little after twelve with a
pointed reminder: “Don’t forget your luncheon appointment, J. T.” So
I also wouldn’t be getting lunch. I gathered up my paraphernalia, shook hands,
smiled, said some lies, listened to just one more scatological anecdote, and
took my departure.
*
As far as the hotel bar, where I swallowed
another of Kit’s Valiums with bourbon and water, ate a handful of peanuts for
lunch, and gradually came to a decision. I could no longer spend my life
wandering through a snowstorm from one reluctant haven to the next. I had to
reclaim my own home. I had to get Edgarson out, and me in, and I had to do it
now.
I had one more bourbon
to confirm this decision and to warm me for the trek uptown, and then I left
the hotel and turned toward home. Since I lived less than ten blocks from
here—up four and over five, approximately—and since traffic was utterly
snarled by the snow, there was no point trying to find a cab, so I walked. I
was dressed warmly enough, except for my shoes, and I simply kept stumping
through the slush, irritable but determined.
There’s something both lazy and inexorable
about a major snowstorm. No wind, no real storm at all, just billions and
billions of wet white smudges floating down like Chinese armies, and after a while
there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it should ever stop. Maybe that low
gray-black sky contains unlimited quantities of these wet white smudges, maybe
they’ll just keep drifting down like this forever. Maybe human fife developed
on the wrong planet.
Along the way, I bought a chainlock at a
hardware store on 3rd Avenue. I couldn’t help remembering Bart Ailburg, whose door had been armed
with a lock like this but who had been murdered anyway. However, no true
parallel applied. Ailburg had been murdered by a loved one, which in my case
was not the issue.
At the house, I spent ten minutes searching
out Romeo, the super, and finally found him drinking wine in the tenants’
storeroom in the basement. He wasn’t drunk, I was happy to see, but he was surly.
“I doan wuk Sahdy,” he told me, trying to hide the brown paper bag
with its cargo of Hombre or Ripple.
“You don’t work ever,” I informed
him. “But you’ll come upstairs with me now or I’ll call Goldbender and tell
him I found you drunk in the basement and lighting matches.”
Surliness turned to a kind of clogged outrage.
“I ayn drunk!” Then he comprehended the rest
of my sentence and was, for just an instant, completely baffled. Innocence
bewildered him, he didn’t know at first what to do
with it. But he soon enough recovered, crying out, “Motches? I doan got no
motches! I doan hob no stinkin motches!”
“And,” I went on, wanting to be
certain he understood the threat I was making, “I’ll tell Goldbender that
I intend to call the police about a super being drunk and fighting matches in
the basement.”
Maddened by this maligning of his virtue,
Romeo waved his arms in the air, slopping wine on himself and on the stored
possessions of the tenants as he cried, “I doan hob no motches!”
“Goldbender is going to think about his
insurance,” I pointed out, “and—”
“I doan hob no
motches!”
“And,” I insisted, “he is going to fire you. Particularly,” I added,
“when he smells you.”
Romeo became aware of the spillage and began
fretfully to pat himself with his free hand. “You makin me nervis,” he said, and he sounded as though soon he
might cry.
“Come along, Romeo,” I said.
“Put your lunch down over there and come along.”
“This ay muh
lunch.” He frowned from the bag to me, and returned to an earlier worry.
“An I doan hob no motches.”
“Come, Romeo.” I turned away, not
looking back till I reached the stairs, when I saw that Romeo, however much he
might be bewildered and mistreated, was also sensible. He was coming along.
As we plodded up the several flights of stairs
together, me squoshing in my cold wet shoes, Romeo said,
pointed reminder: “Don’t forget your luncheon appointment, J. T.” So
I also wouldn’t be getting lunch. I gathered up my paraphernalia, shook hands,
smiled, said some lies, listened to just one more scatological anecdote, and
took my departure.
*
As far as the hotel bar, where I swallowed
another of Kit’s Valiums with bourbon and water, ate a handful of peanuts for
lunch, and gradually came to a decision. I could no longer spend my life
wandering through a snowstorm from one reluctant haven to the next. I had to
reclaim my own home. I had to get Edgarson out, and me in, and I had to do it
now.
I had one more bourbon
to confirm this decision and to warm me for the trek uptown, and then I left
the hotel and turned toward home. Since I lived less than ten blocks from
here—up four and over five, approximately—and since traffic was utterly
snarled by the snow, there was no point trying to find a cab, so I walked. I
was dressed warmly enough, except for my shoes, and I simply kept stumping
through the slush, irritable but determined.
There’s something both lazy and inexorable
about a major snowstorm. No wind, no real storm at all, just billions and
billions of wet white smudges floating down like Chinese armies, and after a while
there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it should ever stop. Maybe that low
gray-black sky contains unlimited quantities of these wet white smudges, maybe
they’ll just keep drifting down like this forever. Maybe human fife developed
on the wrong planet.
Along the way, I bought a chainlock at a
hardware store on 3rd Avenue. I couldn’t help remembering Bart Ailburg, whose door had been armed
with a lock like this but who had been murdered anyway. However, no true
parallel applied. Ailburg had been murdered by a loved one, which in my case
was not the issue.
At the house, I spent ten minutes searching
out Romeo, the super, and finally found him drinking wine in the tenants’
storeroom in the basement. He wasn’t drunk, I was happy to see, but he was surly.
“I doan wuk Sahdy,” he told me, trying to hide the brown paper bag
with its cargo of Hombre or Ripple.
“You don’t work ever,” I informed
him. “But you’ll come upstairs with me now or I’ll call Goldbender and tell
him I found you drunk in the basement and lighting matches.”
Surliness turned to a kind of clogged outrage.
“I ayn drunk!” Then he comprehended the rest
of my sentence and was, for just an instant, completely baffled. Innocence
bewildered him, he didn’t know at first what to do
with it. But he soon enough recovered, crying out, “Motches? I doan got no
motches! I doan hob no stinkin motches!”
“And,” I went on, wanting to be
certain he understood the threat I was making, “I’ll tell Goldbender that
I intend to call the police about a super being drunk and fighting matches in
the basement.”
Maddened by this maligning of his virtue,
Romeo waved his arms in the air, slopping wine on himself and on the stored
possessions of the tenants as he cried, “I doan hob no motches!”
“Goldbender is going to think about his
insurance,” I pointed out, “and—”
“I doan hob no
motches!”
“And,” I insisted, “he is going to fire you. Particularly,” I added,
“when he smells you.”
Romeo became aware of the spillage and began
fretfully to pat himself with his free hand. “You makin me nervis,” he said, and he sounded as though soon he
might cry.
“Come along, Romeo,” I said.
“Put your lunch down over there and come along.”
“This ay muh
lunch.” He frowned from the bag to me, and returned to an earlier worry.
“An I doan hob no motches.”
“Come, Romeo.” I turned away, not
looking back till I reached the stairs, when I saw that Romeo, however much he
might be bewildered and mistreated, was also sensible. He was coming along.
As we plodded up the several flights of stairs
together, me squoshing in my cold wet shoes, Romeo said,
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