Losing Is Not an Option

by Rich Wallace

  My grandfather died four years ago. One afternoon soon after Grandma had sold his building, we were in there putting things in boxes and sending his desk and other office furniture to an auction house and cleaning up for the new owner when I came across a key in one of the filing cabinets with a piece of brown cord tied through the hole.

  I was twelve, so I went around fitting the key into keyholes to try to find a match for it. Turned out it was for the back door. I slipped it into my pocket and took it home.

  In my grandfather’s time he sold insurance on the main floor, just him and a secretary and a phone and a typewriter—no computer or fax machine or anything like that.

  Upstairs was a one-bedroom apartment he’d left vacant for a year or so since the ninety-seven-year-old previous tenant had moved to her daughter’s. Grandpa said she’d been costing him more in heat than he made in rent, which he hadn’t had the heart to raise in twenty-six years. Old ladies never seem to be warm enough.

  Above the apartment is a little slope-ceilinged attic area where Grandpa stored paperwork and broken lamps, and a tinier bathroom with a medicine cabinet above the sink where he kept a toothbrush and mouthwash and a razor and a photo of his only child, my mom. There was a bigger bathroom on the main floor, of course, but he left that for his secretary to use.

  Grandpa’d been doing business more or less the same way for over forty years. The end came suddenly—shoveling snow in his driveway at home.

  The building, on Ninth Street just down from Main, is brick and small and shares its walls with a dentist’s office and a barber. It has a tiny backyard—mostly cement, but with just enough dirt for a decrepit old apple tree and a decorative metal pedestal that might have served as a table some generations ago. You can only get to the yard by going out the back door or by cutting through the bank’s parking lot and climbing over a green picket fence.

  They’ve got a 1907 photo of the building over at the Sturbridge Historical Society and it doesn’t look much different.

  These days a mortgage broker operates out of the main floor, and the apartment upstairs has been converted into an accountant’s office. Entering the back door after midnight does not yield access to either office, but it does permit you to take the narrow staircase to the attic. From all appearances, I am the only one who ever goes up there.

  Last night I couldn’t sleep after the argument with my father, so I got up and sneaked outside and walked along Church Street to the bank’s parking lot and looked around. It was one-thirty; no one was out. Grandpa’s building was dark, as usual. So I hopped the fence and looked around again. And then I unlocked the door and walked upstairs.

  There’s always a chill in the attic and spiderwebs in the corners. The ceiling is thick wooden beams and planks; fat nails hammered partway in here and there. There’s one bare sixty-watt bulb with a pull cord in the center of the space, but I’ve never dared to see if it works. I always carry a flashlight and mute it with my hand.

  I’ve tried the bathroom water and it still comes on, coughing and sputtering at first and running a rusty brown for a minute. I don’t touch the toothbrush or the razor, just look at them and at the photo of my mom at about thirteen taped to the inside of the cabinet. There’s a radiator my grandfather painted silver the summer before he died, but the rust is showing through.

  The attic and bathroom have been undisturbed in the years since he left, unused by the new owner. Fat guy; can’t see him climbing all those stairs. This was Grandpa’s domain for almost half a century, and I think it still is. But how long can that last? When I miss him the most I come here.

  I taped a poem for my grandfather next to that picture of my mom, just eight short lines about him being the nicest person I’ll ever know.

  I stepped out of the bathroom and flashed the light around the attic, hitting the shutters leaning against the bricks, a couple of ancient screens for the downstairs windows, and a heavy white door lying on its side, coated in dust, FOR BETW. UPSTAIR BEDRM AND BATH penciled on it in Grandpa’s block printing.

  And then the light caught something I’d never noticed before, sticking out just slightly from the eaves. I reached up and pulled down a fat old magazine and immediately saw it was a Playboy. Old. December 1965. It was in pretty good shape. I wiped the dust from the cover with my sleeve and rested the magazine on the floor, kneeling with the light in my left hand while I turned the pages with my right.

