Читать книгу The City Man - Howard Akler - Страница 16

Chesler pulls his jacket over his head and runs, a hump skirting the slush. His shoes make small splashes that undulate half a foot outward before dissipating near a streetcar stop. Five men get ready to board so Chesler, with lungs burning, picks up the pace and tags on. Six of them now taking tiny steps forward, a procession slower than exhale. Chesler huffs and stares at all the hands that bulge in the kickouts. Britches that jingle. Everyone fishing for change. Another step, another. Chesler grits his teeth because a long day of two-dollar pokes gets even longer during this moment of silver. He takes one more deep breath and then stretches his fingers across a chasm of inches.

He comes home and quickly undresses. Suit and tie hit the floor, clothes that give him a sucker’s anonymity. He crosses the room in an old undershirt, tweed cap pulled low on the face. With a shot of whiskey in his hand, he settles into a big-backed chair. Takes a sip, warmth and release after another day of grinding it up. Day after day after day. Commotion and gesture that coalesce into nothing but small change. He rubs his forearms, massages his palms. Wasn’t turned out to be one of these nickel-and-dime schnooks. Nope. Not like her. The best stall he’s ever seen and still she’s happy with a couple cheap scores. Rag her about it and then she chirps the same sorry tune: Times are tough. So what?

For a cannon like Chesler, the slow end of the whiz comes down the muscles of his forearms, eases up at the cartilage in his fingers. The trepidatious racket gives him a tight grip on the shot glass. He knocks one back, then another.