Читать книгу And Then - Donald Breckenridge - Страница 8

The film begins with a panoramic shot of the skyline above the 10th Arrondissement in Paris and is accompanied by the drone of jackhammers. The camera pans the horizontal jib of a large red crane suspended above a construction site then lingers on a young woman watering the flower box on a narrow windowsill overlooking the site. The interior scene opens with the young woman, attractive with shoulder length dark hair and wearing a yellow bathrobe, having breakfast with her husband who is dressed in orange pajamas. The husband is heavyset with tousled hair. He has the gruff demeanor of someone who did not get enough sleep. Breakfast consists of soft-boiled eggs, a baguette with butter and two bowls of black coffee. Their conversation is warm while recounting a weekend outing with friends, although he yawns through some of his lines, then grows contentious as they discuss the grind of the workweek. She wants to know why he thinks her desire to travel is so ridiculous. He says that it isn’t ridiculous. She wants to know why he thinks her fantasies about escaping their everyday existence are so unrealistic. He assures her that there is nothing ridiculous or unrealistic about wanting to travel then adds that millions of young married couples around the world have found themselves working for meager salaries at entry-level positions in large corporations while living in small apartments. She reproaches him for what she perceives to be his condescending attitude then insists that they are trapped in a tiny, claustrophobic apartment in a dull part of the city, which is clearly ruining her life and destroying whatever chances she has of ever being happy. He is visibly annoyed by her proclamations. Their morning routine is poisoned by festering resentments as an alternating volley of diminished expectations begins in earnest. They move through the apartment exchanging insults. The casual resignation the actors employ while delivering their lines conveys the impression that the melodramatics on display are as much a part of the couple’s daily routine as brushing their hair and teeth every morning before leaving for work. While shaving, the husband inquires, over the muffled drone of jackhammers from the nearby construction site, as to why he is entirely to blame for their current financial predicament. She sarcastically compares the crane looming outside their bedroom window to the Eiffel Tower. While stepping into a knee length skirt, the wife declares, that this passionless marriage is the ultimate source of her unhappiness. Hadn’t she realized exactly what she was getting into before they married? What an ungrateful oaf she has had the misfortune of marrying—lazy, unlucky, a real slob. If he had known she was this shrill and superficial he would have never married her. She says this stifling middle class existence, having to live in a tiny apartment and her horrible position in an airless office are to blame for making her shrill and miserable. He says she has never been interested in resolving their conflicts, and yes, her unrealistic expectations feed a boundless narcissism, this constant fighting is nothing more than a selfish and destructive form of entertainment. The future looks grim, and she is now running late for a job she despises. While buttoning up her blouse she tells him they are finished. And how, the husband demands, is he to blame for that. She slaps him, after making the bed, and then walks out. The husband follows her out the front door and down the hall where he is willing to give up a little ground—you’ve blown this out of proportion but maybe we have taken things too far. She refuses to reconcile and leaves him standing before the cage-like lift, repeatedly calling after her, as she descends through the building. The splice leading into the second part of Jean Rouch’s short film, Gare du Nord, is hidden in darkness. She passes quickly through the lobby and into a Parisian spring morning circa ’64. The 16-millimeter camera follows over her left shoulder as the morning sun highlights the dark green velvet ribbon in her auburn hair. The sound of her heels moving rapidly along the pavement accompanied by passing traffic. While crossing the street she is nearly hit by a car. A tall man in a black suit appears and apologizes for almost running her down. She is going to be very late for work. Can he give her a lift? She politely refuses. The man abandons his sports car in the intersection and follows her up the street. He is a handsome, Belmondo-type, with the somber demeanor of an undertaker or a down on his luck aristocrat. Although she says she has no time to talk, she engages him in an earnest conversation while walking up the street. The man says modern society has driven him to despair and claims to be seriously contemplating suicide. His confession doesn’t shock her. He presents her with a highly implausible invitation—run away with me and we will live an extraordinary life of adventure, a life of unlimited love and endless freedom. He insists that they will never worry about money or be dragged down by the banalities of everyday existence. She is bemused by his offer and inquires as to how such a life with him would be possible. He quietly assures her that his family possesses vast wealth—serenely adding that having a lot of money is meaningless when you don’t have someone to share your life with. Fleeting temptation crosses her expression before she politely refuses. When she claims they don’t even know each other it’s implied that anyone this impulsive is clearly unstable, yet she confesses her desire to travel, then relates her fantasy of just getting on a plane someday to fly away and begin again somewhere else as another person. They are walking along an overpass, with the sound of a commuter train rushing below, as the man tries to convince her to run away with him. She simply cannot. And now he is seriously threatening to kill himself at the count of ten if she doesn’t accompany him. She apologizes for saying no, and begs him to stop, because what he wants from her is impossible. They continue walking as he calmly counts up to nine. At ten he climbs the railing of the overpass. She pleads with him to stop as he jumps to his death. The long distance shot of the screaming woman pulls back to reveal a motionless body lying face-up on the tracks. A loud train-whistle echoes her screams as the film ends.

