yeah
a frigging wonderment how some people have this ability to
take four times their share of the sidewalk
like they say about bugs - ants - no that's weight,
their size carrying stuff in exponential proportion of
point is some people: always manage to gobble up
more than their rightful portion like the
ass in front of me
small
ass actually, he's pretty small all over
maybe 5'7", 130 33 pounds (and better you get to
gym today) not big shoulders, that hand
holding the phone like a kid's another wonderment
for you, some hands stay kid-size and others explode and you
can't predict, nope found that out with my own son last week
almost called him exson buy a baseball
glove to show how sensitive in touch a dad you are,
since only such would know how much son loves to play right?
except glove is too small your kid's hand which last week
swear you could disappear inside your own hand
now it's bigger than yours, fingers so long look like they
need trimming, and Neddy says "I can't wear this
Dad" and She "Edward you can just exchange it, stop it" so
it's Edward now, guess that makes him even more of an exson
and me more exdad
anyway
the jerk actually keeps a pretty straight line
noticed he was front of me around 70th, cross from Asia House
walk on Park like I own it I once did condo
that is, but now best I can do
is "77th off Park" way off
still like it most expansive avenue in New York, a waterway
feels like two channels: with the island threading between
yet now I own nothing but view
of his winking butt it does wink even through his raincoat
points of emphasis as he talks yet, can't
say he literally weaves back and forth I
just can't get past him not that I'm in such
huge hurry for work just tired being behind him
being his behind
not only me! one lady steps into gutter,
almost trips a pothole to get around big
burly guy could probably walk right over him: nevertheless
compelled to detour so wide I swear the guy bashed his right
shoulder into prewar stone and others after
weaving back and forth themselves, waiting watching for an
opening: just shake their heads finally cross to east side
of Park how's he do? dead center of side
walk on his phone using an earpiece one
hand holds phone waist level, left hand holds a compact brief
case, soft skin leather and both hands arms swing straight
out while talking, expanding him no weave
or bob but his head's this tricky twitch left right as if
about to go that way, makes you hesitate
lose your moment and still doesn't explain
it like a planet with defined orbit and
moons magnetic he repels you defines your
orbit too
should be thinking about my 9:30
setting my orbit sending out my waves in
advance there'll be three more big egos orbiting conference
B, real danger worlds will collide in our company's smallest
meeting room so another wonderment: I already
know what's going to happen course been there
before this life and my previous
Banta like the head of the UN and Begasse factually needling
me and this new Jimmy Spinelli - how I hate adults call themselves
Jimmy or Bobby or Johnny - he'll
be smooth and brisk and friendly and at decisive moment say
"you know what's missing here? A ____" A
strategy A focus A budget A timeline A vision A mission you
name it doesn't matter, this is how guys like Jimmy
rise and rise make themselves look good at your expense
and whatever my response I look defensive and unfocused without
vision unable to see forest for trees, every cliché my flaw
his virtue I know what's going to happen
when Banta sat me down two days ago, stressed how Jimmy and
I will: totally: share: responsibility: and no decision can
be made unless the two of us agree, I knew surely
because more people assure you've got something, the more
certain be you they're taking it
Lizbeth
(no e please) "get there early! Have your points ready, you
know more about it than any of them…set the tone,
put this guy in his place from the start, with facts,
don't roll over for him" - bored irritated voice
eyes on morning show like so simple she's moved on before
even starts speaking my second wife (always
I think her in sequence) what most irritates her
is the very introduction of an issue talk
triumph, promotion raise she'll look listen glisten in fascination
later of course, she can't quote a thing
but let me raise an issue, rock the boat, so to speak, ruffle
the well-ordered plumage of our lives that pisses
her off far off more than -
he's something else! here I should reach
conference B by 9:15, start my meeting a little earlier than
the others, yet still wondering if that makes sense being
early, ten minutes late maybe proclaims more power? the
geek is already having his meeting right on the street!
