Above me there was no sky. Only sun. Without shadows the city was a fraud.
The crosswalk signal said, “Walk.”
“No. I won’t walk,” I said to the signal. “I would prefer to stand.”
“Then stand for all I care,” said the signal.
“Out of our way. Out of our way!” High heels chanted from behind me. “Out of our way,” they repeated in brisk ball-peen hammer raps that became louder. “Out of our way!”
“Go around me!” I said to the shoes.
The shoes were on a woman wearing a tight tailored suit that smugly said, “Money!”
“You’re nothing without expensive people!” I told her suit.
“Off the rack,” it taunted derisively.
The woman’s large over-the-shoulder bag whacked against me as she passed. Her Yoga stuff used the F-word to gripe about being jostled.
“That’s not nice Karma!” I said.
The woman turned to me. The furrows of her eyebrows above her sunglasses indicated her disapproval of my conversations with her bossy shoes and conceited clothes and grumpy Yoga stuff. Her lips moved. I heard radio static. She entering the crosswalk and morphed into a gleam of tossed golden glitter.
“Stop thinking about it,” said the signal.
“What? Thinking what?”
“In a few seconds, I’m going to say ‘Don’t Walk.’”
“So what?”
“I fucking mean it! Don’t Walk! No stepping into traffic. Not at my intersection!”
I said nothing.
“Don’t Walk.”
“I was standing while you were telling me to ‘Walk.’ Standing is neither ‘Walking’ nor ‘Don’t Walking.’ Regardless of what you say, I stand and thus ignore your commands.” Ha! I had cornered the smart-ass signal.
“I’m not going to try to make sense of that. You sound like a lawyer.”
“I should. I am.”
I stood sweating inside my off-the-rack suit watching the signal direct people to Walk and Don’t Walk. One or the other. Back and forth. Over and over. Simplicity and simplicity. Thoreau would have loved the crosswalk signal.
“Do you ever get tired of saying the same things?”
“No. Because Ihave purpose. And you?”
I said nothing.
“It’s not like this,” tires on hot asphalt whisper-hissed. “It’s not like this.”
“But what can I do?” The tires gave no answer.
A white LeBaron convertible with its top down stopped inches from me. I was close enough to the driver that I could have touched her pink and purple hair. She was slender and in her mid-twenties. Her left hand shielded her eyes. She wore black polish on long pointed nails and a Celtic arm band tattoo. Arm Band. Good name. Her nipples poked braless through a black sleeveless sundress with spaghetti straps. She looked like a rock star who had become bored with her own self-confidence.
The LeBaron was pock marked with rusty leprosy and exuded the oily stench of sickroom machinery. I felt empathy. Its engine chugged in 4/4 time with an emphasis on the second beat.
“That’s a great rumba” I snapped my fingers in time. “Catchy.”
“But not worth the effort,” said the car.
“I know what you mean.”
Arm Band turned to me. She must have thought that I was talking to her. As she opened her mouth her car stopped. Radio static replaced the rhumba-chug.
She turned the key again and again. Every turn made the static louder.
“Oh, come on already!” said the SUV behind her car. It was new and shiny and as smug as a tailored suit. Vehicles behind it grumbled like pissed-off Yoga stuff.
“Hit your hood release.” I said to Arm Band. I walked to the front of the car.
“Better watch your step!” said the signal,
“Will you cool it!”
“What did you say?” said Arm Band calling to me
I ignored her. Stepping off the curb felt like dropping through a tear in the fabric of space. I reached out and touched the car. It stopped my fall. I fumbled for the latch and opened the hood. Over-heated air rushed out. The pressure bubble burst. The radio static disappeared.
“Good luck!” said the SUV driving around us. The other vehicles followed as if they were toys stringed together.
“What’s wrong?” Arm Band had come to the front of the car.
I knew she meant her car. But I answered otherwise. “Just about everything!” I laughed.
“I know it’s old,” snorted Arm Band.
I heard a sliding Click. I closed my eyes. Arm Band’s thoughts were projected on the back of my eyelids as if I were looking into an old View-Master. The reception was fuzzy. I shook my head to fix the focus. The car, Arm Band, and I were cartoon characters. I was face down in the engine compartment with the hood smashed on my back. The balloon over Arm Band had her saying, “What’s wrong!”
