by Robin Ray
Chapter 15
Commoner kept his cleaning job, and out of unnecessary trouble, for almost an entire year. Finally getting the hang of being domiciled and employed, he began to enjoy some of life’s smaller pleasures like visits to area museums and piano recitals in Town Hall. He even went to a party with some of his Vietnamese co-workers in the downtown Renton area. However, because the party was too raucous for his tastes, he walked the 14 or so miles back to his apartment in South Lake Union.
Enjoying a one week vacation from his job, he thought he’d visit the zoo. Taking a bus to Woodland Park Zoo, his stroll through some of the exhibits started to jog his memory. He could almost remember some of the displays and attractions. As it was a sunny day out, scores of children scampered out to and fro. At first, Commoner ignored their joyous clatter, but as time went by, became almost unbearable. He was near the lion’s den when he thought he’d had enough. Just then a screaming young girl in a pink dress shot past him. Chased by an excited boy her age, she was clutching a stuffed zebra to her chest. Seconds later the boy caught up to the girl and successfully wrestled the plush animal away from her. As she pleaded to have it back, the mischievous young man dangled it over the lion’s den. When the girl reached for it the boy dropped it in.
Several onlookers walked over. Some scolded the boy while others comforted the girl. There was nothing anyone could do as they stood by the wide den which contained a lioness that was in her own little world. Casually reclining against a gray wall, she was soaking it all in stride.
“Look!” a spectator yelled, pointing to a far edge of the den.
When the others turned to look, they saw Commoner, already over the edge, climbing down a steep hill into the pit.
“Oh, my gosh!” a woman yelled.
“Get out of there!” another shouted. “You’ll get killed!”
The startled onlookers watched as Commoner entered a valley between the front ledge and the lioness’ perch. Treading carefully, he walked past some hedges and tiptoed over a small stream. Some spectators started taking pictures. A few then gasped as the lioness rose to her feet.
“Turn around!” a spectator yelled but Commoner, deep in the rift some 15 feet below, ignored it.
The lioness started pacing back and forth on her ledge. Occasionally, she’d let out a loud roar. A curator, a docent, a security officer and several other patrons ran over to the den. Within minutes, the attraction was packed solid with spectators. Some tiptoed over others to get a glimpse of the man in the den, but because he was so deep and shaded, barely saw him. They then watched as the lioness started scaling down her ledge. A woman screamed. The security officer took out his walkie talkie and called for help.
“Look!” a man shouted, pointing to an incline in the den to the left.
Commoner, carrying the stuffed zebra, was ascending as fast as he could. The spectators could see the lioness zip down her crevice then up a collection of rocks just a few feet away from the steep hill. The zoo employees and other spectators ran over to Commoner. As the large angry cat paced back and forth, stopping occasionally to slash in the air about 15 feet away, the assembled crowd pulled Commoner out of the pit. The spectators erupted into applause.
“That was a dumb thing to do!” the security officer admonished him.
The little girl in the pink dress came over with her mother. Commoner handed her the zebra.
“Thank you,” the mother said as more flash bulbs went off.
“Why’d you do a dumb thing like that?” the curator asked.
Commoner looked up as if preparing to answer, but as the litany of flash bulbs kept his tongue at bay, he turned to leave. The security officer stood in his path.
“You know,” he warned him, “you can be arrested for endangering the public welfare.”
Commoner nodded then nervous-ticked the flies away. The officer stepped aside to allow him to pass.
“The next time you pull a stunt like that,” the officer cautioned, “you’ll be heading straight to jail. You understand?”
Commoner nodded again and walked away as the flabbergasted patrons watched. That evening, while watching TV and eating a pizza from a local restaurant, he saw a picture of him scaling the lioness’ den on the 6 o’clock news. The next day he walked into a convenience store to buy a bag of pretzels. As he neared the counter, the clerk held up the morning newspaper.
“This is you, isn’t it?” the clerk asked.
Commoner gazed at a picture of him in the den with the lioness not too far way.
“You were lucky your guardian angel wasn’t asleep that time,” the clerk informed him.
“Lucky me,” Commoner agreed as he exited the store.