Suzanne was sitting beside John in his VW, “All I want to do,” with a six-pack nestled between her sandaled feet, “is get out of here.” Three shirtless boys rode their bikes through the empty parking lot as alternating smells of honeysuckle and motor oil trailed into the open windows. “The weekend totals,” John leaned over and removed a cold can from the bag, “counting Friday,” pulled off the top, “if I don’t make that deposit on Saturday morning,” and flicked it out the window, “we’re talking about ten grand.” John was thirty-one, “Probably a bit more,” with an unhappy wife, “if you count the petty cash,” two-year-old son and a faltering mortgage. Suzanne was twenty-one, “Wow,” and living with her grandparents again, “that’s a lot of money,” in the house she grew up in. “I was happy just to come back from Vietnam,” John was born and raised in Cleveland, “in one piece,” after dropping out of college he drifted down to Virginia Beach, “but if this is it,” and stalled there, “I’m positively screwed.” Suzanne relished his attention, “It can’t be that bad,” she had never met anyone like him. John flirted with all of the pretty cashiers, “I wish I knew you in my prime,” and most of the young women who shopped in the supermarket, “we would’ve raised some serious hell together,” but Suzanne was his favorite. John never reprimanded Suzanne for always being late or when her drawer was short—it was usually five dollars under—he never commented on her frequent arguments with customers or for calling in sick most Saturdays. Suzanne hated her job, “Where would you go with ten grand?” John was trying to convince her, “We wouldn’t need that much money in the Keys,” they were trapped in the same cage, “way down in Big Pine.” She noted the green pine tree air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, “There are way too many rednecks in Florida,” then took a sip of beer before adding, “my idiot uncle lives in Jacksonville.” John scored a lid of grass from a stock boy on Friday, “I still have some Army friends down in the Keys,” after Suzanne promised to hang out with him after work on Sunday, “running charter boats.” Moths had multiplied around the overhead lights. He suspected she wasn’t paying attention, “Where would you go with ten grand?” With a smirk, “Where am I gonna get ten grand?” “Okay,” John took a sip of beer, “half,” wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, “Where would you go with five grand?” Suzanne turned to him and said, “New York City.” A police car pulled into the parking lot. “Maybe we should just cross the gulf into Mexico,” John turned the key in the ignition while stepping on the gas, “and leave all this bullshit behind.” He drove toward the exit, “Want to go to the beach?” She nodded, “Okay.” When John looked back the 7/11 was framed in the rearview mirror, “Would you mind,” he reached over, “doing the honors,” opened the glove compartment, “should be some papers in here as well,” handed her the bag then shifted into third, “and close the window so it doesn’t blow away.” Suzanne placed her right hand on the knob and rolled up the window. The glove compartment contained a half-eaten roll of Tums, John’s insurance and registration, a bootleg cassette of Hendrix at Monterey Pop, an unpaid parking ticket, a bottle opener, two spark plugs, and a pack of rolling papers. John took the can from between his thighs, “We’d have to wait until the first week in August,” and sipped his beer. Subdivisions opened onto soybean fields that gave way to subdivisions—an endless looping backdrop in a warm blur of summer twilight. Suzanne crumpled a moist bud onto a paper. Three cars in the oncoming lane were followed by two more. She looked out the window as they drove by her old elementary school. The Beetle climbed Broad Bay Bridge. She sealed the joint before asking, “What about your wife?” The last thing he wanted to talk about was, “The wife,” his failed marriage, “the wife wants the house, the kid, the dog,” and kept his eyes on the road, “I’m just going to work one morning and never coming home.” Cumulus clouds above the bay dwarfed the oil tankers lying motionless on the hazy line that divided the water and darkening sky. “The first weekend in August is next week.” Faint yellow lights from fishing boats outlined stationary points in the blue distance. He took his foot off the gas, “That’s why I’m,” stepped on the clutch and downshifted into third, “telling you this,” before they turned onto Shore Drive and sped by a seafood restaurant, another 7/11, a gas station, and a bayside hotel with its NO VACANCY sign illuminated in red