Trenton Makes

by Tadzio Koelb

  Jimmy had been talking again. Kunstler wished he would go back to reading his book, but he wouldn’t keep his eyes off the map for longer than a minute now, always looking for the shortest route to the next drop-off. Kunstler wouldn’t be able to make an easy detour to the apartment to look through the boy’s things with Jimmy pretending he was a native guide, and it made him anxious, edgy. “Do you even know what’s in any of the boxes?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, do you ever read the bill of lading, or even just the stuff written on them? Right there, on the boxes, in big letters? Company names and stuff. What I’m asking is, do you have any idea what it really is you do for a living? On the days you bother to show up, I mean. I’m just curious is the thing. Be ready to take the second right.”

  “What?” said Kunstler. His hand hurt, and his foot hurt, too. Jimmy had found him an aspirin but it wasn’t doing anything, and the measly half cup of ice the deli guy had been barely willing to part with had melted almost immediately. The returning pain after the brief numbing was worse than before. He didn’t need a reminder any more, he needed a drink—but he had emptied the plastic flask of gin to take the aspirin when Jimmy wasn’t looking. It all made him tired: the pain and the heat and Jimmy’s endless noise. If he couldn’t get a drink, he had wondered, maybe he could find a moment to sleep. He needed a clear head to think about the boy, only now this sudden fatigue had crawled over him, captured him like a net. It was pulling him down, and while they waited for the light he even thought maybe he had nodded off.

  That was why at first he didn’t understand that it wasn’t a dream, that he really was looking at the boy in the sky, looking right at him. His face was floating in the sun only four or maybe five feet away and between them a cascade of reflections, layers of glass echoing glass, Abe’s own mirror and windshield and half-rolled window reflected in the window of a stopped bus, images shared back and forth of the city around them, of cars moving and people walking, of Kunstler’s own face. In the middle of all that, looking out through the captured spray of white sun, was the blank, still face of the boy standing on a bus, one limp arm raised to hold the strap. Kunstler stared, and the face stared right back. Jimmy’s voice was a blur in the background, the cars piling up in his side-view, all of it unimportant when he understood that he had done it: he had found the boy. Kunstler almost smiled. In amazement he looked, and the boy looked back, stared directly into his eyes, until, with a gentle sideward roll, the bus pulled away.

  “Abe, man, that’s you they’re honking at. Let’s go. The light doesn’t get any greener than this.”

  “No, no,” said Kunstler. “Shit.” He threw open his door. His sleeve caught on the window crank and ripped, and he nearly fell out of the cab onto the road as he twisted to face the back of the departing bus. There was no way to follow but to run tripping up the moonscape of patched tarmac between the two lanes of traffic, the bus moving farther away with every step. Cars slid past him on his right while from his left drivers trapped behind the truck yelled insults, but he kept running. A cab door sprang open and Kunstler had to duck around the angry driver. He ran on for as long as he could, foot pounding after foot until he was caught short, breathless, cut and doubled by a stitch across his gut. The bus drove on, unhurried, the taillights flashing red for one insincere second before it picked up speed. He stood there and watched it go, hunched over, his throbbing thumb tucked into his armpit, heaving for breath through the sweat that collected along his lip. He recalled unbidden the basement furnace, shrouded in its own heat.

  Kunstler blinked hard, then walked slowly back up the middle of the road, limping a little. He had run farther than he thought, and it was a long way to the bus stop. Jimmy had pulled the truck over on the other side of the street, and Abe had to wait for the long backlog of cars to pass him, some of the drivers giving him the finger as they went by. When he finally got across, Jimmy was still in the driver’s seat.

  “Twist your ankle?” Jimmy called down to him through the window. “It serves you right, running out in the road like a looney. What the hell is wrong with you? Come around.”

  Abe didn’t move. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re pazzo in the head. What, did you see a pretty girl? Trust me, they’re not worth it. Now come on around, man. Let’s go.”

  “Around? No.”

