough to spring for a cab if we wanted to go

someplace after dinner. I didn’t know what she was

cooking so I looked like an idiot when I tried to buy

the wine. The guy behind the counter suggested I buy

red and white to have my bases covered, but I guessed

and chose the white.

She buzzed me up when I got there. She was the top

floor of an old ice warehouse that had been converted

into apartments. It was the coolest place I had ever

seen and must have cost a fortune to rent. The inside

was tall and open with curved walls and angular

ceilings. The floors were all wood. The kitchen had

beautiful cabinets and granite countertops. All her

furniture looked expensive and brand new. It made me

wonder why in the hell she was working at the

restaurant.

We sat on her balcony in some comfy wicker chairs and

had a glass of wine. It was a perfect view of

downtown Farwell across the river. We talked and had

a second glass to chase away the night’s chill. I had

a third to dull the pain in my hand. Everything

smelled like fall, even the river somehow. The air

running across it was fresh, like it was the first

breath of the new season.

We went inside after it got a little colder. I sat at

her kitchen bar area as she cooked us some kind of

fancy pasta dish. She mixed together a bunch of

vegetables and spices. She added the pasta when it

was cooked and then left it to warm on the stove. She

got a couple of salads out of the refrigerator. I

laughed when she brought them out.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s like we’re on break at the restaurant, eating.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the waitresses ever eat are salads. You all

stand around and dip your lettuce and vegetables in a

little side dish of dressing and talk. Meanwhile,

back at the ranch, I’m eating prime rib with the

cooks.”

“Don’t you ever eat salads?”

“Now I do, I guess.”

“But when you go out to eat…”

I was silent for a moment. “Listen, I guess…I mean…”

“I’m not trying to pry or anything, you’re just a bit

of a mystery man. The last time you took a date out

to dinner, didn’t you have a salad?”

I tried to remember for a moment, however far away and

irrelevant it was. “My last date was eight years ago.”

She didn’t say anything. She was slicing bread to

have with the salad. She kept doing it.

“Does Cole slaw count?” I asked.

“Cole slaw?”

“As a salad I mean. Like at the fish fry. Unc takes

me out every once in a while when I’m not working on a

Friday night. It’s not a date, but does it qualify as

a salad?”

“We were dishing it up when you got hurt. Remember?”

I did suddenly, although only moments before it had

been gone from my memory. Her face, there above me.

Her eyes looking down, otherworldly to me from where I

lay at the bottom of the cement steps. And now here

they were, looking at me again.

She dipped some lettuce into the vinaigrette.

I looked away, pretending to admire her place. I knew

nothing about interior design, but I did recognize

some of the decorations as being British.

“What’s all this stuff about you winning your freedom

through the lottery?” Melissa asked. “Even if it’s

rude, I’d sure like to know who’s here eating dinner

with me.”

I’d never discussed the accident with anyone, not even

Unc or Colfax. It was like it happened, and then all

of the people involved were simply gone and that was

it. And even though it was with me every day, nobody

brought it up.

“When I was seventeen, I got in a car accident. I was

drunk driving. I hit another car and paralyzed the

girl who was driving. There’s a civil judgment

against me so most of my paycheck goes to her. That’s

why Unc buys me the lottery tickets. To try and give

her a better life.”

She was silent.

“Listen, I know what you’re thinking. Good solid

moral upbringing and all teaches you not to associate

with criminals like me.”

“I’m not some environmentally formed simpleton you

know.”

“I know. But in the back of your mind you know you’re

supposed to hate people like me. That time heals no

wounds and there in the end there really is no

forgiveness. You’re thinking that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s okay. I feel the same way. Even now.”

“And why? Is that what they taught us?”

“I don’t know,” I told her.

Melissa got us more wine and we finished the bottle.

She uncorked one of hers. It was way better than any

of the wine I’d ever had before and I thought it

tasted horrible. I drank it though, because it was

really helping to numb all the pain.

“So what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“After the accident. I mean, what happened to the

girl? Do you know where she is and how she’s doing?”

“I don’t know any of that. I knew her, I went to high

school with her. But I don’t know anything about her

now.”

She looked at me really intensely, as if she were

trying to figure out who in the hell she had in her

apartment.

“Listen,” I told her, “after the accident they sent me

to boy’s prison. I had some convictions for other

stuff. Stupid kid stuff. And I had an attitude. So

it didn’t matter whose kid I was. I mean, I think

they were trying to teach me to behave. But I escaped

and fled to England and I lived there for five years.

But Unc found me and brought me back. I’d learned to

carve stone so he got me a job here doing that. And

he got me the job at the restaurant. And that’s my

story.”

I felt really awkward all of the sudden, even stupid

for being there.

“How can you afford a place like this and school?” I

asked her.

“The restaurant is just my spending money. My parents

are paying for everything else as long as I make

something of myself in the end. They made that deal

with my brothers too. So far so good. One doctor,

one stock broker. How bout you? Brothers or sisters?”

“Just me. And Unc. And my Aunt Elizabeth who lives

up north.”

“And your parents?”

“Arizona somewhere.”

“What do you mean somewhere?”

“Dad couldn’t handle what I’d done. Embarrassed.

Especially after I escaped and fled. They packed up

and moved, kind of started over. I haven’t seen

them. I don’t really know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

We ate our pasta and then she served a kind of pudding

with a crunchy top that she blowtorched. It was

nothing we’d ever served before in the restaurant. We

sat back in the living room and drank coffee after

that. I looked around at the art she had collected.

Some of it was cool, but a lot of it looked strange.

She talked to me about some of the pieces and I was

amazed that someone who looked really normal could

understand this stuff. Once she started talking I

couldn’t turn my eyes away. Her voice drew me in.

“You’re graduating?” I asked.

“In December. Ed and I are having a party at the

restaurant.”

“He told me. Where to then?”

“I’ve been accepted in a PhD program back in Boston.”

“Wow. That’s a long way from here.”

“It’s worlds away.”

It got late and she offered to drive me home. I told

her I’d be just fine taking the bus. She kissed me as

we stood in the door, just once, and I took the

elevator down. It was one of those converted freight

elevators and all the mechanical clanking made it

sound like you were being lowered into the depths of

some mechanized hell.

It was cold on the street and I was glad to see the

bus arrive for a change. Some guy sat down next to me

even though there were tons of empty seats. He was

drunk off his ass and started to tell me about being

in the navy and the beautiful women in the South

Pacific. And then, in mid sentence, his stop

arrived. He got up and left.


Chapter 9

When I got home I went right to sleep. I dreamed

about the reception area in the boy’s prison. Always

about the reception area. The building that housed it

had been a mansion. The state bought the house along

with the land when they decided to build the prison

there. All of the other buildings at the place were

from the sixties. A bunch of overweight and very

serious white guys admitted you into the place. I

remembered how scared I was at that moment. I really

thought I was in for it. The doctor was straight

faced and the list of questions he asked me took

almost a half hour. A lot of them involved

communicable diseases. When they were done the

guards moved me from the admitting area to the house I

would be staying in. It was a beautiful, sunny day

outside and I was surprised.

I woke up and lay in bed thinking about the prison.

The guards gave me jeans and shoes and a green t-

shirt. They gave me an old blue jacket as well.

There were three different colors to the clothes the

inmates wore- gray, green, and blue. The clothes were

distributed randomly, according to size, and you were

not allowed to trade. This kept the gangs from

claiming one particular color in order to identify

each other.

We walked from the main building, past the picnic

tables where visiting parents sat with their kids and

watched them scarf down the home cooked food they had

brought them. Not a chance in hell my parents would

ever be sitting at that table. I couldn’t picture my

dad hanging out there trying to make the best of a bad

situation. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

I liked the fact I wasn’t in cuffs anymore because

that really made me feel like a criminal. I was a

criminal, but back then I was pretty self-righteous.

I was still a spoiled rich kid with attitude.

We walked past the gymnasium, the school, and the

kitchen. Before us stretched a line of dormitories,

each named after a famous person in the history of the

state. Each dorm had a purpose as well. One was for

the mentally troubled, one for the gang members, and

one for chronic drug offenders. One of the security

guards explained all this to me as we walked past the

buildings. I felt more like a tourist than an inmate.

We got to the end dorm and went inside. The guard

hadn’t explained this hall to me. Inside was a large

general area. At the end of it was a booth enclosed

in plexi glass. It was an office and safe room for

the counselors in case anything ever really got out of

hand. They could wait in there for help to come. We

walked up to the window and the guard passed my

paperwork through. The hall was named after the first

explorer in the state. A large poster of him adorned

the wall, with his name underneath. There was nothing

to put his place in history into perspective.

“What is this hall for?” I asked the guard who had

been explaining everything else to me.

“This is Had It Made hall. For all youse from the

other side of the tracks. Get my drift? Most of you

rich kids who wind up here are mental jobs. This is

the hall for the rest. Watch your ass kid. No love

lost for your type around here.”

The counselor came out of the booth and showed me my

room. Two beds, two desks, two dressers, and a tiny

window with metal mesh on the outside. All I had with

me was the stack of clothes I had been given. The

counselor told me I could hang out in my room or come

out to the general area. Everybody was in school for

the day so there were no activities planned. I put my

stuff into my dresser and went out into the general

area. A couple of kids were playing a ferocious game

of ping-pong. Another was lounging in front of the TV.

The counselor was sitting in front of the desk area

smoking a cigarette.

“Are those kids new too?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “They GED’d. Got their high school

equivalency diploma. Really isn’t any place to go

with em after that. State won’t pay for college

classes till you’re in the big house. They can tutor

other kids, but they won’t do it cause it don’t pay.”