conference call, and he's been leading it, and now he's wrapping
it up "OK guys, let's stick to the agenda….You
have a point, Elsa, but the human resources issues are not
within our purview on this project….Now let's review next
steps and who does what to whom…" review
really means he tells everybody what to do but socratically
so he's asking, you're yessing then brisk
almost prissy "great meeting, thank you" and one guy he asks
to stay on line - poor sap gets to hear the twit's
real assessment of the call likelihoods
of anyone doing what they're supposed to
"Nick will be late…Raj will bury us under paper and produce
nothing…Harriet won't communicate but will execute perfectly…Elsa:
I don't know what her game is but I'm not going to let her
fuck this up or undermine me - us - I want you to start documenting
her mistakes, that won't be hard - once we've accumulated
enough I'll do a review and get her canned or at least transferred
off….Right, my love to Julie"
stops for a light I draw closer behind him and now actually
not so small more like 5'9" maybe modest
height and modest weight, 155?, and his build looks built
but too, modest in proportion not sure since
it's October raincoat day without rain the
hair: modest length modest part modest veins of gray infusing
brown (serves him well probably dealing with bitter older
colleagues - served me well till mine turned and
I turned bitter and older) ah but a blank spot, gaping and
spreading, full view at top of his head back, he's given in
to temptation lets remaining grow too thick and long, touch
the collar I pull almost alongside him and
everything else modest black shoes Florsheim
blue suit Brooks Brothers or knockoff see through his slatecoat
London Fog tie red but not Barney's bloody - rimless glasses,
those more expensive must have numbers phone
programmed, out of nowhere he's saying "Hi sweetie hi little
pumpkin…ready for school?...oh you wrote another poem, read
it to me" his voice is OK though annoyingly
repeats back each line of the poem to correct her pronunciations
but voice not sickly sweet or high pitched or look-at-me affected
and switch from business brisk to pure love but not schizopathic
modest again, not unlike my conversation with now
daughter Embeth (what kind of name is that? my second
wife is a nut) when she bounces my lap now:
totally determined to get away from the priss pass him second
light changes -
but that instant though we're standing pretty close something
jostles splits us for a second a shadow over me I jerk aside
my god now they're crashing planes on Park another symbol
of capitalist wealth: but no just another
human cutting between us and crossing the street ahead
just another guy en route to work but weird on three counts:
hair no more than eighth of inch all over yet somehow dyed
platinum no, that doesn't count as weird anymore - but the
box carried, wears it on his head, it's
size and shape of one of those pizza box warmers or maybe
it's a portfolio anyway: settled perfectly on his head, like
he was brought up Barbados or something, and he strides along
no wobbles at all splitting every one in his path
he wears a black raincoat and black shoes like the jerk
(and me) but other weird thing: platinum chain extending from
earlobe across his cheek and fastened at the other end to
a hole pierced upper corner of his upper lip
maybe works at Borders 57th isn't it? cross the street
or maybe a hip boutique hell, he could be
head of IT graphic design someplace but
I feel a twinge above my lip, way my ab flinches when I see
someone get kicked in a movie in the crotch: how could
you let them cut you like that punch a hole
in it earlobe one thing but your lip
well,
my face lift technically speaking they sliced both left and
right outer margins of my jaw pull skin
back, flap it till it was smooth as a sheet
true I had to do that, and the shoe polish on my
head too: that more than resume and abundant social skills
got me second wife and now job still, one
hole punched above your lip, versus scalpel down both sides
of your face plus the eyes and turkey neck
which keeps me standing on the curb too long and gives the
twit his chance: to react faster does shooting out in
front so I'm sucking ass again other than
quick glance he gives no attention to box head
besides the guy jarred his earpiece, and when he tries putting
it back keeps falling out, and once in place it's just not
working finally puts the phone to his ear
says "Babybug, you still there? no Daddy's fine…phone trouble…can
I speak to Mom moms? ...tankoo…." Mom-moms
gets on, another tone shift, still affectionate but practical,
and sexy bits sound funny through his priss
"you guys should be leaving soon, oh you're not dressed yet?
