Chapter 2
She panicked and ran for the bathroom. She had fifteen minutes to get to work. It was not a matter of if, but how, late she was going to be. How could he have let her sleep so late? He? Was she still in the dream? She couldn’t be, could she? She washed her face. No, the water was wet, she was awake and very late.
It was easy to unlock her bicycle as virtually everyone had already left. After fiddling with the lock she pulled the bike backward and found the tire was flat. Damn! She had a pump, but it was on the fourth floor. Then she would have to take the time to pump it up. She’ll do it tonight. She relocked the bike and ran for the bus. Her long gray dress was flared and her low square heeled shoes made it actually easy to run. The bus stop was only two blocks and she ran at full speed. She used to run in High school and the power surged through her legs freeing her. Her legs stretched with a bloody-minded power. She saw the bus cross the intersection in front of her. It would stop and unload almost as soon as it crossed the intersection. She would make it. She raced around the corner. Her messenger bag swung wide and clipped an old lady. The bag knocked the old woman’s arm scattering oranges across the street. She was about to get on the bus but couldn’t just say sorry and leave the distraught old girl in the middle of the street. She stopped, she should do this properly.
“Sorry ma’m. Are you alright?”
“Yes miss.” The slightly shaken, old woman was not one to get in a fluster.
“Sorry. I was trying to make the bus. I’m late for work.”
The old woman popped an orange in the bag and reviewed the breathless young woman before her. She waved the orange at her. “You could’ve still made the bus.”
“Yeah I suppose, but then your oranges would soon be juice.” She ventured out to the busy street and picked up four oranges replacing them in her bag.
“I’ll give them a quick wash at home and they’ll be right as rain. Thank you miss.”
“It was my fault. You’re sure you are okay?”
The old girl nodded. She had a little pillbox hat with flowers that jiggled with her head movements. “If you were late would it have been that bad?”
“Oh well, probably, yes. I don’t really know. I’ve never been late.”
“Well, you should thank me and my oranges for giving you a new experience.”
“Yes, well.” Jenny wasn’t quite sure what to say to the old woman.
“I shouldn’t think you’d have much trouble twisting a boss around your finger.” The old woman gently nudged a bony elbow into Jenny’s side. “Pretty girls can always do that.”
“Well I’m not in that bracket.” Her next bus was approaching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
The old woman’s wrinkled face peered directly at Jenny. “You’ve decided not to be in that bracket. Who gave you that right?”
“Sorry? What do you… I have to go, take care and sorry again.” Jenny stepped into the bus and the old woman remained on the corner waving politely. Jenny wondered what kind of life did the old girl have? Was there an old man waiting at home to share the oranges. What did she mean, ‘Who gave me the right to put myself in that bracket’? She took a deep breath and turned from the window. Immediately in front of her was a tall thin man in a black suit. He looked like a musician. He had wonderful long wavy black hair, well past shoulder length. She leaned forward ever so slightly to see if she recognized the woody smell from last night. Just as she breathed in the bus hit a bump and he grasped for an overhead toggle. His elbow clipped her nose right on the tip and it immediately started to bleed. It was only slight but like any nose injury her eyes welled up and tears streamed out. He turned to help her but she waved him away. She had her head back and was rummaging for a Kleenex in her purse. She could feel the blood flowing over her lip. It was hot and the taste unpleasant. She got a handful of Kleenex to her face. Her stop was coming up and she insisted he stay on the bus and not worry. Unfortunately, she insisted too much and he did. He peered back through the bus window as it pulled away. She waved back, with a bloody bundle of tissues stuffed at the base of her nose pretending there was no problem. Through her bleary eyes she could see he was not her type, but maybe he was an extremely close second. As there was no first at the moment, she wished she had played the injury up more. She remembered she was late and dashed to down the street across the open courtyard and into work with the bouquet of Kleenex held to her nose.
The handful of Kleenex still adorned her face as she stepped out of the elevator. Charles was holding court. He did like to try to entertain and keep things jolly in the office, she would allow him that. But he was still a prat. As she stepped out she heard him.
“So she’s dashing along looking like Laura from Little House on the Prairie on steroids and bang, takes out this old bird.” He turned wondering who was taking the attention from his story. “Wow, hello gorgeous. You okay?”
With a foul glare she blasted past him toward her desk still clutching the blood stained tissues to her nose. She slumped behind her desk, the humor in her legs had evaporated and she had a feeling that Tuesday was going to rival Monday in ‘crappiness’.
“You alright?” It was Sally and Bernadette.
“Yeah, bus accident.”
“What, how?”