  I wondered, When was the last time Grandpa looked at this? Back in ’65? Or did he make regular visits? Maybe there were some others stashed around up there.

  I kept turning pages, and soon I came across an unmistakable face. No question about it. Ginger. From Gilligan’s Island. Good and naked.

  I laughed a little and stared. Kept staring. There were other photo spreads, but I kept going back to that one.

  I had to share it with the boys.

  I’ve seen every episode at least six times; the reruns are on continuously.

  So I took it with me; it was the first time I’ve removed anything on any of my late-night visits. And I had it with me when I went over to Kevin’s house the next night, and I had it with me when we went down to Turkey Hill.

  Tony always said he’d take Mary Ann over Ginger any day if he’d been cast away on that island. I tended to agree with him, but Kevin was a hard-core Ginger fan. He went nuts when I showed him the photo spread, and I had to push him away to keep him from slobbering on the pages.

  “Not bad,” Tony said when confronted with the evidence.

  “Right,” said Kevin. “You’d rather sleep with the Skipper.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Or Mrs. Howell.”

  Other guys came over and we eventually voted 6–3 in favor of Ginger, based primarily on those photos. I got pissed when the cover ripped as this jerk Alex grabbed for it and Kevin wouldn’t let go. I said, “Enough already. This is valuable.”

  “The women in that magazine are like a hundred years old now,” Tony said. “Remember that when you’re under the sheets tonight, Ron.”

  “Nice math,” I said. “They aren’t even retired yet.”

  “Where’d you get that, anyway?” Kevin asked.

  “Used-book store over in Hawley,” I lied. “They got lots of ’em. Now give me that,” I said, taking a firm hold on it and bonking him with my free hand. “Assholes. Leave it alone.”

  I left the bench soon after that and walked along Church Street by myself. It was only quarter after ten, too early to sneak into the attic. But I was going to put it back there that night. None of those jerks would ever get their grimy hands on my grandfather’s stuff again. I shouldn’t have messed with it, either.

  So I went home and went up to my room and lay on the bed with the radio on softly and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

  I dozed off, but I’d set my watch to beep at one A.M. When it woke me I put on my running shoes and a dark sweatshirt and quietly left the house with the magazine held against my skin.

  And as I took those stairs I felt scared for the first time; scared that I’d get caught maybe, that I’d spoil this scene for-ever and they’d clean up Grandpa’s domain. So I climbed the stairs even more slowly than usual, careful not to let them creak, and cupped my hand more tightly over the flashlight’s beam.

  I put the magazine back where I’d found it, but I hid it better than he had. And I looked around the attic for a good long time, seeing it as I always did, but more clearly maybe, more aware.

  And I went in the bathroom and picked up the toothbrush and turned it over in my hand and touched my mother’s photo, smelled the razor, touched the faucets.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and whispered, “Sorry I disturbed things, Grandpa. I love you.” I turned and made my way down the stairs.

  And I feel kind of empty now as I walk toward home, the river gurgling a block away, the lights of Main Street the same distance away on my other side. I’ve got a crystal-clear picture of the attic in my head, an
d the smell of the place to go with it. The pattern of rust in the sink and the white linoleum peeling up around the toilet, the old knob-and-tube wiring stapled to the beams, the single hook inside the bathroom door where he used to hang his shirt while he shaved, the yellowed bristles of his toothbrush, the crud on his razor, the dead flies in the corner, the silence.

  How long can a place remain the same? Maybe forever, if you leave it alone. I’ll keep the key, but I know I can’t go back.

  I know I can’t risk it again.