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy. “I’m driving. Like you told me, you’re too tired or whatever. I figure more whatever than tired, you know what I mean?” He pulled the empty gin bottle out of the driver’s door pocket and tossed it down to Abe, who caught and held it in his good hand without looking at it. “Now come on around, get in. We have to go. I’m trying to salvage something of our route so those assholes upstairs don’t fine us a day’s pay.”

  “No,” said Abe. “I have to drive. We have to turn around, go that way.” He started to open the cab door. Jimmy pulled it shut again, and said in a tight tone, “Abe, you have to go around and get in on the other side. Then I am going to drive this fucking truck in that fucking direction, towards our next fucking delivery. You can come or not. Last chance.”

  Jimmy tried to get ready to leave. He ground the gears and turned away for a second to look at the shift. That’s when Kunstler opened the door, grabbed Jimmy’s leg, and pulled him out of his seat. They fell on top of each other on the tarmac. Several cars started honking and someone yelled. Neither would let the other go, so they stayed there, elbows and knees knocking on the pavement as they rolled. Jimmy finally managed to get free and stand up. He pushed Kunstler away, but when he turned to get back in the truck Kunstler stood, too, and beat Jimmy hard on the back of the head with an object he found in his hand: the empty plastic bottle, three blows each making a tiny popping noise. Jimmy turned and punched him in the gut, and Kunstler fell to one knee.

  Jimmy looked at him for a moment with a face full of surprise and confusion, one hand set tenderly on the back of his head. Then he climbed into the cab. “This is my fucking job,” he yelled, grinding the gears again. “This is where I work. You asshole piece of shit.” He finally found first, and the truck jerked out onto the road and stalled. Jimmy fought with the ignition until the truck shuddered to life again. He yelled, “You go too far, Abe. Too goddamn far. The hell with you.” The truck pulled away. Kunstler managed finally to stand straight and turned to the people across the street at the bus stop. “Where does that bus go?” he tried to ask, “the one that left? I need to know what number it was,” but his wind was gone and he could barely even hear himself, so nobody answered.

  A man right beside Kunstler said, “Oh, my god. Yes, I thought it was you. What’s going on?” Kunstler gave a start and backed away from him a step and so nearly tripped on the curb behind them. The man put out a steadying hand and when they were arm in arm said, “Are you all right? That man, the truck…you want me to call the police?”

  “What? No.” Kunstler looked up the road again, the other way, to where the bus had gone, then back to the man. He was still having trouble breathing and his voice was a tiny hiss. “No. Who are you?”

  “I’m Arnie. The French cleaner? Over here. I used to do your suits.”

  “You used to?” Kunstler said.

  “Right.” The man was still holding him.

  “My suits?” Kunstler said.

  “Right.” The man smiled and nodded and so Kunstler nodded, too, carefully. He looked at the man who called himself Arnie. He was a skinny guy, older, an open bald crown behind a greased-down tentacle of grey hair, liver spots like a handful of tossed pennies. He wore glasses. Kunstler thought, Whoever he is, I can beat him if I have to. Kunstler said to him, “Do you know what bus that was, what number?” The guy had to lean close to hear him.

  “That left? Well, there’s three or four buses stop here. You remember.”

  “No,” Kunstler admitted weakly. “I don’t.” He looked for the first time at the buildings around him.

  The man said, “Yes, it’s been some time since I’ve seen you arou
nd the neighborhood, years maybe. And of course it looks different now. Are you all right?” Kunstler knew he wanted to think about something, something about the boy, and the appearance here of someone who seemed to know who he was, but the fight and the heat and the lack of gin and the man’s talking seemed to make it hard for him to think. His knees felt soft, watery. He must have looked unsteady because the man said, “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No,” said Kunstler. “I’m fine”—but still he let the man lead him a few yards to a storefront. A bell hanging on the door rang when they entered.

  It was cooler inside. A fan swung its slow, buzzing blue plastic head from side to side. There was a padded stool and a large sewing machine at a workstation inside the shop-front window and Arnie directed him to sit there. A pair of pants were on the table, and Kunstler knew without wanting to that they were being let out at the waist. A boy with a little alligator on his shirt was standing behind the counter.

