A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 4

  The mother was on stage now for Sam's benefit, searching for the silent applause of his looks, his attention to her. He did respond, indeed, but Sam had vision only for daughter who was infuriating with her air of passionate detachment. Yet, aware of him she was. He knew it.

  Aware he was captivated by her. Aware he followed every movement as she pulled the kerchief away and fluff-bounced her hair. Aware her aimless pattern was a madding premeditated arousal dance. Aware of his mounting desire. Although her eyes alit on object to object, she knew he was there, not once bringing him so much as in the furthermost periphery of her vision, knowing his eyes were full-bore on her performance. She knew exactly where he was, of course. Else how could she have so carefully avoided looking at him, giving him satisfaction, deliberately frustrating him?

  Mr. Youchah would be in momentarily. Once he talked to a girl almost as pretty as this one. She stopped him as he was walking home from work. She was driving a car, and wanted to know how to get to Bronxdale Avenue. He drew down close to the open window to hear her and was immediately enraptured when bemisted by her cloying perfume, the brilliant red of her lips, the roundness of her breasts, her eyes blinking at his. It was just too much to have so much so close which caused him to babble incoherently almost that he couldn't tell her how to get to Bronxdale which was just six blocks away. His dreams were filled with revised re-runs for months thereafter. And, now, here he was again, but escape impossible, trapped as much as if he were shackled in a cage on display. He could think on her, no matter the pile of garbage he appeared. Exciting. She had to be exciting. Was her voice hoarse and sexy? Would she deign talk to him? Ask some question that would allow him to articulate the answer with swift directness that would dazzle her so she could only see his specialness, not the container. Hey! You want smart? I could be Phi Beta Kappa! Bet you lost your key the first year in college! We won't talk about security, emotional maturity, or eye appeal. Yes, Ma'am, we work very carefully with silk here, we specialize in using silk. We're so careful we twist each tack through the material just to make sure there are no pulls or runs. God! Look at her open her coat! Look at that tight shirt, those knockers! Look how the bump shows below her belly where are the interstices of your womanhood. If you'll leave your name and phone number, I'll give your message to Mr. Youchah. I wonder how. I wonder does she like it? Does she do it a lot? Not by somebody like me. Probably by some Columbia University professor. How about you and I followed by some little surgery to cut off my pecker to make sure it pokes no less a lay than you, and I'm your slave for life? Small price to pay. How about it? What evil thoughts! But I can't help it. Would it be different if I knew what making love was like? If I actually could know about this consuming collaboration? And suppose she read my mind, and said we're going to send Mother home, so you and I can strip bare and go at it. What the hell do I do? Hey! I'm asking you! You've seen moving pictures; you know what two bare bodies do when they're interacting. Can you do it? God! What's it like? Yes, Ma'am, I'll repair this seam right now while you wait so you can take it back with you. There, don't be frightened. I won't hurt you. Just relax a bit more, let your legs slip open, and soon you'll feel my enormous organ touch your lips and slowly move inside to the...to the what? What happens? What do you feel? You feel the sewing machine needle go right through the nail of your index finger. Not a sound! Not a whimper! Do you want her to know definitely that you're a klutz! A jerkoff! Be sure they have no idea what you've done! And be careful you don't get the blood on the fabric. Look at yourself! Unpresentable lunatic! She thinks you're some kind of mangy dog let in out of a swamp. She can't stand you! Not to look! Not to speak! Not to touch! What makes you think you can do human things like a humanoid? She's like a piece of puff pastry sprinkled with powdered sugar on display in a flan pan--so aloof, so special, and incredibly edible. It would be my privilege and honor to do for you, Miss, drive a spike through the top of my head and out my jaw if you like in less than three strokes of a fifteen-pound sledge. You know what? You don't even have to talk to me, just look at me, would you? Just acknowledge that I'm in the room. That you see me? No! Don't see me! You'd get sick. No more plea bargaining. I'd trade dominions for minute favors. Well, as a matter of actual fact, Miss, as head of the silk upholsterer's guild, this is an official workday uniform. The wet shoes are to ground static electricity; the rolled up pants to catch falling lint; and the undershirt to make it exciting for the men if women join the guild because it'll make their tits show. Now, look at me!

  --Mother, don't waste your time, the owner's not here.

  Look at me!

  --How can you bring anything back home that's been in this awful place!

  Look at me!

