One of These Things First

by Steven Gaines

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  One of These Things First

  Steven Gaines

  For Muna and Gog

  One

  Lost Boy

  One brilliantly cold afternoon in March of 1962, three months past my fifteenth birthday, I set out on a course of action that would shake my world from its wobbly orbit and spin it off on an unanticipated new trajectory. I managed to escape the hawk-eyed scrutiny of the three saleswomen in whose care I had been left, and slipped behind the brocaded curtain of a fitting room in the back of my grandparents’ ladies’ clothing store.

  The small room was warm and close, the air thick with the cloyingly sweet smell of stale perfume and hairspray. Although only a curtain separated me from the rest of the world, I felt sealed away and safe. Of course, I wouldn’t be safe for long because they would soon realize I was missing and come look for me. The saleswomen didn’t like me in those fitting rooms. The saleswomen didn’t like anything I did. Lily Williams said it wasn’t normal for me to go into a fitting room where women got undressed, although one would think it was the most normal thing in the world for a teenage boy to be curious about a place where women were naked. But I guess maybe not those women, who were mostly overweight and middle-aged, with huge pale breasts like kneaded dough, sometimes with nipples stretched as big around as a saucer.

  Those were the kind of women who came from all over the five boroughs of New York City to this Mecca of corsetry, to be fitted from the comprehensive stock of sturdy brassieres, girdles, and long-line undergarments, elaborately constructed of elastic and satin, given shape by metal stays covered by pink plush to prevent chafing. Crucial alterations were attended to while-you-wait with the unparalleled expertise of Katherine, my grandfather’s chatelaine and sergeant at arms, or by my grandmother, at a black 1955 Singer sewing machine.

  There was a period when, aged seven years old, almost every day I ripped open the curtain to one of the fitting rooms to reveal a bewildered, half-naked woman. Thrilled at her mortification, I shouted in my little boy’s voice, “Oh! So sorry! I didn’t know anybody was in there!” and whipped the curtain closed and ran away. No matter how many times I was punished, I did it again the next day. “Oh! So sorry! I didn’t know anybody was in there!”

  That day in March 1962 I peeked through the fitting room curtain, one time, two times, and I saw that Lily and Dodie and Fat Anna were all at their stations, facing the other way, lost in their worlds. My mother had gone to pick my father up at school and take him to the accountant to do their taxes, and my grandmother was at the Culver Luncheonette for a coffee-and-English break. Everything was still; there hadn’t been a customer in an hour, and the chatter had died into sleepy silence. The only sound was the febrile buzz of the fluorescent lights and the occasional hiss of a radiator. It was sunny outside, but the temperature was in the low teens, and a snowstorm two days before had left dirty drifts piled knee-high along the curb. The sidewalks were coated with ice, and the wind was so strong that people were blown slipping and sliding down the street. Some of the bigger gusts managed to move the heavy glass front door of the store inward an inch, sending up eerie howls of cold air, rushing in like spirits from the street.

  Lily Williams was at her usual place, sitting in a bentwood chair midway up between two display cabinets, reading the World Telegram. One day when I was hiding in a corrugated box, eavesdropping, I heard Lily say to my grandmother, “Nothing good will come of him being in those fitting rooms.” Lily Williams’s refrain was that anything I did would come to no good. I would come to no good. It was drummed into me that I had to be nice to the saleswomen, even if they predicted I would come to no good, because they worked for free. They came to be part of Rose’s Bras Girdles Sportswear as though they had joined the Foreign Legion, to escape another life, bored and lonely at home. They even wore a kind of uniform—smocks in bright floral prints with patch pockets, purchased at the corner smock and robe store on East 2nd Street, for six dollars each.

  I didn’t know how Lily Williams knew to tell my grandmother I would come to no good, because she didn’t have any children herself, or even nieces and nephews. She was tough old shanty Irish, a weedy, little thing, maybe ninety-five pounds, with a thin face and wavy white hair pinned up behind her head. She earned extra money fabricating flowers out of gossamer petals of silk for a Manhattan milliner. Sometimes she let me help her wire the flowers to their stems. One day, when I was eleven years old, Lily stopped talking to me because I was “fresh” to her. I never realized before that someone could ignore you, as if you didn’t exist anymore, even if you spoke to them; they would look the other way or through you.