Ping-pong was their life now. It was one of the only

indoor activities the kids took any interest in. They

bet like hell on it too. Each dorm had an elaborate

tournament system planned out right under the noses of

the counselors. Even the most seemingly innocent

pickup game was actually part of a bracket somewhere.

Everything from shoes to drugs to giving some guy a

beat down could be wagered.

I sat and watched for while until a guy in a sweat

suit walked in and talked to the counselor behind the

desk. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

He had a clipboard in tow and a whistle around his

neck. He looked like a high school JV coach. He wore

sunglasses and a baseball cap all the time.

He and the counselor walked over to me. “Tim?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“My name’s Brad Phillips. I’m the recreation

assistant for the school. You want to give me a hand

for a little while?”

The counselor nodded to me that it was okay.

“Yeah, sure.”

We left together, back into the sunshine, walking back

toward the gym.

“I know you’re brand new here and I know your story.”

“It was in all the papers,” I told him.

“Yeah, you’re extraordinary for this place. Word got

around fast. They knocked one of the rich kid off the

top of the pile, know what I’m saying?”

The judge gave me the maximum sentence he could. He

tried to bump me into adult court and get me off his

docket altogether. He didn’t like me.

“Football? Baseball? Basketball?” Brad asked.

“Pardon me?”

“You played them all in high school, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Look. I’d like to make you my assistant. I need

somebody who understands the games and can help

organize them. It might piss a few of them off, new

guy getting the job. But if you help keep the leagues

running smoothly, they’ll be happy.”

“Leagues?”

“Leagues. Every sport has a season around here,

complete with a championship and all the honors that

go along with it. Except we’re kind of like the minor

leagues cause we’re always losing and adding new

players mid season. Just our way of keeping everybody

busy around here. You get them thinking about a

championship the less likely they are to run for the

fences or rub each other out while in our care.

That’s the philosophy that is to guide us, from the

top down.”

We walked through the center of the complex, a

combination soccer, baseball, and football field. Off

to the side were three basketball courts.

Brad stopped. “This is where the legends are made

around here. Every dorm room has a window and a view

of this place and everybody knows how to keep score.

My job is to keep these areas busy from the moment

school gets out until the moment dinner is served.

And keep them filled from sun up to sun down on the

weekends. Being out here is the only time of the day

most of them enjoy. Let other people argue if you all

deserve to enjoy anything while in here. My job is to

make sure everybody stays busy. You want to help?”

“Don’t I have to go to school?”

“What kind of classes were you taking?”

“You know, college prep.”

“Flunking anything?”

“Nope.”

“No sweat then. Take the GED and you’re done with

school. As long as you’re signed up to take it they

won’t make you go to school. You’ll pass it, and then

you’re done with school until you bounce out of here

into big boy land.”

Brad helped me get signed up to take the test later on

that year and I started working with him full time.

The other inmates didn’t really know what to think of

me. Some thought I was an undercover cop and shut up

any time I came near. Others thought I was Brad’s

younger brother who had gotten in trouble and he was

watching out for me. We looked a lot alike and were

about the same size. I never denied it because it

afforded me another level of protection. They didn’t

want to piss Brad off because he could deny them

activities.

My official title was junior recreation aide. The

inmates all called me ‘rec guy’ and when they found

out why I was there they all called me ‘wreck’. Aside

from being away from my mom and my friends, being

locked up really wasn’t like punishment at all.

Working with Brad was a breeze and no one really

threatened me because they wanted to keep playing in

the leagues. In the end it was kind of like being at

some really stupid sports camp that I couldn’t leave.