  Gone. Disappeared when I turned away. Out the door. She'll wait in the car came back the sound of her voice. Out of his life, forever, but not out of his mind. He remained stationary long enough to review her movements around the shop. To be that close for all that time. What would he have to do, what would he have to own, to make such a person want to be near him? He subdued that penetrating thought by pouring iodine onto the needle hole in his fingernail, the trauma still causing a palsied reaction to his entire hand. If he let himself scream it would've shaken the front windows, as it was, he kept it inside where it merely silenced his heart.

  He wanted to shut the door into his brain where he used a mental compactor, shredder, garbage disposal to make sure tri-barbed and bladed memories didn't slice through his brain in unguarded moments. A morbid curiosity forced him to represent the scenario with the mother and the girl. Bad luck made her see him in so rotten a light. So strong was the sting of it, it caused a rash in the lining of his brainpan. He recognized the disaster came about strictly as a matter of timing. Any other day, at least he'd be presentable. If Sol were present, like most underlings, he would've been shielded by the umbrella of authority provided by the boss. Without Sol, dressed as he was, he was just too vulnerable. It wouldn't happen to him again. He'd see to that. He'd wait until noon for Sol, and then take care of matters as he saw them. In fact, if Lincoln Jackson had come in now rather than earlier, he'd take care of him, good, too. He'd get back to work, and think on what he was to do.

  No more than a half-hour later, the door opened and closed. He waited a moment for Sol's customary greeting. There was none. Sam expected to see another customer, and moved to throw on his damp shirt and roll down his trouser cuffs. Surprise! It was Sol! What happened to his greeting? He was dressed in his best outfit. It was Wednesday, not Friday. Sam stared hard at the man, wrinkling his brow because he couldn't believe the man was slightly unsteady on his feet, not drunk, just not solid. He had never known the man to take a drink. There was a subtle change in his demeanor, a somberness it took several long seconds for Sam to detect. Was the man ill? Perhaps, but not so much that as preoccupied.

  --I'm here, Sol!

  --Yes. Yes.

  --How are you?

  --Since when you ask? Don't look for no holidays. I'm fine! It was obvious he would offer no explanation for why he was not in at his usual time.

  --The lady and the daughter...

  --...Here? Today? This is how you would run Ah business? You look like dot? Like we're doing Ah Bowery business...

  --But in the summer...!

  --Excuses no! You accuse yourself of not thinking, not being ready, of being Ah ignorant foreigner! S'ah shame you don't loin something from me! You gotta look like dot, Ah bum? Lock the door! Lose what if you do? Nothing! The old man turned away, his mind immediately preoccupied with something else. Mumbling, strange foreign tongue, but no mistaking the incantation, the pleading with The Big Guy. Davanining. He turned back to Sam, face screwed up with questions. And the stillstandSchwartz, that moveless black, here he was to be! A quota he couldn't meet if it ran over him like a train! Again, his mind went out of the shop, scuffling aimlessly from one stop to the next, tapping with his finger, talking to himself, away from the world around him.

  --What can
I do for you, Sol?

  Coming back slowly to Sam's presence, he nodded knowingly to him, limply waved his hand around the room to the waiting work. --Do what you can. Do what you can... Lock the door so they don't see you like dot. For God's sake. Lock the door.

  He left, as a ghost with the morning fog.

  Desperation. Sam felt it in the quiet of the moment left long after the leathery scuff of Sol's steps. His mind raced as it did at these times. Sol? Did you or did you not understand that I was asking if there was something I could do for you personally? If you didn't, that would be too bad for both of us; for me because you deprive me of doing something for you; and for you to know something about me. But, if you did, and you denied me, was it because your pride would not allow yourself the luxury of a friendly gesture; but I think more, you felt there was absolutely nothing I can do. I can only surmise, and doing that, I chose to vote against myself: That I didn't make myself clear, that you felt me incapable of helping rather than your own stubborn display of independence.

