by Evan Dara
—Ah, we are transiting now, inner, outer, both achieving avid transience. We are stripped to minima, to noumena, to essence, an entire culture going pre-Giottesque. Reveling in velocity, maximizing lightness. Harvesting impermanence and deep thinness. Surrendering to second upon second. Here, not, architecting evanescence—
Fallows steps in. He finds Carol standing on a chair, fiddling an office-window blind. Often as not, the blind sticks when someone tugs its woven, two-strand cord: slats on one side angle and wince while the other side dangles loose, immobile. Even in your hand, one cord-strand droops and slackens, the other pinches stiff.
On another chair, sitting at his already paper-layered desk, Rick works a new contract, with Beverage Warehouse, the big discount place out past Route 2.
It’s time for their Tuesday 2 p.m., the half-hour sit-down they’ve pledged for the first part of every week; another fifteen minutes comes Fridays at eleven. Fallows carries Styrofoam coffee and gold cufflinks; he’s smiling and energetic. Carol, bested, lets down the compliant half of the blind and joins the guys at the couch. But Ian is late. He was due, per usual, at eleven. When noon showed before he did, Rick tried Ian’s cell – a pay-as-you-go from AT&T, one of the business’ first purchases – to no answer. Same for the follow-up at one thirty-five. But John’s time is precious.
OK, Fallows says. News of the world. The first news is no news at all: I like what I’m seeing here. And what I’m hearing about, from my incredible network of moles. And I’m wondering if you’d like secretarial help.
Smiling, Fallows goes on. Here’s the deal, he says. As I kinda had a feeling was going to happen – ahem – the city has decided to set up a hiring program, to try and help things along in that way.
It’s starting out real modest – the project isn’t funded yet – but it is starting. And, also like I said, I went ahead and made a play for this office to come in on it.
Fallows sips his coffee. Again, you’d be handling the whole program, he continues. Manny – comptroller – of course can’t commit, because he never does, to immediately handing full- program coordination to an outside agency. But he told me he’s willing to try a pilot.
Bravo, says Carol.
Indeed, Fallows says. This could work. So, my fïrst thought: let’s start close to home. I told him you need a secretary – which, we all know, within three weeks you will. So you go ahead and bring someone in, and this can serve as a model, or establish a basis, for your doing future hires. And what’s your favorite phrase? Win-win? Here you’ll get another set of elbows, and earn five percent of the elbows’ grease.
Carol smiles. And of course you didn’t prepare that little phrase there, she says.
Now Fallows grins. O world filled with mysteries, he says.
Carol looks at Rick. Both try not to widen their eyes, fail.
Carol turns back to Fallows. Once again, John, she says, sounds good.
But if I may, Rick says. Is this OK? Are we going to get any grief for this, maybe down the line? Skimming five percent of our own person’s salary?
And you, Fallows says, have just proven that you’re new to government work.
Ten minutes later, he’s gone. Though his presence hovers: Carol finds herself thinking she’d like to do something good for John Fallows in return: buy him a magenta woolen sweater, bake him anise biscuits. Maybe even better than that. She goes back to her window-blind work.
Close to three thirty, Ian opens the door. There’s a breath before he walks in, and immediately Carol and Rick go to him. His shirt, gray with orange stripes, is too large, and it’s dirty; he’s wearing a dark cap – unusual; the bottoms of his pants are slopped and thready; he’s increased his not-shaving.
Ian!, Carol says.
—Finally a good idea. For once they’re getting something right. The city, I heard they’re considering giving people some sort of tax break if they move back. There are conditions of course: you need to have lived here beforehand for more than six months, and you have to commit to staying for a real period of time. Heard five years. I also think you need to prove you’ve tried to establish yourself somewhere else: a lease, a mortgage – or a mortgage application – a job contract, something real, with real legal weight, convincing. Yeah, this one’s a winner. Certainly better than that cockamamie idea of taxing people who leave—
—And so what: we’re rewarding, we’re subsidizing the traitors? We’re paying off the people who bailed—?
