Easy Avenue

by Brian Doyle

  Chubby looked right in my eyes and puffed a few times. Then his voice changed a little bit and he said, “I picked your name out of a hat.”

  For a minute I had a funny feeling that he was lying. Then I forgot about it.

  “You get five dollars a night. She’ll give it to you each morning before you leave.”

  Five dollars!

  After he gave me the lady’s name and the address I went back in the room and sat down and looked at it.

  Miss L. Collar-Cuff,

  210 Easy Avenue, Ottawa.

  It was about two blocks from the school.

  One of the richest streets in Ottawa.

  Leaves were floating down in the room and Doug was squatting on our table pretending he was a grasshopper.

  After school that day I tried out for the gym team. It was quite late when I got to the bus and for the first time I went home without Fleurette or Denny.

  I sat in the empty seat beside one of my neighbors, Mr. Yasso.

  Everybody called him that because that’s just about all he ever said. If you met him in the hall or in the lineup for the toilet and you said, “Nice day,” he’d say “Yeah, so?”

  Mr. Yasso was a garbageman in Ottawa.

  On the Uplands bus at night nobody wanted to sit with him because he was such a rotten conversationalist. And also he smelled like he had garbage in all of his pockets.

  Mrs. O’Driscoll didn’t like him. She would maybe be out in the hall at the tubs doing a washing and Mr. Yasso would be standing there. He often stood around there, leaning against the tubs or against the wall or looking out the window at the boy with no brain sitting out there.

  “That poor child just sits there, day after day,” Mrs. O’Driscoll might say, trying to make conversation.

  “Yeah, so?” Mr. Yasso would say.

  “Why does Mr. Yasso stand around out in the hall so much?” I said one time to Mrs. O’Driscoll. “He seems to be out there all the time.”

  “He’s out there because he likes to talk to everybody. He’s such a wonderful conversationalist,” Mrs. O’Driscoll said out of the corner of her mouth. “He drives me crazy!”

  “Yeah, so?” I said, making a little joke.

  I sat down beside him on the bus.

  He smelled pretty awful, but I tried to start a conversation with him because, after all, he lived in the same building I did. A conversation is two people speaking to each other. You take turns listening to the other person. You try to help the other person out so that you can each say things back and forward for a while. That way you can find out about each other, learn some things, maybe even have some fun.

  On the bus I tried to start a conversation with Mr. Yasso.

  “I’m coming home pretty late today because I’m trying out for the gym team at school,” I said.

  “Yeah, so?” said Mr. Yasso.

  Although I was dying to tell somebody about my new job with Miss Collar-Cuff on Easy Avenue, I didn’t bother even trying with Mr. Yasso.

  8 Light the Light

  JUST AS I got in the back door of our building I saw a big man with red hair leaving Fleurette’s place. He closed the door quietly. Then the hall was empty. At the other end there was a horrible noise coming from behind Mrs. Quirk’s door where she lived with the boy with no brain. A sound I’d never heard from there before. A sort of snoring. I put my hand on her door to feel the vibrations. The door wasn’t shaking but I could feel it trembling as I rested my hand lightly on it.

  Fleurette was at our place and Mrs. O’Driscoll told us all about it as I looked in the pot she had on the stove. She was boiling some chicken and potatoes. I would wait until we sat down to eat to tell her about my job.

  “Mrs. Quirk moved out late last night. Her poor child went into a kind of a coma and some people came in a truck and took her and her child and her stuff away in the quiet of the night. Mrs. Blank told me all about it today when I got home from work. And about an hour later, no more, no less, another family moved in. A wife and her man. Mr. and Mrs. Stentorian. That’s him you hear snoring out there. They were living in a tent, can you imagine, waiting for a vacancy out here! And it being November! That poor woman. Listen to that! If O’Driscoll could only hear that. You know, I don’t think he’s drowned at all. He’s out there somewhere! I wonder what he’d say about this man Stentorian and his snoring!”

  She was piling chicken and potatoes on a plate for me. And talking away. Fleurette said she had to go and I went out in the hall with her and asked her who the man was who was at her place.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and walked down the hall to her door.

