Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar

by Richard Ford

  At ten, Norman the food distributor answers my message. “You can still jump in early,” he says. “Frozen yogurt is going to vanquish ice cream. It’s got the texture of Dairy Queen, the taste of Baskin-Robbins, and is loaded with vitamins and beneficent bacteria. There’s also low start-up costs and a product that has a fifteen-day fresh life. That’s a hell of an advantage in the food business. Ice cream loses flavor after a week no matter what the temperature. And Dairy Queen never has any taste to begin with. You ought to be able to clear a hundred a day just about anywhere.”

  He makes an appointment to come over in an hour.

  Jeannie is too nervous to meet him. “Take notes,” she tells me. She has always done badly at job interviews and doesn’t want to jinx our business. She thinks it’s because her English turned bad in Peru. “You be the public relations person,” she says. “I’ll do a traffic survey of the location.”

  Norman brings me a sample, strawberry, in a little carton. It has melted. I put it in my freezer. We await its return to form.

  “I didn’t know you were this young and attractive,” Norman says. “Most of the housewives who want to go into the restaurant business are old ladies hoarding some secret recipes that they think will make them rich. It’s nice to see young mothers getting into the business world. Who will take care of your kids?”

  “You too?” I say.

  “Wait a minute, don’t get me wrong.” He runs to his station wagon, returns with a paperback copy of Playing Around: Women and Extramarital Sex. He touches my breasts and tries to move me toward the couch. “It gives people confidence to know they are desired,” he says. “It’s good business psychology.”

  I go to the freezer for my product. It’s not bad. “A little too sugary,” I tell him.

  “We’ve got to sugar it. Bacteria is bitter. The health nuts and anti-sugar people are only a tiny fraction of the market. Believe me, we’ve got the data. Only fifteen percent of the population has tasted yogurt. But in this new shape it will hit everyone. This will do to ice cream what television did to radio.”

  Norman is about forty. He talks quickly. I know that he would scare Jeannie.

  James calls to tell me that he is deeply involved with the Saudi Arabians and may have to go to Antarctica. “It sounds crazy but they want to move an iceberg to the Middle East. They can’t drink oil, and they think this may be cheaper than desalinization. Who knows? Anyway, they want us to do a feasibility study. I’ll be in charge. It’s a twelve-million-dollar contract but I’ll have to spend two months in Antarctica.

  “Don’t change your plans,” he says, “everything will work out.” He has to take the Saudi Arabians to lunch. ”They love the topless places but in the long run it saves money. A few years ago you would have had to take them to whorehouses in bad neighborhoods.”

  “I’m going to the Statue of Liberty Bank at one thirty,” I tell him, “to inquire about a loan. I hear that they’re receptive to female entrepreneurs.”

  “I’ll be at the Boobie Rock just across the street,” he says. “Peek your head in if you have a chance.”

  Norman offers to accompany me to the bank. “I’ll help you sell them on the idea of frozen yogurt as the backbone of a little natural-food dessert shop. You’ve got everything going for you. They’d be nuts to turn you down for a small loan.” While I drive, Norman tries to rub my leg. “I have to spend most of my days with men,” he says. “Getting women into the business world is the best thing that could happen. After all day in the office I’m too tired for my wife. If she could just be there at noon dressed as a waitress, our marriage would be much better.” He wants me to tell him everything about James. He is even envious of Antarctica. “Food is OK,” Norman says, “but the real money is in heavy things. If you need cranes and a lot of equipment, then it’s easy to hide costs. I’m hoping for a job as a steel salesman; that’s where the money is. When you sell tons rather than cases, you’re in the big time. Jesus, you’ve got wonderful legs. I love to watch your muscle when you hit the brake.”

  At the Statue of Liberty Bank, Mrs. Fern Crawford, V.P., talks turkey to the ladies.

  “Face it, sister,” she says, “you’re talking about a one- or two-woman operation. A three-thousand-dollar machine and a kinky product. On the next block are thirty-one flavors, the Colonel, and Roy Rogers, with Jack-in-the-Box and Burger King within walking distance. Who’s going to blow a buck twenty-nine on frozen yogurt with wheat germ and sesame toppings, followed by herbal tea and a fortune cookie?”