I could have simply spent my time with the leagues, GED’d, served my sentence, and started over once it was done. But there was something about being there that I just couldn’t handle. That moment of waking from sleep, looking around and realizing where I was, hurt me deeply every day. I missed small things from the outside- the food, my music, football practice. Sometimes it was a smell that brought back a memory. Sometimes it was seeing the paper or something on TV. I hadn’t come to grips with what I had done. I still couldn’t wake up and say ‘yeah, this is really me and I do belong here’. It was only a little over a month when I decided I had to get out. I knew it suddenly, like I was in a panic. I thought if I allowed them to keep me here I would never leave. I didn’t know if I would die, but I was sure the person who walked out the gate after serving his time wouldn’t be me. I was too attached to that person and I couldn’t let him go.
I observed everything I could about the place, especially the way Brad acted. I began to mimic him and pretty soon we were playing practical jokes on the other inmates. I would put on his baseball hat and glasses and pretend to be him. They loved it. It worked like magic.
Brad had an office in the basement of the gym. All the equipment was kept in there, as well as all the donated trophies to be reused for our events. It didn’t matter if the baseball champ trophy had a guy shooting trap on it. It was still a trophy.
Brad and I would work down there when it was slow. He would call around to the sporting goods stores, reminding them that donations were always appreciated and were tax deductible. I would help make the schedule for the upcoming week and check our sporting goods inventory to make sure no one had snuck down and helped himself to anything.
Sometimes, if he was away for a minute and the phone rang, I would answer it with my best imitation. I got it down to a science, even to the point where he would let me take all the calls when he didn’t feel like it. He thought it was funny and didn’t care if we got caught. He was young too, and it was only a job. He let me use the phone to call my friends and find out how things were going on the outside. When he left me alone, I used the phone to find out other stuff as well.
Sometimes when the camp behavior was downright nasty, they locked the whole place down. Mostly it had to do with gang fights or a big drug find. All activities and visits were cancelled. After the kids went to school, they had to go straight back to their dorm and stay there. Any inmate that needed to leave their dorm would have to be escorted by a staff member.
Brad would come get me so we could hang out. He got bored pretty easily, and there was only so much planning you could do for a limited number of activities. He wasn’t the kind of guy that spent much time alone, and being down in his office all day by himself would have been torture.
I was unloading boxes of stuff that had come in the mail. We had just finished breakfast when the mailman delivered them. He was about the only other person that ever came down to Brad’s office during the day.
Brad was reading the paper, commenting every now and then about something.
I had worked out a bunch of scenarios as to how I was going to escape. I realized that the timing was perfect for this one. Even so, I hesitated. I was afraid, but tried to calm myself down. Somehow, I did.
I walked up behind Brad and smashed his head down on the top of his desk. He was stunned, semi conscious. I smashed it two more times and then let him go. He was out cold. I quickly took off his shirt and pants and tied him up with some rope we used to attach the soccer nets to the goals. I tied him to his chair and taped his mouth, just like I’d seen in the movies.
I put on his clothes and shoes, grabbed his baseball hat and sunglasses and walked out of the office, locking the door behind me.
I tried to walk with Brad’s sporting swagger, but I was so nervous I felt like I might fall over with every step. My heart was racing from the adrenalin and I was sweating.
I knew when the employees got to the security gate they had to hand in their car keys. I had to convince the guard I was Brad, if only for a minute.
There were two sets of doors, both unlocked by the guard behind the desk. It was a quiet day. When I got to the first door, I knocked on the glass. The guard looked up from his paper and buzzed me in.
“Rough day, huh Brad.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Nothing going on. Call me when lock down’s over, will ya?”
He laughed and got me Brad’s keys. Then, he buzzed me through the second door and I was once again in the outside world.
There were a ton of cars in the parking lot. I knew Brad had a green Accord. I figured he tried to get the closest parking spot he could too. I saw two green Accords. Lucky for me, one of them had a car seat. I slipped his key into the door of the other one and the lock turned. I got inside and drove away.
I felt sick suddenly, like I might throw up. I was sweating buckets and trying to drive perfectly. Our neighborhood was only about five miles away, but driving the speed limit made it feel like it would take forever. I hadn’t driven since the accident and the memories flooded back to me, making it even harder to drive. I was so glad to finally turn into our development.
The lots were wooded and pretty big. I thought it was unlikely anyone would see me now. There was a ‘for sale’ sign at the foot of our driveway when I pulled in. I didn’t think my parents would be there. Dad was always at work and mom was always doing something to keep herself busy. I keyed the code on the garage door and it opened. I walked into the house quickly, closing the door behind me. Our dog didn’t run to greet me so I knew they must be on vacation or looking for a house someplace else. They didn’t call or write to keep me filled in on the details.
I went straight to my room and got my clothes together in a small backpack. I got my passport from the hidden drawer in my desk and went down to Dad’s desk. He usually kept cash in the desk drawer. There was a couple hundred dollars, a lot less than normal. I knew they must be gone someplace, because he always grabbed the money for his ‘just in case’ funds. I opened the drawer underneath that held his files. Everything was kept in perfect order. I flipped to the file with the car titles and got out my Mustang. He had bought me a Mustang for my sixteenth birthday and Unc and his boys had restored it. I put the title in my pocket and headed back up to my room.
I stripped off Brad’s clothes and and put on some of my own. I shoved his in the back of my closet. I sat down on the bed and put on my tennis shoes. I was just about to get up and leave when I looked around at the stuff on my walls. Posters of rock groups, bikini clad women, sports guys. There were pieces of my life scattered all over that room. Tickets to cool concerts pinned to the wall. Trophies and medals. Pictures of me and my friends and a few of girlfriends at school dances. I looked around at what had been the easiest life and my will to leave was overwhelmed. I was suddenly prepared to sit there in my room for the rest of my existence. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I wouldn’t talk back or have attitude. I wouldn’t slack on anything. I just wanted to be back in this place again.
I heard a noise from outside, a car door slamming at the neighbor’s. It brought me back to the present. I got up from the bed and dressed, thinking about my dog, Red, as I knelt down and tied my shoes. I knew I’d never see her again. She’d grown a white beard and a mellow demeanor in her old age. I wished mom and dad would have been around. Even if it would have been more risky, I would have been able to see Red. I grabbed my backpack, looked around, and left.
I went downstairs and on whim stole the key to our vacation cottage up north. I wasn’t sure how they would begin to search for me, but I figured they might look for things like that, especially since I stole the car.
I went into the garage and untarped the Mustang. I threw in my backpack and drove out. I pulled Brad’s car in the garage and put the tarp over it. Even if that bought me a few minutes it was worth it. I didn’t know what was going to be important, so I was trying to cover all of my bases.
I drove into the city. It was only about twenty minutes to downtown, another fifteen to the airport on the north side. I knew I had enough time to catch my flight. And I figured no one would figure out anything at the prison until I didn’t show up for dinner at five. Brad and I ate lunch together a lot, so my counselor didn’t think anything of me not being around for that. Brad was going to be mad as hell when he woke up. He wouldn’t be able to untie himself and the guards were so lazy when the place was on lock down no one was going to discover him by accident. By the time they found him at dinner, hopefully I was long gone.
Dimarini was the only wild card. He ran the antique auto dealership near the airport. I’d never met him directly, although I knew who he was through my dad. It was a risk trying to sell him the car, but from what dad said about him he wasn’t the kind of guy who followed the news much or really cared what was on it anyway. He wasn’t the most legal guy on the block either. Even if he knew who I was I doubted he would want to bring the cops to his place.
He saw me pull in. The car was absolute mint. Unc had spent a lot of his free time making sure it was perfect. It caught Dimarini’s eye immediately. I saw him get up from his desk and slide on his suit coat. He walked out the glass door.
“Nice wheels kid.” He walked around the car. “Nice, very nice.”
“Thanks. Cash and a cab and it’s yours.”
“Hot?”
“Nope. Got all the papers. Mileage is actual.”
I handed him the title. He looked at the name and glanced up, but didn’t say anything. He handed it back to me. Dimarini walked around it a couple more times. He ran his hand across the paint job, on the dash and the interior upholstery. It was all perfect. There was nothing he could fault. “Come on in,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
Twenty minutes later the cab came and I was headed to the airport. I got my ticket and sat for about a half hour before it was time to board. I bought a return ticket so as to not look suspicious, even if it was a waste of money. I tried to look as relaxed as I could, but I was sure anyone looking at me could tell I was nervous. Hopefully they just suspected I was afraid of flying.
For some reason I felt like my parents would show up to try and talk me out of it. I knew it was totally illogical, but it still seemed like it would happen. I would see them walking briskly down the concourse, intent on finding their son and talking some sense into him. But they didn’t show. There were a ton of goodbye’s all around as we boarded the plane. I was glad I was alone.
We taxied out. I had requested and got a window seat and I looked out the whole time. The landscape was rather gray due to an early ice storm that had knocked down most of the leaves. It was too damn bad to see it like this, because it really was a gorgeous place to live. I’d never given it a second thought until I was in prison, but now I knew I was going to miss it. I didn’t think I’d ever be back.
We were at the head of the runway. I continued to look out the window as we picked up speed. We took off at a sharp angle and I couldn’t take my eyes off the land. We banked hard in a northeasterly direction. I followed the interstate and looked down at the prison. I didn’t see any squad cars with flashing lights or anything much in the way of activity. I figured Brad must still be down there, tied to his desk.
We had a meal, watched a movie. I slept, hard, and dreamt once again about the accident.
I freaked out a little when we landed in England. I thought that somehow going through customs would get me busted. I tried to look bored, like I was some rich kid for whom intercontinental travel was second nature. We’d been to Europe on a bunch of family vacations, so the truth wasn’t all that far off.
As soon as the customs agent saw my well-stamped passport and my return ticket, he stamped me on through without even a question. Simple as that. I took my backpack and headed for the tube. I remembered us doing that a few years earlier. We’d gone right downtown to see all the sights of London and I thought I’d do the same. After studying the colorful lines on the Underground map for a while, I picked a train and jumped on. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got downtown. I had all day to look for a place to spend a couple of nights. I figured it would take a couple of days just to get my head on straight. The truth was, I didn’t really know what I was going to do. I’d directed all my energy on making the break. Now I needed to figure out how I was going to hide and what I was going to do to try and live this life I’d created for myself.