  When I went back in, Mrs. O’Driscoll was still talking.

  “And Mrs. Blank told me that Mrs. Stentorian told her that in that tent where they were living he snored so bad one night that some of the people in the other tents around got together and called the police. Can you imagine? Calling the police for snoring. Isn’t that a good one? O’Driscoll would like that one!” She was using the corner of her mouth when she mentioned O’Driscoll.

  While I was eating, I told Mrs. O’Driscoll about my new job minding Miss Collar-Cuff on Easy Avenue.

  “That’s one fancy street, Hubbo, my boy,” said Mrs. O’Driscoll. “Isn’t that grand now! A job on Easy Avenue! Well, you’ll do well by her. You’re a nice boy and you’re a thoughtful boy. Every Tuesday and Thursday is it? That’s tomorrow! You’ll have to have a set of pajamas or a night-shirt or something for going to bed. I know! I’ve got the very thing! One of O’Driscoll’s nightshirts. I didn’t have the heart to throw it out. I’ll cut some off the bottom and hem it up and wash and starch it for you. You’ll be slick as a button!”

  While I finished the chicken and potatoes, Mrs. O’Driscoll got out the nightshirt and the scissors and the needle and thread.

  “Now this job you got calls for a celebration. I’ve got a nice surprise for you. Chubby gave us all a nice gift today with our pay checks because we did such a good job keeping his school clean for him. He’s a grand man, so thoughtful and kind. And him with that pain that he’s always in. My gift was this beautiful bottle of sherry!”

  Mrs. O’Driscoll got out two glasses, one for me and one for her, and poured us each some sherry.

  “Now I’d imagine, I might be wrong, but I’d imagine this is the first time you’ve ever had a drink of anything like this. Taste it. You’ll like it. And here’s to your new job. Imagine! Easy Avenue! Won’t you be the fancy one every Tuesday and Thursday!”

  I sipped the sherry. It was sweet and warm down my throat.

  Mrs. O’Driscoll took a gulp of hers and sang a little song that she sometimes sang.

  Pack up all my care and woe.

  Here I go, singin’ low.

  Bye, bye, blackbird!

  Where somebody waits for me,

  Sugar’s sweet, so is she.

  Bye, bye, blackbird!

  No one here can love and understand me.

  Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me.

  Make my bed, light the light.

  I’ll arrive, late tonight.

  Black Birrrrd,

  Bye, bye!

  Then she wiped her eyes with O’Driscoll’s nightshirt.

  “O’Driscoll and I would sing that whenever we’d have a little nip together. Oh, he was a nice fella. I don’t think he’s drowned at all, you know!”

  Mrs. O’Driscoll poured some more sherry.

  While she was cutting off the nightshirt I started telling her about school and Chubby and the Hi-Y boys and how confusing some of my subjects were and guidance and science and history.

  “It’s grand that you’re going to a fine school, my boy. Learning all those things about history and science will make you happy in the long run, no question about it! And that Chubby, what a grand man he is. I’m sure he’s the one got you that job over on Easy Avenue. He had a long chat with me when I first went there to work in the summer. He knew you’d appreciate his help. He knows
all about O’Driscoll and you and your parents and where we live and everything about us. What a grand man. I’m sure he’s the one!

  Pack up all my care and woe.

  Here I go,

  singing low.

  Bye, bye, Blackbird!

  “Tell me some more about school, Hubbo, my boy!”

  Mrs. O’Driscoll poured some more sherry.

  I told her all about our English class and how we were reading a story in our Book of Good Stories called “How Much Land Does A Man Need?” by Leo Tolstoy. In the story a man is offered, for a cheap price, all the land that he can circle around on foot in one day. He can leave at sunrise and go as far as he likes in a big circle and when he comes back to the same spot at sunset, all the land he has walked around will be his. If he doesn’t get back by sunset he’ll lose his deposit. Of course, the man wants so much that he starts running and although he gets back at sunset just in time, he is so exhausted he dies. So they bury him right there and that’s all the land he needs. Six feet for his grave.

  “Ain’t it the truth!” said Mrs. O’Driscoll, and banged the table.