“Guy reached for a toggle and I put my face in the way.”
“Stupid.”
“Yeah, well at least he was good looking, actually I think he was gorgeous but it was hard to tell-”
“Cause of the bop in the nose. Girl you’re really starting the week badly.” Bernadette said.
“I’m okay now, thanks.”
“Sure.” They wandered off. It was decent of them to offer help anyway.
The little bit of work she had done last night seemed to put her further ahead than she had thought and she quickly made up for the hour she had missed. As lunch grew nearer she found herself trying to think where the man, who had smacked her nose, worked. He might have got off at the next stop and perhaps had lunch in the park. She drew a lonely breath, it was a one off, so she might as well forget it.
Her nose, though tender, had calmed down by lunch and she was able to enjoy the break. She walked with a feeling of hesitant expectancy to the bench. It was a silly idea she thought. There wouldn’t be another poem. The only reason she was trying to avoid stepping on the cracks on the sidewalk was for fun – luck had nothing to do with love, her nose knew that.
When she glanced up she saw someone was sitting at her bench. Could it be the poet she wondered. She hoped not because the figure on the bench was a square older woman, a pale blue scarf shrouded her gold plastic glasses. She was knitting. How drab she thought. She knew many people who could knit and went to Stitch’n Bitch sessions with their girlfriends, but it held absolutely no interest for Jenny. She would rather listen to Gianluca go on about the history of Napoli FC. She smiled and sat at the other end of the bench. As she sat down she scoured the area below the bench for any slips of paper, there was nothing. It was pointless to even hope.
Because she was late she’d had to pick up a simple salad from the small building canteen. Having had no breakfast, she wanted to get stuck into the salad immediately. She popped the plastic lid open and just at that moment the dowdy old woman beside her got up to leave.
Jenny spotted it almost immediately. The corner peeked out from under the yarn bag that had been on the other side. She would have to nab it quickly as there was a slight breeze blowing toward the canal. The woman stood and adjusted some kind of girdle apparatus she wore below the floral print dress. Jenny watched, ready to move. The old woman surveyed the park. She still did not go for the yarn bag. Jenny was getting anxious. Grab the damn bag and go she thought.
Suddenly the woman snatched the bag and the paper flew with it. Jenny lunged, but was far too late. The paper cartwheeled along the path and Jenny scrambled for it. The sala
d hit the floor and scattered everywhere. The paper was wheeling toward the canal edge. It was the same crumpled paper as yesterday and she knew it must contain a poem. Stumbling up to her feet she tried to step on the paper but it seemed to dodge her every attempt. The wind was infuriating. She would not let it get away. She stumbled bent over after it and dived on the dirt path scraping her palm along the gravel. Her fingers clutched the paper. A pair of shoes stopped in front of her.
“Are you okay miss?” the voice came down from above her as she lay on the gravel path.
She didn’t look up. “Fine, thank you.” What if it was him and he was going to laugh at her?
“May I help you up?”
He was so polite, it must be him. She turned, hoping he was as handsome as her dream, though she hadn’t seen his face, he would definitely be handsome.
Jenny stared dumbly up - it wasn’t him, definitely. He was handsome, but it was her boss, Robert. Oh God!
“Wow Jennifer. Scrabbling around in the dirt. Digging for a metaphor are we?”
Should she explain? The scrape on her hand hurt like hell. “Hardly. I lost a paper. Important phone number.”
She felt his arms take her waist and lift her up. He was very strong. “I see.” He virtually lifted her to her feet like some small child. His hands encased her small waist. He released her politely.
“Thank you Robert.” She straightened her dress and realized that every woman she’d seen had been wearing bright summer clothes and she had a gray skirt with white blouse. Well it was white, looking down at it now she saw the two circular dust prints from where her breasts had hit the path. She brushed them off. He was standing, watching. Her attempts at brushing the dirt off made things worse, the smear of dust spread with fingerprints across her breasts. Her eyelids burned with embarrassment.
“I’ll run along then.” He looked over at the freshly spilled salad. “Enjoy your lunch.”
Jenny watched him saunter down the path. He moved like an athlete, that was why he could lift her so easily. He walked casually toward another woman. Jenny had seen her before. She was obviously his girlfriend, probably a model. He had quite a few girlfriends. She scraped the lettuce, tomatoes and the remainder of what had once been an attractive salad into the plastic box and threw it in the trash bin beside the bench. She sat with nothing for lunch, only the crumpled piece of paper. It was smaller than yesterday’s. Perhaps it wasn’t even the poem. To her left she could just see Robert and his date walking off, arm in arm. There were three crows scavenging nearby, hoping to get at her salad remnants. Several rowers ploughed along the canal. Lunch had been like the rest of the day.