OK, I thought. I do something or walk. But I realized that if I walked, the signal would insist that I was following its ‘Walk’ command. I took my handkerchief from my pocket and reached into a chaos of grime and grease.
“You’re going to have to help,” I said to the car. “Where does it hurt?”
“What do you mean?” said Arm Band.
“Distributor cap,” said the car. “And the wires.”
I wrapped my handkerchief around dirty sparkplug wires and jiggled them.
“Ah!” said the car. “A little to the right.”
“How’s that?”
“How’s what?” said Arm Band.
I pushed the wires around. “Is it getting better?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” said Arm Band.
Makes two of us. I thought.
“Gooood!” said the car.
I bandaged the wires, went around, got into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. The engine started effortlessly. It no longer rhumba-chugged but softly hummed, what sounded like, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now.”
“Thanks mister!” said the car.
“Thanks mister!” said Arm Band.
“Wait.” I whispered, so the car wouldn’t hear me. “Let me drive it around the block to make sure that it doesn’t crap out again.”
We got into the car. I pulled into the stream of traffic.
“You were so confident and competent!” Arm Band said. I looked at her and saw a chrome tongue stud flicker as she talked. “You knew exactly what to do!”
I had no idea of what I’d done. But I gave her an answer because she wanted one. “A complete breakdown is usually caused by a very simple problem.” I surprised me saying that. It sounded right.
“Did you ever work as a mechanic?”
“No,” I laughed. “Never.”
“What do you do?”
“Magic!” I laughed. “Magic!” Click. I stood on a stage wearing a top hat and threadbare black tails. Arm Band was next to me. She wore a glitzy silver too-tight thrift store prom gown and teetered on too-high heels. “For my next trick . . .”
“Watch it!”
I opened my eyes and fast-braked to a hard stop for a red light.
“You didn’t have to shout!” I said to the light.
“You need to see what’s really happening,” said the light.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Arm Band. She breathed heavily and bit her lower lip. “Mister, could I have my car back now? Please.”
I scowled at the red light. I sensed a conspiracy with its crosswalk friend.
The light greened. I drove on. “I hate red lights that scream at me.”
“Please stop.” Her voice was a cracked whisper. “Please give me back my car.” Arm Band had squeezed herself against the side door to put as much distance between us as possible.
“I do magic!” I returned to her original question. “I make two plus two equal five.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I change reality. I conjure convenient illusions.”
“Mister. What are you on?”
“Planet Earth.” I laughed again.
Her hand was on the door latch. She looked ready to bolt at the next stop. I didn’t want her to leave. Because if she did, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with her car.
“I’m a lawyer.”
That answer must have set her a little at ease. She took her hand from the door latch.
“Why the crap!” She spat the words. I heard her tongue stud clack on her teeth.
“It’s not crap. Lawyers practice sordid dark magic. We warp reality and transform day into night.”
“My dad was a lawyer.”
“Then you know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Think of the work that he did.”
“Work! Work? He played golf and drank cocktails and threw parties and shmoozed with judges and politicians. And somehow that made him rich.”
“He was a wizard.”
Click. I saw a figure cloaked in a long blue robe covered with pictures of golden owls and wearing a red steeple hat covered with silver stars and half-moons. Behind him a gaggle of magicians pranced in a Busby Berkley musical number. Arm Band wore her prom gown and was still teetering on her heels. That surprised me, I had expected that she’d have practiced walking in them since the last show. The wizard flourished a wand with a large glass bulb at the end that glowed brilliant white. He chanted Latin legal terms. Flocks of hundred-dollar bills fluttered down. I expected music but only heard the snap-snap-snap of a record player needle trapped in the final groove.
“A what?”
“A wizard.” I opened my eyes. The image of the musical number slowly melted away. “Magicians conjure petty parlor tricks. But a wizard fashions gold from lead.” Her face was a blank of incomprehension. Her hand had moved to the door latch. “Your father has it made.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“Oh?
“He’s dead.”
“Oh.” I drove on. Downtown grew smaller behind us.
“He was 48. Heart attack.”
Now it was time for me to say the cliché that everyone says when hearing about a dead family member. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Arm Band breathed deeply. “It never did. At his parties, he made me dress like Miss America of 1956 and smile at his asshole guests while he’d repeat, ‘this is my daughter . . . this is my daughter.’ Always ‘my daughter.’ Like I didn’t have my own fucking name.” These were spat out words accented with tongue stud teeth clicking.