I sat down and looked out the window of the tube. We traveled a couple of stops away from Heathrow before the houses started to appear. They were all brick and stretched as far as the eye could see. Row after row of nearly identical brick houses. The only thing that set them apart was the color of their front doors. They were divided by an occasional business street with any number of chip shops, barbers, grocers, and curry restaurants. I didn’t remember this area from before. My parents were so intent on seeing the Tower of London that we were probably looking at brochures. This wasn’t a neighborhood where tourists went on their vacation. It looked to me like a place where someone could get lost for good.
In a flash I was standing on the next platform, watching the tube go down the track. It was late morning and I was exhausted. My little nap on the plane hadn’t been nearly enough to make up for the lost hours and nervous tension. And I needed a shower in the worst way. I walked up the stairs and onto the street. I could see some businesses and began to walk toward them. My legs were weak and my vision was a little shaky. I found a bench and sat down, but the waves of fatigue kept washing over me. I got up and walked until I found a little shop called Barbie’s Snacks. I went in.
The place was full of regular people. Workmen eating eggs and toast and drinking tea. An old couple studying different sections of the newspaper they were sharing. The inside of the place was all dark stained wood and the windows were old and steamed up. I walked up to the counter to place my order when I remembered I only had dollars.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where there’s a bank?”
“Right down the way dear,” said the woman behind the counter, pointing a little further down the street.
“I need to change some money. Do you think I could leave my backpack here for a second?”
“Surely, we’ll keep an eye on it for ya.” She paused and looked me over. “American?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t get too many Yanks around here.”
“I’m going to be studying.”
“At the polytechnic are ya?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I think.” I’d never heard the word polytechnic before.
“You think? The grand indecisiveness of youth. Now, what do ya want to eat. I f you can decide I’ll have it ready for you when ya get back.”
I ordered a big breakfast and then walked to the bank. I ate some of the food when I returned, but I could barely keep my eyes open. I asked Barbie, the woman behind the counter, if there was a hotel around. She directed me to one on the opposite side of the park that bordered the street. I thanked her and headed out to find it.
I walked past it twice before I realized it only had a small sign saying it was a hotel. I checked in and the man showed me to my room. I paid for three days in advance and told him I might be staying longer than that. He could have cared less. He gave me the room key and left.
I dropped my pack and sat down on the bed. I layed back and closed my eyes. I could feel the exhaustion in my bones, but I couldn’t sleep. It was light outside. I turned on the TV, but there were only four channels and no remote. I got up, got my key, and walked out into the street.
I wandered until it was nearly dark. I bought a sandwich from a guy on the street and ate it alone on a park bench. After I was done I started walking back to my hotel. I couldn’t find it, and the directions to it were sitting on the desk in my hotel room. I didn’t even know the name of the place. I went in a couple of circles and started to panic. I could imagine being stopped by a cop as I wandered the streets aimlessly. What a start to my new life that would have been.
I decided I had to start over, so I took the tube back to the first station I had gotten off at. I walked back to Barbie’s Snacks, which was closed, and tried to retrace my steps. This time, I was lucky enough to find it. The room was kind of dingy, but I was happy to be in it. I lay down and slept this time, but in fits. I kept waking, thinking I would find myself in a different place each time. I remembered how when we took our dog Red on vacation up north she would be confused when she awoke and would cry out and we would have to pet her for a minute before she would lie down next to the bed and go back to sleep. I dreamed of the accident, and this time Red was with me in the car. And then suddenly we were still boating when we crashed and we all had on those yellow life preservers and we laughed and were refreshed by the water and Red barked and barked and I knew it was all a game. We splashed each other like little kids and when I awoke my mouth still tasted like dirt and leaves and I knew it always would.
I got dressed and headed to Barbie’s for breakfast. I thought about Brad as soon as I got on the street. He’d be free by now. The last thing I wanted to do was get him in trouble, but I knew as soon as they found him his days as the recreation director were numbered.
Barbie recognized me from the day before and I was happy to have found a familiar face so quickly. I ate my breakfast and looked at the paper like everyone else. Another IRA bomb. Barbie walked around and refreshed teacups periodically. She was in the middle of some long running conversation with every one of her regular patrons. She made her way to me and filled up my teacup again.
“Did you find the hotel?”
“Yes, thanks a lot. It was nice. You wouldn’t happen to know of a place where I could rent a room. Long term.”
She thought for a moment. “You know, one of the ladies a few streets over rents out rooms. She’s a real dear. A bit different, but a real dear nonetheless. I’ll ring her up for ya.”
She vanished and came back out with an address. The directions were complicated and she had to repeat them a couple of times. The woman’s name was Marjorie Powell and her house was tucked in amongst the other row houses, but awkwardly. It sat on a cul-de-sac between neatly planned row houses. Something had gone wrong when they were planning the streets because they ended up with a large, wedge shaped lot where Mrs. Powell lived. Her house sat askew from the direction of the street. The rest of the cul-de-sac was ringed with brick walls all around- the back yards of her neighbors. They all had the same bricks and had each chosen a slightly different style of construction for their wall.
Mrs. Powell’s house sat a little ways back from the street and had a warm yellow door. She had a carved stone bench out front and a few plants- flowers that were blooming. I rang the doorbell and waited. “Coming,” I heard faintly from inside.
She opened the door and thrust out her hand. “Marjorie Powell,” she said.
“I’m Tim.”
“Please, come in. And do remove your shoes.” We walked into her house. It may have been 1940’s brick on the outside, but inside everything was very ornate and Victorian. Passing through that door was a time warp. All the furniture was either antique or an antique knock off. Every wall had a pattern. There was no TV. In its place was a piano. I had no idea what I had just entered. It looked a little bit like a whorehouse from the cowboy TV shows I had watched growing up, only the colors were a little more muted.
We entered the dining room with its massive oak table and then went into the kitchen. There was an ancient looking stove and a bunch of plants hanging upside down, drying. Some were flowery and others looked like they were just leaves.
“Would you care for some tea?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Nearly time for elevenses and that would be coffee. But, with guests around, it’s always more appropriate to drink tea.”
She hoisted a black kettle underneath the faucet and filled it up. She turned on the gas and lit it with a match and then set the kettle on the flame. She got down a tray and two dainty cups and saucers.
“Please feel free to look around. This won’t take a minute.”
I didn’t want to look like a snoop, but her house had a museum feel to it and I was sure people wandered around all the time looking at things. There were pictures and shadowboxes everywhere, displaying any odd number of things from the Victorian era.
Mrs. Powell looked to me to be about fifty, so I knew she couldn’t have been around for any of this stuff she seemed so fond of. But I just let it slide. I looked at a few picture on the wall. There was one of some people in a far off colony, posing in front of their house with servants and palm trees in the background. The woman central to the photo had a vague resemblance to Mrs. Powell.
“Here we are,” she said, carrying the tray. “Please accompany me to the parlor.” I didn’t know what a parlor was, but I followed. We walked through another large living room and I realized the house was quite large. It didn’t look it from the street, but it spread out further as you went deeper into it.
The parlor turned out to be a fancy family room with more pictures and knick-knacks on the walls. The chairs and tables were very decorative. She set the tray down on the end table and we sat down.
“Cream?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Would you like cream in your tea?”
“Oh. Yeah…yes please.”
“Sugar?”
“Sure.”
“One scoop or two.”
“Uh, one.”
She scooped in one spoonful and then handed me the cup on a saucer. There was a spoon on the saucer and I watched her as she used it to stir the tea. I did the same and then put the spoon back down. Holding a small cup like that was awkward and I felt nervous being there all of the sudden. My heart was pounding and my cup rattled slightly against the saucer and spoon.
Mrs. Powell was silent, very intent upon her activity. She had some cookies arranged on a small silver platter as well, but they weren’t offered. They were obviously there for me. Carefully, because I felt I should, I reached forward and grabbed one and put it on my knee. I blew on my tea to cool it down and then took a drink. The whole picture changed when I did. The tea was out of this world. The flavor of it astounded me. I’d had tea before, but this was leaps and bounds better than any I’d ever tasted. I took another quick drink, just as fantastic as the one before. My nerves evaporated. I suddenly understood what a wonderful house this was.
“Barbie tells me you are looking for a room.”
“Yes, yes I am.”
“She says you’re here studying.”
“I believe I will be. At the polytechnic. I haven’t signed up yet.”
“You’ve come a long way for not even having signed up.”
“I wasn’t sure. I wanted to see everything for myself first and then decide. If it’s not the school for me I’ll go someplace else in the city.”
She was silent then. Long enough that it made me feel uncomfortable. I took another drink of my tea and a bite out of the cookie. That too tasted great.
“What subject?”
I drew a blank. I took another quick bite of cookie so I could think as I chewed. I looked around. “History.”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh, I’m quite fond of history. What era?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You know, if I may make a suggestion, the Victorian Era I find to be an endless source of interest on many fronts.”
“I’ve considered it. I’m not really sure.”
“Would you like some more tea?” I had drained my cup without even realizing it.
“I’d love some, just like before.”
“Glad you like it.” She poured me another cup and I thanked her. “I do have one room available. How long were you planning on staying?”
“I’d like to continue on until I get my degree.”
“Good. I like a little stability.”
We agreed upon a price for the room and I paid for three months right up front. I had changed over all the money I got from selling the car. After the plane tickets and three months rent, I didn’t have all that much left. At least I’d have a roof over my head for a while.
Mrs. Powell told me a few of the ground rules, noting that dinner with polite and interesting conversation was mandatory. The boarders were to provide the wine for each meal and top quality cigarettes for after. She showed me a small chart in the kitchen that displayed the upcoming meals and also Mrs. Powell’s recommendations on a good wine to go with it. It seemed a proper Victorian lady never went into a liquor store or smoke shop. The room also came with toast, cereal, and tea for breakfast. And, that while the garden was mainly a source of fresh food for everyone, it should also be used as a place for inspiration. After another cup of tea she took me on a tour of it.
Mrs. Powell’s garden was huge for city standards. Because her lot wedged out the garden grew wider the further into it you went. It was a rambling maze of brick pathways. No straight lines, no regular corners. Around every curve there was a new surprise awaiting you. She walked in front of me, absorbed in the observation of her plants. Every now and then she would reach down and pluck out a leaf or observe something about a plant or vegetable. There were several benches for sitting and reflecting and endless carved stone figurines of characters from legend and myth. She would point them out to me and then tell me their story. Then she would be off to a description of the plant next to the character and on we went. Huge white clouds drifted by overhead on their way to the channel and Europe. They didn’t look at all like the clouds that had floated over the prison a couple days earlier.
After the tour we went inside and she showed me my room. It was small, with green flower wallpaper and a few knick-knacks hanging about. It was on the third floor of the house and overlooked the garden. From my window I could see row after row of the tops of brick walls, all the way until the street gradually curved away.