—All this means is that the city’s penalizing everyone who stayed. Who else do you think is going to pay for this? All the good, hard-working people and families who did everything they’re supposed to, and made good on their bills, and struggled to contribute, and paid their taxes, and put up with all the everything going on—
—Unacceptable. This is crazy, and absolutely unacceptable all around. You give a tax break to the people who remain in A-burg and not a single person will come back. They’ll immediately be second-class citizens, paying more and being looked down upon. It’ll terminate the chance, the best chance we have of rebuilding this place in the best way that—
—So City Hall announces this and, well, I don’t really know what to think. Pay lower taxes if you return to town …OK …but you get an even bigger tax break if you stayed? I mean, it sounds like it might work, but is that possible? Is it legal? And what if, like, a married couple, and one of them went off because he had to find a job, and—?
—Shew. Incredible. The city’s really trying. All the subsidies they’re giving out, even just the ones I heard about: in-home child care, and free bicycles for riding downtown, and repainting house exteriors, and there’s even lawn and grounds maintenance – and not only for the parks and the lakefront, but for private parties, for private people in their own homes. Amazing: A-burg is really getting in gear—
—OK, let me say Back at six! to the three-year-old daughter I don’t have. Let me paint the window frames of my two-room apartment – but only on the outside, if you please. And with these savings, I – my tax dollars – are supposed to support the people having their fifteen acres groomed, and having their would-be East Egg McMonsters turned a new off-apricot-ocher, and this for all of them?, whether they need it or not? I—!
—Good idea. I mean, it’s only a rumor, I haven’t seen any paperwork yet or heard anything official, but I think it’s smart for the city to pay people not to talk about what’s going on around here. You know, a little discretion. Keep it in the family. Pull in the laundry. Better for everyone. In all kinds of agreements there’s a confidentiality clause. Who needs to – oh. I, uh … Listen, I got to go now—
Rick has made a pot of tea, Carol has put out the round cookie tin, and all sit by the glass table. Carol tries to cultivate calm, passing a napkin, offering cookies, sipping slowly, languorously stretching up her arms, returning them down. But Ian is jittery. He rubs the tops of his knees, forcefully, with his palms.
So how you doing there?, Carol says, and sips her tea.
Ian sips, looks down, pauses. Oh, you know, he says. Getting by. Well, that’s a …
He reaches for a cookie, takes it, holds it in his hand. Seems I found another squat, he says.
He sips his tea. Well, seemed, he says.
Carol crunches a cookie. Watcha mean?, she says.
Oh, you know, Ian says. Had a … I mean, what was it, last Friday dinnertime? – well, whenever, and, you know, a bunch of us were hanging in Roosevelt Park, me and a few friends – maybe like seven of us – watching the sun like skating up top the trees, super slow, and none of us making much do though Cliff was hitting his pennywhistle a bit – Scottish reels, he’s good at ’em – and then bam, you know, the blue boys, all over us – wham grab your wrist, get you up, twist your arm, twist it – and into the van, into with the windows with the wires, you can’t see – and just Get going, Get going – and I told ’em about us, I screamed it, first thing – Hey man, I – about the office and all here, both of you, not John – they did
n’t listen …
Ian retreats into his thoughts, sips his tea. Then, between shallow sips, he continues, and Carol and Rick work to follow. If they understand correctly, Ian and the others from Roosevelt Park noticed that the van wasn’t driving towards A-burg’s main police station, but in some other, not-obvious direction. Not into city center, but away from it, to an area whose streets, they could see even through the van’s two small, riddled windows, were free of cars, and broadly airy, and rich with trees. When the van stopped, its rear door opened on a purely residential neighborhood, with large houses and larger lawns, all still finely maintained. Ian and the others were trundled out of the van and, once on firm pavement, looked at this Oz with eyes agog. All kept silent.