wait tell me what bra you have on…lace?…color?… mmmm…anyway,
just wanted you to call Becker about the mortgage remember
on the drive out, and don't forget to stop off at the school
for the applications…" huge dog dump suddenly
and though he manages to sidestep outer edge of left shoe
does slice through not happy about that,
puts a weird trailing into left foot motion he's trying like
to scrape the shit without actually stopping
yesterday morning when I walked CP and he dumped
usual tree-shrouded spot I pick up then
realize from the petrified feel even through triple-folded
paper towels that I've just picked up some other
dog's shit that's been sitting there and,
swear I hiccuped felt bile rising up my throat had to step
back for a sec then with supreme effort:
pick up my dog's shit too and three steps
to the trash barrel human walnut in a nutshell,
eh? every day I pick up shit, and
fine because it's my dog's shit
I study it hell, make sure it's well-formed and not bloody
or weird colored or containing any foreign objects give my
second wife a report and we discuss but
handle another dog's shit and
pretty gross? that's nothing to some of
the, shit forgive me, flies your brain as you lock step with
the rest of the raincoats on Park to midtown
"but to do that - " "impose your values on somebody else -
" "it's just so - " these two pass me slow
down as approach the obstacle they're having a conversation,
serious she a bit older, he's younger, she
blonde he black (no eggplant bluish purple) under each eye
she has a shadowy makeup wrinkle just like Embeth's real one
her heels like the heels the girl wore in the porno video
I rented two weeks ago when Lizbeth and Emby visited Granpa
on the island - the heels she resolutely kept on: even as
shed everything else even in the triple-fuck when she must've
had her legs spread wide and high for 20 minutes straight:
or like Lizbeth's heels Emby tottered on then bounced on my
lap wonder if the good father gets that fleeting
surge from Babybug I got when Emby bounced and laughed hair
flying perfect skin I banish that right away: anyway
so I'm thinking these two sleep together since all women secretly
want black and all eggplants prefer blondes and she's at best
an aging slut or maybe high-priced whore, and he's pimp a
gigolo, partner in threesomes, drug addict though he carries
my briefcase (no - nicer like the obstacle's) and
now I'm think gigolos are all salarymen me too, that we report
to women so much now male female we all have to serve somebody
like I haven't prostituted to stay employed, smiling laughing
yesyes silence and what Lizbeth didn't fake it a few times
along the road to snagging me what a catch,
but she wasn't getting younger and wanted married like they
all do, is why all women whores in some compartment of their
heart so there you have it, we're all whores or gigolos or
would be perverts all doing what we have to do for money safety
security just one big bucket brigade of degradation passing
along and sloshing our hands on that bucket of dirty water
that paradoxically gets fuller the farther it goes
where the hell are we? (oh we now I've been behind too long)
OK now the Regency and I: am optimistic my spirits
lift, loft hotel bar I went to after the
fantastic interview all of 23 and knew
I had a job knew it would be the best company for my lift-off
knew the girl waiting turn in the lobby would get hired too
knew from our five sentences we were twins, destined
melt flesh transmigrate souls except none
of it happened absolutely: and always I get that same gleam
off Regency window, idiot's delight like heroin shot straight
into my head feel so sweaty like a broken
fever open my raincoat, he
still on with wife now they're talking about preprivateschool
options for the babybug and the great choir
church has in whateverminster, now I get it he's
moving THE GREAT MOVE to the green part of Jersey doing the
whole thing, the taking leave of the New York small spaces
and high prices, he she doing it for the sake of
the child education socialization safety puke
hope he moves into town where a bunch died in the twin towers
on their daily commute that's a lucky place
and another kid bunning the oven I'll bet
doing just what I did (mine Westchester, the house) what a
gazillion done pure clone yet to his credit and my chagrin
still he sounds modest, sincere the really
infuriating thing that he really means it or thinks he does
maybe he's got the ultimate fakeout going: himself and I who
can still fake some people some time but can't myself, I:
really: hate him
thank
God for ChristChurch (opposed to AntiChristChurch?) Borders
on the left and soon Mercedes and Amex Travel coming up this
side the end is near light at the end of
the tunnel of the oncoming train but thank God I'll
be turning off at 50th cause I could waste so much time and
this morning's meeting's vile adrenaline on the poor fool
who's now winding up with wife number one finalizing plans
for romantic getaway spa for "no reason…because I love you
and you're sexier than ever" (pregnant hog) "and we need to
remind us both of that, and you deserve it"
God I hate the man that's younger than me still doesn't have
to dye his hair still has enough to show you he's losing it
still the only blade he's put to his face is the daily shave still
in the elevator up up, in his brilliant career (ie first job
but nothing to him is first or even just a job it's the whole
egg the eternal inevitable) I hate that he's in first
career first marriage first kid with his first next kid on
the way nowhere near vicinity of failure heartache boredom
divorce and oblythious to possibility that next fork will
take him there what happened to black'n'blonde?