  “Everybody,” Norman answers. “We’re already in malls and supermarkets from coast to coast. We’re moving in institutions and package sales as well.”

  Fern Crawford taps her heel with her pen. “Still, it’s a fad.”

  “So was lipstick,” Norman reminds her, “and the Frisbee.”

  “Frankly, we’re looking for women who want to go into previously all-male areas like auto parts. Just this morning I approved a woman for tool rental, and a former elementary school music teacher for an electroplating shop. Fast food has had its day.” Still, she says that tomorrow they’ll loan me $3,000 using my IBM stock as collateral.

  When we leave I walk across the street to see if James is in the Boobie Rock. I see absolutely naked girls carrying trays. The three Arabs are in traditional dress. James isn’t there.

  “These expense account guys have it made,” Norman says. “When I take someone to lunch it’s at Taco King, and that bitch tells you fast food is dead. God, how’d you like to eat here every day, with all that stuff watching you? Still, I like you lots better. I prefer serious people.”

  Jeannie has been talking to David Simmons, our prospective landlord. He remodeled an old house in barn wood and has turned it into a tiny mall and restaurant. His wife left him last month. He lives in the attic and eats his meals in the restaurant. We think we could get his restaurant customers to buy our frozen yogurt for dessert.

  David wrings his hands. He is always worried. Two gay cooks and a waiter run his restaurant. They are constantly arguing. They buy their ingredients fresh every day. David drives across town to the Farmers’ Market for the vegetables. He has already had three minor accidents on the freeway. When he returns they stop arguing and cook whatever he buys. The staff all hate David for his inefficiency. His wife hates him because he is not successful. In the attic he caught gonorrhea from a waitress who was converting to Judaism.

  “You can have a room for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, one-year lease, first and last month in advance, and you’re responsible for all improvements.” Jeannie writes down the terms. She thinks her ties to the Spanish community will also bring in a little business. David Simmons thinks we would be smarter to open a gem and mineral business. “I know an absolute dummy who made fifty thousand his first year in a store as big as a shoebox. But he didn’t pay any taxes and they took it all away.” David’s wife is suing him for everything. “She’ll probably evict me from the attic,” he says.

  There are already two potters named Bob, a leather worker, and a Scandinavian importer in the Gypsy Market. David himself sweeps the floors and does the general maintenance. He wants to put an art gallery in the dark hallway. People complain that there is only one restroom and everyone has to stand in line during the noon rush.

  “I don’t like it,” Jeannie says. She thinks we would do better to pay more rent for a better spot. Bill thinks so too.

  James comes home with the three Arabs. For the children they bring a two-foot wooden figure of King Faisal. For me a digital watch with an Islamic face. The children run wild, break the figurine, eat, take a bath, and are in bed by seven thirty. Alma goes home at seven twenty. She waits for her bus in the rain. The Arabs want James to leave for Antarctica next week. They have plane tickets hidden in their loose robes. James tells them about my plans for a small tearoom featuring frozen yogurt. The idea of freezing anything makes them talk more about Antarctica.

  When they leave in a yellow cab I t
ell James all about Norman and the business possibilities.

  “Men are like that,” he says. “They aren’t prepared to treat you as an equal in business. It will take another generation. You are in the forefront.”

  I tell him that Norman has been fondling me.

  “Typical salesman,” he says. The Arabs have been driving him crazy buying souvenirs of Texas. He will have to buy a winter wardrobe tomorrow. He doesn’t even know where in Houston to look for arctic gear. He will call Neiman-Marcus in the morning.

  I shower, shave my legs, and begin to read the book Norman gave me. Jeannie calls to say that maybe we should take the Gypsy Market location after all. Not doing anything for all these months has probably warped her judgment, she thinks. Bill suggests that we both take a course in real estate.