Quickly three cops shunted the group down a walkway and into one of the elegant homes. Inside, all of the furniture had been removed, at least on the ground floor. But in one large room off the entranceway, maybe once the living room, a large metal cage, with thick vertical bars, had been installed, its barred top only inches below the ceiling. The cops pushed and nightsticked Ian and the others into the cage, swung its door dosed – first a ribald squeak, then thangg – and locked it with a large key. Then two of the policemen left, while the last stood in the adjacent hallway, rifle at his side. The cage held nothing but Ian and the others.
Fact, you know, I’d heard about this, Ian says. City using abandoned homes for lockup. Maybe probably need the space. And it wasn’t all that bad, in fact – the walls were clean, perfect dark yellow paint, enough leaves out the windows to keep you dreaming – though hoo, that made it tougher, y’know, to deal with the buckets – ’n ditto for the food trays, which were the same as always. And also, you know, the cell – the cage – it was smack in the middle of the room. We’re in two sets of four walls! Harder to see from outside, I suppose. Mustn’t hinder the sales force …
So we’re grumping, you know, but we’re settling in for shit, no one knows what – and it’s two days and it’s three days, sleeping alongside each other and rising, and sitting back to the bars, and no more than one guy with a folder coming through once … And the time is checkout-line slow, but we mingle and we’re silent and of course I use the chance to pitch us – what we’re doing here – you know, come on, let’s get us some clients, good crew to work on. And then, you know, third afternoon, we’re out. Just like that. No announcement, no nothing, just a guy shows up and we’re out on the Street, push us through, all the way to the curb – and just go, you know, go away quick, find your bearings and just get the holy hell out of …
Ian pauses, snorts. Apparently, he then says, someone heard – later, I mean – the city decided it couldn’t afford to use these kinds of houses any more – the offsite houses, the ones with humans in metals. Got to contain things – the costs, what do you think I mean? – so OK, just crowd, super-crowd more guys in at Farrell Street … But I don’t care, I’m out, I’m – maybe the house was sold – and now I’m right back in the office here, that’s for sure …
It was … Yes, it was that, he says. But, you know, curious thing … When I was leaving, when the police didn’t care to have the pleasure of my company any more – and I’m walking down this tree-type block, and I’m settling into my shoes, then something registers and I turn and look at the house we were in, the one with the bars, and shoot – it’s familiar to me, I know the place … And I – and it’s the place I stayed when – when we first met, when us three first got together – you know, the spot for my lever – it’s the same house I was living in then, which also makes it the same house the city just crowbarred me out of a few weeks ago …when I came in that day and put all a scare into you …
Ian wags his head, flares himself a smile. Jesus, he says. In, out, in, out – hoo, would someone please make up his mind …?
He stops, scratches his nose, looks out the window. Carol rises from her chair and goes to him. Squatting, she leans in and hugs him across the shoulders. Well, you’re in here now, she says. You hear that?
Ian nods. Yes ma’am, he says.
Good, Carol says, and pats him on the arm. She rises and returns to her seat. Lands there solidly.
OK, she then says. So, guys, it’s twenty to five, and there’s no way you’re getting out of here until we get some more stuff done. So, Rick: to your contracts. Ian, I’ve got a bunch of phone calls for you to make. OK? Get cracking—
—It’s 6:40 p.m., and the End-of-Day’ers are continuing their Permanent Farewell Blast at C. Ruggle’s. Tonight, the thought is to set up an Anti-Customs Bureau, to charge people a fee, and not a smidgenly one, to pass out of town. They’re thinking a percentage of the loaded car’s value, contents and machinery both. They’re sure the dearly departing will put out.
That’s right – make ’em fork, Breece says, top lip etched with foam. Get out free’s only in Monopoly.
Right, says Gustav. Tell ’em it’s the admission charge to the rest of the world.
A Value Subtracted Tax, Wyndham says.
Zackly, Gale says. Never leave nothin’ without paying for it.
All pause.
Actually, it’s an arrival, Marcus says.
Right on, Gustav says.
An arrival of justice, Marcus says. Of reason …
Marcus stands at the bar and looks out unto no one, including the two loners in the pub’s far corners.