  Desperation. It squirted out of his sweat pores under building inner pressure. It wasn't just Sol. This moment was a culmination of his life. A sickening realization that to himself if no one else he was a sacred and holy living human being who had discarded...Lo! Chucked away! All his life so far! The rage of his worthlessness fueled the hopelessness of the moment. He was of value to no one! If he were to disappear would his mother and father survive without his paycheck? They were emotional hunchbacks for years already; would his departure saltier make their tears? How could he think of such a thing? The thought brought with it hard pain. Who else was left? Sol? He himself just told you, and perhaps that caused the impact. Perhaps I was counting on him. You counted on no one all your life so far, and now you find in reaching out there is no acceptance. You are born alone; you die alone. You must live alone. Oh! How crummy. How sad you didn't feel these ages ago, and like a Diogenes went on a search to learn if this is the lousy world I think it is. I handed my life and my destiny over to my parents, because they gave me life and I exchanged it for serfdom. I should've taken what was rightfully mine, my own living being breathing self! That I loved them? Not as much that as that in needing me, I needed them. Falsely. I conceded no one else would want me. Physically for sure not. But, intellectually! I could comingle ecstatic orgasms that would envy the Olympics held on Mt. Olympus. If you're so fucking smart, why are you here? Look around! See wherein you do, see whereof you work, see wherefrom you derive! I don't want to talk about that. Go lock the door like he says. Lock the door! Lock out the rest of your life! What about Sol? He didn't even offer you a personal day off for your birthday. So? What about Sol? Shhh! Shhhh! Shhhh! Shhhh! Stop thinking! Stop thinking! Make yourself stop thinking these caustic, disastrous thoughts. Tell me what you see?

  Standing stock still, he saw first, that his chin was hardpressed to the upper part of his breastbone, the primal posture of unportentousness. Dejection. Next, his rounded belly, moving slowly in and out with each breath, like a beached whale going fast. Then the rolled up cuffs, deflated inner tubes, suspended above the untied shoe laces. His arms limp at his sides. Thus he was when he spoke to Sol; when Sol spoke to him; when Sol left. And now he remained for some twelve minutes thinking only of himself. He saw himself as the pretty girl saw him; as the mother saw him; as Sol saw him. Now, as he saw himself. His shoulders jerked as in a hiccough spasm. Again. His belly pulled in. Then, he could contain himself no more, and let out the laughter. It was soooooooooo funnneeeeeeeeee! Indeed, t'was a sight to behold! He laughed loud and long; but much longer than was called for, and he knew why. Ridi, Pagliacci! He stopped instantly. He gathered himself roughly, sternfaced taking to the door, locking it, returning to his work. Work! Work! Sweet Jesus! Your divine brilliance to provide me workings! With the skirt on the sofa fully in place, he moved the piece down off the workhorses, slid it to a place closeby the front door, set in the eight pillows, sat down on each of the three on the deck, got up, and carefully inspected all of his work. He checked the line of it, the pattern on every piece, the height of the skirt, snipped several threads, checked the cushions, finally passing his hands upwards before his chest, thumbs up, his explanation to the powers that watch over such things that he cared about his work and had done the very best job he possibly could. Quickly, he pulled a plastic cover over it.