  In the morning after Jessica goes to school and Alma takes the baby for a walk, I sit down to think things over. I think about how I sat through all those awful hours of school and college, how I fell in love with James and several others, and how quickly the children are growing. I wonder if a business will make me a more responsible person. I check my navel to see if that dark line down my middle that appeared after Sam was born has become any fainter. James calls it the equator. Dr. Thompson says it is perfectly normal but I don’t think I’ll ever wear a bikini again.

  Jeannie has a friend who is a lawyer. He specializes in charity work and will check our lease for $125. She and Bill now think that even if the business doesn’t earn any profit, it will be a good experience for both of them. I wear my new Italian T-shirt and soft flannel slacks. When I get to the Gypsy Market the cooks are already unpacking the vegetables from David’s car. Jeannie and David are talking about the lease. At ten thirty Norman arrives looking for me. “I can’t stand it,” he says. “All I did last night was think of you. My wife thinks I’m coming down with a cold. I had to take a sleeping pill.” He and David talk about the restaurant business and retailing in general. Jeannie’s friend, the lawyer, meets us for lunch and looks over the standard contract. “Are you making any money here, Simmons?” he asks David.

  “I’m making money, but what good is it?” David says. He wrings his hands. “I haven’t seen my kids in three weeks.”

  “I’m going before the parole board this afternoon on behalf of a man who hasn’t seen his kids in eleven years,” the lawyer says. We all have spinach salad and eggplant Parmesan. David doesn’t offer to treat as a gesture of goodwill. Norman suggests it. Jeannie and I sign the lease, then David tells the waitress to give him the check. Jeannie gives the lawyer a $125 personal check. Norman orders a bottle of champagne. We go into the room that will be ours. As a surprise Norman has already put the frozen yogurt machine on the counter. It is about twice the size of a microwave oven and is shiny as a mirror. Jeannie is so excited that she kisses the bright surface and says “I love you” in Spanish to the machine. We all drink a toast.

  “To a new life and a new business,” Norman says.

  “Actually,” the lawyer says, “a corporation is a legal individual. You really should be a corporation.”

  I call James at the office. He is already wearing a sealskin coat over a down jacket just to see how it feels He congratulates me and sounds excited for us.

  Norman wants to come home with me. For the time being I put him off. Jeannie is already planning the decoration of the room.

  At night when the children are asleep and James has put away his atlas, when I’ve washed my face with Clinique and he has clipped his fingernails and we estimate if we have any energy for each other after all the activity of the day, I ask him if he ever thought that I had any talent for business and whether he considered me a frivolous person who is just going from one thing to the next in constant search of release from the boredom of daily life, which shouldn’t be so boring, should it?

  He is thumbing through my book, reading courtesy of Norman about the extramarital adventures of twenty-six New York women over a fifteen-year period.

  He looks up from extramarital adventure. The frozen tundra is on his mind. He scratches his chin. I wrap my arms around my knees. Next month he’ll be at the bottom of the earth and I will be an entrepreneur, making change.

  “You want a business,” he says. “I want a yacht and sunshiny carefree days. Jeannie wants good diction. The Arabs want topless girls and an iceberg. Everyone wants somebody else’s husband and wife and all their possessions. And the kids are the worst cannibals of all.”

  “It’s true,” I say, thinking already of gingham tablecloths and big stacks of dollar bills stuffed into the blue sacks that the bank gives to business people. “I’m excited,” I say, “but apprehensive about everything. I could lose the money or run off with Norman, or begin to bicker with Jeannie, or neglect the children. And you might get the comforts you want in Teheran or Riyadh and send me a meager alimony. Lots might happen when I leave the house.”

  “Business is business,” he says. We sigh like cats.

  I get the lubricant, he the prophylactics. Sometimes we’re old-fashioned people doing the best we can.