  “I’ve read that story and I’ve read other stuff by Leo Tolstoy—a great, wise man he was! Do you remember in the story, the blood that came out of his mouth just before he died? That’s a little more than exhausted.”

  “The teacher said ‘exhausted’,” I said quietly, but I guess I had a surprised look on my face because I never thought Mrs. O’Driscoll ever read any books.

  “You’re surprised that Mrs. O’Driscoll, only a cleaning lady, can read a book now and then, Hubbo, my boy! That’s a grand writer! Wait till you read War and Peace! There’s lots to happen yet for you and Leo Tolstoy! Don’t worry your head about it. You didn’t hurt my feelings. Here, give us a hug. That’s it. Now, have some more sherry! Yes, a grand story!”

  I was feeling a little bit dizzy because of the sherry.

  Did she know how I was avoiding her at school?

  “Oh, Hubbo,” said Mrs. O’Driscoll, “life is so lovely!”

  She was trying to thread her needle to hem up O’Driscoll’s nightshirt for me.

  Did she know what a traitor I was?

  “And so short! Life I mean. Not the nightshirt!” Then she let out a big laugh.

  Did she know what a sneaky rat I was?

  “I’ll do this in the morning,” she said, putting down the needle and thread and pouring some more sherry for herself.

  Later on, in bed, I could hear, over the wall, Mrs. O’Driscoll in her room, laughing a bit, then crying some, then snoring a little bit.

  And then I went spinning to sleep.

  9 Easy Avenue

  THURSDAY after gymnastics, at about 5:30, I climbed the wide front steps up to the huge curved veranda at 210 Easy Avenue for my first day on the job. The door was heavy and black and the knocker was shiny brass. Miss Collar-Cuff’s nurse opened the door and introduced herself and brought me into the dining room while she put on her coat. There was a huge table there, set for one.

  “See you next Tuesday,” she said, “if you work out.” Then she touched me on the arm and left.

  Miss Collar-Cuff was sitting in a big plush chair in her living room beside the fireplace that had tall gold lions on each side guarding the fire. The reflection of the flames was flickering in the glass eyes of the lions, making them look like they were blinking.

  I sat at the dining-room table and a lady dressed as a cook brought my supper to me. It was three fat, sizzling pork chops with mint sauce and potatoes and tiny carrots that looked like candies. I tried to move my plate a bit but I burnt my fingers.

  “Don’t touch the plate,” said the lady. “It’s hot.”

  And all the milk you wanted. And hot apple pie with cheese on it.

  The napkin beside my plate was made of heavy white cloth and was rolled up in a silver ring. The ring and the napkin had fancy engraved letters on them. C.C.

  Three glasses of milk. And the glass seemed just as heavy when it was empty as it did when it was full. The table was long and shiny and black. The salt and pepper shakers were tall silver statues of a king and queen.

  After I finished eating the supper I took my dishes into the kitchen and the lady dressed as a cook in there told me I didn’t have to do that anymore.

  “Don’t forget,” she said, “when you come back on Tuesday, you leave the dishes right where they are. That’s if you’re back on Tuesday.”

  I went into the living room and sat down on the chesterfield and looked at Miss Collar-Cuff and the blinking lions. She was very thin and her skin looked like white silk. She had on a long black dress with white frills around her wrists and around her throat. She sat very straight and very stiff, and with her chin up she looked like she was looking down her own long face and then at me.

  She sat so still, staring at me, that I had to look away. I looked down at my legs and then at my raggedy shoes, then over to the window, then down at the flowered pattern of the couch, then at some paintings on the wall. Then at the blinking lions. Then back at her.

  The lions seemed to move around more than she did.

  I was wondering what Nerves would do if he were sitting here. I put my head back and looked down my face at her the way Nerves might but I knew I couldn’t last. I would have a better chance of winning a staring contest with one of the lions.

  Suddenly she broke the spell.

  “Are you a nice boy?” she said.