“Will this room be adequate?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good, good. Here is your key. Dinner is at six. I must get started on it. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She left. I could hear choral music coming from a radio downstairs. I sat down on the bed. It was a soft mattress and I melted into it. I lay still for a moment and knew I was in danger of falling asleep. I got up quickly and went down to the kitchen.
“Just going to get my things,” I told Mrs. Powell.
“Excellent, see you later.”
I walked back to the hotel and got my bag. I didn’t bother trying to get the money back for the two nights I wasn’t going to stay. I walked through the park on my way back. There was a small petting zoo and kids were feeding numerous small rodents, rabbits, and birds. It must have been a field trip from a day care or a school. The kids were thrilled. It was an excellent day to be in a park.
I stopped at Barbie’s and thanked her for giving me Mrs. Powell’s name. It was almost three, so she was closing.
“You owe me at least a breakfast a week now,” she said.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I’ll be looking for ya.” She said goodbye and walked down the street. I couldn’t hear Mrs. Powell when I got back to the house. I tried to be quiet as I steered my bag up the stairs. I had to avoid a table full of porcelain figurines at each of the landings. Once in my room I set the alarm clock for five thirty and sunk into the bed. I slept like a rock, once again dreaming of the accident. Floating around the corner in the car, watching the yellow lines go from left to center to right.
I awoke to the clanging of the alarm clock. I jumped up and turned it off and rolled back into bed. I was soaking wet with sweat and smelled like the prison.
I got up and went to the shower. The bathroom was full of decorative stuff as well. On the tile wall of the shower was a fake fresco of a naked woman in a garden. I stood under the hot water for as long as I felt it was polite to and then got out and dressed. Nervously, I went down to dinner.
The other boarders were already there. Some sat out in the garden, smoking, a few were in the living room, and one of the guys was helping Mrs. Powell cook. The atmosphere was one of intelligence and style. There were two Italians, a doctor and a photographer, and a French guy and girl, both studying English. There was also a Norwegian studying finance and a Japanese guy also studying English. Mrs. Powell left the kitchen and introduced me to everyone. They all seemed quite friendly.
“Where’s Ewan?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“Not here yet,” said Knut. Mrs. Powell walked to the back yard and yelled his name. He appeared, slowly, from one of the pathways in the garden. Ewan was some sort of relation of Mrs. Powell’s. I never asked exactly how they were related. In the boy’s prison the best way to keep out of trouble was to never asks questions to people. If they wanted you to know something, they would tell you. That stuck with me.
Ewan slothed in and took his seat at the table. Everyone greeted him and he grunted in return. He was young, but he had a very old demeanor. He was from some Northern industrial town, and his accent was unbelievably thick. He was very pale.
Mrs. Powell stood at the head of the table and said grace. Some people bowed their heads while others simply closed their eyes. It didn’t matter if you believed or not, you were respectful for Mrs. Powell, because she believed deeply and was always talking to God.
After grace the wine was uncorked and the soup brought out. Mrs. Powell started every meal with soup, served scalding hot. I took a taste right away and burned my tongue, dropping my spoon. Everyone laughed, having been there, except for Ewan. Ewan never laughed. I learned quickly that the period of time for allowing the soup to cool was also the beginning of that evening’s conversation.
We all had assigned seats at the table. Ewan’s was at one end, right in front of the wall radiator that was broken and hardly ever shut off when the weather turned cold. He sat hunched over and sweating, gripping his spoon tightly in his fist and blowing on his soup. He knew no manners to speak of. He would take a couple of spoonfuls of soup and then take out a packet of tissues and wipe his sweaty brow. Then, shoving the new and used tissues on the table, he would begin the whole routine again. Mrs. Powell would scold him for his rudeness and he would jam all the tissue in his pocket.
After soup we had the main course and then dessert. Afterwards everyone sat around and smoked cigarettes until it was time to study or sleep or go to the pub.
They asked where I was from and I told them Chicago. A couple of them had been there, but only to the tourist places I had no problem identifying
After dinner, I went back to my room and looked over all the backyards. Down below I could see the small garden shed Ewan called home. Mrs. Powell rented out all the rooms in the house, so he had to live out there. He was seated on a bench out front, smoking a cigarette. I unpacked my bag, undressed, and went right to sleep.
I spent the next day pretending to look at the school. I was actually looking for work. The only thing I knew how to do was fix smashed cars. I figured it was my only chance to earn a living over here. I’d planned on hoarding my money the best I could. I didn’t have much to spend it on. If I could earn enough to clothe myself and pay the rent I was going to save the rest of the car money for an emergency. If worse came to worse and I couldn’t find a job I figured I had enough money for about a year. But that was it. I didn’t know what I would do after that.
I wandered the city for days. I bought a smaller backpack so I would look like a student. I picked up some information on a few colleges and would study them at night in the parlor. I asked the others about their schools as well, and even bought a couple of history books so Mrs. Powell would know I was serious about the subject. It was important to me that everyone believed my story, at least until I established myself in the house.
The weather was terrible at best. Continual rain, sometimes with sleet. Some days the fog was so thick I could barely see where I was going. It rained sideways on me as I walked down the street and soaked me to the bone. On good days I would stop at a café to warm up and have tea and look out the steamed windows at the endless supply of falling rain. On bad days I would stop in a pub and warm up with whiskey. I’d turned eighteen in prison and was legal to drink here. Drinking felt strange since the accident, but it offered my nerves at least a moment of rest.
Some days I got so lost I had to stop and ask perfect strangers directions to the nearest bus or tube stop so I could look at a map and get my bearings. I found body shop after body shop, but at most of them I was too afraid to ask if they needed help. The ones I did talk to weren’t interested in hiring an American and paying him cash, no questions asked.
I looked hard, and was becoming convinced my search was in vain. But then, one day as I was coming out of a pub, I saw an accident happen. I went right back inside and ordered another drink so the cops wouldn’t ask me to be a witness or anything. It was only a little more serious than a fender bender. Once the police were done with their reports, I followed the tow truck. It went around the corner and zigged and zagged its way down a couple of streets. It drove down a little side alley and parked in front of a small body shop on a lot next to the tube tracks. Just three Indian guys and a bunch of dented cars parked on the street. No chained in lot, no office with a receptionist. I walked over and asked to see the owner. His name was Mr. Singh. I told him I had tons of experience fixing cars and was looking for a job. He brought me into the shop, to one of the cars his guys had been working on, and told me to have at it. I finished the repair they had been working on as carefully as I could. All three of them stood back and watched me, commenting in their own language. Each time I did something Mr. Singh would ask why and I would explain it to him and then he would translate that to the other guys.
“Your work is good,” he told me. “But why you need cash only?”
“I’m a student, so I don’t have a permit to work here.”
He talked it over with the other guys and they agreed I would be useful. “We don’t make much money, so we can’t pay you too much.”
“How much.”
“Four pounds an hour.”
It was the only offer extended to me, so I took it.
Every day I would get up and have breakfast at the house. Mrs. Powell had a couple copies of the London Times delivered and whoever was eating would read and discuss the world events before going off to their daily task. They all had strong opinions and could back them up with their own reasoning. I was clueless. I’d lived my life for the next thrill and hadn’t given much thought to what lay beyond the next baseball team tryout or who I was going to ask to the homecoming dance. Here I was with a bunch of people who knew the names of foreign ministers for countries I hadn’t even heard of. But the world was a mess and even with all their knowledge they were still unsure how to react to it. The beauty of Mrs. Powell’s place was that you could leave the other world behind if you so chose.
After breakfast I would pretend to go to school. I would change into work clothes once I got to the shop. In the afternoon I would put my better clothes back on and pretend to be going to class. I’d head back to Mrs. Powell’s, looking exhausted from a hard day of lectures.
The body shop was a busy place. The entire Indian community of London knew about Mr. Singh. And this was London, where none of the street were wide enough to begin with. People were running into each other every five minutes.
Mr. Singh wanted to be a player. He dreamed of owning a whole chain of body shops. He had a huge list of people he wanted to bring from India to work in them. He loved American English and would ask me about the phrases he heard on TV. He was continually messing them up. He could remember the phrase, but the context would always be wrong.
He’d lived through Margaret Thatcher’s era, when it was really shitty to be a foreigner living in London. Now that he was done with all that he wanted to expand and live a little. His dream was to own a manor house and have an English butler.
The government had been cracking down on illegal employment because the economy wasn’t the greatest and they couldn’t figure out how to create more jobs. They were trying to save face. They had sent people into some businesses undercover to pose as illegal workers.
At first, the other guys suspected I was a cop. They gave me all the shit work they could find for me. They must have figured I would turn in Mr. Singh to get away from it all. But I never complained or slacked off. I needed the job.
None of them cared much about what happened outside their community. Their work habits were erratic, like a whole shop full of night shift stonecutters. There was no time clock or regular hours. They would come to work, have tea, and then work a little. If Pakistan had done something they did not approve of the whole morning would be shot discussing the ramifications.
Mr. Singh was never there to watch them. He’d put on one of his suits and head off to make some kind of deal. He’d been an ace cricket player in college and loved to hang out with his old friends and make deals. He never drove a car for more than a couple of weeks, always finding one that he thought was a better buy and trading for it.
Only when the neighbors complained to the police that there was no place to park would Mr. Singh and the guys put the pedal to the metal and work like hell. Once they were over thinking I was a cop, they loved me for working from the moment I got there until the moment I left. They even began treating me better in their own way. They’d pawn the shit jobs off on each other instead of making me do all of them.
I remember the day I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t something I did often when I was there. The bathroom was kind of smelly and I hated to use it. I looked at how filthy I was, covered in dust from head to toe. I’d become one of the guys on my Unc’s crew. I had worked with those guys day after day, but I never took them seriously. I was going to become someone more like my dad, who worked with his mind and not his hands. And yet, there I was. Day in, day out, working on cars.
It wasn’t bad really. I found that when I got going I became lost in my work and my worries faded away. It was just me, working on cars. It was the only time I didn’t feel like I was looking over my shoulder, ready for someone to try and grab me and take me back to prison.
I got into a routine of pretending after a month or so. Eat breakfast and then pretend to go to school. Go to work and then pretend to go to school. Eat and then pretend to do homework. I began to pay more attention to what was going on in the world so I could understand the conversations at dinner. I seldom spoke, but when I did I wanted to sound at least somewhat informed.