  Russell Banks

  THE GULLY

  The young man called Freckle Face, whose true name was Naldo de Arauja, was a bus driver with a dangerous route—through the Gully and along the waterfront to the airport and back, turning around at Central Square, where all the buses turn around, and doing it again, four times a day. He was only twenty years old, unmarried and making good money as a driver, and despite his many freckles and reddish hair, he was attractive to the women, possibly because he had lots of money to spend on taking them dancing, buying them Johnnie Walker Red and giving them little presents, such as nylons and stuffed animals. He lived for the women, as he himself often said, and when he was robbed in his bus in the Gully in the middle of the day twice in one week, he was angry enough to kill someone for it, especially after the cops laughed at him and the dispatcher at the bus depot told him that if he got robbed one more time this month he would be fired.

  “It’s company policy, Freckle Face,” he said. “Three times in a month, and you’re gone, man.” The dispatcher stood in the garage holding his clipboard, waiting for the keys to the bus.

  “Why?” Freckle Face asked. “What the hell good does it do to fire the driver? Tell me that.”

  “Sometimes the drivers are in cahoots with the thieves. Not that you’d do such a thing, but even so, the company’s got to have a policy. You know how it is.”

  Freckle Face handed over the keys, stalked out of the garage, and went straight to a gambler he knew in the Gully two blocks from where he lived and bought a dark blue .45 and a box of bullets. He put the loaded gun inside his lunch bag, and when a few days later he stopped at the corner of Angelina and Fourteenth and picked up two men wearing rumpled tan safari jackets to cover the pistols stuck in their belts, Freckle Face simply waited until they had paid and sat down, one of them in the rear and the other directly behind him, as usual with thieves, and he reached down to his lunch bag on the floor, drew out the .45, spun around and shot the man behind him in the eye.

  The other man leapt out the back door to the street and started running. Freckle Face grabbed the first one’s pistol from where it had fallen to the floor, srepped over the man’s body and jumped to the street, like Gary Cooper or Clint Eastwood, a gun in each hand. People in the bus and on the street and sidewalks, mostly women and children at this time of day, were terrified, a few were screaming, but when Freckle Face took off down the street after the second thief, everyone stepped back and cheered.

  He caught the guy in a dead-end alley behind a Pakistani restaurant, and he shot him twice, first in the chest and then up close, in the head. He took his gun, too, and walked quickly back to the bus, which was still sitting at the corner of Angelina and Fourteenth with the doors open and the motor running. He climbed into the bus, dragged the body of the first thief out to the street, put all three guns into his lunch bag and continued down Angelina and on out to the airp
ort.

  He himself never mentioned the event to anyone, but in a short time everyone knew about it—the dispatcher, the other drivers, the people and merchants in the Gully, and the thieves. People started waiting especially for Freckle Face’s bus, letting earlier buses go past. He was extremely popular with the women on his route, who smiled and hitched their dresses up their thighs a little as they climbed the steps of his bus and dropped their coins slowly, one by one, into his hand. No one, of course, mentioned to Freckle Face that they knew what he carried inside his lunch bag, and no one said anything to the police about it. When the police drove into the Gully to pick up the bodies of the two thieves, everyone on the street denied knowing how the men had died. “Who knows?” they shrugged. “Somebody just dumped the bodies there during the night or maybe this morning, when no one was looking. It happens all the time around here. You know that.”

  Over on the north side of the Gully, not far from the bus depot, a young man called Chink, whose real name was Felipe da Silva, worked in his parents’ bakery with his mother, father and two younger sisters. One morning when he came into work late and hung over and expecting the usual harangue from his father, he met instead with the aftermath of a massacre. Moments before, robbers had walked into the shop and killed with guns and machetes all four members of Chink’s family plus two customers, elderly ladies from the neighborhood. The white walls, floors, even the ceiling, were splattered with blood, grisly maps showing where the people had met their deaths and how. Chink’s sisters had been shot in the front room of the shop, where they worked behind the counter, and the two old neighborhood ladies had been killed, each of them shot once behind the ear, just inside the door. They had probably walked in on the robbery. Chink’s father had been cut down with a machete at the doorway leading from the back room, where the ovens were located, and his mother, also chopped practically in half by the machete, had been slain near the back door, evidently fleeing from the carnage.