In a small artist’s loft across town, Cameraman Milton Spruce was putting the finishing touches on his debut comic strip which he hoped a Seattle weekly would publish. Called Spruce Juice, the black & white comic featured the adventures of Christopher the Vagabond, a lonely wanderer on the uncharted trails of modern America. With his ever-present duffle bag, long hair, stubble beard and rabbit fur aviator hat, he righted wrongs and fought criminals but was always an arm’s length from getting arrested for his misdeeds.
Spruce approached his friends at the weekly and asked them if they could find a space for his work. When asked if it was based on factual events he insisted it wasn’t. The editor considered the idea for a few weeks while Spruce drew up more episodes then, liking what he saw, agreed to a short run in the weekly.
Spruce Juice quietly debuted in the fall of 1994. A few readers wrote in and said they liked it. Only a handful thought it was exploitative or surreal. By the spring of ’95, it became a minor hit when it was covered on an evening news program. Spruce was encouraged to enter American syndication with his work but he preferred to keep it local as he sought to expand the vagabond’s adventures.
Commoner, meanwhile, was homeless once again. The cleaning company he worked for closed down around the same time the owners of his apartment building sought to convert their building into a condo. As land prices kept going up and up their hands were tied. Many residents with families found additional residences in Burien, Lake City Way, and Rainier Valley. Some of the singles relocated to shelters around town or moved in with friends or family members. Those with little resources were out on their own. No longer welcomed in a quickly gentrifying neighborhood, a few tenants like Commoner moved to one of several homeless camps in and around the Seattle area.
In the camp, he was sometimes teased for being dirt poor yet being the inspiration for the weekly comic Spruce Juice. A few of the more aware residents read the tabloid frequently and agreed the misadventures of Christopher the Vagabond mimicked Commoner who, in turn, insisted the comic had nothing to do with him as he’d never spoken to anyone about it. Others of the more legal-minded set weren’t so sure. With dollar signs in their eyes, they believed Commoner should look into copyright infringement and sue the weekly, but he either ignored them or simply kept to himself in his own little world.
As the weeks dragged on, he got so tired of hearing other campers bickering about his legal negligence that he packed his duffle bag and left. At least two “lawyers” offered to accompany him, but he refused stating his desire for solitude. During the day, if there was no rain, he rested outside at parks near Pike Place Market, Chinatown and Belltown. At night, he either checked into cold-weather shelters or found dry nooks in the back of office or apartment buildings.
One night, while he was trying to sleep in the back of a downtown office building, it started to rain. Instinctively, he tried the handle to the back door. To his astonishment, the door was unlocked. Grabbing his duffle, he walked into the unlit building, climbed up a few flights of stairs and relaxed near the top landing. The silvery moon was shining in through the reinforced glass window facing the back. Looking out, he could see the parking lot below as well as the partially lit Seattle skyline. Then, leaning against a corner, he sat with his
head in his lap and fell asleep.
A few hours later, light streaking in through the window awakened him. He glanced at his watch. It was 7am. As he stood up, he glanced outside the window. Down below in the parking lot he saw three police cars. Immediately, his heart leaped in his chest. In one minute, he thought, he would be handcuffed in the back of a squad car for sure.
Pressing a red emergency release button by the entrance at the top landing, he opened the door and entered the building. As it was early, all the offices were still closed. He walked to the elevators, placed his finger to the button, but chose not to press it lest he bring attention to himself. Looking over to the right, he noticed that the window east was ajar. As he walked towards it, he noticed something beneath it on the floor. On further inspection, he saw a thick black cable anchored to some kind of metal contraption which itself was anchored to the ground. A long fiberglass pole was standing in a corner. Peering out the window, his eyes followed the thick cable. Apparently, it was strung between the building he was in and another eight-story structure across the street. Looking down, he could see buses, cars and pedestrians going by.
He stood at the window scratching his chin, thinking of what he should do. Then, opening the window, he tugged at the cable and pressed down on it. Noticing it was strung tightly across, he made his decision.
Strapping on his duffle bag, he climbed out of the window keeping a firm grasp on the cable. As if back in basic training, he hanged beneath the cable with his head to the far building and both heels over the rope. Slowly, he began his monkey crawl across the high-tension mount. Halfway through, he glanced down to see people watching him. Some were taking pictures. As he continued, police cars with their lights flashing appeared. Commoner thought about going back, but because he was so far across, he continued. A few minutes later, he was assisted into the building across the street by two police officers.