Mrs. Powell quizzed me about school for a while but after I’d been there for a time and fit in well with everyone she stopped and no one brought up the subject anymore. My days became my own business and everybody else had their own lives. I tried hard to be self-sufficient so no one would feel the need to help me out and expect to know more about me in the process.
The guys at the shop had their wives bring them down lunch everyday, and pretty soon they were cooking enough for me as well. I learned to love the curry, but could never get used to how absolutely spicy hot everything was. One of the wives made me a special mild version. Mr. Singh thought that was the funniest thing ever. He called it my ‘Baywatch’ curry, after his favorite American TV show.
Sometimes, when I was the only one working in the shop, I could close my eyes and smell and imagine I was back in the States. I never dreamed my closest link to home would be the smell of a body shop. I missed my mom. I missed being home. I missed the feeling of being in a game in the crisp fall air, and the taste of hot chocolate from a Styrofoam cup. But even more than that I missed the feeling of comfortably existing in a place. Of living without having to think about it.
But I would open my eyes and the dusty 8 x 10 photo of the Queen would still be hanging on the wall and the steering wheel of the car I was working on would still be on the wrong side.
For one full year I did nothing but work and live and help Mrs. Powell out with her garden. Occasionally some of the boarders would go out for drinks, but I seldom went with them. I was deathly afraid of drinking too much and saying something about my life that I couldn’t explain.
I grew tired of trying to hide the fact that I wasn’t going to school, and after I felt pretty well established in the house I let them know I had dropped out. I said I was thinking about going back at the start of the next term, but I wasn’t sure. Mrs. Powell was concerned, but my routine didn’t change and she didn’t seem to have any problems with it.
I hid myself away in Mrs. Powell’s house and garden for a while, but gradually I began to explore London. I loved taking the tube to different parts of the city and just walking, looking around. I’d never lived in a city before, so each new block held promise for finding a cool new music store or café. I began to love my own neighborhood more than I could have ever imagined loving a place. I still didn’t know many people, but I soon knew every street and began to recognize people from their places of work. I got to know the barber who cut my hair. His scissors never stopped and he talked a mile a minute. My first haircut there scared me to death, but since I walked out with no blood, I decided to go back.
I loved the cloudiness of it all and the warmth of the pubs. I loved the clank and sway of the subway. I loved emerging from a park and once again being on the busy sidewalk. London took me in.
Mrs. Powell was ecstatic to have someone helping her out in the garden. She thought Ewan would help her out when he moved in, but he wasn’t interested in getting his hands dirty. She still relied on him to run errands and help maintain the house, but the longer I stayed the more often she would turn to me instead of Ewan.
She taught me how to shape a garden and how to prune the bushes so they hung over the pathways just right. She was always planting more flowers and shrubs, always changing the look of each section until it suited her. She would wear all white garden clothes with an enormous straw brimmed hat. On glorious, sunny days she was so bright it was difficult to look at her. She spoke to all of the plants in the garden, offering them encouragement to grow. It was as if they were her subjects, obliged to do as she bid them.
She would ask me a question every once in a while as we worked. I had gotten my story down pretty well about family and not going to school and everything. She wanted to know how I was faring in London.
“Have you met anyone Tim? Have you made any friends?”
“You know, the guys at work are nice to me.”
“But that doesn’t qualify as a friend. You need friends you know. You don’t go out much. That concerns me. You can’t miss out on an entire part of life and still be whole.”
We kept working, pruning.
“Do you have a girlfriend back in America?”
“No, I don’t. I’m sure I’ll meet someone someday. Just a matter of time.”
“Not time Tim, effort. Belief. I think you need to believe there is a perfect person for you out there. Only then do they exist.”
We kept going, planting annuals one by one around the corner of a pathway.
“Did you every marry Mrs. Powell?”
We both stopped working. I knew I’d broken a taboo by asking about her life. Mrs. Powell’s past was off limits, as if it did not exist.
“Yes, I did. We met late in life and he was a wonderful man. He shared my taste for things Victorian and also my love of gardening.”
We kept planting, but it was clear she was deep in thought. She dug another hole for a flower, but then stopped.
“He got sick you know, and it was far too early and he had so much more life left in him when he passed. It was dreadfully drawn out and he suffered much more than I felt the doctors should have allowed. He asked to be buried here, in the garden, but the city wouldn’t allow it. Not designated or something. He’s buried near the park. You should come with me sometime when I take flowers.”
“I’d like that.”
We were silent then for a long time, working side by side. She hummed Lord of All Hopefulness, her favorite hymn, as we continued on.
I didn’t want to think about being alone. But I would sit on my bed at night and visions of my past would come floating in through the open windows. Voices would drift in on the gentle breezes and speak to me. My cigarette smoke would rise and circle around itself in a solitary dance.
We were just about done planting when she spoke up again.
“Simon is coming over the afternoon with another statue.”
We were kneeling in front of a bed of roses .
“Who’s Simon?”
“He’s a friend of mine who carves stone.”
“You mean someone actually carved all these things? I thought they were probably cement.”
“No, they are all limestone. Simon carved them all.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes, indeed. Everything you see is absolutely authentic. I will not tolerate falsehood in my garden.”
Mrs. Powell had arranged all of the figures so they gave us some sort of meaning. Some of the statues were quite hidden in the shrubs while others were right out there in the open.
By the time we finished in the garden I was exhausted. I showered put on some clean clothes. Since it was Saturday we were on our own for dinner. It was the one day Mrs. Powell was free from cooking duties. I usually just had breakfast all day long. I didn’t want to spend the money to go out to eat. I did a few times, but eating out alone was a drag and I thought it made me look suspicious.
Mrs. Powell kept a lot of her food supplies in a small shed in the back of the garden, near where Ewan lived. I was walking out to get some more milk. I turned a bend in the path and was stopped in my tracks by a beautiful woman. She had long, black hair. Her skin was delicate, pale. The sun was shining down on her as she cradled a branch and smelled deeply of a flower. She was a wonderful site. I forgot what I was doing and became a blank slate in her presence.
She looked over to me and smiled. I smiled back, but was otherwise frozen. She let the flower rest back down and walked over to me, sticking out her hand.
“Hello, I’m Sally.”
I shook her hand and introduced myself.
“The American?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve heard about you. Shy and helpful and indecisive.”
“Yeah, I guess that would be me.”
Simon came around the corner carrying a small wooden case with all his tools. He was few years older than me but looked like he was twelve. He always wore a dark red stocking cap. Always. Sally introduced us and we shook hands. His fingers were long and thin and heavily calloused.
“I really enjoy your carvings. They give Mrs. Powell great pleasure,” I told him.
“Yeah, she’s a dear. Nice of you to give her a hand out here. Not many boarders willing to lend a hand. Did you garden much back in America then?”
“None at all actually.”
“Really? I thought all you folks had huge lawns and big gardens and such.”
“We kind of lived in the woods. My folks aren’t really dirt people, if you know what I mean.”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve.
“Parched. Care to join us for one?”
“Sure, why not.”
We walked about ten blocks, near to where they lived. Every set of blocks had their ‘local’ pub. Mrs. Powell’s was a different one than Simon and Sally’s. Theirs was older and more appealing than ours. A good pub is soft and well worn and the atmosphere of the place intoxicates you even before you have the first drink. This pub had grown with the neighborhood and all of the same materials that went into the houses went into this pub. It was an extension of all their homes.
Simon bought the first round. We each had a beer and Sally had a cider. We talked easily about the little things that caught their attention around the neighborhood. They had both been through all the schooling required in the English system, but neither had gone further. Simon started out in the stone shop when he was six. His father’s friend owned the place and thought it would be cute to have him around to clean up. He’d been there ever since. Sally worked at the bakery. She liked working early and having her afternoons free.
We drank and talked all afternoon. They told me stories about growing up in the neighborhood and asked me questions about America. Sally kidded me about how I said my A’s and O’s. For dinner, we all went around the corner to a chip shop. We sat on the bench out front and ate fish and chips.
Their dad belonged to a private club, a place you could go to after the bars closed at eleven. We went there after our late dinner. Their dad was at the bar, drinking with his friends. I was introduced. He was a jolly, handsome Englishman who won you over with good humor. He worked for the city in some capacity and helped everybody out. He was owed a lot of favors for which he asked nothing, save the occasional pint.
We found a corner table and had another pint. Sally saw some of her old school mates and went over to talk to them.
“How did you learn to do that?” I asked Simon. “To carve like that?”
“From the guys at the shop. They showed me little by little. After a while you can just do it. I can’t describe it any other way.”
“Was it a formal apprentice program or something like that?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. None of the guys did one of those.”
“I’d love to learn.”
“Piece of cake mate. Come down to the shop. I’ll teach ya.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The guys will help too. They’ll get a kick out of showing you stuff. Nobody much cares to learn anymore. It’ll be fresh.”
One of his old friends sat down to talk. We all chatted and drank until dawn. Simon got really ripped. Every pint made him jollier and less coherent. His hand gestures began to tell most of his stories for him. Then he hit the wall and we had to help him home. Sally and her mom got him into bed and Sally walked me back to Mrs. Powell’s place. We held hands and were both a little nervous. The morning air was fresh and exhilarating. She pushed her long hair back and tucked it around her ear so that I could see her eyes when we talked.
I kissed her just a little when she left, on her way to the bakery with so sleep at all. I went back to Mrs. Powell’s place and had a cup of tea with Koji, the Japanese student. He’d been struggling with his English, so I was helping him. Mrs. Powell thought my teaching him American English was outrageous, but he was doing much better and we’d kind of grown into being friends.
After the tea I sat in the garden and let the sun shine on my face. I could still smell Sally. I drifted off to sleep and awoke when the clouds rolled in and the wind picked up. I went inside and slept for a while and then walked in the rain down to the bakery to see how she was doing.
It was an amazing place, with delicately made treats sitting everywhere. The tastes were very subtle, not like the sugary American stuff. The flavors were mild and sometimes hidden. They took getting used to.
She was dressed in her counter smock and hat and looked every bit the woman who had spent the whole night out. Gracie, one of the older women, was there behind the counter with her. The shop was really quiet. The rain had dampened everyone’s enthusiasm for going out and about.
“Is this the one kept you out all night?” asked Gracie.
“It was my damn fool brother Gracie. Have to baby-sit him like he’s a toddler else he’d never get home.” Sally looked at me. “You look pretty chipper for a long night out.”
“I slept for a while, in the garden.”
“Dreaming of me I hope.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
Gracie smiled and reddened and looked down at the counter.
“What time do you close up shop?” I asked.
Gracie looked up at the clock. “Almost another hour Sally.”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”
“I’ll come pick you up.”
“Bring the lass a pillow,” chimed in Gracie.
I went back and told Mrs. Powell I wouldn’t be in for dinner. She looked quite surprised.
“Has your family come to town?