  In Letters

  That Would Soar a

  Thousand Feet High

  We were charging up that last hill coming out of the woods and this is where he always seemed to finish me off, the final three hundred yards or so. But today I found an extra lift and I could feel him straining. Perfect October day—bright sunshine, crisp air, and the smell of wet leaves on the ground. We’d dropped everybody else by the midway point and it was just Smith and me pushing it, and it was one of those races with no gaps of effort, no easing up on the downhills or saving anything for a kick. That last climb up the narrow winding path before you burst out of the maples and onto the grass and into the open toward the finish line, that’s when I finally broke him, when I couldn’t help turning it into an early sprint and building a gap of a couple of yards that kept growing.

  I could still hear him breathing, hear his feet hitting the ground and the squall of the spectators, knowing they’d be surprised to see me first out of the woods. Then the all-out sprint across the field, brushing the grass, no pain at all this time, just a rush and a charge and a league championship and a win over this guy I’d been chasing since middle school.

  He grabbed my arm in the chute and said, “Nice race” and I turned and nodded and said, “About time I got you.” He squeezed his thumb a little harder into my bicep and said he’d figured I’d get him sometime.

  Coach came over and gave me a bear hug and said I finally put it all together. I watched my teammates finish and yelled for the ones who were close to other runners. Then I walked back toward the woods and when I got there I pumped my fist and shouted, “Yes!” although I barely let it come out above a whisper.

  I gave myself a minute alone to let it sink in, then jogged back across the field toward our pile of sweats and stuff.

  Denny Smith goes to Weston North. He’s the defending district cross-country champion and placed fourth in the 3,200 at the state track meet last spring. A month before at the Scranton Invitational I’d given him a race to the finish, and then in the dual meet a week later the same thing happened; he just sat on my butt and outkicked me down the stretch.

  People from our girls’ team were telling me Nice-race Nice-race Way-to-go-Ron when Smith jogged up to me and asked if I wanted to cool down. I said yeah and took off my jersey and put on a long-sleeved T-shirt I’d ordered from L. L. Bean. It was a warm day, but I like sweating; he was just in his shorts and had a thin chain around his neck and I could tell the girls were checking him out, the ripped abs and the tan and the lean wiriness and the smile, but they’re mostly shy like I am.

  So we jogged around the perimeter of the field and talked about training and I said I’d been doing a bit of track work in the evenings, just eight 200s a couple of times a week, and that seemed to be paying off. He said he’d be doing a lot of speed work over the next two weeks to get ready for the states and wouldn’t be doing any more weight work until winter.

  He came up to me again after the medal ceremony.

  “Listen,” he said. “There’s a great party over near your way tonight. You want to go?”

  “Sure,” I said. I didn’t know of any parties this weekend except a rumor of a closed one at a cheerleader’s house. Didn’t know how he’d know about that.

  “It’s in a barn off Owego Road. Friend of my cousin. I’ll be going through Sturbridge. Pick you up?”

  “Yeah. Should I tell these other guys?” My teammates.

  He tightened up his mouth, moved his head from side to side. “Might be better not to. It’s kind of a small space and I don’t think I should bring a crowd.”

  “Got ya,” I said. “Tell you what. I’ll be out on Main Street by eight o’clock. We hang down by the Turkey Hill store.”

  “I know the place. I’ll pick you up like eight-thirty, quarter to nine.”

  “Great.”

  I see him pull up in a blue pickup truck and turn the corner, easing to a stop on the side street. I’m standing with Kevin and Tony in back of the bench finishing a pack of Twinkies, scraping the excess off the cardboard with my teeth.

  “I’m taking off,” I say. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be a faggot,” Kevin says. “It’s only like eight-thirty.”

  “I’m not going home, slime,” I say. “I gotta go somewhere. I might be back.”

  “You suck.”

  Smith’s standing outside his truck with the door open and the motor running. He’s got his hair gelled and he’s dressed better than any of us ever are—gray sweater, a belt, leather shoes.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  I get in the truck and he says, “Great race today, Ron.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  I’ve never hung out with anybody from another town before, so this feels kind of life-expanding. I’ve gotten to know Smith somewhat over the years. Cross-country and track are like that—you almost can’t help getting to know your opponents because you aren’t hidden behind a helmet and you have time after the races to talk. But my social life has never crossed the Sturbridge border before.