must have got past him now why the hell can't…?
he shifts his head left I take a giant step right
yes no extends phone to
make sure he got a signal fresh for next call my chin almost
slams his spotless back of hand I noticed
one on mine the other day my first liver
spot melanoma maybe I pull up somehow in
time with a wheeze of frustration still he hears nothing sees
nothing notices nothing, so entranced with his song of himself
just one that sees his as more than just a life, a living
embodiment, walking moral blueprint, both real and right
organic enchanted blessed
worthy of news coverage the stuff of legend yet true as blue
the real getting of wisdom: is such qualities the vilest,
expose the bearer for his smugness you have
to be if you insist on sincerity you can't be sincere
in a world where we all murder by omission all living off
distant miseries all fine with oppression long as it takes
place out of ear'n'eye shot my wife (always
my wife, not ex or first or then) now She was sincere
a sincere fool sincere bitch a sincere bore
who sincerely embraced the sham of marriage-family,
and yeah sincerely horrified when my little personality
flaws of atheism and pornography and alcoholism depression
and - worst of worst - corporate redundancy exposed
now Lizbeth the carbon copy, She-clone but like a clone something
is missing, she doesn't believe the bullshit anymore than
I do willing to pretend with me that at
54 (tells her friends 49) I have black hair no wrinkles: willing
not to ask me what movies I rent on the sly or what clubs
I toss a quick one back at on my way home or I really give
a shit Emby goes to both temple and church so she can make
an informed choice: willing to watch me drink vodka
out of a Great Bear bottle not a word long as
I act the act don't protest her impending need to have her
green house leave NYC I won't I guess I will
"you've
got to ask yourself: do we really have nothing in common?
You've got to remind yourself of all the good times and all
the trials you've helped each other through? You've got to
think of the face Larry of your beautiful son"
so now tone is modest concern, counsel some friend of his,
closer to what I've already lived through, the samaritan
has turned his collar backward to keep friend on God's path
no mentioning God of course, that might get tricky, specially
since this friend is probably Catholic and he's, my bet is
Presbyterian pinch of Born-Again - how dare he presume to
savior guy and marriage when the decent thing is save the
guy from his marriage again I try
to pass him only some powerpuffgirl is trying
to, do the same bumps me aside with a jesus
and keeps going but the impact makes her gigantic black shoulder
bag swing not off but out enough to brush his phone flies
out of his hand
now me, I'd stop first determine what just happened then snarl
(if they're not big enough to clock me) at whoever responsible
but the preacher (deep down a faggot I just know
it) is so concerned about friend Larry and
his phone he doesn't even pause but accelerates,
actually trots ahead to retrieve phone before anyone steps
on snatches it (and still he's ahead of me) and tries to talk
into it "Larry? Can you hear me, can you now?"