neon. Suzanne’s father had been killed in Vietnam when she was seven. A week after the funeral her mother left Suzanne with her parents and never came back. She received birthday cards from her mother every year postmarked from small towns in California, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. Suzanne traced her flight by thumbing through the index of the road atlas she kept in a drawer of what was once her mother’s desk, turning to the corresponding page, and pasting a silver star beside the town from where the card had been sent. Her lazy cursive on those eleven envelopes and signature scrawled beneath as many store-bought salutations were the only indications she had of a mother. The last card arrived three years ago, in the only envelope with a return address, from a small town on the Oregon coast. Her grandmother tried to convince Suzanne that the return address was a tangible invitation and encouraged her to travel west and reconnect with her mother. Suzanne assumed her grandparents wanted her out of their house and was eager to comply. She moved into a dilapidated beach house with her do-nothing boyfriend and five of his stoner friends. She spent three years waiting tables while partying with a rotating cast of surfers, dealers and aspiring rock musicians—until the house burned to the ground. The joint was smoking from both ends. “Why do you want me to help you with this?” He took another hit, “I don’t want help,” before handing it back, “I’m helping myself.” The red taillights on the silver Camaro disappeared beyond a bend in the road. “Why involve me … I mean, and don’t take it the wrong way, but if this is something you can do alone.” He took the joint from her, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” “I don’t know,” she sank back in the seat, “Why should you care?” He coughed into his clenched fist, “As a Food Lion casher?” She muttered, “It’s hot in here,” and rolled the window down. The smoke dissipated as the smell of briny air filled the car. “Necessity is blind until it becomes conscious,” John turned to Suzanne, “and freedom is the consciousness of necessity,” with an expectant look, “Do you know who said that?” Branches adorned with Spanish moss loomed over the road. Shaking her head, “Nope.” “Karl Marx said that,” he was grinning, “And do you know what it means?” She hoped he wasn’t trying to make her feel stupid, “Nope.” “It means you’re already living it,” John hit the joint again before adding, “You want to go to New York,” while holding the smoke in his lungs, “So that’s where you should go.” A black and white sign indicated the posted speed. Suzanne’s hair was blowing in her face, “Are you insane?” With a laugh, “Maybe I’m still a bit crazy, but maybe,” he offered her the roach, “it’s the world that’s all gone wrong.” “Thanks,” Suzanne waved it away, “I’m really high,” and then asked, “Are you a prophet?” John chuckled while placing the roach in the ashtray, “No, but I play one on TV,” then took his foot off the gas, “seriously though,” stepped on the clutch and downshifted into third, “What do you see yourself doing in five years?” as they made a left onto Atlantic Avenue. “I can’t believe that you, or anyone, would do something like this … I mean for me, you’re doing it for yourself … alright … because you are crazy … and in the best way.” Rows of wooden houses faced narrow sandy streets that ended before the dunes. “It isn’t my money in the first place,” John downshifted into second, “why shouldn’t I share it?” “Wouldn’t you want me to come with you?” “Hell yes,” John activated the blinker, “but I won’t kidnap you,” while turning off the avenue, “even if I know it’s for your own damn good.” They parked alongside a hurricane fence. “Where will you go?” With a nod to the air-freshener, “Big Pine,” hanging from the rearview mirror, “where I should have gone in ’72.” She got out of the car while he changed into a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt. Suzanne caught a glowing firefly, “You know my mother,” it slowly crawled around her wrist, “did that same thing to me,” before drifting away on a warm breeze. He closed the door then asked, “Did what to you?” They climbed a narrow trail through the knee-high grass. “Just left one day,” the beach was nearly deserted, “after my father died.” Waves pushed against the shore in sets of three. “That’s probably what she thought was best for you,” he turned to her and quietly added, “in my case it’s the right thing to do.” She looked closely at his face, “Why is that?” John noted her intent look before claiming, “He’ll be much better off without me.”