  “We have an old customer here,” said Arnie. “Forgive me, I don’t remember your name.”

  Kunstler was still trying to think of something, but it wouldn’t come. He said, “Do you have something to drink?”

  “Oh, of course. Dennis, Mr., uh…had an accident outside. Would you get him a glass of water?”

  “What?” said Kunstler. “No, not water. Something to drink.” He made the motion with his hand of lifting a glass. He found he was still holding the little plastic bottle. He moved it to his other hand, his claw. “A drink.”

  “Oh, you mean a…? Well, not here, no. I suppose they might have a beer at the deli.” He hesitated and then handed the kid a bill from his pocket. “Dennis, run and get Mr., uh…Run and get a beer from Mr. Mileski. My sister’s boy,” he said to Kunstler when the kid had ducked under the counter and out the door to the sound of the bell. Kunstler slipped the empty plastic bottle between the stool and his thigh. “He’s helping me out this weekend. Or I’m helping her out, looking after him. Once someone gets a family, everyone they’ve ever met is a babysitter, but of course you know how that is. And it’s nice to have him around, he’s a good kid.” He waited for a moment, but when Kunstler didn’t say anything, he went on. “Yours must be even older now, I would think. I don’t remember his name, forgive me, but I remember him, or at least, I remember one thing.”

  He took off his glasses, and from his pocket produced a cloth. He wiped the sweat from his nose and from inside the bridge of the heavy black plastic frames before starting on the lenses. It’s good he took those off, Kunstler thought, that way they won’t break when I hit him for talking about the boy’s face.

  Instead Arnie said, “He was always so serious when he ran errands for his mother. Do you know, he used to count your clothes when I gave them back to him. It really struck me. It was so…” He looked around with his blind eyes for the word, and produced it finally with a flourish of his hands like a magician: “Meticulous,” he said. “I mean, for someone so young, to be so careful,” and with that returned his glasses to their place. “So vigilant. I remember that very well.”

  “He was just here,” Kunstler said, motioning vaguely. “He left on that bus.”

  “Did he? Well. Is he doing all right? Is he in school? Oh, here’s Dennis.” The bell rang again and the kid came back in. He carefully handed a can and some change to Arnie, and Arnie handed the can to Kunstler. The kid went back to his place behind the counter. “Were the two of you visiting old neighborhood friends? And may I ask what happened with that man?” Arnie said, and again Kunstler knew he needed to focus on what it was he was trying to remember. The kid must have been staring at Kunstler’s crippled hand, because when Kunstler looked over at him, he turned quickly away.

  Kunstler opened the can and drank his beer, the whole can as fast as he could. Right away the bubbles burned and choked him, but he wouldn’t slow. Beer ran down his chin and onto his shirt and was absorbed by the bandage and still he didn’t stop, but leaned his head back farther and with held breath let his throat open and contract, fought the panic by thinking, This is what it does, trust the mechanism to do its work, and even as it hurt he appreciated this feeling of being pulled inside himself, alone with his body for just a moment, seized by his own flesh. He knew the old man and the kid were watching him in something like dismay, but he needed to think straight and a beer taken in sips would never give him the power.

  The whole beer helped, though, because when it was done he was able suddenly to see. The man was right: he had been here, he knew this place from before the accident and the end of the factory, he had passed these buildings each day in the car on the way to work, had walked right here with his girl on Sundays to go to the park, or to the bars at night, in the days before the boy came, when things were good. It was almost as if he could look out the dry cleaner’s plate-glass window and see himself driving down the street, the car sliding past the same stoops and storefronts, the shop signs moving easily by, shutters rolling open as the day began. He held the steering wheel with two loose fingers, and let his left foot gently ride the clutch. The early morning road was open and inviting, and the factory waited at the end of the ride like an ornament. Meanwhile, there beside him in the passenger seat, knees against the dash, his breathing audible even over the steady, regal hum of the engine, blissfully unaware of his own imbecility, big and thick and restless as an animal, sat Jacks.