  We drive past Turkey Hill and I give Tony and Kevin and the others a nod and they look at me like Where the hell are you going?

  “So where’s this party?” I ask.

  “A few miles out of town,” he says. “It’s mostly college people. Should be fun. Last time I went out there they had a karaoke machine. I mean, the barn is all fixed up—it’s not like there’s cows living in it. It’s like an underage club. Some guys from the U of Scranton run it. Like I said, a friend of my cousin is behind it.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  “I think you’ll like it.”

  We turn off 191 onto Owego Road and head toward Waymart. After a few miles he turns onto a narrow dirt road and slows down a lot to avoid bottoming out in the ruts. He’s been playing a Garth Brooks tape and I haven’t said anything about it, but my friends would not ever let me hear the end of it if I played anything like that around them. Not that I would anyway. But I bear it and figure maybe this is some kind of country-western place we’re headed to and he’s getting into the spirit.

  I can see a barn up ahead with some light coming from it, and we pull onto a grassy field near a couple of dozen other vehicles. “You don’t need to lock it,” he says.

  Sounds like old disco music playing; the Bee Gees, I think. It’s a clear night, a lot cooler than at race time, with lots of stars.

  There’s a guy at the barn door in a baseball cap, with a scruffy goatee. “Hey, love,” he says to Smith.

  “Jerry,” Smith says.

  “Five tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll pay for my buddy. This is Ron,” he says, motioning to me with his hand.

  “Hi,” the guy says to me. “Thanks, sweetie,” he says to Smith, who’s handing him a ten-dollar bill.

  Sweetie? Give me a break.

  “Thanks,” I say to Smith. “I didn’t know there was a cover.”

  “For the DJ and the kegs,” he says.

  The barn is lit by several bare lightbulbs hanging from wires, so it’s kind of dim. And it does have the lingering aroma of cows. There are hay bales stacked against the walls, but mostly it’s a big empty space with a dirt floor. I’d say there are forty-five people here, most of them guys between eighteen and twenty-two or so.

  “Beer?” Smith says.

  “Sure.”

  I scan the room for girls and see a handful, but this looks mostly like a dr
inking and laughing situation. I’d been hoping I might meet somebody. You never know. It’s early; more women may show up later.

  The DJ is about twenty and he’s got his cap on backward and he’s dancing in place to the Supremes with his fists up about chest level, rotating his body back and forth, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The kegs are set up to his right and are labeled COORS LIGHT and YUENGLING. We get big plastic cups of Yuengling. Smith introduces me to a couple of people.

  “Wendy, Steve, this is Ron.”

  Wendy is kind of overweight and Steve looks sort of girlish; no shoulders, perfect hair, a red ribbed turtleneck sweater.

  “These guys graduated from North last spring,” Smith says. “We worked on the school paper.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Wendy says. Steve doesn’t say anything. “Where you from?”

  “Sturbridge,” I say. We have to shout a bit because the music is loud in here. “I know Denny from cross-country.”

  “Oh, you’re the one,” she says. She gives Smith a little smile and flicks up her eyebrows. She must have heard that I beat him today.

  “Twist and Shout” comes on and Wendy says to Steve, “We gotta dance to this.”

  He agrees, sort of reluctantly, and they move toward the center of the barn.

  “Steve was so afraid to come here,” Smith says.

  “How come?”

  “He’s just petrified. Wendy finally got him to come, but only if she promised to come with him.”

  “She’s his girlfriend?”

  “No. No, they’ve been friends since like kindergarten. But no … she’s, she kind of gives him confidence or something.”

  About fifteen more people have arrived, so the place is filling up fast. A big guy in an LJC Wrestling T-shirt comes up and grabs Smith’s shoulders from behind and shakes him. Smith turns with a grin and says, “You butthead. What’s up? How’s school?”