Commoner was sitting in a police interrogation room minutes later when Jackie Vert walked in. Instead of his usual dark blues, he was casually attired in light brown slacks, blue shirt and tie and had a folder in his hands. Sitting at the table across from Commoner, he stared at him for a moment. Commoner kept his head bowed. He felt as guilty as a child caught after raiding the cookie jar.
“You’re something else, you know that?” Vert began. “Man, you’re some piece of work.”
“Where’s your uniform?” Commoner asked.
“I’m a detective now,” Vert answered.
The lonely wanderer kept looking down as if expecting a beating. Vert tapped his fingers on the table.
“Commoner,” the detective asked, “do you know why you’re here?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so?!” Vert screamed, pounding the table. “You held up downtown traffic with that high wire stunt! It belongs to a professional. Man, you could’ve been killed. That was eight stories up!”
“Eight stories is not very high.”
“I know. It was set up just as a practice run for the towers later. But that’s not important. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, Commoner,” Vert said softening his tone, “nobody’s gonna hurt you. Sleeping in that building was trespassing, yes, but to put your life in danger like that!” He stopped to take a deep breath and regain his composure.
“Rubie the Magnificent, the high wire walker,” he added, “is angry with you for preempting his act on TV today. I think he cancelled his show.”
“Sorry,” Commoner promised. “It won’t happen again.”
“Seems like I’ve heard that song before,” Vert moaned.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the folder.
“They’re offering you two months and two weeks of community service.”
Just then a thin, balding bespectacled man in a grey flannel suit entered the room carrying a leather attaché case.
“Don’t answer any questions,” he warned Commoner. “I’m your legal representative.” Vert stood up.
“You’re a little late, counselor,” he informed him.
“Maybe I should warn you…” the lawyer said but was then interrupted by Commoner.
“I agree!” he blurted. “I agree!”
Vert glanced at the lawyer with a “See?” look then walked out of the room.
The counselor turned to Commoner who kept his eyes downward.
A few days after Commoner finished his sentence, he got a job at the Goodwill store just south of Chinatown. It was short-lived as he had no permanent residence and didn’t report to work on time every day. While there he did run into Carny who had come in to buy sweaters and maybe a good pair of pants. After the two talked for a while, she invited him over for a drink at her Beacon Hill apartment.
It was late winter. Hoarfrost hung in the air off trees and other objects. People walked briskly, bundled up like Eskimos, trying their best to stave off the cutting chill hovering over the city. Commoner, also influenced by the arctic freeze, neglected to cut his long hair or 1” beard. By the time he arrived at Carny’s place, he was so cold he thought his eyelids would freeze shut. After he entered her cozy studio, she brought him near the warmth of logs burning in the fireplace. Seconds later, she brought him a mug of steaming hot chocolate.
Sitting on a mat on the floor in front of the hearth, he took a gander at Carny’s place. She seemed to be doing well for herself, he thought. There was a TV and entertainment center, a wall shelf filled with curios, new furniture including a sofa bed, and several paintings on another wall.
“Nice place,” he stated as he downed some cocoa.
Carny walked over, gently turned the carpet he was on 90 degrees then sat facing him in front of the fireplace.
“I think so, too” she agreed. “How’s it going with you?”
“Things could be worse.”
She stared deeply at his face. Consciously, he planted his eyes downward.
“You must have more pain than I can imagine,” she wondered aloud. “Where are you staying now?”
“Here and there,” he answered, keeping his eyes focused on the carpet.
Carny peered deeply at him which he never noticed.
“If I talk to the apartment manager,” she stated, “you could probably stay here.” Commoner took a sip of his cocoa and stared at the glowing logs in the fireplace.
“What’s the matter?” Carny asked.
“I can’t do that,” he insisted.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He placed the cup on the floor.
“This place,” he said, “is yours. I didn’t earn it.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone needs a little help from time to time.”
“Do you really know that?” he asked then swatted at his invisible flies.
Carny reached over and held his wrists.
“Can’t you stop doing that?” she asked.
He cast his gaze downwards again.
“Look at me,” she told him.
Slowly, he looked in her eyes.
“You have the deepest, saddest eyes I’ve ever seen,” she remarked. “I’m gonna let your hands go. Try not to wave them wildly like you do.”
Slowly, she let his wrists go. Commoner then placed his hands on his laps.
“Good,” she smiled. “That’s a start.”