  Kunstler stood up at the thought. Jacks lived here. He could have seen the boy. What might the boy have told him? “Yes,” he said to the puzzled-looking man, who was running a palm over the big empty space of his skull. “Old neighborhood friends.” It was the only thing that made any sense—and if the boy had said something to Jacks, well: the big fool might say anything, to anyone. He had to find out.

  The bell rang as Kunstler stepped out onto the hot sidewalk and was immediately gripped by a fist of wet air and the smell of garbage. The buildings were still coming into focus, but he knew them well enough now. The beer can was in his hand, he realized, the pull tab hanging from a finger on the other—which meant the empty bottle was sitting on the stool in the dry cleaner. Kunstler dropped the can and the tab on the sidewalk and turned in the direction of the lodging house where Jacks had lived. He had only gone a few steps before he started to run.

  * * *

  ·

  The uptight little land-lady in her schoolmarm clothes pretended at first not to know who he was. Kunstler could tell from her sour pout that she recognized him, though. “She keeps the vintage bile in the cellar for when her lodgers have guests,” he used to say about her, and he easily imagined there was no guest she liked less than Abe Kunstler, who didn’t go to church or wipe his feet, who kept his hat on indoors and wasn’t polite—a guest who, when he came to her door, which was something he wanted to do about as much as she wanted to have it done, was usually not even sober. She would lie to him that the boy and his mother weren’t there when he knew damn well they were, because where else were they going to be, but he would let it go if only because he could tell she was itching for an excuse to call the police, her finger was practically in the dial every time she spoke, and even at his drunkest he knew what to avoid.

  This time she pretended for a second not to know who he meant when he asked for Jacks, but maybe she had sensed his desperation, or even something else within him, something for which the dirt and the breathlessness were a sign that penetrated even her posturing rectitude, because she didn’t pretend long. Still she made it a point to inform him that Mr. Jackson wasn’t in, that Mr. Jackson had left maybe a few minutes before, was maybe heading that way, around the corner and up the block, but really how was she supposed to know where Mr. Jackson was going? This time she told him the truth, at least: once he turned the corner Kunstler could see Jacks lumbering a block or so ahead. He pursued at a slow, limping run that still left him so out of breath he didn’t speak when he reached Jacks, just grabbed the larger man by the elbow.

  “Hey, Abe,” said Jacks. “Hey,
I was just thinking about you before. It’s been a long time. Hey, look at that, will you, you still have all your hair. None of the guys have all their hair no more but you. Blackie always said you age half as slow as the rest of us, remember? You told him it was ‘clean living.’ That made me laugh. You were having a drink, and we were all pretty gone, that’s why it was so funny. We were at that bar.”

  “Sure,” Kunstler said. He was winded, and had bent up to make the breathing easier. He wiped his face with his bad hand.

  “Say, did you have a accident?” Kunstler looked at his claw and then dumbly back up at Jacks, who started to pat ineffectually at Abe’s clothes. “Look at you, you got blood, looks like, and you’re all dirty, and here you got a rip. You always was the most best-dressed guy at the factory, I guess, but here you are now, you look like you fell down a well. That’s what my mother used to say to me when I got dirty when I was a kid. Even if I wasn’t wet, like you’re not wet.” Jacks laughed. “Really, though, are you okay?”

  Kunstler waved at Jacks to lay off rubbing at him using the tight little movements of a man chasing away a bee. “What do you think?” he panted. “That I cut myself shaving?”

  Jacks looked at him with tilted head and then chuckled. “You still tell good jokes.”

  “Fine,” said Kunstler. “Jacks, the boy. Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  Kunstler struggled to stay calm. “The boy, you…Did you see the boy, did he come and talk to you?”

  “Art, you mean?”

  “Yes, him, the…Art, yes. Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah, I saw him. He came to the house, and him and his friends visited me in my room for a while. His friend knew all about the good actresses, you know, from the old talkies.”

  “Did he tell you anything? What did he say?”