Little Disasters

by Randall Klein

  My hand goes up to the next person, mirroring him. The small, pushy man grabs it, takes the conductor’s hand with his other, and sits down on the back lip of the train, sliding off onto the ground. The next person is a woman who takes both of our hands and seems to float down. An older man puts his hand on my shoulder while the conductor illuminates his path with the beam. And on. And on.

  After the tenth person there’s a brief respite, only a second long, before the next body appears. It’s then that the conductor pauses his instructions to say, under his breath, “Thank you.”

  Paul Fenniger

  Eleven Months Ago: August 26, 2009

  I open our door to Ryan and Stephanie Locke. They hold hands on the front step, beaming at me. It’s honestly a little threatening. “We love this neighborhood,” Ryan says by way of greeting, grabbing my palm and pumping it twice. His wife nods, keeping both her own hands around her midsection. “We’ll come back here for dinner,” she adds. Then amends, “Not here, sorry, but to Greenpoint.” She and Ryan laugh awkwardly. I don’t understand why they feel a need to impress me. It’s no longer threatening, just unnerving. I invite them up.

  Ryan helps Stephanie up the stairs, one hand on her back, guiding her along the railing. None of it is necessary. She has a small tummy, like she swallowed a honeydew. Ryan supports, physically and vocally. Couple more steps. Easy does it. I used to do the same for Jenny. She shrugged me off the first time I tried it. “I’m pregnant, not crippled,” she bit at me. Seeing my hurt expression, she stroked my face and wounded ego and instead put her hand around my back and guided me up the steps. We laughed at that, how little help she wanted, even up to the end, when she couldn’t see where she was stepping anymore and allowed me my small measure of gallantry.

  I love her for her independence. I love her in spite of how fearful I am of that independence.

  Stephanie and I stand back while Ryan inspects the crib, testing the guardrails, running a finger along every screw. “How old is your …” She trails off.

  “Son,” I finish. “He’s turning three. It’s time for a big boy bed.”

  “That’s so sweet.” She looks around the room, tries to not point out that there aren’t pictures of our child anywhere, that there isn’t a changing table, only this crib and a rocking chair. This doesn’t look like the room of a child. I’m too conflicted to tell her the truth, fearing it would depress them into leaving.

  “We only moved here a few months ago,” I explain. “We found this amazing furniture maker in Red Hook who’s building a bed and we’re going to put it here.” I point to where Jenny’s desk will go. “Then a little play area over there. He loves music, so we’re going to paint the walls to look like sheet music and put little notes all around.”

  “I love that idea!”

  “What’s his name?” Ryan slides the guardrail up and down, up and down, up and down, testing and retesting it, putting his weight on it while it’s locked to ensure that his future child can’t lean on it and go tumbling to his or her death.

  “Diggory,” my dry mouth answers. It elicits appreciative (or horrified) oohs and ahhs.

  “I want to name this one Sophia if it’s a girl or Aidan if it’s a boy.” Stephanie rubs her stomach methodically.

  “Those are popular,” I reply, hopefully without implying judgment.

  Ryan comes up from his crouch, grinning. “So, two hundred?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Would you go one-fifty?”

  I give it the obligatory moment of contemplation. “I’d go one-sixty.”

  “Done.” And Stephanie claps. Then she starts welling up, runs her hands along the slats of the crib. This will be where her baby sleeps. “Where’s Diggory now?” Ryan counts out twenties on the windowsill.

  “His mother took him to the park across the street. Then they were going to run some errands. If you want to add the glider, I’d do the pair for three-fifty.”

  Stephanie sits down. “It’s Dutailier,” she says, appreciatively. She glides back and forth, positions her arms under her breasts, conjuring the baby who will nurse there. “This is so comfortable.” She gives Ryan a subtle nod, but we’re both staring at her so the hint is lost. Ryan reaches back into his wallet and counts out seventeen twenties and a ten.

  “You’ve kept everything in great condition,” he remarks as I help him carry it down to their rented van.

  “Diggory’s an easy child,” I reply. “The only thing he really pounds on is his toy piano.”

  “That’s so cute. Do you have a picture?” Stephanie stares into the park, perhaps looking for him. I do the same.