Commoner took her up on her offer of staying at her place, but he only slept there on bitter cold nights. Then, showering in the morning, he’d disappear for days or weeks at a time. Once she asked him what was his fascination with staying out in the greenbelts. He answered something to the effect that it was what suited him at the time.
Over at the University of Washington, Milton Spruce was meeting with some animators. A few months prior, they approached him with the idea of turning his Spruce Juice comics into a TV show with animated characters. Spruce liked the idea and went to see how far they’d come. Sitting in a relatively dark room, they watched a pilot episode of the show. Nearly 22
minutes in length, Spruce thought the cartoon had potential but the main character, Christopher, seemed too angry at times. Spruce explained that it was inconsistent with his pacifist mien and needed an adjustment. The animators agreed and set to work on it at once.
Reworking the contents of the show, they presented it to Spruce and his scripting partner a few weeks later. They took the pilot to an agent they knew in Hollywood who, pleased by what he saw, auditioned it to executives at CBS. They liked what they saw but had some suggestions. In order for a cartoon to appeal to an audience, especially if it was risqué and prime time bound, it had to be centered around a family, albeit a dysfunctional one. They believed Christopher should not be the main character but someone the viewers encountered from time to time, like a neighbor or cousin. Spruce went for the idea.
Weeks later, he played them a new version of Spruce Juice centered on the Bronson Family. The patriarch Ben Bronson, voiced by Spruce, was the beer-drinking, no nonsense owner of Spruce Juice Enterprises, a small cranberry farm and juicing outfit threatened by the larger companies. His wife Emily, a tough but caring homemaker, was charged with raising their son and daughter Matt and Liz in a world increasingly filled with hazards and danger at every turn. His scientific but ornery father lived in the basement of their home and was often responsible for bizarre incidents around the neighborhood. Often getting themselves in a bind, the family’s wandering cousin Christopher or his vagabond friends would show up to save the day.
CBS premiered the pilot episode after one of their popular evening cartoon shows. Instantly, it was a hit. The executives then signed the newly established Spruce Juice Entertainment to their roster, gave the show a 9pm Friday night slot to commence in the fall and ordered 13 episodes. Almost immediately, Spruce moved out of his apartment in the SODO area and into a condo in downtown Seattle overlooking Puget Sound. He then traded in his old car for a shiny new jet black Mustang convertible. His girlfriend also enjoyed the spoils of his new contract as he showered her with earrings and necklaces from various jewelers around town. Life was, indeed, looking up for the artist who stopped contributing comics to his weekly. For Commoner, things weren’t as rosy.
One Saturday night during the summer, he rendezvoused with Carny who promised to take him to a sports bar & night club just off I-405 in Bellevue. Brought to the venue a few times before by a well-off client, she’d gotten used to the place and now sought to enjoy it, not as a “bought” woman, but one who went of her own free will. As she suspected, Commoner rejected the idea. He complained he had nothing appropriate to wear. She countered by insisting he come along as she was celebrating her new one bedroom apartment in Beacon Hill and her 30th birthday, and also because of people like him who made her throw her dangerous street life under a bus.
After much encouragement from Carny that day, he received a shave and a haircut by a downtown barber. It wasn’t the easiest feat for the hairstylist as sitting still was one of Commoner’s most difficult tasks. Out of necessity, Carny had to hold her friend’s hands for fear of endangering his own haircut. When the barber was done, she felt pressured to tip him double. With the Herculean chore completed, Commoner looked at his reflection in the mirror but offered no comments about his new look.
Taking him to Macy’s minutes later, Carny combed through aisles and aisles of men’s casual wear. Commoner, instead of following her at times, would simply disappear into a corner and create airplane shapes out of metal hangers. After much coaxing, she was able to get him to try on different outfits. Standing outside the dressing room, she thought he looked snazzy in a jet-black suit with a red tie. A light brown slacks, yellow shirt and cardigan outfit also looked good on him as well as dark blue pants, a pink shirt and a gray twill jacket. Finally, dressing in blue jeans, a black & white striped Burberry shirt and a brown suede blazer, they both smiled at his new look in the mirror.
“You know you’re a handsome man, right?” Carny whispered as they looked in the floor-length mirror.
Commoner turned his head and scrutinized the right and left side of his face. “I’m not the arguing type,” he conceded.
“That’s why I like you, you silly toad,” she revealed.
