Carla sat quietly in the living room mending the seam of one of his favorite casual shirts he had ripped months ago. Howard felt a warmth in his heart and an unaccustomed appreciation for the hard-working woman. It was good, he realized, to come out of the night of impersonal commerce into the calm abode of hearth and home and loving family. “Did you have a good day?” Carla asked, her eyes fixed on the needle and thread between her fingers. “A long hard one. And it’s good to be home,” Howard admitted with uncharacteristic conviction.
He looked at his watch. Already ten o’clock. First he’d go in and give his sleeping child a kiss. Then, after a hearty bowl of homemade soup, he would treat his wife to a long-overdue reprise of the ardor, which had infected them both in the early days of their relationship. She deserved a treat. The crib used for naps in the nursery was empty, as was the bed in the master bedroom.
“Where’s my main man?” Howard asked, returning to the living room.
Carla carefully drew the needle and thread through the soft velour of the shirt before staring blankly up at her husband. “Where’s Leo?” Howard asked again.
Carla looked from the man standing before her to the pale reflection of them both in the closed sliding glass door leading to the dark outside and thought for a moment about his question.
She considered her reply and nodded as if suddenly remembering.
“I put him outside in his stroller. I thought it would be nice if he had some fresh air.”
BREAKDOWN
I can’t remember her name.
She’s sitting right across the goddamn table from me. Our regular Friday staff meeting — and I can’t remember her freaking name.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
“You hear what I’m sayin’, Charlie?”
Uh-huh. Yeah, Jack. Every word — as usual. I suppose I should quit trying to remember the woman’s name and pay attention to what Jack is saying. He seems pissed. “Well, you better pay attention, it’s your district that ain’t holdin’ up its end.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
What the hell is her name? I’ve been working with her for two years, and suddenly I’m a blank. I’m sure I knew it five minutes ago. Never even occurred to me to think about it until we came into the conference room and sat down. Then, it just slipped out of my head. Like air leaking out of an old tire —you don’t notice it until it’s too late.
What I don’t understand is I can reel off the names of everyone around the table without thinking twice. But not her’s. It’s not as if I don’t recognize her. She’s as familiar as an old pair of shoes. I see her every day here at the office. Talk to her, too — almost every day. I know everything about her: husband, two dogs instead of kids, slightly neurotic, sometimes bitchy, at others, standoffish, aloof, uncommunicative, insecure — a real priss.
But I can’t recall her goddamn name!
What’s happening to me, anyway?
“Charlie, I don’t have your report again.”
That’s Jack. Hotshot. Mr. Stud. Young Turk. Go-getter.
A kiss-ass with limited intelligence and infinite ambition.
Always ragging on my butt just to let me know who’s the boss.
I got your report, Jack; got it right here.
The briefcase on the table on front of me is a real comfort. Old leather, been the route. Just like me, seen some real years of service.
She’s looking across the table at me with something like pity. She knows Jack’s out to get me. He wants to hand my territory over to one of his buddies so he won’t have to worry about me out-selling any of his hand picked stooges. It’d make him look bad.
If only I could remember her name, I could appreciate her concern. But I don’t need her pity.
“Charlie, you haven’t given me a report for three weeks.” They’re all looking at me now: Harvey, Phil, James, the others — and her. The only woman in the room and you’d think I’d at least remember her name.
I put the reports on your desk, Jack. Regular as clock work; right there in your freaking in-basket, just like always. “We’ll talk about it later, Charlie. Uh-huh. You and I gonna need to have a long talk.”
She’s embarrassed now, turning away, as if eye contact with the sinking ship will drag her down in the whirlpool. If I could only think of her name I’d be able to get her on my side; but this way, I can’t even talk to her.
It’s all Jack’s fault. If he wasn’t out to get me, I wouldn’t be feeling this pressure I can’t do anything about. She’s looking at me again. They all are. Did Jack say something I didn’t hear? Their stares are like small pinpricks of light disappearing into a black hole deep in my brain, the same place where the woman’s name has vanished. Jane? Mary Beth? Laura? Sylvia? None of them sound right, none of the names fit the mousy brown hair, too-white skin and wide nostrils that seem to quiver whenever she talks. There should be a perfect name to go with the perfect round red of her always-startled lips. But what is it? Why can’t I remember?
Jack is rattling on again: “We’re that close to making third quarter projections — except for Charlie’s territory. We just need that little extra push.”
Push, push, push. That’s all I’ve been hearing: Bigger margins, smaller discounts, larger invoices, quicker turn-around. Hustle, sell, move it! Push. Push. Push.
God, I wish I had a cigarette! Can’t even do that anymore. Have to go outside and stand like a beggar in front of the building to have a butt. Jack again. His orders. Tried to give me some bullshit about city ordinances, or something. Yeah, sure. He just wants me to have to leave the office whenever I need a smoke, so his cronies can take my calls, write my orders. No wonder I can’t make my quotas. I watch Jack’s mouth move. Every word hurtles directly into my head. Like sand shot into a too-full bucket, I can’t hold any more. It pushes everything else out. Can’t even think of the names of the others sitting around the table now, their criticism a clenched fist, squeezing my brain into a ball of pain. Her name. Their names. All gone. Disappeared into that black hole.