Civilization, man – it’s history’s indigestion, Marcus says. A war against sanity … And you’re all just heartburn, burps …
Mercenaries in the occupying army …
Uh oh, Wyndham says. That man be drunkening …
How—
Who’d believe such a thing?
Marcus Carter is—?
Marcus Carter is not drunk, Marcus says. Even ening. He’s just telling it like it is … Affronting the bruised mediocrity, the squalid contentment …of your mean, stinking lives …
Wyndham sips his Coors.
Breece puts his Pabst bottle on the bar. And who are you to—?
OK, guys, Gale says. Come on, Marcus – hold on, hold it back … Don’t let it get away from—
Marcus, man …, says Gustav. All that – all that’s easy for you to say. You got a job. Cushiest job in—
Right, Breece says. I mean, what else you gonna think, spending your time cultivating someone else’s garden. What kinda job is that?
Boys—, Gale says.
You don’t like it here, Marcus, you go back to Chicago.
Right, Breece says. You been here long enough. Go on back to—
Ah, says Marcus. So now I must do penance …contract myself into a nutshell of civility.
Nutcase you mean—
Hey, I’d be peeved, too, Wyndham says. Thrown out by his wife, thrown out by his girlfriend—
Nah, Marcus says. Nothing to do with it. Nice try, though …
Marcus takes a sip of his Islay single malt. I just got guts enough to speak it, he then says. You know what I’m talking about. You know what I mean. You feel it to the drop-point where it rattles your bones …the infantine gestures, the blood-quaking capitulations you have to make just to be allowed to add your few, frail, unwanted words to the dumbshow …
Marcus—
Truncate it! Truncate everything …that costs you what you must refuse to pay …
Marcus stops, sips his tiny glass. Brings the glass down, looks across the dark, sparkly room.
Hm, Gustav says.
Yeah, says Gale.
Breece exhales.
Check, please, he says.
—This one I know. I know it because, in fact, I know two things.
I know that Margaret Chandler was a happy person.
I know that that was not the case.
She taught shiatsu (Japanese style) at the Pathways Center on Battery Street and had private clients at her home, two doors down from me. She loved that work, touching bodies with her hands and elbows and knees, touching minds with her training and gentleness. She cooked up just scrump
tious peach pies – not too sweet, and truly superior crust – and always made more of them than she needed. She was passionate about national politics, always crusading for some ragamuffin third-party candidate – Kucinich, Nader, even going back to John Anderson – and always jumping on buses to Washington, minimum once every six months or so, and at a moments notice, if need be. (I once went to her for a shiatsu session that didn’t happen, for just that reason.) Once, she showed me that she got an autograph from Coretta Scott King, on a paper plate. She held it like a breviary.
Sorry, I didn’t appreciate her politics. But I appreciated her.
What else. Way past their time she wore leg warmers, and she got migraines, and she played an impassioned, though only pretty good, game of racquetball, at the old University courts.
And, o yes, the gal loved purple. She was big into color, in particular that one.
OK? Is that enough? Enough to explain what I know?
I knew it when I saw the small fire truck. It was the first time it struck me that fire trucks come in different sizes. I was coming home and there it was, in her driveway. With the demise of Fletcher Allen Hospital, quite a few essential services have been taken over by City Hall. City Hall has ambulances, but they use them only for time-sensitive events. Margaret Chandler was not a time-sensitive event.
There were no sirens when she went. The small fire trucks sirens did not sing. The choir was silent.
Where will she be taken? Was this the protest bus she was always looking for?
Someone once told me that to find the truth of a person, you take the opposite of what he says. That what we express is compensation for what we fear. That life is composed of complementary colors.
Does that mean I shouldn’t believe the person who told me this?
Where will she be taken?
Dammit, she was taken out her own rear door.
How did I know about Margaret Chandler?
How could I not.
Knowledge is contradiction.
—And I look around, I twist and scan, and there is – there is no one to—