She glanced at the paper. ‘For Joy’ was neatly written across the fold. The moment she read the title the wash of stillness returned; no sound, no breath, no bustle. All movements faded. It was as if one could snap an old fashioned Polaroid picture and as it developed, moving from opaque to hazing images, one could move through or even live within it. She read the title once again and stared across the now desolate canal guarded only by the slender stork leg trees.
LOVE ON A PARK BENCH 2
The breeze whispers on lake tops,
the mist shroud calls your name.
The trees answer in dark rustlings
all nature yearns the same.
Every being stands in awe and reverence
blinded by your sight
The sun pales, the moon wanes
at your beauty’s light.
I wish I were cast a constellation
a heavenly teardrop sent,
So I may gaze upon you with
unabashed lover’s intent.
I am but a poor man whose heart
is happily captured,
I am but a fleeting heartbeat by you
devoutly enraptured.
If I were to grace your lips
so tender and so sweet
My heart would fall to silence
happy, love sworn and complete.
She stood, almost frightened, then shifted a few steps left, then back to the right. It seemed she shattered the silence of the park. Where was he? Sounds flooded back, sullying her thoughts. Was he some kind of pervert that knew how she felt or was he there, a secret lover, an admirer, waiting, planning when to come to her. She must provide an opportunity an opening, offering. She pushed her hands to her eyelids, crumpled fists trying to pressure sensibility into her befuddled brain. ‘An opportunity’ had desperation made her so deluded. She gazed at the canal below. It drifted aimlessly, almost stupidly. Perhaps, she thought, her love life was the same. But if there was someone interested and he wasn’t a pervert and he was a romantic Lermontov type and it was meant for her – too many ‘ands’. What could she do; swirl around – the sound of music - no thank you. Should she dance, scream, leave a note? It was crazy, it would be just as useful to set a fire and make a smoke signal.
She grabbed her handbag and was about to angrily stuff the paper inside but stopped. No she would fold it. It was obviously written for someone else and had been dropped or discarded. If she was the object of his passion, it would have been mailed, surely. She would take care of it until, or if – a sigh filled her chest with confusion. She calmly placed the letter next to the previous one inside her handbag.
Still hungry, she made her way back to the office. Just as she left the park she looked back toward the canal. It was busy again with joggers, rowers, ducks. Robert with his girlfriend was walking behind the tramp from yesterday. The tramp was dressed as before with beret, overcoat and leaned painfully on his cane. She thought the tramp might stop to salvage her salad. But he moved straight ahead followed by the massive dog. It was a black Great Dane, his ears were thankfully not cropped, they hung like black seagulls and he retained the goofy composure of big hounds. The Great Dane was old and looked as tired of life as his master. Robert tried to walk past but the old man shifted, blocking his way. Robert was forced to go on the dog side of the old man. The once droopy dog’s chest suddenly raised and his physique bristled with a powerful youth. Robert calmly stepped wide pushing his girlfriend clear. The hound was suddenly elegant and fearsome, though in truth a tired statue of strength. The tramp growled and the dog relaxed back to his droopy pace.
Jenny hurried back and stopped at the newsstand for some chocolate. She hardly ever ate chocolate, but without lunch or breakfast she wanted something to keep her going. She bought a Snickers and a Mars bar. Two would be better to keep her going. Chocolate had a way of soothing irrational thoughts for her.
It was close to three in the afternoon when she needed to wash the mass of chocolate down. Her concentration wasn’t sharp. She got up from her desk and with cup in hand walked around the half wall. With a dirty blouse and swollen red eyes from the bloody nose she wanted to slip as discreetly as possible to the coffee machine and back. The office had become ridiculously noisy for a readers room. It seemed the Sex in the City show last night had ruffled feathers in a variety of ways and a heated dispute was raging through the prolonged coffee break. She was sure no one would notice her state.
“It’s not Charles. It’s what you and Stephen want to think.” Sally barked.
“It’s for women.”
“Yeah so, but men watch it more to get there jollies off.” Bernadette chipped in.
“What! You gotta be kidding. A bunch of screaming neurotic women.” Charles said.
“It’s presented that way for the shallow male libido, but actually deals with real issues in a woman’s life.” Bernadette was getting really heated up and several of the other women were leaning over the partitions supporting her. Obviously everyone was very into Sex and the City. Jenny walked casually behind Stephen, Charles’ number two, toward the coffee machine. She didn’t want to be noticed and wasn’t.