Sunlight reflected in the windows occasionally flashed off the chrome of the passing cars. It was June first on a fixed income. A few sparrows sang in the small puddle beneath the leaking fire hydrant. He set the crossword book down and removed his glasses. The leggy brunette in the blue mini-skirt smiled his way while returning from the park with her small black and white dog. He needed an eight-letter word for courage. Candy wrappers ringing the narrow tree trunk. He flicked the ash off his bummed cigarette. Bravery was seven letters and spirit was only six. The young Puerto Rican mother passed by with her black haired boy in tow. The sweet stench of garbage fermenting in the metal cans. The orange tomcat slipped beneath the front wheels of a parked Toyota before crossing the street. It wasn’t even eleven and it was already too hot. The rhythmic alarm of the delivery truck as it slowly backed up. Thunderstorms were forecasted for the afternoon.

I asked the waitress for a chocolate donut and told her I didn’t need a bag. She handed me the donut with a serrated sheet of wax paper folded over it, “That will be ninety cents,” and two napkins. I removed a dollar from my wallet and gave it to her. She rang up my purchase then handed me a dime. When I thanked her she told me to have a nice day. I pocketed the dime, pushed open the door and ate the donut while walking to the corner. I wiped my mouth with the napkins then dropped them and the wax paper into a trashcan before descending the stairs at the subway station entrance.

“Why are you doing this again,” Suzanne cleared her throat before adding, “after promising me you wouldn’t?” Another cold Sunday with intermittent rain all weekend. Brian finally roused Suzanne out of bed and onto the phone, “It just happened,” faint light seeping through the blinds, “but I guess you’ve got,” in the front windows, “every reason to be pissed off,” of the grey tenement across the street. She discovered her Marlboros on the kitchen table, “That you’re fucking up again,” and shuffled across the Linoleum in a thick pair of wool socks, “Or because you’ve been calling all day?” The headline atop the bundle of newspapers piled near the curb Sadat In Jerusalem As Israel Bombs Lebanon was accompanied by grainy black and white images of a cratered city intersection and a burning hospital. “I’m sorry but,” Brian sunk his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, “I haven’t slept in five days.” Steam hissed through the narrow pipe to the left of the window. She removed a cigarette from the pack, “This is exactly,” put it between her lips, “this is exactly what happened,” pulled a match from the book, “we had this conversation,” and struck it twice on the back, “a week ago,” finally lighting the cigarette, “Why are you so afraid of me?” All his doubts about her turned into a sinking feeling of betrayal. “It was more like a month ago … and don’t say that because I know that you know better.” She dropped the match in the glass ashtray, “You promised me that you weren’t doing this anymore,” sat in a chair before exhaling, “and nobody is up here with me.” “I just walked here from Brooklyn,” the army knapsack slung over his right shoulder contained his Nikon, “I don’t want to go home,” and the color photographs of her from Rockaway Beach, “so let me in.”