  Dodie Berkowitz was leaning back on the lingerie counter, a string bean with a small belly, chain-smoking Parliaments, holding her cigarettes pointed up in the air like a stick of chalk. She had pretty green eyes, but she was pockmarked, slow to smile, and dour, always tattling on me to Katherine.

  My only saleslady friend, Fat Anna, was doing the Crostix behind the sewing machine. She regularly wore the black raiment of an Italian widow, although her husband, a plumber named Angelo, was alive and well. She hugged me with her hammy arms when she saw me, and gave the top of my head a kiss. She said novenas for me at church, and it made me feel important that anyone was praying for me. Fat Anna was the only one who would care. The others would be secretly glad, their faces set in deep satisfaction that they had been right all along—I had come to no good.

  I stepped back and considered myself in the mirror. No strapping high school freshman here. I was pale and pudgy, and I had tortured my mess of wavy strawberry blond hair into a perfect inch-high pompadour, hardened in place with thick white hair cream, like plaster of Paris. I had meticulously doctored an inflamed whitehead under my bottom lip with Clearasil, so I wouldn’t be embarrassed when they found me. I was also spiffed up for the occasion, new clothes, slacks and sweater in shades of forest green, the big retail color of the season.

  I moved closer to my reflection until my breath condensed on the glass and I tasted it with my tongue, one lick, two licks, cold and salty, and I concentrated deeply into the eyes of the boy in the mirror and tried to will another boy out of me, like the spirits that stepped out of dead bodies in the movies, only this boy would tell me if I could grow up, or maybe it was the boy who was pushing the lawnmower in Lynbrook who would grow up for me. Maybe I had the whole thing backwards, maybe I should go into the mirror, and then I would be him.

  But when I put my forehead up against the glass to see if I could pass through the surface, it was hard and unyielding, so I just stood there with my head pressed against it, staring at myself until my face began to decompose into a black-and-white pointillist mask, and I liked that, so I stared some more, the blood pounding in my head. Then I remembered that I had to get on with what I was doing.

  With the three women preoccupied, I slipped out from behind the dressing room curtain like a cat burglar and through a paneled door a few feet away. It opened into a crescent-shaped stockroom, carved out of the leftover space behind the shelves in the store. It was dank and smelled like wet dog. Years ago my grandparents kept two mutts, Patsy and Toddy, back there as watchdogs—the poor dogs had to live in such a small space, and the room had never stopped smelling of wet dog. On one side were an unkempt toilet and a tiny sink with rusted faucets that ran only cold water. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves of Goldstar hosiery in thin boxes and gold wrapping. Inside each box was a pair of hose in one of the combinations of sizes and colors and styles (size 6
/Smokey taupe/seamless/no heel), wrapped around a cardboard form. There were no credit cards back then, everything was cash, and I knew that on some nights my grandfather didn’t make a bank deposit and hid thousands of dollars in cash in some of those boxes, stashed among the others in a special position on the shelf that only he and Katherine could decipher.

  Hiding the money in a complicated pattern was just part of the preventive measures and fortifications my grandfather had devised against what seemed be an imminent robbery. There had already been a terrible incident in his house on Long Island. Two robbers—let into the house during the day by the washing machine repairman, the police detective later surmised, although unprovable—hid in the house all day waiting for my grandparents and Katherine to come home. One waited in the attic (the police found sandwich wrappers and cigarette butts), the other sat behind the curve in the sectional sofa (more sandwich wrappers), crouching right behind them while they watched Jack Paar before going to bed.

  And when my grandparents and Katherine went to sleep, the robbers injected something into the air conditioning unit—my grandfather found a slit cut in the duct fabric in the basement—and the split-level house filled with a sleeping gas that put them in a stupor. Katherine remembered being in a dream state, while the robbers rolled her aside to look under her mattress for her knipple, a Jewish woman’s secret stash of money. The police said that if a child (like me) had been staying in the house, the sleeping gas would have killed him. The house was ransacked, and all the cash receipts from the Friday and Saturday of Mother’s Day weekend, nearly $20,000, were gone.