Click. The wizard beckoned. Arm Band came forward in her prom gown. She curtseyed before a judge in a black robe and powdered wig. Cash fell from the sky.
“He was proud of you.” Another cliché.
“He tried to make me fit into his world. He scheduled lessons for me with an etiquette consultant. Can you fucking believe that? And then the concentration camps. Prep school. A term at Radcliff!” Her journey down memory dark alley put her at ease. She no longer clutched the door latch.
I drove on. The car’s humming was replaced by a roar. “Mister. Where are you going?” She tugged my coat sleeve. “Can you hear me?”
We were on a freeway. But I didn’t remember an entrance ramp. The roar was wind-howl over our open top. The gas pedal was the volume control. I laughed and made it louder as I jerked the wheel to the right to pass a lumbering 18-wheeler.
“Slow down. Please.”
“Why don’t you two enjoy a nice late lunch?” said the car.
“Hey, you’ven’t said anything for a while,” I said to the car.
“I’m enjoying this exercise. I’ve got a runner’s high going.”
“Thanks. Lunch is a good idea.”
“What are you saying?” said Arm Band.
“Lunch. I was on my way to lunch when your car broke down. I know a good place.”
“All right. Go anywhere you want. But please slow down!”
I weaved to dodge the trucks popping up out of the pavement. I laughed. The speedometer needle spun like a whirligig.
#
Click. The parking valets were dressed as Chippendale dancers in male-stripper attire. The balloon over them read, “Sorry. This isn’t a McDonalds drive-thru.”
“Be very careful!” I got out of the car “It’s a treasure. A special edition!” I patted the hood. “Chrysler built only one hundred of them in 1983. There’s probably a dozen left.”
“Ahhh . . ., “said the car.
“Ahhh . . ., “said the Chippendale valets.
“I’ve completed the engine work. Listen to that hum! I’ll have it restored before fall. I’ve already entered it in this year’s Classic Car Competition in New Mexico.”
As we walked away, they argued about which one of them would drive it to the lot. Arm Band frowned. Somehow, she had changed into her prom gown. She had practiced walking in heels because now she was strutting like a runway model. A few magicians were leaving as we approached the restaurant. One came to me and asked if I was still with the firm. I told him that I’d probably die there. He laughed. I didn’t. We talked some more. It was a ploy for him to look at Arm Band’s nipples poking thru her prom gown.
“This is my niece. She’s a junior at Radcliff. She’ll be a summer intern at the governor’s office. She flew in for orientation.” Arm Band frowned and folded her arms across her chest. The magician put on his top hat and left.
#
I didn’t remember being seated. A napkin folded into a fan stood in front of me. I never understood why upmarket restaurants folded napkins into fans. Arm Band was displaying her etiquette training by jabbering in French with the waiter about the wine list.
“This place has memories. It catered my 18th birthday party.”
I was half listening. I saw the red steeple hats of wizards, top hats of magicians, and a few powdered wig judges. I was hoping they wouldn’t be here.
The wine arrived. The un-corking ritual complemented the napkin fans.
“My dad threw a Gatsby bash. It was still going on at midnight when I left.
“Left?’ I was looking around the room.
“I planned for a friend to rescue me. It was my birthday party, but none of my friends were invited. Because of their imperfect etiquette I suppose.”
“Rescue you?”
“I got into my friend’s car. I never went back. Etiquette consultants! Radcliff! Goodbye to all that!” She tipped her wine glass back. When she finished drinking, she tapped her chrome tongue stud on the crystal and made it sing.
I was jealous. She had a pleasant memory of being rescued.
I heard snapping of teeth and rumbling growls. Four of them were in a secluded corner, which was why I had missed seeing them. Their table was a red mess of bloody ripped meat and cracked bones.
“Oh no! They’re here!”
“Who?” Arm Band looked. “Those men in the corner?”
“Men! Those aren’t men. They’re crocodiles.”
“Crocodiles?”
“Yes. Crocodiles are more powerful than wizards. And oh shit, they’ve seen me.”