  “I don’t. Not on me. I know, I’m the worst dad.”

  “No,” she reassures loudly. We make our last pleasantries and they drive off with the baby furniture. All in all, we took less of a loss on it than I thought we would, but Jenny would have been fine scrapping it. The three-fifty will help matters, though, assuming she doesn’t declare it blood money and insist that I give it to charity. We can be our own charity on this one.

  I lock the front door behind me and knock gently on our bedroom door. When there’s no answer I open it to find an empty room. I sit on the bed for a moment, close my eyes, and take a few cleansing breaths. Center myself. It’s okay. Then, with both hands trembling, I open the closet door and sit down next to Jenny, curled up into a ball and sobbing. Now that she’s alone she’s free to give her voice heft, to wail at the top of her lungs, to howl like a wounded animal. I gather her into me; it’s the tightest she’s let me hold her since.

  I’ve come to hate that word. Since.

  And we rock, back and forth, tears streaming down both of our faces, Jenny’s wailing like a wind strong enough to knock down our house of bricks.

  Paul Fenniger

  Eleven Months Ago: August 27, 2009

  I click open three tabs. The first one I set to Playbill, the off-Broadway listings. I scroll halfway down the page past a blur of shows I didn’t get to audition for. I click over to the second tab and type in the address I’ve memorized. My hands know where on the page will lead me to a group. I sift past everyone else’s questions to my own, posted yesterday.

  Howdy All,

  My wife returned to work this week, so it’s just me and my buddy (6 mos.) and a fridge full of bottles. Not complaining—I’m not the one being asked to pump, but the little guy is a lot fussier about mealtimes than he used to be. Any advice on how to get him better at hitting the bottle?

  And below, the answers. So many answers. I wonder whether, if it all had turned out differently, I would be one of those answering. Would I have made the time? I read through the first of three pages of responses.

  Let him futz with the bottle. If he’s at six months, he’s probably grabbing at everything. So proud he can grip!!!! Plus he loves putting things in his own mouth. Let him discover it on his own. And good for you. Breast is Best!!! J

  I went through the same thing with Rowan at five months. My doctor said to wait until he is just going down for a nap and then give it to him, because his “defenses are down” and he might be more ready to take a bottle. Good luck!

  Hell eat when hes hungry. Dont worry.

  I hit the back button and search further down the page, to Friday’s question.

  Dear Group,

  My son is ten months old and is a fairly good napper. The other day I went into his room to check on him and discovered he was tugging at his hair while he was asleep. Is this normal? Is he going to pull it out?

  Each response brings with it a stone that presses down on my chest. When it gets too heavy I click over to the third tab and type in an address, also memorized. A few more clicks and I’m again in a group room, of sorts. It’s a difficult shift, but it drives away the demon I need out before letting the devil in.

  Username: Volpone814

  Password: ********

  Loading live show

  Connecting to Lexxy

  LEXXY: Hi

&nb
sp; VOLPONE814: Hi.

  LEXXY: do u like what you c?

  VOLPONE814: Yes.

  LEXXY: what turns u on?

  VOLPONE814: Everything. Touch your breasts.

  She does, unenthusiastically, mechanically, shimmying up to the pinhole camera until her semisoft nipple occupies the majority of my screen.

  VOLPONE814: I’m rock hard.

  LEXXY: i want u in my mouth

  VOLPONE814: This is going to sound strange, and I apologize, but could you not abbreviate words?

  Her fingers pause over her clit. She purses her lips and, with her free hand, types back.

  LEXXY: ?

  VOLPONE814: Again, sorry. For example: u instead of you.

  LEXXY: im playing with my wet pussy

  VOLPONE814: That’s terrific. Really hot. Please, just type to me normal.

  Her brow furrows. I can see the lines through the caked-on makeup. She takes both hands off herself and leans forward to the screen. Now it’s her bloodshot eyes an inch from my face.

  LEXXY: Like this? Proper grammar and spelling? Punctuation and everything?

  VOLPONE814: Yes! Thank you! I’m going to come so hard now.

  She shrugs, a little smile, a genuine smile at the corner of her lip.