  The store’s rear door was made of steel, and it hung on enormous iron hinges, with a twenty-five-pound crossbar in hasps holding it shut. I touched it one time, two times, and with some effort lifted it out of its metal brackets and leaned it against the wall. Then I touched the door one time, two times, and tugged mightily on the door ring until the door opened a few inches with a high-pitched squeak. I inched it back one time, two times, and again until it was open as far as I could get it to go, about four feet, revealing another door, the original wood door of the building, with peeling green paint and four dirty windowpanes of beveled glass. Through the windows I could see a patch of the dirt backyard, no more than ten feet square, closed in by the cinder-block rear walls of the garages on Parkville Avenue behind us.

  Now I began to work quickly. I took off my forest-green wool sweater, folded it the way I had been taught to fold merchandise, equal number of folds on each side, and laid it carefully on an unopened carton against the wall. Then I rolled back the sleeves of my tartan plaid flannel shirt in three-inch folds, one time, two times on the right, one time, two times on the left, making sure the sides matched, and I turned resolutely toward the door. Like a conductor about to give the orchestra a downbeat, I raised my clenched fists and then with all my might I punched through the two lower windowpanes of glass, one fist through each, one fist, two fists, except I ruined it because I had to punch the left one twice to get my fist through it. I sawed my wrists and forearms twice back and forth across the shards that held in the frame.

  At first I hardly felt anything at all, and for a second I thought maybe I was already dead, and then foof the pain walloped me and I did wish I was dead. My whole body contracted in a spasm of shock. Why didn’t I think about this part? Stupid not to think about this part, but too late now. God please take my fucking arms off. Lop them right off and cauterize the stumps, just make it stop. I looked down to see what kind of damage I had done. There was especially vicious harm to my left wrist and forearm, where the shards had filleted open the flesh like a white fish, and the wound was pulsating bright red blood. That was a fatal rupture, I realized. Was it the artery that took the blood away or sent it to—where? I pressed my left arm against my belly and with my right hand I managed to unhook the rickety door and I stepped out into the backyard.

  The air was icy, it was arctic. A half a block away on the elevated line the Coney Island D train crashed by, showering McDonald Avenue in silver sparks. I could hear Ottalie Kantor practicing Malaguena on the piano on Parkville Avenue. She had come to the part toward the end where it gets really spirited, and the music swirled into my mind and I was dancing dying. Clammy and suddenly drowsy, I lay down on the frozen dirt next to the rosebush, where the previous summer I had gathered thorny American Beauties for my grandmother, and I waited to bleed out.

  I hadn’t been missing more than five minutes before Dodie noticed and Lily went looking for me and she saw the door open in the back room and me asleep on the ground lying in what she said looked like melted chocolate. Out the door and down the street she ran in her smock to the Culver Luncheonette and screamed for my grandmother to come. I hoped Arnie and Irv behind the counter were happy. The fairy is dying.

  It was just then that my grandfather pulled his pearlized blue Cadillac Biarritz into a parking space in front of Fleischman’s, and he and Katherine saw Lily and my grandmother running down the icy street, my grandmother’s face ashen. He followed them into the store and out to the backyard, where my grandmother’s high-pitched wails penetrated even my numbing sleep.

  “My, my, my,” my grandfather said softly, calmly, kneeling down in the garden to get a better look at me. My blood soaked the knees of his pants. When he saw my arms he cried, “Why, my sweet child?” But he wasn’t really asking a question. I looked up at him with glassy eyes. He was young for a grandfather, only fifty-eight years old. He had green-blue eyes and a long, narrow nose. I didn’t think he was handsome, but I understood why women loved him so. My eyes rolled up and he whistled long and low in amazement. I hoped that he wouldn’t be angry with me, even for this, but it didn’t occur to me that I was doing something to him as well as me.