One crocodile stared at me with cold unblinking eyes. Roaring, he rose on his hide legs. His claws were shredding the carpet with each slow step. His heavy tail was whipping from side to side menacing the seated diners.
“Rrrrhhh!” said the crocodile when he reached our table. He towered over me.
The reptilian coldness added arctic chill to the already too much air conditioning. Arm Band wasn’t concerned. She drank wine and read the menu. But I shivered.
“They’ll be no pre-trial conference for that case.”
“Ah? Rrrhhh?”
“The other side agreed to settle”
“Rrrrhhh?”
“Yes. I located a witness.” I gestured towards Arm Band. “The threat of her testimony forced them to settle.”
“Uhhh. Rrrh. Umph.”
“On our terms.”
“Good,” the crocodile snapped his jaw. “Good.” He pivoted and swung his tail so quickly that I barely had time to raise my feet off the floor to let it swish beneath them. He lumbered back to his corner. The four crocodiles smiled with icy white flashes of pointed teeth.
“What will happen when they find out that you lied.”
“It was only a part-lie. The other side accepted our firm’s earlier offer. They called this morning. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t tell anyone. So, it was my excellent work for all they know . . .” I pointed towards the crocodiles and laughed.
“You’re not funny.” Her lips weren’t moving. Seconds later, her mouth moved soundlessly as if she was in a poorly dubbed foreign film. I laughed again. She started to rise out of her chair. I think she would have left, but she had to sit down to avoid a huge pepper grinder being shoved at us.
I didn’t remember ordering. All napkin fan restaurants serve the same food. Limp lettuce with ceremonially ground pepper. A tiny main course. Oily green beans garnished with a few—very few—almond slices. And little red potatoes. Click. I watched a myself fashioning a catapult with my fork and spoon and bombarding the crocodiles with the little red potatoes. I laughed.
“There’s nothing funny!” Arm Band stopped eating.
I wondered why she didn’t think seeing crocodiles ducking under their table and holding menus as shields from a barrage of potatoes wasn’t funny.
“Don’t you see it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No.” She waved her hand in a gesture that took in the room, the tables, the chairs, and the seated diners. “I don’t see it!”
I followed her gesture and gasped. Everything was fading. I tried to concentrate to bring it back. It was like trying to hold on to hidden images in the 3-D posters they used to sell in novelty stores years ago. The crocodiles and wizards and magicians and powder-wigged judges waivered and dissolved. They reassembled into men and women wearing business clothes and mask-like faces distorted with desperation and wrinkled with weariness. Was this vision of horror what Arm Band was actually seeing? I drank all the wine in my glass. Filled it. Drank again. The men and women transformed back into what they actually were.
We spent the remainder of lunch in sour silence. Arm Band said nothing until we went to reclaim her car. And all she said was “I’ll drive!” Somehow, she had changed back into her sun dress. She gave the Chippendale valets a tip that pulled their mouths downwards. They glared at me. I looked away.
Silence came along with us as if we had had it wrapped to bring home. I expected the car to ask how we enjoyed lunch. But it said nothing. She drove slowly back to downtown. Early evening pushed against midday. Buildings grew taller.
“I’m sorry I upset you.” I honestly did not understand what I had done.
“Mister. You’ll get mad at me for saying this.” She sighed. “You carry dark black lies around with you like a sackful of night. You’ve pulled out so many lies from your sack for so many times that your entire world has become a lie.”
Suddenly, we rolled into a glowing band of sun that glass skyscrapers had focused across the street. It blinded us like a spray of quicksilver. The car swerved. I reached for the wheel. But she had already steered back into our lane. She was crying. She pulled into a no parking zone and removed a tissue from her purse to dry her eyes.
“That’s what happened to my dad,” she whispered. “I can see it now.” She blinked tears.
“I’ll get out.” I opened the door. In the side-view mirror lusterless eyes gazed at me from a wrinkled mask. I ran my hand over my forehead and felt deep dry furrows.
“Mister. Wait. Thank you. For fixing my car and lunch and now . . . I understand . . .”
“I do too.”
“. . . but you can still make things right.”
“I will.” I nodded. “Somehow, I will.”
What will you do?”
“I’m going to cross the street.”
She laughed.
“Don’t worry about me.” We both said at the same time. Another laugh. She drove away.
Shadows emerged. Edges appeared. I waited for the light to change.
###