“No.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah, just fine. I’m taking someone out for dinner.”
“And who would that be, if I may pry.”
“Sally.
“Simon’s sister?”
“Yeah.”
“Why that’s lovely. She’s quite a pleasant girl. I do hope you two have a good time.”
We went to a Greek place down the street. We ate and talked and drank a bottle of wine, even though we had each sworn off liquor for good after the night before.
The next day I started a new schedule. I went to the shop and worked but told Mr. Singh I had signed up for a new class and was going to have to leave earlier from now on. In the afternoon I went to the stone shop. Simon was happy I’d showed and introduced me to the other guys. It was a busy place. Men with hammers and chisels pounding away at their workstations. He showed me the stone he was carving- it was a restoration piece for a church in the Midlands. The original was sitting on the bench next to him. He would carve on the new piece and then go back to the original and take measurements. Then, he would transfer those numbers to the new piece and carve some more. He let me watch for a while and talked me through each step, from the really rough work of knocking down big chunks to the finish work with files and sandpaper.
He let me try out the different hammers and chisels on a couple of scrap pieces. We were there well after everyone else had left. Sally came to visit and brought us a thermos of tea and some snacks from the bakery. We sat amongst the stones and talked while we had our break. This was the life for me. I was sure of it in a way I had never been sure about anything.
I worked with Simon every afternoon and learned quickly. My carving skills increased enough that soon I was working on pieces for jobs. The owner was pleased. I worked for nothing and my pieces were good enough to go on buildings. I was a sure moneymaker. I couldn’t do any of the complicated stuff, but by doing the easy pieces I freed up the other carvers to get the difficult stuff done more quickly.
Sally and I hung out on the weekends when she wasn’t working. Simon was usually nursing a hangover, lying shirtless in bed with his red stocking cap still on. Sally and I would walk around a park or go hang out in Mrs. Powell’s garden. She loved Mrs. Powell and the garden. We would sit and drink tea and be entertained by stories about the Victorians. The sun would shine on us intermittently. I was nineteen, in the company of people whom I both loved and enjoyed. I wanted no more out of life. I didn’t question anything. I didn’t ask what I deserved to have. I just sat in the garden with Sally and Mrs. Powell and when the sun decided to shine I let it fall upon my face.
I began doing half days at both the body shop and the stone shop. Mr. Singh saw the writing on the wall and was bummed out. I had become a good employee. He was not surprised when I told him I was going to the stone shop full time. On my last day they had a little party for me. Sally and Simon came by and we all sat around and ate curry. Simon and Mr. Singh talked on and on about cricket while Sally and I sat with the others and exchanged polite smiles, still separated by language.
I began splitting my evening meals between Mrs. Powell’s and Sally and Simon’s house. They both still lived at home because rent for your own apartment on this side of town was pretty steep. Annie, their mom, was a nurse and a wonderful cook. They had family with a sheep farm in Kent and were always well stocked for mutton.
Some weekends Sally’s older brother, Edward Jr., would come home from the army on leave and there would be a non-stop party. He was stationed in Northern Ireland and Annie was worried sick about him. There was a lot going on to worry about. Even London was getting bombed. It didn’t seem to phase Ed any.
Edward Sr. liked to joke about my becoming a British citizen. What with everyone always going to America, he thought it would be a great lark if I turned the tables. I would have in a second had I a clear background. I kidded him about it instead.
“What good to be British when I steal your daughter away to America?”
“You’ll invite me for a stay then, will you?”
“In the guest house. We’ll put you up in the guesthouse. Everyone has one in America.”
“Near Disney, right?”
“Nowhere near Disney.”
“What on earth shall I do in America if I’m not near Disney?”
Sally would bring us our lunch every day at the stone shop. She would put some meat and cheese on the day old rolls from the bakery and bring them by. The three of us would sit behind the shop, amidst the ruins of pieces that had been made wrong or had been abandoned after we made replacement pieces for them. It looked like the remnants of a civilization back there. Simon would read to us from the Times. He spoke slowly and very clearly, trying to articulate every word to the closest degree that he could. If there was an article about Northern Ireland he would read the entire thing. He and Sally would talk about it, but not for long. The whole thing made Simon’s blood boil.
Back in my room at night, sitting by myself smoking, I would have panic attacks. I was in love with a beautiful girl and with the life I’d found. I was grasping it so tight, trying to block out any thought that it was only temporary. I ran through all the options I had, which were few. I considered turning myself in but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving for that long, even if it meant I could be with Sally in the long run.
I still dreamed about the girl in the car, almost every night.
My carving skills improved quickly and after a year I was carving alongside Simon on most of the projects. My mood was better during the day and I comforted myself with the thought that they probably wouldn’t use too many resources to try and find me and bring me back. I concentrated on my job and on being just another guy on the street. I dressed plainly, never spoke to strangers, and was always polite.
Students came and went from Mrs. Powell’s house. Paolo, the Italian photographer, Koji, and myself were the only ones that were there very long term. Koji and I had become pretty close while trying to get him to learn English. His dad was anxious for him to become fluent and it stressed him out. He was going to Australia to buy racehorses for his father as soon as he had mastered the language. I couldn’t see it. He was a gentle guy and I figured the Aussies would eat him alive.
One night Paolo and I were hanging out in his room, discussing women. His dream was to be a photographer for Playboy. Koji had come running in frantically telling us how his friend’s landlord was beating the crap out of her. Without hesitation, Paolo rummaged through one of his camera bags and got out a gun. We’d just eaten dinner. It was Paolo’s birthday, so we drank way more wine than usual. My tongue felt thick and everything around me seemed to be happening more quickly than I could react to it.
Koji had made progress but his English was still rudimentary. He needed me to go along to speak to this man, as his friend’s English was very poor. Now I had an alternative if the speaking broke down. Koji watched all this transpire, but ignored it as if it were an unbelievable but necessary unpleasantry. That shocked me more than the gun itself. I’d grown up around guns. They were long barreled and black and you took them into the woods to kill birds and deer. They weren’t small and silver. And you never looked through them. They had presence.
I could tell Koji was in over his head. He was a quiet man who spent most of his free time reading Japanese pro wresting magazines, cleaning his room, and going to Heathrow to watch the Concorde take off and land. I doubt he’d ever considered assault and battery and concealed weapons charges in his life. This was all too much for him and he kept drawing hard on his cigarette. He excused himself and went downstairs to get his jacket.
Paolo didn’t volunteer to go along. He sent his weapon as proxy. He showed me how to insert the clip and cock the gun.
“You got it?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, you do it.”
I pulled back the top of the gun to cock it. Then, very carefully, I let the hammer down so that it wouldn’t fire. Paolo grabbed the gun back and pressed the lever on the side, popping out the clip into his waiting hand. Then, he shoved it back in. He gave me an extra clip, fully loaded, as if I might need it for the extended gun battle, crouched down and reloading behind one of the low brick walls that border the sidewalk in front of nearly every house. He put the gun on safety and gave it to me for good. It was already warm and slightly damp to the touch. I shoved it into my jacket pocket and stood still in the middle of the room. The liquor had risen warmly inside me and the air itself felt soft, with the floral prints on Paolo’s walls fading into blur at the corners.
I stood and waited for some last minute encouragement. Paolo just sat back with his photo magazine and tapped his ashes into an empty film canister.
“See ya,” I said.
“Yes, ciao.”
I marched downstairs to Koji’s room. He was seated on the edge of his bed staring at the doorway, and got up immediately when I appeared. We went out into the damp night air.
The tube station was five blocks away. I needed the walk. My drunk was not yet at high tide, and the mist on my face slowed the rising waters enough for me to try and take hold of the situation.
“What did she say?” I asked him, trying to comprehend the situation a little more.
“Uh, as a matter of fact, she said there was a conflicting…”
“A conflict? A confrontation?”
“Yes, yes. A con fron ta shun.”
“Do we need to take her to the hospital?”
“Hospital?”
“Yeah. Is she cut up and stuff?”
“Cut up?”
“Injured? Wounded?”
He was silent for a moment, digesting all of the words.
“Perhaps. She did not say.”
We passed under the small glowing bulbs of streetlights. The thick air made me sweat inside my jacket. House after house was dark, gates closed up. We passed our sparsely populated local pub. I felt a great urge to drag Koji in and calm him down, but he was walking too fast.
By the time we got to the station, he had to piss. We bought our tickets at the machine and walked down the stairs to the platform. We were the only ones, surrounded by ads for musicals and the national lottery. Color emerged from the gray night, and I stared at the tube map as Koji relieved himself in the bushes. He handed me a cigarette when he came back, and we sat down to wait for the train in silence. I rubbed the gun with the tips of my fingers and stared forward. My head lightened from the smoke and my heartbeat pulsed through my hand and into the gun. Koji kept shifting around in his seat. I was sure he was going over scenarios that would have been impossible for him to take from his head and put into English. My mind was clear for a moment, as if I had reached the broad plateau of my buzz. There was silence, broken by a pigeon flying upward on the other side of the tracks. I was quite calm.
The train appeared, the white headlight and rhythmic clanking growing in the distance. We got on the empty car and sat down next to each other as we had been on the platform. We kept smoking, sharing cigarette after cigarette until we got to the city center.
The swaying of the train lulled me down from my drunken heights and I too began to picture scenes in my head. I sat arrogantly, knowing full well the other guy wouldn’t have a gun. I clearly had the upper hand. If he chose to challenge me he’d probably fall in one shot. I’d never get to pop out the clip and reload. I wasn’t going to shoot it out with the police and create some kind of scene with negotiators and all. A pool of blood, but no struggle. I’d empty the gun. Set it down, wait for the cops.
We made two station stops but took on no passengers. The momentary glow began to leave me and implications began to crowd my head. I’d have to see some lawyer from the embassy. He’d be some arrogant bastard who wouldn’t understand that I knew from the word go every step I took was a wrong one. He’d be slightly balding, wearing English business casual. I’d have gotten him out of bed, of all things. Then I’d go back to prison and there wouldn’t be a soul to feel sorry for me. They’d all say I should have been there in the first place. I’d lose Sally forever.
We got to the central city to change trains and walked a long cement tunnel, clear all the way to the end. The air smelled old and worn after the long day and it sickened me. Koji was sweating. He kept wiping his brow with his handkerchief. We wound around, took one flight of stairs, and arrived at out terminal. The Northern, the black stripe on the map, would take us where we needed to go.
I kept my hands stuffed deeply in my pockets as we stood waiting. I got a little paranoid and looked around for any cops. I thought getting caught before the act would be worse than begin arrested after. There would be too much to try and explain.
Koji walked back to the wall and leaned against it. I turned to him, hoping to make small talk, but he was far ahead of us already. A groaning grew from the black tunnel and our train arrived in a rush of dead air. We got on.
We got out at Camden Town and began to hike north. Her street wasn’t far, but keeping up with Koji’s pace was difficult for me. I grabbed him and held him still for a second and he seemed to understand. We walked more slowly then, a deliberate and nervous gait.