  Then the harpies were behind him, sending up a chorus of caterwauls, turning into bats with bat faces as they peered down at me over his shoulder, come to no good. I couldn’t motion them, punch them away, because I was in one of those grainy foreign movies that came on TV very late at night, where there are long pauses and everything seems still. It hardly hurt anymore anyway. My grandfather wrapped towels around my wrists and arms and tried to scoop me up but I was too big to lift, so he began to cry more and shouted for them to call the police. Then there was more commotion and more wailing, and later they said my grandmother was standing in the middle of 18th Avenue screaming. When the police arrived they didn’t have a stretcher, but they said not to wait—in those days it could take fifteen minutes for an ambulance to come—so they shifted me onto a rough woolen blanket and carried me out to the police cruiser, where they laid me down in the backseat with my head on my grandfather’s lap. I could feel the seam of the blanket under my finger, getting wet with my blood. I touched it once, touched it twice.

  One of the policemen in the front seat turned around and said to me, “Hey pal, you a Dodger fan?” and when I didn’t answer he said, “Why’d you do something like that?”

  They took me to Brooklyn Doctor’s Hospital, a grim place that looked more like a small brick apartment building than a hospital. It was the same place where my mother had her gallbladder out, and where my father’s father was taken when he had his heart attack, and where I was born fifteen years and three months before, about twenty minutes before midnight in late November 1946, after my mother endured twenty-seven hours in a labor so brutal that she swore she would never have another child, and she didn’t.

  “Did you do this to yourself?” a man in a white coat asked me loudly, as if I was deaf. “Or did somebody do this to you?” I felt pinpricks and whoosh I was numb all over. I vomited, probably the wonton soup from the Great World that I had chosen as my last meal, so they cleared my throat and then something shifted, I felt different, very light, slipping, and the bus came by and I jumped on it just as graceful as Gene Kelly hopping on a trolley. I slid into comforting nothingness, out of reach in the dark except for an annoying metallic sound that sounded somethin
g like “Stay with us.” One time, two times, gone.

  Brooklyn

  Oh Brooklyn, my Brooklyn. Life could offer no richer lesson than to simply grow up there. I wouldn’t have had it any other way, not for any suburban childhood or silver-spoon, Upper East Side private school education. Brooklyn. I even loved the way the name sounded, Brooue-keh-len, a Dutch word, meaning “fractured lands,” some say, and also the name of a medieval village of not much interest in Utrecht, in the middle of the Netherlands. But none of us knew that, and nobody cared anyway. We were at the center of our own universe.

  Brooklyn was the emes, the authentic thing. They made fun of people from Brooklyn on TV and in the movies—you know, it was always pudgy William Bendix who was from Brooklyn, a stand-up guy but none too smart, or a dumb blond with a good heart who chewed gum and said, “toidy-toid-and-toid.” But what they missed was Brooklyn’s noble soul. We were the salt of the earth, two million strong, almost all of us immigrants or the children of immigrants. Brooklyn had grown from the stub of Long Island farmland to a bunch of close-knit neighborhoods, New World shtetels and parishes, rooted by family, faith, and country. When you talked about the heart of America, it was us as much as Kansas. We were the real melting pot. We had Italians, Jews, and Irish living in equal and surprisingly harmonious distribution. I was only once called a “Christ killer,” when I was ten years old, by a kid in my class whom my mother dismissed as a “juvenile delinquent.”

  We lived in Borough Park, the cognac of Brooklyn, the potent and flavorful essence, a neighborhood of low commercial buildings and retail shops, two-family row houses made of brick and stucco, here and there a six-story red brick apartment building. It was nowhere in the middle of nowhere, but it was alive with dreams. There were churches on every corner—it was called “the borough of churches”—and synagogues by the thousands, and candy stores by the millions. There wasn’t much crime, no matter how prepared my grandfather was, no stickups or bank robberies, no purse snatchers in the street. The most dishonest people I knew were the gypsy women who shoplifted from the What One Dollar! rack that stood on the terrazzo marble of the store’s vestibule in the summer months.