I can cheat and look them up on the agenda — Jack’s big on written agendas — it’s in my briefcase. Just need to open the old worn latches that hold the answers to all my problems. Maybe it’ll relieve a little of the pressure if I can just get a couple of names straight. It’s a start.
Ah, here it is — my agenda.
Names I can finally remember.
Smith and Wesson.
THE TENANT
It was in an apartment in an old converted brownstone on the lower east side, and he thought he was damn lucky to get it. The real estate rental agent extolled the merits of the flat while Arthur Crenshaw inspected the ample attributes of the agent.
This rental would be his very first away from home, and the fertile possibilities of indiscriminate cohabitation were one of the benefits to be reaped beyond the pale of parental observation. Arthur’s meteoric ascent into the stratosphere of an annual five-figure bonus was the fiscal freedom he finally required to leave the shelter of his mother’s home. And now even the middle-aged rental agent began to qualify for one of Arthur’s many erotic fantasies - until he saw the sparkling rock of marital commitment on her finger.
Arthur could not explain to his mother that financial consideration was the least of his concern now that he was a man of the world making the big bucks. The loving and watchful attention to his every coming and going, along with the continued solicitous supervision of his moral development were sufficient motivation for him to seek the liberation of anxious hormones in a world eager to accommodate his unencumbered needs.
Margaret Claymore of Creative Property Management, Inc. had taken him through the downstairs flat of the brownstone, joyfully pointing out everything from the new carpets (salt and pepper shag), a new water heater (Sears-Forty Gallon Energy Saver) and the sparkling off-white spray paint. Even the decorative molding around the juncture of
the ceilings was a new powder blue flecked with gold, lending a delicate contrast to the mundane monotony of the white walls.
The rental agent explained that the entire building had just been completely renovated and redecorated over a leisurely two-year period and he was the first applicant since that time to appeal to the agency for residence in the renewed edifice. “This is not a party place, Mr. Crenshaw,” Margaret Claymore warned.
“I am not a party person,” Arthur illuminated the properly chastised property manager. “I am a stockbroker. I need my rest.”
“Ah, indeed. Then you will appreciate that we strive to maintain a very quiet premises for professionals in a sedate neighborhood. If you desire, shall we say, a more... uh, expressive life style, I can refer you to a number of apartments we manage which cater to a... a younger clientele.” “No thank you,” Arthur reassured the woman. “This is exactly what I require.”
The fact that the rent was more than reasonable was not the determining factor in his decision to take the flat, but it certainly contributed to the quiet appeal of the renovated premises with convenient subway access. Hastily Arthur signed the lease agreement and immediately made his arrangements to move in.
If peace and quiet were the criteria demanded of the occupants of the brownstone, Arthur Crenshaw insured that his part in the pact was maintained to perfection. He walked about in stocking feet, listened to his stereo or television with headphones, and only made liaisons with girls who moaned in ecstasy rather than screaming out their climax.
Whenever his need for an inundation of decibels grew intolerable, he went to one of the many nearby rock clubs until, ears aching, soaked in sweat, and exhausted beyond endurance, he was completely sated with enough noise to last a week or two.
Indeed, as the weeks passed, Arthur came to suspect that if he had any neighbors - and he had seen none move in - they were also so enamored of the sound of their own silence, for all intents and purposes he could have been the only tenant of the building.
He was just considering an inquiry to the realty management company regarding this apparent isolation in the building when he heard the sound of footsteps overhead. Rather than expected annoyance, the lightly creaking thumps against the ancient wooden floor of the old building were a companionable comfort.
Immediately and instinctively, based on the delicate tread overhead, he determined that his upstairs neighbor was a girl and she lived alone. And for this reason also he tended to find the sounds not the least bit annoying, but singularly arousing. He waited in expectation for the of a flushing commode, the gurgling drain of the bath, or the grinding reverberation of the disposal in the kitchen sink. But evidently the insulation of the plumbing between the flats was far superior to that between the floor and ceiling, thereby sufficiently adequate to preserve the privacy of more personal occupations. Being only the beginning days of fall there was as yet no need for the steam pipes to sing into heat-carrying expansion, so Arthur did not know if his well-preserved quietude would be disturbed when his upstairs neighbor turned on her radiator. He suspected, with an eye to the ancient metal coils in each of his own rooms, that there could never be sufficient insulation to prevent the noisome clatter and clang indigenous to old buildings still heated by steam. Why the system had not been upgraded to something more practical, he couldn’t guess. Perhaps the owners, after two years of no income, had finally said: “Enough is enough.”