The skinny young man with the black suitcase and bulging shopping bags paused in front of the building. Tenacity was an eight-letter word for courage. He eyed the number stenciled above the door and set the bags down. The old man on the stoop, “Who are you looking for?” resembled a run-down version of Gene Hackman. “Nobody,” the address inked on his palm was still legible, “but I think I might be in the right place.” His smile exposed three crooked teeth, “There aren’t any nobodies living here,” in an otherwise vacant mouth, “this is the most exclusive building in the neighborhood,” the cigarette planted between two thick fingers was trailing smoke. The suitcase his mother insisted on packing for him had killed his right arm, “I’m staying at professor Avloniti’s place for the summer,” the shopping bags were filled with books, “I’m watching her cat while she’s in Greece.” The old man removed his cap and scratched his forehead, “Which floor?” He pulled a ring of numbered keys out of his pocket, “The fourth.” “That’s Paula,” he examined his nails, “our resident scholar,” before fixing the cap on his head, “Did she tell you about the garbage days?” “No, but she said she was leaving me instruct—” “Monday and Wednesday for regular garbage.” The young man nodded, “Okay.” Taking a final drag off the cigarette, “Friday for recycling,” then exhaling smoke. Another nod, “Okay.” In some past life he was giving orders, “All of your cans and bottles go in that big blue one over there,” now his hand trembled while pointing at the garbage cans, “Bundle up all of your newspapers.” He dropped the cigarette on the step, “Because if you don’t separate your trash,” and crushed it beneath the heel, “I’ll have to do it,” of a paint splattered loafer. One final nod, “Okay.” Softening his tone, “I’m Russell,” while sizing him up, “What’s your name?” With a cautious smile, “I’m Tom.” Resting his palms on his knees, “Have you got a dollar?” Tom reached into his back pocket, “I might,” and removed his wallet. “I’ll pay you back this afternoon,” the promise accompanied a gruff confession, “I’m short for beer.” Handing over the dollar, “That’s okay,” left Tom with a five, “don’t worry about it,” which was all the money he had until his father’s check finally cleared. The bill was folded in half, “Thanks,” and tucked into his shirt pocket, “You need some help?” Tom collected the bags in his left hand, “I got it,” and gripped the suitcase handle with his right, “but thanks,” hoisting everything up the stairs. A shopping bag ripped open—Marx, Engels, Trotsky, The Oxford History of the French Revolution, and volume two of Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks tumbled down the steps. “I knew that was going to happen.” “I’ll keep an eye on these,” Russell gathered up the books, “take the rest upstairs,” and stacked them in a pile, “the front door is unlocked.” Tom shouldered open the door, “Thanks a lot,” unlocked the inner one with the key marked 2, “I’ll be back in a minute,” crossed the darkened lobby then struggled up four flights of stairs.

