again, then mysteriously Claudette, and Esther Turk disappeared from his life during the day.
But at night, on his bed, he had visions.
Oh, that ass, Sid would moan, seeing it twinkle. And he would rise and grope through the darkness to the kitchen sink and there attempt to drown his passion with glasses full of Chicago water.
So, in the end, he kept the date. He had to make her suffer for her lip and he plotted this tiny revenge, then that. His final decision was simply to keep her waiting. She had, after all, asked him for the date, was undoubtedly looking forward to it, and the idea that she had been stood up (or worse—that he had simply forgotten all about her existence) would be punishment enough. So Sid, a prompt soul, arrived at the deli at a few minutes before seven, smirked up at the lighted window over the store and took a walk. The night was steaming, but he did his best to ignore it, strolling around and around the block. At a quarter of eight (no point in making her hysterical) he presented a slightly perspiring version of himself at the Turk door. Sid knocked. There was a pause. Then the nose peeked out.
“Young Lochinvar,” Old Turk said.
“I desire your daughter,” Sid said, entering the apartment.
“A worthy ambition,” the old man allowed. “Hardly unique, but worthy.” He gestured around the living room, at the sofa, at the two overstuffed chairs. “Pick. Each is uncomfortable.”
Sid settled on the sofa, the old man on a red chair. Sid glanced around. The room was very neat. “Your daughter is a fine housekeeper,” Sid began.
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Cleaning vexes her. I clean.” And he bowed.
Sid glanced at his watch.
“She is anointing her body,” the old man said. “Sometimes that takes a while.”
Sid nodded. He loathed being kept waiting; one of his notions of Hell was a waiting room with him at the end of an infinite line.
“I believe I warned you she was sour.”
Sid nodded again, folding his hands in his lap, his left wrist turned so he might stare at the plodding second hand.
“What would you like to talk about? Please, choose your subject. I pride myself on versatility. History, politics, astronomy. Pick. You’ll find me equally dull on everything.” When Sid made no reply the old man smiled. “Some prefer silent suffering,” he said and he opened the Chicago Daily News .
Sid transferred his stare from the second hand to the front-door knob. His legs wanted to leave, and if his mind could have stopped envisioning Esther Turk’s backside, his legs would have carried him away. But his mind could not stop, so he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And precisely at thirty-one minutes after eight, she appeared.
“Shall we go?” Esther said.
Sid took her in a while before rising. A pale-blue dress, tight across the bosom and the butt; a single strand of phony (but who could really tell?) pearls; black hair loose and long, tumbling down between the young shoulders; black eyes shadowed and bright; lips red.
Sid stood. Across, Old Turk dreamt, the world his bed, the Daily News his blanket. Sid led her quietly from the room. They descended the stairs, exchanging the apartment’s heat for the night’s, walking down the street toward the bus stop. As he paused, she said it.
“ Bus? ”
There was a world to be read in that word. Sid browsed through some of it. You mean we’re going to take a bus? You mean you are such a short little two-bit piker you’re going to let me ride on public transportation? Big talk, little do. Phony. Faker. Mouth. Hot, hot air.
“Who said anything about a bus? I got a stone in my shoe.” He ripped off his shoe and deposited the imagined blister maker onto the baking cement. Then, battling for aplomb, he hailed a cab.
As they rode silently north (who needed talk when there was that Mozartian meter to listen to) Sid pondered killing her. She had kept him waiting and she had as much as called him a
But at night, on his bed, he had visions.
Oh, that ass, Sid would moan, seeing it twinkle. And he would rise and grope through the darkness to the kitchen sink and there attempt to drown his passion with glasses full of Chicago water.
So, in the end, he kept the date. He had to make her suffer for her lip and he plotted this tiny revenge, then that. His final decision was simply to keep her waiting. She had, after all, asked him for the date, was undoubtedly looking forward to it, and the idea that she had been stood up (or worse—that he had simply forgotten all about her existence) would be punishment enough. So Sid, a prompt soul, arrived at the deli at a few minutes before seven, smirked up at the lighted window over the store and took a walk. The night was steaming, but he did his best to ignore it, strolling around and around the block. At a quarter of eight (no point in making her hysterical) he presented a slightly perspiring version of himself at the Turk door. Sid knocked. There was a pause. Then the nose peeked out.
“Young Lochinvar,” Old Turk said.
“I desire your daughter,” Sid said, entering the apartment.
“A worthy ambition,” the old man allowed. “Hardly unique, but worthy.” He gestured around the living room, at the sofa, at the two overstuffed chairs. “Pick. Each is uncomfortable.”
Sid settled on the sofa, the old man on a red chair. Sid glanced around. The room was very neat. “Your daughter is a fine housekeeper,” Sid began.
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Cleaning vexes her. I clean.” And he bowed.
Sid glanced at his watch.
“She is anointing her body,” the old man said. “Sometimes that takes a while.”
Sid nodded. He loathed being kept waiting; one of his notions of Hell was a waiting room with him at the end of an infinite line.
“I believe I warned you she was sour.”
Sid nodded again, folding his hands in his lap, his left wrist turned so he might stare at the plodding second hand.
“What would you like to talk about? Please, choose your subject. I pride myself on versatility. History, politics, astronomy. Pick. You’ll find me equally dull on everything.” When Sid made no reply the old man smiled. “Some prefer silent suffering,” he said and he opened the Chicago Daily News .
Sid transferred his stare from the second hand to the front-door knob. His legs wanted to leave, and if his mind could have stopped envisioning Esther Turk’s backside, his legs would have carried him away. But his mind could not stop, so he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And precisely at thirty-one minutes after eight, she appeared.
“Shall we go?” Esther said.
Sid took her in a while before rising. A pale-blue dress, tight across the bosom and the butt; a single strand of phony (but who could really tell?) pearls; black hair loose and long, tumbling down between the young shoulders; black eyes shadowed and bright; lips red.
Sid stood. Across, Old Turk dreamt, the world his bed, the Daily News his blanket. Sid led her quietly from the room. They descended the stairs, exchanging the apartment’s heat for the night’s, walking down the street toward the bus stop. As he paused, she said it.
“ Bus? ”
There was a world to be read in that word. Sid browsed through some of it. You mean we’re going to take a bus? You mean you are such a short little two-bit piker you’re going to let me ride on public transportation? Big talk, little do. Phony. Faker. Mouth. Hot, hot air.
“Who said anything about a bus? I got a stone in my shoe.” He ripped off his shoe and deposited the imagined blister maker onto the baking cement. Then, battling for aplomb, he hailed a cab.
As they rode silently north (who needed talk when there was that Mozartian meter to listen to) Sid pondered killing her. She had kept him waiting and she had as much as called him a
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