Nearly one hour later, they were sitting face to face at one of the booths in the spatial Blue Ray Bar & Grill in Bellevue. Polished wood panels and track lighting sat on most of the vertical surfaces. Large-screen TV’s, on in every corner of the restaurant, either showed sports or music videos. Towards the back by the jukebox stood tables for pool, foosball and table tennis all being currently utilized by upscale college boys. The din from a row of pinball machines next to the aisle leading to the bathrooms and manager’s office added to the festive noise.
The bar itself was the longest Commoner had ever seen. Nearly the length of the establishment, it was manned by three young bartenders. Bottles of liquor from all four corners of the globe were on display behind the bar as well as a long line of beer taps from local and foreign breweries. Servers in black pants, white shirts and black ties were busy waiting on tables with parties from one to around 12. The group with the most members, a motorcycle club called West Coast Outlaws, were sitting at two tables pushed together not far from the pool table.
One of the waitresses approached Carny and Commoner's table, introduced herself, handed each a menu and asked if they’d like a drink and appetizers to start. Carny, quickly scanning the tempting offerings, ordered a prickly margarita for herself. Commoner, looking over the liquor menu, couldn’t seem to make up his mind.
“How about a red-headed slut?” Carny asked him, her eyes squinting devilishly.
“What?” he responded.
“Jägermeister and peach Schnapps in cranberry juice,” the waitress answered.
Commoner, a bit suspicious, nevertheless nodded.
“What about a starter?” the waitress asked.
“Ooh,” Carny quizzed Commoner as she read the menu, “you ever had the Calamari Dijonnaise?”
“No,” he answered. “I don’t even know what that is.”
Carny turned to the waitress. “Go ahead and bring us a bowl.”
“Not a problem,” the waitress said then exited.
“How are you feeling?” Carny asked her table partner.
“You sure ask me that a lot,” he noticed.
“Just want to make sure you’re doing all right,” she stated. “It’s just that you’re so quiet.”
“How can you afford all this?” he wondered. “The prices are high.”
“I work over at the Community College now.”
“What do you do?”
“Mainly acquisitions for the arts & sciences department,” she answered. “The pay is okay.”
Commoner continued reading the menu; Carny joined him in doing the same. After a few moments, their drinks arrived. Carny picked hers up. Commoner stared at his like it was a rare jellyfish beached on a foreign shore.
“Lift,” she instructed him.
When he picked it up, she clinked their glasses together.
“Here’s to friendship,” she extolled then had a sip.
“Ahh,” she sighed, “that was good.” Commoner, drink in hand, still didn’t sip his.
“What are you waiting for?” Carny asked.
Placing the glass to his lips, he took a small sip.
“How’s it taste?” she asked.
“Sweet.”
“Want mine instead?” she asked. “It’s more middle of the road.”
“I don’t mind,” he explained as he drank the rest in one gulp.
“Whoa!” she cautioned him. “Not so fast, cowboy.”
After receiving and eating their appetizer, Commoner didn’t know what to order. When asked if he liked fish, he answered yes. The waitress suggested the northwest albacore with jicama salad. He agreed. Carny ordered the Muscovy duck breast with ginger plum gnocchi. When Commoner’s meal arrived, his stare told volumes. Carny told him to forget what it looks like and just taste
it. Picking up a fork, he stabbed the fish as if trying to re-kill it.
“Here,” Carny said as she arranged the knife and fork in his hands. “Cut with this and eat with this.”
Coupled with slight tics, his was an arduous task. Then, frustrated with not using his utensils as cleanly as Carny’s, he laid them to the side, picked up his plate and shoveled the food in his mouth with his hand. Carny quickly scanned the room to see if anyone else was noticing this awkward spectacle. When she turned back to Commoner, he was already done, smiling as vestiges of his meal lay frozen on his face.
“You’re some piece of work,” she stated as she wiped the food off his face.
“I want another drink,” he requested.
“You’ve had three already,” Carny explained. “Gotta save some for later.”
“Then I’ll make room,” he responded then stood up.
“The bathrooms are back there,” she said pointing to the rear.
Waving goodbye, he first staggered then straightened himself as he walked towards the back. On the way there, he accidentally bumped into one of the bikers.
“Watch it!” the stranger warned him.
“Sorry,” Commoner apologized.
As he neared the pool table, one of the college boys with a cue in hand who’d seen the minor altercation turned to him.