and once realizes connection is severed and or phone damaged
still he doesn't stop: or look back at me: or just
shake his head and stop talking finally and robot
to work like the rest of us, no: with my own eyes I see him
put dead phone into a pocket and from briefcase take out
another phone hit speed dial find Larry again, who probably
just letting himself hope the hyena got hit by a car or falling
scaffold or terrorist mercy and now must
torture talk again about mending his shattered marriage
I am: so astonished so livid that through the tip
of my eye I see sign for 50th Street and St. Patrick spire
but I don't turn but stay on Park even though I'll have to
get coffee someplace not usual and already at risk of going
into conference B with my coat on I will
pass this guy if it kills me once I pass
and break wind in his face maybe say something pithy you
faggot: I can pass the bucket satisfied to Banta Spinelli
for their turn
the problem: maybe cause
he's been touched his head is jerking side to side worse than
a hop-head pigeon's, while questing to savior Larry his voice
is louder his gesticulations wider and meanwhile
even less opportunity to pass now, street's more crowded as
we approach holy looming Met Life over-underpass, it really
does seem like there's people all around me all around him
and even people in front of him: so his hogging of space isn't
obvious anymore, and yet each step it becomes
more egregious I make tentative moves and
get nowhere and a bit disoriented cause suddenly I see that
metal statue (stone?) of eternal salaryman
suit and tie and briefcase in hand, the other hand outstretched
hailing taxi that never stops: wasn't this on east
side of Park, 51st 52nd I could never stand it like someone's
heavy-handed mockery of all of me
might half be the reason I always stick to west Park
but there it is maybe the business owns it moved, right off
the corner of 47th Street, and somehow from this perspective
the frozen dark man his outstretch seems more futile, desperate
then a blast to my head I hear hellfire from long bearded
guy who always stands on Park divider island also near 47th
during rush hour like Moses with two books
in his hand instead of tablets and though roaring above the
traffic I never actually make out a word he says, no: only
words I hear are "Larry? Remember that's why you asked Rhea
to dance and not her friend, God's hand sent you that way"
so God!! pulling out all the stops "Larry? I want you to call
me, do you hear? Call me the second you feel weak, or tempted,
please, I'm your friend, let me help you through this" and
one more time I try to break past him left, then right and
of course he darts his head left right and no where for me
to go and I know I'm have to give up and turn off here at
47th so here you are just do it get away from this guy,
he stops abruptly the curb even though: the light hasn't changed
yet he stops for the DON'T WALK
manages to stop four other people from making it across even
though there's time typical so as a parting gesture for spite
I step on back of his foot
except,
I don't just graze heel or ankle scratch a little shine off
the back of his shoe I slam down with all
my strength like a cop stomping a perp's door, my motion is
so quick crowd so thick nobody sees it even I don't see it
and barely feel but the force of it sends
the freak staggering into the street down on one
knee, even utters a cry not: pain so much, as astonishment
even louder than Moses on the island and
for a second doesn't stand but shifts his body around awkwardly,
I'll bet I tore skin off his ankle or heel and he'll have
a bruise maybe bleeding but so what, hasn't
even lost hold of his phone or briefcase! and he'd already
hung up on Larry anyhow so it wasn't like I cut off the sermon
but he just stays there, weirdly crouched twisting around
and I realize: he has finally noticed the rest of us and is
determined to pin his outrage cast the glare of moral censure
on the guilty party our eyes don't meet
but for the first time I see his face
he
should have stood up and limped the yard back on curb and
then cast his glare instead sitting
there, not far into the street, the far right lane which is
usually blocked by double-parked cars anyway: nevertheless
he does, does stay foolishly in the street, crouched half
off balance and just so happens that this moment far right
lane is clear and just so happens a cab makes a right off
48th Street onto Park and then floors it trying to beat the
yellow through 47th so basically this cab
is too fast and doesn't see this guy crouching until
last second too late anyway and hits him straight on and with
such force as to send him in the air
from my vantage I don't really see the cab,
yellow flash against my left eye sort of like an extension
of the mini panic attack I'm having so when the asshole
goes up it almost seems intentional, like he has called God
to levitate him over the cars of 47th and land him on the
other side so can keep walking make another divinely motivated
call: only when he comes down slams down headfirst
sounding like bricks rather than flesh against the street
right in the middle of traffic and cars are screeching slamming
brakes and honking and a collective gasp belches from the
people on all sides of me only then do I realize he's been
hit a moment, probably
less than a second where he just lies there briefcase still
clutched in one hand phone nowhere to be seen one leg folded
under at a completely unnatural angle and again I see his
face but once again: there really is no face, like my father
no longer had a face the instant he was dead
then people from both my right and left
rush past traffic suspended car doors fly
he no longer visible what with the crowd upon him, and within
one minute two I hear sirens far away then getting louder
so
I guess: it's two whole minutes I've stood here
guess I am stunned or maybe I've been thinking without realizing
I was doing it because it's all there scrolls
past me again like a series of bullet points I might present
in conference B: it was really his own fault
for lingering in the street like he did;
cab shouldn't have been speeding anyway;
at least 10 would-be Samaritans are helping him so there's
really nothing for me to do; and he's dead
anyway, so there's really nothing for anyone to do:
I turn, make my way surprisingly easily through the rubber-neckers,
and start speed-walking to the office if
I really push it pass on coffee I have the chance at least
to hang up my coat before 9:30
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