I was washing the dishes when the phone rang. “Can you get that?” A cigarette was burning between his fingers, “It’s not for me,” another one smoldered in the ashtray. Poker chips, two soft packs of Marlboro 100’s, wallet, magnifying glass, notepad, checkbook, beige coffee mug filled with ballpoint pens, and a worn deck of cards were crowding his end of the table. “Of course it’s for you.” Three chairs with split brown vinyl cushions that leaked powdery chunks of yellow foam all over the floor. “It’s your birthday.” “So?” December sunlight filled the broad row of casement windows in the living room. “Why would they be calling here if it wasn’t for you?” Brown paper grocery bags, empty cigarette cartons, five or six months worth of the Washington Post, beige plastic shopping bags overflowing with the blue plastic bags the Post was delivered in, glossy color circulars for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Labor Day, Back to School, July 4th piled on the floor. He tried sounding resolute, “You get it.” Pizza boxes stacked atop the microwave. My hands were submerged in warm water, “I’m busy.” Blackened chunks of rotten countertop surrounding the sink held puddles of suds. My sister hired a maid service to come and clean his townhouse twice a month but they quit a few years ago. My father got up, “It’s a robot,” and made his way into the kitchen. I turned to him while saying, “You can’t know that until you pick it up.” He was wearing flip flops and tube socks, jeans that were baggy at the knees and stained with urine from the crotch to the waist, an oversized grey cable-knit wool sweater pocked with cigarette burns, long wispy grey beard, an eye patch coated with dried mucus, and a Band-Aid that covered most of the large open sore near his right temple. “Someone is trying to sell me something.” I saw him once and sometimes twice a month during the last few years of his life. “You shouldn’t be getting those calls anymore.” He cleared his throat, “They still call.” I washed the dishes and did his laundry, bought groceries, vacuumed the carpet, and occasionally cleaned the bathroom. “A hundred dollars says it’s not a robot.” Coffee grounds, dropped food, ashes, spilled milk, strands of pasta glued to the splintered linoleum floor. He had a distinctive smokers croak that I still hear while recalling this conversation. “Are you sure?” I would open the window above the kitchen sink to get some air and frequently lingered there—especially in winter. “Absolutely.” The window overlooked a well-tended lawn, clusters of bushes and trees, rows of two-story red brick townhouses constructed during the Second World War, and a park bench at the foot of a towering Sweet Gum tree. A high-rise dominated the skyline while the faint drone of traffic from 395 accompanied the view. Despite his grumbling, “We’ll see about that,” there was no mistaking the anticipation in his voice. He picked up the phone and said hello. I turned off the faucet then dried my hands with a paper towel. He told the caller he had and muttered thanks before hanging up. Tomato sauce was smeared on my elbow. “And?” He walked through the kitchen, “The phone company was asking about the yellow pages,” returned to his chair. “What?” He picked up the cards, “They wanted to know if I got the new one,” and began to shuffle them. I stood in the doorway and said, “Those assholes.” He turned to me with a deflated smile, “You owe me a hundred dollars.” I balled up the paper towel and tossed it in the trash. The garbage disposal was still working. Filmy water vibrated in the sink before being sucked down the drain.

Brian got up early that Saturday to do his laundry then tracked down a friend who owed him ten dollars and scored some crystal meth in the process. He met Suzanne by the token booth at the Clinton-Washington G stop, “I got two hits of acid on my way over here,” she exclaimed while passing through the wooden gate, “isn’t that insane,” that slammed behind her. The black and white images of Suzanne he’d developed and printed as the week dragged on, “Are you serious?” now seemed feeble as they finally faced each other, “Where?” Her forearm brushed his, “Right near where we met,” as he led the way toward the exit, “in Washington Square.” When she passed through the gate and they embraced he knew something extraordinary was happening. Suzanne was undeniably beautiful and Brian mistook that for virtue. He spent Saturday afternoon assembling his best work and hung the black and white enlargements on the taut wire running across the living room. “How much did you pay for them?” She was wearing a low-cut black polyester top that accentuated her breasts, “Ten bucks,” a short denim skirt and high cork-heeled sandals, “the guy who sold them to me said I should take it with a friend.” The tall front windows were wide open and passing car stereos, trolling ice cream trucks, an argument between two women about a man who happened to be standing in front of the building, kids shouting from adjacent stoops and the ones clustered around the open hydrant down the block filled the living room as he poured over the images. Scoring acid in Washington Square confirmed another part of the city’s mythology Suzanne was eager to embrace. Brian had done three hits last March and tripped alone in his apartment during a blizzard, “You really shouldn’t buy acid from people you don’t know,” nearly four feet of snow fell from the sky while he sat in an armchair before a window overlooking Lafayette Avenue while studying his perpetually morphing reflection in glowing planes of glass, “unless you like throwing your money away on little bits of paper.” She turned to him and asked, “Aren’t you interested?” He’d done a bump for luck, “Acid is for hippies,” just before leaving to meet her at the station, “but I’m game if you are.” As they climbed the stairs Brian asked, “How was the subway?” She removed a bible tract from her purse, “Really fucking weird,” presented it to him, “someone gave me this,” then recalled the middle-aged preacher with the greasy comb-over sweating profusely in a purple polyester suit, “and the train took forever,” who demanded Suzanne accept God’s salvation as she walked onto the piss soaked downtown A/C/E platform at the furnace-like West 4th street station, “I don’t know how people can do that everyday.” Brian scoffed at the black and white illustration of an opened-armed Christ standing in a supermarket isle Jesus is everywhere and awaiting your love! “The A Train doesn’t run express on the weekends.” They emerged into Brooklyn sunlight, “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” and Brian noted the deep blue of her eyes. He wanted to see them saturated in Kodachrome as they lingered at the top of the stairs. A cloudless afternoon like today would be perfect. She raised her eyebrows then asked, “Which way?” He pointed and then they walked by the black Chevy Nova with the shattered windshield propped up on cinder blocks.