  He set short sawhorses before the cutting table, then bear-hug lifted an easy chair onto them. The chair covered in muslin, just as it came from the factory. It was easy, lucrative work, this type. He rolled out all the yardage of the material to upholster it, inspecting it for the second time for imperfections. He went to work on it, cutting material for the welting. Quota? Finish the damnthing before he left for the night. Damn well better finish it today or pop a circuit breaker with all the thinking, thinking, thinking. Constipated brain. No one to talk to, that was good, that was bad. If he had a friend to whom he could unburden himself, he'd soon lose him--or her--as a friend. Wouldn't the listener think his tale too pathetic? Of course. Who else treats themselves as rotten as Sam Scopia treats Sam Scopia? It's not as if he denied himself nothing, and regretted everything. Switcharound. But, he could take it because there was a great deal of love in his heart he couldn't use otherwise. The Freudians, however, would insist he say, No! That he takes a chance, and sees what happens. If he took a chance, and lost out, would he regret it? He honestly didn't know because he was unable to stand in that position objectively. Sillyass. If you could, you wouldn't be where you are. So, he made himself work. He concentrated so hard on the task before him, no matter how minute, that he generated a power field around him that could be measured by a galvanometer. There were times when Sol, mysteriously to Sam, would approach him, put a hand to his shoulder to admonish him, "Sam! Relax! Not is life or death! S'only piece furniture!" But that was the intensity he needed to blot out past, present and future; he hated what he knew of himself; disliked even more what he was not doing for himself; and developed violentheadaches at his inability to change his future. It gave rise to a negative wish, "If I was only an imbecile, how little it would all matter." The peaceful, beautiful world of the mentally handicapped. If you really meant that, Mr. Smartass, go sniff some hot carbon tetrachloride, that'll fry what brain you have working, if it doesn't outright kill you. He gave less and less space to such thoughts as they became more and more inviting. It was too ironical to switch places, and become a burden to them, his parents. The material was a blue-on-blue damask with a comfortable, important feel. To be sure it remained unsoiled he'd wash his hands again. While he was in there... From a box by the supplies, he retrieved a partly used roll of toilet paper, went to the john, and coaxed the bulb to a glow. He always remarked to himself that this truly uncivilized procedure was needed to remind man of how civilized he wasn't. Holding his trousers out of the way, adjusting lateral digressions as a Superfort from a Norden sight, stomach muscles and diaphragm strained to titillate the urge. It was necessary that this be necessary, a red-faced, breath-gasp and all. Reward came with complete relaxation knowing even the smallest success was the biggest relief. He looked between his legs, and grinned at the ironic thought that the crummypot was known as a sanitary convenience. Even the warm engulfment roseated the cubicle. He was filled with disgust to use the facilities, but was obstinate in his decree that he would never clean it up. Not that Sol didn't approach him on a regular basis. At first, it was outside of work hours, on his own time; after all, didn't he use it himself? From the first request, Sam refused. He didn't know why, as a youngster; but the picture became clearer as time moved on. It was a matter of pride: --I may not rate myself too highly, but I'm not altogether devoid of some worth! He just didn't do toilets. One day, whether Sol likes it or not, he'd hire the Tidy Toilet Man--or whoever--and get it done. He was back working on the blue-on-blue when his thought pattern slipped a notch coming in view to the pretty girl that morning. He couldn't ever let that happen to him again. It was inexcusable. He did
n't think out his situation, didn't do the right thing by himself. But, he would now. The shop's door was locked, that was one answer. Another was to do something he wouldn’t have thought possible, and had never done in all his years at the Sanitary Upholstery Shop. He was going to actually leave the premises during working hours! There was no reason for him to appear, as he was whatever the excuse! Sol was right about that. What really made him decide was when he turned back to the curved needle pulling tight on the blue nylon to take another bite to lay in a tuck on the side of the chair. His mind simply focused on food. So far this was a no-breakfast, no-lunch day. It was long past two o'clock, suddenly. He'd swap loaves and fishes for jelly donuts, salty peanuts, potato chips, pizza, hot Italian sausage, and Love Us Lord! Wednesday Prince Macaroni Day! Water in the mouth, pangs in the belly! Aches in the esophagus! Victualsly vacant! He'd adjust matters to this unusual day. The moment was humanly abnormal. Sol's behavior abnormal. The scenario with the pretty girl was abnormal. The day was abnormal. His life was abnormal! Enough was enough. He was impotent facing the past; he was omnipotent facing the future.

  He shuddered as he pushed into the stickycooldamp rungout raincoat, flipped the cap atop, and then gathered the rest of his clothes. No matter how hungry he was, his first duty was to look the part of a whole human person. With the ball of clothes tucked into his arm, he took to the no-rain street, a fullback on full go for yardage charging around puddles, two people, one pooch; off the curb, around shiny bumper, up the curb, past the deli; shoes slapsplashing; open coat sailing; hand hatholding; finally hardbreathing wheezing making dry harbor, the Laundromat. One other client, big moustache, lawyer type, carefully folding a jockstrap. Same moved to the end claiming the first dryer. In went the temporary pigskin--shirt, sweater, socks; then hat, pants and underwear. Klunk! Klunk! Klunk! Whoomshust! Whoomshust! Whoomshust! He put his shoes to broast over the exhaust vent. Then he sat, joyful with being completely nude under the coat, smiling secretly at recalled cartoons of old men revealing themselves; his conspiracy of one a stillborn rebellion enjoying rather a private excitement of pushing his hands through the slits in the coat's pockets, feeling his fleshy belly then playing with his limp penis and massaging his balls. The lawyer-type gave him his best intimidating glare; Sam returned his best butterball smile. More fun if the pretty pissy missy from this morning walked in and tried not to notice him! Hot jockey shorts! Ah! Warm! Welcoming! The pants, the socks; quick the undershirt, then shirt, sweater; undoff the cap, then insticken the raincoat. By the time the coat was completely dry, he'd found a large piece of plastic, enough to cover his socks to insulate them against the stilldamp shoes. Coat on, feeling at least something like a whole person again, leaving passed a matronly mamma with a lambleggy, runnynosed rug rat. Lady, if you only knew what you just missed.