“Don’t worry about those pricks,” the pool player said. “They don’t even belong here.”
Continuing to the back aisle, Commoner stopped to look at the movie posters adorning the walls before entering the bathroom. When he was finished, he walked back to the pinball machines and watched as nimble-fingered students worked the flippers like skilled artisans. After about a minute of that, he walked over to the pool table to watch the students play. Like young professionals, they plunked their balls down each hole with ease and finesse.
“Hey,” one of the boys asked holding out his stick, “wanna take a shot?” “Me?” Commoner responded.
“Sure, why not,” the student answered. “We’re pretty friendly, not like those assholes over there.”
Commoner turned to look in the direction the young man was motioning to and saw the motorcycle outfit.
“What do they do?” he asked.
“They think because they’re veterans they can push people around and do whatever they like,” the stranger answered. “If this was my bar I wouldn’t let them be within 100 yards of here.”
Commoner, at a loss for words, took the pool cue the student was offering and lined up to take a shot. Bending low, he pointed the chalked end at the white ball, pulled the stick back then hit the ball so hard it shot way over the table and hit one of the bikers in the back of his head.
“Motherfucker!” the biker yelled, grabbing his skull.
“It’s those fucking trust fund kids!” another mentioned pointing to the pool group.
Seconds later, the back of the restaurant erupted into a full-on brawl. Some girls started screaming as bottles and sticks flew everywhere. Commoner, trying his best to avoid the melee, stood watching from the relative safety of the nook beside the jukebox. As the bartenders and wait staff yelled for the fighting to stop, other male students jumped in to help out against the burly, larger bikers. Within minutes, some of the fighting spilled out into the parking lot and front entrance as more bikers and college students joined in. By the time the police arrived, four students and two bikers had been knocked unconscious, several pinball machines, the jukebox and a change machine had their facades broken, blood and beer lay in puddles on the floor, and everyone’s feelings were hurt.
While the police were busy breaking up the ruckus, one officer noticed a biker down the rear aisle. Chasing after him, he saw him enter the manager’s office. Carefully, he entered the room and saw the biker rifling through a drawer in the desk. The officer ordered him to stop and raise his hands. Refusing, the biker reached behind in his waist belt, whipped out a silver handgun and pointed it at the officer. The cop quickly fired three shots, all finding their mark to the gunman’s chest. Walking over, he checked the biker’s pulse. Not finding any, he looked curiously at the pulled-out drawer in the desk. Mixed in with files and folders he saw several clear baggies containing small pink packets with the word “Goodfella” stamped on them.
Commoner had originally told an officer that he started the fight, but Carny intervened, explaining that they were not kin to either party and that her friend suffered from a mental illness which made him assume guilt for others’ misdoings. The police agreed and let them go. Unable to determine then who started the fight, the police arrested members of both parties. The restaurant’s manager was also placed in handcuffs because of the heroin found on his site. Commoner was hit in the head with a beer bottle during the commotion, but he refused medical treatment stating he was okay. After the police received his statement, the local news media swept in. By then the area was swarming with scores of emergency response units as if there had been a terrorist attack. All told, about thirty to forty people were arrested. Commoner, Carny, as well as a handful of restaurant patrons, were interviewed by the Eyewitness News team. Carny did most of the speaking for Commoner as he said very little. Some of the other customers, quite shaken and stirred by the melee, declined to comment.
On the drive back home, Commoner said very little. To him, his frequent run-ins with the law were beginning to festoon like an unwanted pimple. Carny tried to console him, explaining that things would get better. However, for the duration of the trip, he either kept his eyes downward or gazed at the buildings outside his window with awkward uncertainty.
As they crossed the 520 Floating Bridge into Seattle, Commoner stared out at Lake Washington.
“Let me off here,” he said.
“What?” Carny asked.
“Wherever I am, things happen,” he noted.
“Nonsense,” Carny countered. “All those buffoons fighting each other have nothing to do with you.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“It’s just an accident,” she suggested. “Don’t worry so much.”
After reaching her new, barely decorated, items-still-in-boxes Beacon Hill flat, Commoner was offered the choice of sleeping next to her in the bedroom or on the mat out in the living room by the fireplace. He chose the bed but stated he wanted to keep his clothes on. Carny agreed. By the time the sun came up the next morning, he was nowhere to be found.