“It’s crap, pathetic writing.” Stephen said.
“You’re the one who is pathetic.
You’re so frightened of dealing with your own roles in society, you hide behind some archaic image of a caveman, the almighty bread winner.”
“You’re way off base Bernadette.” Charles added. “It’s pathetic female voyeurism.”
“You’re scared of women who know their sexuality.” She was raising her voice and Charles was matching it across his cubicle. The office had completely stopped.
“You’ve lost it. You sound like one of the flakes on that show.” Charles sniped.
“You sound like one of those dickheads led by his organ who is frightened of strong women.” Bernadette snapped back. Jenny discreetly crossed back toward her desk with her cup of coffee. She was happy to be clear of that mayhem.
“Frightened of women? What women? Frightened of mice in frocks and big mouths.” Charles barked. It was obviously directed at Bernadette and Jenny.
“Are you referring to me?” Jenny asked calmly, she stopped a few steps past him.
“Well,” he was embarrassed and backed down a few notches in his vitriol. “Do you watch that crap?”
She looked at the office, they were waiting for the mouse to speak. “Well generally I never do, but… but last night I stuck it out for about forty-five minutes.”
“And it’s a load of female neurotic crap isn’t it?” Charles said.
“It’s about real issues we face as women isn’t it.” Bernadette said.
“Bernadette if you or I slept around as freely as some of those characters, we would not be working here. If we could afford their wardrobe we wouldn’t be working here! Besides which, you may have, but I certainly have the equipment.”
“See it’s a load of fabricated bollocks for female titillation.” Charles pointed smugly.
Jenny turned to the arrogant Englishman and spoke in calm condescension. “As far as it being directed to the vapid testosterone led species, I would say that all romantic writing, from Homer to Chaucer and beyond, even to sitcoms, is directed to the cravings of the human heart and those that deny it are too frightened to challenge the true depth of the passions of their times. These include not only those who worship the female form but the numerous ones enamored with the male form. Charles, if exploration of passions is what frightens you, go back to your pathetic fish and chip shop in old Blighty and leave the real passion to those who can handle it. I didn’t like the show, but I don’t deny the validity it may have to a market. I read Lermontov and some Pushkin last night as well as sonnet 146 what did you do? Watch the Simpsons.” He stared back blankly at the little woman. “Challenged are we? To much to compose structures beyond an eight word sentence?”
“Your anger is evidence of a deep psychological inferiority.” He stuttered.
“The only inferiority here is not shrouded in a frock, but is suffered by your remarkable and unchallenged mind, which subjugates itself to the stump that hangs between your legs.”
The office was silent. She moved past Charles with her coffee in hand. He was so much larger than her and physically could squash her. She noticed the coffee was only just staying inside the rim of the cup. She had to sit down soon. Why she had flown off at the handle she had no idea. He brought it out in her. She sank down behind her partition and shook. A smashed nose, groveling in the sand in front of her boss and now blasting her co-worker about his stumpy manhood – Oh God - so much better than a Monday, she thought.
“Christ almighty!” Stephen called. “She put Charles in his place. Are we sure she isn’t a Tibetan debater. Hail the chief.” A few of the women applauded and laughed. Jenny raised one middle finger quietly over the cubicle wall. The office howled in good-natured laughter.
It was evening and she gamely pumped the tire of her bicycle until finally it felt hard enough to get to the grocery store. She must get some one to fix it properly some time. Maybe she could look on the internet for instructions. She tossed the pump into the basket and headed off to the corner shop.
As she came out with her small bag of groceries she saw Mr. Azir, the owner, was outside his small grocery store. He was sat on his usual chair, facing the street. The old boy was parked there from morning until night it seemed. He always had a gaggle of children ready to help him hold court on any manner of things from mosquito weddings to the real meaning of Ground Hog day and how it was stolen from worms because of their bad eyesight. She’d actually listened to him tell a gang of boys that one. He was outrageous. Jenny had heard any number of wild stories. She’d faithfully used the store for more than six years and had watched the couple, now well into their late seventies, age ever so gracefully. They were almost an institution. On this early evening though he sat quietly peeling an apple.
“Hello Miss Jenny.”
“Hello Mr. Azir.” Things were always formal with the old boy.
“Why don’t women say what they want?”
“Sorry?”
“Women, beautiful women, like you. We men don’t know what you want, you never say.”
Was this a lead in to one of his stories she wondered? “Doesn’t that depend on what it’s about?”
“About? All things are about one thing – love. Everything is about passion. The sound of trees, fragrance of flowers, vegetables and fruit, clouds, sun, sky.”