  A nice boy. I didn’t know what to say. What was a nice boy? What did she want to hear? What would Mrs. O’Driscoll say? She would just start talking. Say anything. Let the words fall out all over the couch and the rug and fill up the room until you were up to your knees in words about this and that and the other thing. Or what would Fleurette Featherstone Fitchell say? She’d probably pause, think about it, and then say one word. Yes, for instance. Just yes.

  I tried a Fleurette answer.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Miss Collar-Cuff seemed pleased with this. She waited for a long time while I watched the lions blinking away. Then she asked me another one.

  “Are you handsome?” she asked.

  Was I handsome? I almost got up and walked over to one of the mirrors in the hallway to look at myself. To get the answer. But I was glad I didn’t. She probably would have thought I was just trying to be clever or something. Mrs. O’Driscoll once told me I was handsome but not to worry about it. I’d get over it soon enough, she said. Mr. O’Driscoll was handsome, she said. But he never got over it. Probably out there now somewhere, looking at himself in a mirror in some foreign country, she said.

  “Mrs. O’Driscoll said I was handsome once, but that I’d get over it,” I said.

  “Mrs. O’Driscoll?”

  “She’s sort of my mother.”

  “I see,” she said. She was smiling a little bit.

  “And are you popular?”

  This was getting to be about the worst conversation I ever had in my life. My mind was a blank. I felt like the boy with no brain. Sitting there empty. Then I felt my mouth stretch over like Mrs. O’Driscoll’s did sometimes when she was being specially sarcastic. Out of the corner of my mouth came the answer. I could hardly believe it was me. I think even the lions were surprised.

  “Well, people aren’t exactly stopping me on the street to ask for my autograph.” I even sounded like Mrs. O’Driscoll.

  “Oh, witty,” said Miss Collar-Cuff. “And are you intelligent in school?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was ready to tell her anything.

  “And are you a good athlete?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to show you a trick?” I was desperate.

  I jumped up and went into the kitchen. The lady, who was now not dressed as a cook, was leaving by the back door. I brought out a wooden chair and set it on the deep rug in the middle of the living room.

  I sat in the chair. I put one hand on the back of the chair and the other on the seat between my legs. Then I leaned forward and
pressed up into a perfect handstand. I could hold it for as long as she wanted. I could have stayed there for an hour. I was locked in perfect position. I took a quick peek at her. Her eyes were shining with excitement. At least this way, I didn’t have to talk.

  Suddenly she started slapping her thin little hands together, giving me a big round of applause. Then I came down slowly to show how much control I had.

  While I was in the kitchen putting the chair back she called to me.

  “What book are you reading in school?”

  “A Book of Good Stories,” I said.

  “What story?” she said when I was back in the living room feeling the lions’ glass eyes.

  “‘How Much Land Does a Man Need?’” I told her.

  “Ah, Tolstoy,” she said. “Go in the den and you’ll find everything Tolstoy ever wrote under T. Bring a big book called War and Peace Part One to me.” The den was lined with books to the ceiling. They were in alphabetical order and when I got to the T’s there was half a shelf full of Leo Tolstoy. I got down the one called War and Peace Part One while I thought of what Mrs. O’Driscoll would have to say about this. The cover was black velvet and the lettering gold. The pages were thin and silky and the edges were dipped in silver.

  “Have you read War and Peace?” asked Miss Collar-Cuff.

  I gave her a Fleurette Featherstone Fitchell no.

  “Then you may read it to me.”

  And so I sat down between the blinking lions by the fire and began to read.

  “Eh bien, mon prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now no more than private estates of the Bonaparte family...” is the way the book starts.

  Miss Collar-Cuff closed her eyes and sighed.

  Later, in O’Driscoll’s nightshirt, I was in the biggest bed in the world. There was room for just about everybody in Building Number Eight in there. Mr. and Mrs. Blank, Nerves, Mr. and Mrs. Stentorian, Mrs. Quirk and the boy with no brain, Mr. Yasso and Fleurette. Everybody. Put Chubby in there too. And Denny Dingle and all the Dorises if they wanted. And the Hi-Y guys. And Mrs. O’Driscoll. And O’Driscoll who was supposed to be drowned. And Fleurette’s mother. And the man with the black hair. And the man with the red hair too.