Hello Tom,

Thank you so much for taking care of Olive. Her dry food, always make sure she has some dry food in her bowl, is in the cabinet above the sink along with enough cans of food for the summer, if you only open a new can every other day. Please feed her a quarter of a can in the evening. Cover and refrigerate the leftovers. There are two extra bags of dry food in the hall closet by the front door. If you run out of cans please buy the same flavor and brand, otherwise she will get diarrhea. The $40 I’ve left you should be enough for everything. She is in the habit of eating dinner between 6 and 7 EVERY NIGHT. Also, make sure that you change her water twice a day. It can get very hot in the apartment so she needs plenty of fresh water. Olive is twelve and sometimes gets neurotic when I’m away. Please try and play with her every day, at first she will probably hide from you, so give her a few days to get used to you. She likes to play with her toy mouse, fill that with fresh catnip (in the metal tea box above the sink) once a week. I hope that your time here is productive. I trust you will not have a lot of people over. I will be in Athens for a few days and then on the island of Amorgos until the first week of August. I’ll call you once I’m there.

Thanks,

Paula

I encountered the owner of the diner and an elderly waitress standing behind the counter. They were discussing the best place to display the sign for a new online delivery service. The owner greeted me like a long lost friend while handing me the sign, “You can order what you want on there.” I recognized the logo, “I’ve seen this advertised on the subway,” placed it on the counter and asked the waitress for a coconut donut then added that I didn’t need a bag. The owner proclaimed, “You can now order that on your computer through the internet.” I was taken by his enthusiasm, “That’s really great,” although I’ve never purchased anything, “I hope you get more customers that way,” except their donuts. “Your donuts are really great,” the food has never looked appetizing, “the best in the neighborhood.” Bleached color enlargements lining the walls above the counter are backlit by dim fluorescents and feature dozens of greasy dishes made with the cheapest ingredients available. The waitress handed me the donut with a serrated sheet of wax paper folded over it, “That will be ninety cents,” and two napkins. I removed the dollar from my wallet and handed it over while wondering if a purchase this small would make the minimum for free delivery. If I asked the owner that, even if he knew I was joking, it would only prolong our conversation. He proclaimed, “This will change the way my customers order food.” The waitress rang up my purchase then handed me a dime. When I thanked her she told me to have a nice day. I pocketed the dime then congratulated the owner while pushing the door open.

“Is it your heart,” Suzanne crossed her right leg over her left knee, “or your phone that’s broken?” His hands were numb from the cold, “I was waiting for your call.” The semi-transparent pink nylon curtain before the kitchen window filtered the dim grey light. “How do you wait for a phone call when your ringer is off?” Rain was dotting the windshields of the parked cars. The curtain obscured the fire escape and the tall bare oak dominating the back lot. The wind swept yellow pages torn from a phone book along the sidewalk.