“Mr. Azir is this one of your stories? I told you before, you have to write them down to get them published.”
He looked down at his apple and was slow to answer. “No, not a story, just a question to a beautiful lady. Even old men need advice.”
“Well you’re not that old and as far as questions of the heart and love are concerned, I think you are asking the wrong person.”
“Shhh. You kid me.”
“No, not really. I don’t think I know the beauty of love, not the beauty that you and Mrs. Azir share.”
“I can’t believe that.” He smiled up at her from his chair. He grasped her hand. His fingers were bony and swollen with arthritis. “But then men don’t realize, only some oysters have pearls.” She didn’t know what to say, it was an unusual compliment. “Should I call you Pearl from now on?”
“What should I call you then?”
“Crusty old shell.” He said with a grin.
She leaned over and kissed his balding head. “Don’t encourage him Jenny.” The voice came from behind her, it was Mrs. Azir. “He has already proposed to most of he neighborhood.” Mrs. Azir crossed casually to her older husband and put her arm on his rounded, tired shoulder. He held her hand. Jenny stared at the affection in the clasp of hands. His hand was wrinkled and the knuckles were knobby, her hand was frail and bird like. There was an unspoken resting between them like sunshine on a warm breeze, they just seemed to laze together.
The old man patted his wife’s hand then deftly grasped Jenny’s hand and drew it to his lips. He kissed it gently. He released her hand and released a small piece of Jenny. It felt like a shard of red ice had thundered off her heart down into the ocean. She cycled home and could still feel the tickle of his bristly lips on the top of her hand, just above the knuckles. Such dignity in some men, she thought. God knows it wasn’t like that this afternoon in the office.
The risotto she’d made was passable, mushroom and sun dried tomato, but then it was essentially just a bowl of rice with bits chucked in. She looked across the bowl to the folded newspaper. She often read the newspaper in the evening. It was a habit imparted on her by her father. She could still hear him. ‘Why spoil the morning with the foul activities of the human race. The abominations we commit upon each other should not smear the glory of the morning.’ Her father used to love mornings, virtually worship them. You have to really want to taste the morning, smell every molecule of mist and ice, of every morning, to be a dairyman. He and her brother still woke up at four to start the milking. When she went home at Christmas and sometimes for spring break, to be with her nephews, it was a real challenge to try to get back into the morning routine. It
was a glorious way to start the day, but usually she wanted to go back to bed after breakfast, where as they soldiered on. With her move to University and then to the city for work their lives became radically different. Yet her father and brother were exceptionally well read and could easily have gone on to greater careers, but then they had that argument every time she went there – ‘the glory of the morning’. She couldn’t argue with them, especially as she always went to visit them alone.
The newspaper was full of the usual array of gore and calamity. It seemed there was a never-ending plethora of pain and plague, but rarely any celebration. She pushed the bowl of risotto away, tossed the newspaper on the counter and breathed deeply. It had been a disastrous day. She hadn’t meant to insult Charles. Whatever he had said about her, it was of no value to be hurtful in response.
She turned to the TV and flicked the channels. News, sports and another ‘Die Hard’ movie. She clicked it off bemused at the lack of entertainment. The early evening warmth still hung in the air. She moved to the balcony, slipped on a sweater and pulled out some reading from the office. She would get ahead on some work and submit her reader’s analysis to keep Robert happy.
Almost two hours had passed and a chill had definitely descended when she flipped the laptop shut, it was good work and she would recommend the work for further consideration. After putting her work in her tattered leather bag she returned to the balcony with a glass of red wine. She rubbed the bridge of her nose it was still a little tender.
She leaned over and watched the people below. The street was still quite busy for a Tuesday at ten. Perhaps moviegoers coming home early from a flick. Couples walked arm in arm. A small posse of young guys walked, or more like bounced, down the street. They carried duffle bags with them and she was sure they were graffiti artists heading out to find a spot of creativity. They often traveled in packs of three or four. Some of them were quite good, others were just a pain. An older couple was walking their golden Labrador. The dog was very well behaved and never strayed far from their side. They were a happy threesome. Maybe she needed a pet? Something to direct her love toward. She laughed at the thought then remembered the black Great Dane that had warned off Robert. He was such a proud dog with such an attitude, though she knew being a Great Dane, he was as dim as a post.
Back inside she started a bath and then went back to the hall to rummage through her purse for the two poems. With another glass of wine she returned to the bath to spoil herself with thoughts of her poet. Well, not her poet so much as ‘the’ poet.