Sofar was furious, despondent. “Morris Bliss my ass,” Sofar said. “Like I believe that! Morris Bliss!”
Twelve hours had passed since the egg timer rang, since the terrifying knock at his door. He hadn’t moved the entire time, the hollow thump at his front door congealing his blood. The sound delivered a shot of lead to his heart. Everything stopped.
Hatfield, the building owner, had finally returned. Sofar was positive. It’s Hatfield, it’s Hatfield, it’s Hatfield, was all Sofar could think.
“Mr. Sofar,” the person knocking had called. “It’s me, Morris Bliss from downstairs.”
Morris Bliss. Sofar wanted to laugh. Impossible. Morris was only a boy, Sofar thought. Right? Last time he saw him he was, what—thirteen, fourteen years old? And that was how long ago? Sofar couldn’t recall. But Morris definitely wasn’t a man yet. And it was a man at his door. The voice, the force of the knock. It was Hatfield trying a new trick.
“Mr. Sofar,” the man called again. “It’s Morris, Stavroula’s son.”
Stavroula! Hatfield had no shame, evoking the name of the woman dearest to Sofar. A woman now dead.
Anger rose hot in Sofar’s throat. Still, he was immobilized, his limbs grounded. Stavroula, he thought. A poison of grief leaked from a place he’d long sealed shut. Stavroula, he said to himself, longing to say the name out loud.
The knocking finally ended. Hatfield had left. For now. But he’d be back. Sofar knew he’d be back.
Still, Sofar stood motionless the entire night, his mind mincing through his life.
Now morning.
He is no longer human, he realizes, has turned into an animal in hiding. “It wasn’t worth it,” he decides. He can’t endure. “Hatfield can have the place.”
With this decision comes the realization that Sofar has nothing more to live for. Keeping his home had been his motivation, the reason he woke each morning. Now, he no longer had that.
A strange liberation settles over him, a quiet relief. He is now responsible for nothing.
He showers and shaves, dresses in an old navy-blue suit with a yellow collared shirt and a burgundy striped tie. He breaks out a new pair of socks, sheer silk socks, socks he’d saved for a special day.
Today is that day.
He slips on his wingtip shoes, shoes that have never felt pavement.
The hall is empty, has a faint odor of talcum powder and mildew. The florescent light flickers overhead. Sofar closes his door, rattles out the right key to lock the deadbolt.
There’s no use locking it; he has nothing to lose.
He heads down the stairs, heads out into the bright, brilliant morning.
The street has changed in the years since he’s been out, the trees taller or no longer there. He strolls to First Avenue. It all looks so different. Sofar takes it in.
He walks down Sixth Street, past all the Indian restaurants with names like Gandhi’s House or Gandhi’s Garden or Gandhi’s Buffet and the thick smell of spice that reeks of body odor, strolls to Second Avenue and finds that the Fillmore East, the club where he saw so many great bands, is no longer. It’s now a bank. The businesses, the people, have changed.
Sofar has remained.
Heading down Fifth Street, he walks past the police precinct. It’s being gutted.
Jetski stands in front of the building, yelling orders to his men. He holds his hardhat in his hand, unable to wear it; there’s a knot the size of an apricot on the back of his head. The fight with Morris.
Hungover, he is in an exceptionally foul mood. His home life is crumbling. After the rumble with Morris, he went home. Stefani wasn’t there, was out with her new boyfriend Robby, the heir to the Subway sandwich shop and her date to prom. Jetski drank more, then got into a fight with his wife over his erratic behavior. She didn’t understand him, he screamed, breaking his wife’s favorite Princess Diana commemorative plate.
He was kicked out of the house, told not to come back until he was sober, calm. When he’d gotten a replacement plate.
For Jetski, coming to work is the highlight of his day. He is actually glad for something to occupy him. It serves as a grounding, a reprieve from his chaotic life.
Sofar pauses in front of the building. “What are you doing with the place?” he asks Jetski.
“I’m taking it down,” Jetski says. He claps. “Gutting it then ripping it apart.”
“What’s going to go up here?”
Jetski shouts at two workers, tells them to pick up the pace. “Same thing,” he says. “But it’ll be better. It’ll stand forever.”
Sofar nods. He offers his hand.
Jetski takes it out of habit, takes hold of every hand offered him.
There’s a violent ripping noise from inside the building. Two workers drag a large chunk of wall out the front door, break it into small pieces, then toss it in the Dumpster.
Sofar holds Jetski’s hand for a long while. Jetski tries to pull loose but can’t. Sofar’s grip is too firm.
“All right there, Tiger,” Jetski says, wanting free. “You can let it go.”
“I already have,” Sofar says, then, “Good luck.”
And with the ease of the drowning breathing water, he lets go.
Chapter 39
The Trouble with Bliss Page 42