  LEXXY: Your cute. Sorry! You’re cute.

  VOLPONE814: Your cute two. (☺)

  LEXXY: I’m going to put my vibrator inside of me and pretend it’s your hard cock. Do you want that?

  VOLPONE814: God yes.

  She leans back, her hand crossing to her nightstand, and the largest vibrator I have ever seen comes into the frame for a split second—it’s as thick as a flashlight—before the bedroom door opens and Jenny sticks her head in.

  I look up from the screen, casually, clicking the tab for Playbill. Jenny isn’t interested, though; she barely looks at me on her way to the dresser. She strips off her sailor-striped shirt and unhooks her bra, laying it on top of the dresser before turning to face me. There’s no self-consciousness to her nudity, never has been. Her ribs jut out like whalebones. She’s lost too much weight. She takes out a fresh bra and clips it on, throwing her shirt on over it. Then she’s gone again. It’s this wonderful strange thing she does—deciding that an article of clothing she’s wearing is stale and swapping out just that one. Socks, bras, underwear.

  To spend a day inside that brain, to spend even an hour. I stare at the door she just walked through and look lovingly at Jenny’s vapor, my heart too full for one small chest.

  If I click back on to Girlcam, I may not get Lexxy. She may have moved on to her next gentleman caller. Something was stirring beneath the sheets and now it’s not. I could go into the bathroom and run the shower while I get myself off, but the mood has passed. I could go back on to the parenting boards and live vicariously through my imaginary child’s first few years, but my heart’s not in that either. He’s been everything from a newborn to a toddler, has started potty training and teething biscuits, and loves mashed bananas and his stuffed manatee. He’s had illnesses and ailments and injuries, but nothing too serious. He’s been my fella and champ and buddy and wiggly worm—dozens of names that aren’t names. My actual son never got a name. He left the hospital as anonymous ashes.

  I click off the Girlcam and the parenting board for the day, scrub my browser history, and delete all cookies.

  Jenny sticks her head back in. Instinctively, my finger runs over the mouse pad to clear the history again, even though I’m only looking at the audition boards.

  “What time is he coming?” she asks.

  “It’s tomorrow.”

  “I know it’s tomorrow. What time?”

  “I think around eleven. Last I spoke to him he was going to wait until rush hour cleared up and then come.”

  “Is he driving?”

  “No, but he said he’s bringing some wood samples for you to look at.”

  “So I have to be here?”

  I open my arms to invite her in, but she remains standing in the doorway, her hip now cocked. When I don’t answer she rolls her eyes and leaves again. A minute later, the time it takes for me to absorb this latest wave of animosity, she walks back into the room. “Can you take off work tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. I’m over my days as is.”

  “Fenn!”

  “I’m sorry. I missed a lot of work.”

  “So what time will you be home?”

  And here’s the part she’s forgotten, though I’ve told her. I say quietly, “I have an audition tomorrow night.”

  Her eyes narrow in response. “That you have time for?”

  “Jenny, please.”

  “Fine. Do whatever it is you want to do, Fenn.” She doesn’t elaborate on that, doesn’t crucify me further, which indicates to me that she doesn’t feel as strongly as she pretends to. I know her anger like a dog whistle, tone clusters only I can accurately perceive.

  Unfresh once again, she strips to her underwear and walks into our bathroom. The water starts up. Her second shower of the day will lessen the tension, she’ll come back out slightly chastened at her own hostility, more ready to talk to me, to hear about the audition, maybe even to run lines. Or, she may come out and resent me for still being here, for impinging upon her remorse. I shut my laptop, leave it on the nightstand, and step out for a walk. I’ll pick up some mushrooms from the fancy market on Manhattan Avenue, some portobellos to slice up and roast with rosemary. That’s one of Jenny’s top five favorite side dishes. It’ll be okay. Michael will come tomorrow and build her an office where she can write the great novel I know she has in her. And when she’s ready we’ll start trying again, for all of the right reasons, and we’ll have a healthy baby that will shatter the walls Jenny builds around herself. And with those walls crumbled, I’ll finally get in as well.