In those rare solitary evenings when Arthur was resting from the trysts of a constant parade of companions, he appreciated hearing the sounds of someone nearby to relieve the tedious silence of the building and reassure him that he was not the sole survivor of a final cataclysm in the streets outside.
Frequently, he silenced the electric cacophony of his compact disc player or television, removed the earphones and allowed himself to enjoy the shuffle of his neighbor across the length and breadth of her flat.
And then, unexpected one night, there was a guitar. The most delicately plucked and strummed rhythms floated down from above and he found himself transported on flights of shimmering fancy with the beauty of the music. Almost every night now the delights of the stringed cadences of that gentle sound bathed his apartment in warm melodies.
He stayed alert, but was unable to catch a glimpse of the tenant above. Which, although frustrating, provided the opportunity to create a vision from his own fertile imagination. He knew it was the insistent influence of the guitar that engendered images of a modern refugee from the 1960’s Summer Of Love.
Her hair would be chestnut brown, long and straight, parted directly in the middle of her head, falling to softly curved hips. She would be given to wearing high-collared dresses, which dropped plumb down over high, well-hidden underdeveloped breasts to touch the tops of open sandals. Of course she would be named Buffy or Tammie - some such appellation appropriate to an era long past. The sound effects from above increased incrementally. First there had been the footfalls on hardwood floors, then the guitar; and now, on occasion, he could hear the sweet tinkle of feminine laughter, confirming with relief once and for all that his unseen neighbor was positively a girl. Laughter and the soft tones of conversation, murmurings so low he could not identify the second voice, conquered the infrequent long silences of autumn nights when Arthur had no company of his own.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he took to lingering by the window in the hopes of catching her or her conversational companion coming or going. Frequently he left his door ajar on the off chance that he would hear her at the foot of the stairs and could trigger an “accidental” meeting. Unlike his own well-marked mailbox in the foyer of the building, only the flat number rather than a name identified hers. No matter how often he loitered he never seemed to be there when she came to unlock the panel and retrieve her mail - if she did receive mail. He could never see anything through the small slots in the little metal door.
Arthur finally grew tired of the constant rotation of new talent into and out of his bed and, after one particularly drawn out relationship and its acrimonious demise, he swore off women and decided that the misogynistic life of a celibate was preferable to the aggravation and anxieties of another conquest. His vow of temporary chastity found temptation only in the chimeras of his unseen companion upstairs. He continued unsuccessfully to contrive ways to meet her until one night he could no longer restrain himself.
Indian Summer had given way to winter and fall failed to linger. The weather turned bad overnight. Arthur discovered one advantage of his downstairs location: he had inherited that portion of the building that harbored a fireplace. He assumed that his cozy quarters once incorporated the living room or parlor of the original home, and that he might be the sole possessor of the only built-in hearth in the structure.
On this particular night, the chilled rain turned intermittently to sleet, and the warmth of his fireside became enhanced beyond expectation by the sweetness of the guitar music that filtered down through the ceiling. Arthur was not a classicist by nature, but thought he recognized the tune and its harmonies as something by Bach. Or perhaps it was Schubert or Brahms. He didn’t bother to analyze past his acceptance of its soft and warm bountiful beauty on this side of the dark storm beyond his window.
He must have dozed off from his best selling novel when the sudden silence occupied only by the crackle of dying embers brought him back to reality.
The music was gone.
He strained to hear another chord, the strum of strings with fretful fingers fine-tuning the instrument to begin another piece. But he heard no more music.
But there was something else.
For a while he could not tell what it was that he could barely hear until, in a passing moment when the wind abated and the sound of the rain’s tears on the windowpane died away, muffled sobs replaced the storm. He could hear the very definite sound of someone crying in the room above.
Ineffable sadness became Arthur’s first reaction as ex
pressions of pain or sorrow replaced the yearning beauty of the music. His second was a sly appreciation for this opportunity to go upstairs and inquire as to whether or not he might be of assistance in the moment of distress. Which is exactly what he did.
Summing all of the recently gained confidence in his ability to satisfy the most intrinsic needs of the female of the species, Arthur made his way up the dimly lit stairwell and knocked on the door of the flat above his own.
Upon receiving no response, he tapped again, this time with a timidity, which was exactly the opposite of the urgency of his concerns. Suddenly, he was having second thoughts. It occurred to him that he was being presumptuous by intruding. Seeking her out in a time of affliction might be a mutual embarrassment, which would foredoom any possibility of their eventually getting to know each other. When his second knock went unheeded, Arthur took it as a sign that he had a reprieve from his intrusive effrontery, and quietly tiptoed back down to his own rapidly cooling suite. Perhaps it was his interrupting knock at the door, or just the normal sequence of sadness running its anguished course, but now he could hear no sound from above. Arthur had the impression that if he were to go outside and look up to the curtained windows above his own, he would find them dark and unmindful of either his interest or the inclement night which had returned with renewed fury.
Again it was as if Arthur had the whole building to himself. No footsteps, no guitar music, nary a muffled word spoken above him - and definitely no crying.