When we got to her street corner we turned and began to climb a long hill. The cement embankment next to it was filled with graffiti, but the streetlight was out and all I could see were shadows of spray paint.
I felt like a gangster for the first time in my life. I held onto the gun in my pocket as we walked. One finger on the safety, powerful, ready to go. Walking up that street, suddenly sober, I knew I was playing a role. The real me was sitting in the room with Paolo talking about nude women. However smoothly I slid into this new me I’d have to return to face the consequences as my old self. I might end up in a horrible place, but that happened. The street lifted to us and we walked together with quick paces.
Koji began to look at the numbers on the houses and motioned to me that it would be on the next block. The road had a small bend to the right. He threw down his cigarette and stepped on it. He wanted to run, and as he quickened to a trot I followed. He’d been patient this long, but now the proximity was killing him. As we crossed the street and entered the next block I took out the gun and held it down by my side. We’ll kick down the door, I told myself, and it will be time.
That was when she called out to us. She stood up on the stairs, dressed entirely in pink, and waved a gloved hand at Koji. We slowed to a walk one house from her and I shoved the gun back in my pocket. We approached and stood in front of her expensive, neatly stacked luggage. She greeted Koji in bright and energetic Japanese. He replied and began to ask her question after question. She answered in short sentences.
I couldn’t grasp what I was seeing. I paced back and forth behind Koji. I’d gotten myself so pumped up I couldn’t shut down. Heart pounding, I looked up at a face that was smooth and delicate, perfectly made up.
She began to talk and Koji nodded at her every pause. Her tone was matter of fact, nothing to suggest trauma. She just needed help moving all her shit to a new apartment she’d found. Koji looked relieved. She went inside. He turned to me, eyes looking downward.
“Perhaps there has been exag…”
“Exaggerating?”
“Yes.”
“Fuckin’ a right.”
“Pardon?”
I stood silently and took my hand off the gun. It had grown rigid in anticipation and ached slightly. My arrogance was rapidly deflating.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “possibly she is a bit rotten.”
“Rotten? You mean spoiled? She does this cause she’s a spoiled brat?”
“Brat?”
“Shit. This is shit.”
“Perhaps.” Koji was silent for a moment. “She has found new residence.”
“So she calls you to be the lackey?”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Fuck it. Forget it.”
I turned around and faced the street, looking across the way at the darkened houses. I could see a few faces in windows, trying to figure out what the commotion was. My role had evaporated and suddenly I felt lost and very sober, the pawn of some elite Japanese London. I sat down on the curb and got out a cigarette.
She came back out with more bags and quick talk to Koji. He was jumping at her commands, organizing. After she went back inside he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to face him. He held out a twenty-pound note to me.
“Perhaps there are more cigarettes at the pub?”
“Yeah, you bet.”
I took the money and started walking down the hill.
“We will come to you. Short time,” Koji said to my back.
I felt the gun in my pocket and hated it. I wanted to chuck it somewhere, but I knew Paolo must have had a reason for possessing it in the first place and needed it back. A light mist fell on me under the glowing streetlights.
There was worn green carpeting in the pub. The paneled walls looked warped beneath the chipping white plaster ceiling. The bartender was watching a game show. The sign on the door said the restroom was for patrons only, so I went straight there. Not that I had to go. My arrogant feeling was almost gone and I didn’t want it to end. Most of the time I was lost in fears and impossible dreams and this clearinghouse of all logic felt good for a while. I looked in the mirror at a man who had briefly known power. I washed my face. Leaned against the sink. Waited.
The bartender was staring at me when I came out and looked surprised when I approached the bar and ordered a stout. He drew it and said nothing.
Some men at the end of the bar were talking about a rugby game. A man and woman were seated at a table not looking too thrilled about being together, but interested in being out anyway. A couple of guys were playing pool. It was a smoky place and when I lit up a cigarette it almost felt like I was back in Farwell. Everyone killing themselves with beer and cigarettes and greasy food while talking football and watching game shows. My arrogance was gone. I was sickened by myself and every detail of my surroundings. A pain flared up inside of me and I realized that for a short time it had disappeared. The newspaper on the bar was open to a story about another IRA bombing. My fingernails were dirty. To reminisce was to remember blatant and inexcusable self-destruction.
I downed my pint quickly and ordered another. The bartender watched TV as he drew it and overflowed the beer onto his hand. He flicked the foamy liquid onto the floor and handed me the drink. My head quickly grew light. The brown tones of the place began to emerge, and the crisp glow of the lights became soft and round. The bartender laughed at the screen, grabbing my pint and wiping off the bottom with a stained rag.
Koji came in on my fifth drink. I downed it and followed him out to an old black taxi that was packed to the gills. He shoved me into the back seat next to sacks full of shoes. We drove off. Akiko, in the front seat, would talk but not turn around. She spoke in a steady stream and Koji replied with one word every now and then. I wanted to grab a shoe and beat her on the head, but started laughing at the thought.
My insides felt warm again and I felt safe. Armed and drunk, I wanted to lean forward and tell the cabby he had nothing to fear from the street on this ride. I didn’t. I sat back and watched the lights go by, realizing at some point that this was my first cab ride in London.
We took a twisting road around a large park and ended up on Baker Street. Nighttime London sparkled from the inside of a cab. I felt in touch with the city. I wanted to cab around London forever. We passed the Sherlock Holmes pub.
“Fucking Baker Street!” I blurted out. Koji leaned around a fan to look at me.
“Ha,” said the cabby, “a yank.”
“Yeah, you bet.”
“The yanks. I love the yanks. Shoot ya for the change in your pocket. But all in all, good chaps.”
I laughed as he continued.
“Florida, Miami. Now there’s a place. Beats the fucking Costa del Sol any day.”
“Koji, this is our man.”
“Pardon?”
Akiko started to speak rapidly and Koji directed the cabby where to turn. It was onto a narrow side street. We stopped in front of a large brick apartment building.
Akiko and Maki got out. I sat for a second, numb, catching up.
“Don’t leave,” I told the cabby.
“You bet mate.”
Akiko walked to the front door and talked through the intercom. The door popped open as I staggered out of the cab. Koji told me to begin unloading, but I leaned a little and had a cigarette before I grabbed some bags. We took everything out and set it next to the door.
Koji paid the driver and I nodded at him to stay put. He leaned back and adjusted the radio. I didn’t have enough to pay for a cab ride all the way back to Mrs. Powell’s, but I knew tonight someone was going to pay for me.
The world changed into pastels and textured walls when we began to carry the bags up three flights of stairs. Everything was posh. I began to sweat inside my jacket again. Akiko, now shoeless, took the bags from us when we delivered them to the apartment. We carried up the last bags on the fourth trip. I was dripping in sweat and ready to leave.
“Koji, get cab fare. Let’s split.”
“No. We go inside.”
“What the fuck for? She can’t unpack?”
“We need have polite for Akiko’s host.”
“Polite?”
“Yes, maybe? For in tro duc shun.”
“Nah, nah. We’re gone.”
“Is very important. I’m asking for you please.”
I couldn’t handle Koji begging. It was too pathetic and it pissed me off. I sat down in the hall and unlaced my boots. My socks were dirty and the fact that this now mattered made me furious.
The place was clean to the point of anal. A small Japanese man shook hands with me and led me to a leather sofa. Spread around the room were pictures of the English man who was clearly his lover. He asked if we would like something to drink.
“Whiskey,” I said.
He paused for a moment and looked at Koji, who nodded politely in agreement.
“Neat?”
“Yeah.”
Koji nodded as well.
Akiko came out from the room she was going to occupy and sat across from us. She looked around the room and spoke to Koji every once in a while. Modern art, most of it metal, surrounded us. In every nook and cranny there was some rusty piece contrasting with the ivory walls and cream carpet.
The man came back with crystal tumblers and a half empty bottle of whiskey, which he showed to us. It was the most expensive whiskey I’d every seen. He poured us each two fingers.
Sitting down across from us he looked really pleased. He spoke in rapid Japanese to Akiko and Koji and the three of them had a small laugh.
“What’d you say?” I asked.
“I told them it has been quite a while since I have had the opportunity to speak Japanese. With my work I am surrounded by the English. I told them I may be rusty.”
I understood at that point I was supposed to ask him what he did, and then probably compliment his articulation and fine digs. But I wanted to get out. I kept my coat on.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the left.”
I got up, drunk and unsteady, and followed his directions. The toilet spun as I stood over it. I heard them speaking joyfully in bursts of Japanese.
They fell silent as I walked back into the room. I was ready to leave.
“Koji, tell her to give us cab fare.”
Koji stared down at the table.
“But you must stay for a while,” said the man as he stood up. “I have very many questions about America.” He cupped my arm and tried to lead me back to the sofa.
I slid my arm away. “Nah. Time to go. Koji, get the fare.”
Koji sat still.
The man grabbed my drink and thrust it at me. “But please, you haven’t even touched your drink.”
I took it from him and drank it in one swallow.
It was watered down, weak. Barely warm in my throat. I threw down my glass.
“Goddamn it! Trying to fuckin water me down?”
In the next instant I had the gun out pointing right at him. I felt a pain in my back and my legs gave out. Koji and I fell forward and his tackle propelled us onto the glass coffee table. There was a loud crack as we broke through the yellow tinted slab and another as the gun went off into the carpet. I could see the black spot so clearly, the melted fibers around it curling up and smelling like burning hair. I wish I could have watched the whole scene from above.
Akiko screamed and began yelling hysterical commands at Koji. He jumped up and dragged me across the floor. I was cut on the leg and a red streak colored the carpet in my wake. Akiko screamed some more and then began to talk to her host. I looked up at him as we went through the door. He was pale, as if he might faint. There was nothing at all behind his gaze.
“Go,” said Koji above me, pointing down the stairs. He grabbed shoes and boots and rushed me down to our cab. He shoved me in the back seat and jumped into the front. I still held the gun, trigger pulled on an empty chamber.
“You boys in a hurry?” asked the cabby, startled from a nap.
“Cab fare!” I screamed.
“Yes, you best have that.”
Koji ran back in and came out with twenty pounds. He was spinning.
“More. Get more. Get a hundred.”
He went back in, oblivious, and came out with the money.
“Go now. Please.” He said to the cabby.
We went. Neither one of us told him where to go, so he just drove. Koji looked back over the seat at me. He leaned back and grabbed the gun from my hand, shoving it into my pocket. He got out his handkerchief and told me to put it on my cut. Then, with shaking hands, he got out a cigarette and smoked it.
We were silent for a time. The inside of the cab seemed to be rocking back and forth. I couldn’t tell if it was my drunk of the motion of the car. I sat up, and the light of the city rocked back and forth, ever so slightly.
The cabby began to talk about Florida. He talked in circles, a lonely monologue that needed no answers. His voice soothed me. I listened and let the cab rock me. For the first time since we left the house I felt relaxed, cradled in the warmth of the car. From Florida he talked of Europe and then kings and queens and old wars and colonies. The colonies led to settlements and then nations and then vacation spots. I sunk deeply into my seat and watched the city go by. He drove and talked. Koji sat silent next to him and smoked.
“Give me one,” I said.
Koji looked back at me, into my eyes, and held my gaze. Then, he tossed me the pack and the lighter.
The cabby got to the topic of British character and insisted we accompany him to his local pub, which we just happened to pull up in front of at that very moment. Inside, he said, we would learn more about this wondrously elusive topic.