  Michael Gould

  Present Day: July 19, 2010

  10:35 AM

  It’s crested one hundred degrees, according to the radio. Or, rather, it’s ninety-five degrees, but it “feels like” one hundred degrees. I’ve trudged down twenty blocks, bobbing and weaving my way through crowds.

  In the past fifteen minutes, I’ve overheard snippets of conversation that describe what’s going on in midtown as a full-scale riot, complete with the National Guard. It’s also been a plane crash, or a helicopter crash, smack in the middle of Times Square, like the ball dropping directly onto the tourists. I’ve heard dirty bomb, subway derailment, mayoral assassination, even coup d’état. Everything sounds equally implausible but still provides fodder for debate among the sweaty horde.

  My bottle of water is empty but I hold on to it anyway, in case I can fill it up somewhere. The fluid I’ve put in my body has already leaked out, droplets of sweat sting my eyes. I look to the other side of the street, to see if that’s the side in the shade, but it’s as bright as the side I’m on. Only scaffolding offers intermittent relief, a few seconds of respite from direct sunlight.

  At the corner of 140th I stop for traffic and see a man sitting in the front seat of his black town car. The license plate has the T C parentheses and I look around, as if this could be a hidden camera trick. No one but me seems to notice that there is a car for hire waiting here, one that can take me home in air-conditioned luxury. Even if we hit a wall of traffic, better to do so sitting in a backseat and paying an agreed-upon price, right? And I could have him zip me over one of the uptown bridges, avoiding midtown altogether. I’d be in Greenpoint before noon.

  I knock on the passenger-side window and he lolls his turban-wrapped head over slowly. I wave and smile, cheerful and chipper, a good passenger, a happy passenger, one who will pay and not complain about loud music. Finally he rolls down the window. A puff of Freon runs over my body, a shudder from top to tail that I close my eyes to appreciate. “What?” he says roughly.

  “How much to get me back to Brooklyn?”

  “No cars,” he replies. He starts to roll the window back up, his index finger controlling it. I put my hands in the
way and he stirs, a flash of anger.

  “This is a car,” I point out.

  “I can’t go anywhere.” He waves his arms. “Everything is closed south of the park.”

  “Not a problem,” I purr. “Just take me over the Kennedy and we’ll go through Queens. Nowhere near whatever is going on.”

  He gestures to the other side of the street, the gridlocked traffic going north. “All of that is also trying to get off the island. No cars right now.”

  There’s no point in trying to argue with him, so I take out my wallet and make as if I’m counting a stack of twenties thick as my forearm. “How much?”

  He sits up in his seat. Now he’s considering. “This would be my only ride today.”

  “Charge me accordingly.”

  He scans, as if weighing me with his eyes. Measuring my worth, calculating the value of my clothes and the cost of my haircut, then multiplying from there. It’s the street hustler math of New York, a well-honed practice I can’t help but admire, even if I’m the marble in his shell game. “Two hundred,” he tosses off lazily.

  I’d pay two hundred dollars to get home. I’d pay two hundred dollars to get to Greenpoint on the hottest day of the year. It’s a plane ticket, essentially. I can justify it to myself, even if I don’t have two hundred in the couch cushions for moments like these. The rainy day fund is a couple of twenties at best.

  “I need to run into the deli and use the ATM. Will you wait?”

  He responds by rolling up the window, sucking the air-conditioning back into his car. I feel like I’ve leaped back into an oven.

  In the nearest bodega a line has formed six deep at the ATM machine in the back. The person currently poking it looks increasingly frustrated, then irate. “It’s not working,” he yells at the cashier.

  “It’s all down,” the cashier yells back. He holds up his credit card reader seemingly as evidence. “This doesn’t work. My phone doesn’t work. ATM doesn’t work. No communication with the bank.” Three people in front of me groan and curse and shuffle off, but the remaining person waits her turn, then scans her card and punches in her code, glancing back at me, checking my thieving credentials. When she looks back at the machine something about it perplexes her. She scans her card and again keeps an eye on me as she punches in four digits. It all seems too much for her to handle. That’s when the tears start and this woman, my mother’s age, breaks down in the middle of the store. “It doesn’t work,” she weeps to me.