and chuckled. It had been one of his mother’s favorite sayings. He could not say why the image of Lorne Green bald-headed was so amusing. A light attack of belated hysteria over the gun shop episode, maybe.
Mary looked up, a smile on her lips. “A funny?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just my thinks.”
He sat down beside her and pecked her cheek. She was a tall woman, thirty-eight now, and at that crisis of looks where early prettiness is deciding what to be in middle age. Her skin was very good, her breasts small and not apt to sag much. She ate a lot, but her conveyor-belt metabolism kept her slim. She would not be apt to tremble at the thought of wearing a bathing suit on a public beach ten years from now, no matter how the gods decided to dispose of the rest of her case. It made him conscious of his own slight bay window. Hell, Freddy, every executive has a bay window. It’s a success symbol, like a Delta 88. That’s right, George. Watch the old ticker and the cancer-sticks and you’ll see eighty yet.
“How did it go today?” she asked.
“Good.”
“Did you get out to the new plant in Waterford?”
“Not today.”
He hadn’t been out to Waterford since late October. Ordner knew it-a little bird must have told him-and hence the note. The site of the new plant was a vacated textile mill, and the smart mick realtor handling the deal kept calling him. We have to close this thing out, the smart mick realtor kept telling him. You people aren’t the only ones over in Westside with your fingers in the crack. I’m going as fast as I can, he told the smart mick realtor. You’ll have to be patient.
“What about the place in Crescent?” she asked him. “The brick house.”
“It’s out of our reach,” he said. “They’re asking forty-eight thousand.”
“For that place?” she asked indignantly. “Highway robbery!”
“It sure is.” He took a deep swallow of his drink. “What did old Bea from Baltimore have to say?”
“The usual. She’s into consciousness-raising group hydrotherapy now. Isn’t that a sketch? Bart-
“It sure is,” he said quickly.
“Bart, we’ve got to get moving on this. January twentieth is coming, and we’ll be out in the street.”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” he said. “We just have to be patient.”
“That little Colonial on Union Street-”
“-is sold.” he finished, and drained his drink.
“Well that’s what I mean,” she said, exasperated. “That would have been perfectly fine for the two of us. With the money the city’s allowing us for this house and lot, we could have been ahead.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“You don’t seem to like very much these days,” she said with surprising bitterness. “He didn’t like it,” she told the TV. The negress songstress was on now, singing “Alfie.”
“Mary, I’m doing all I can.”
She turned and looked at him earnestly. “Bart, I know how you feel about this house-”
“No you don’t,” he said. “Not at all.”
November 21, 1973
A light skim of snow had fallen over the world during the night, and when the bus doors chuffed open and he stepped onto the sidewalk, he could see the tracks of the people who had been there before him. He walked down Fir Street from the corner, hearing the bus pull away behind him with its tiger purr. Then Johnny Walker passed him, headed out for his second pickup of the morning. Johnny waved from the cab of his blue and white laundry van, and he waved back. It was a little after eight o’clock.
The laundry began its day at seven when Ron Stone, the foreman, and Dave Radner, who ran the washroom, got there and ran up the pressure on the boiler. The shirt girls punched in at seven-thirty, and the girls who ran the speed ironer came in at eight. He hated the downstairs of the laundry where the brute work went on, where the exploitation went on, but for some perverse reason the men and women who worked there liked him. They called him by his first name. And with a few exceptions, he liked them.
He went in through the driver’s loading entrance and threaded through the baskets of sheets from last night that the ironer hadn’t run yet. Each basket was covered tightly with plastic to keep the dust off. Down front, Ron Stone was tightening the drive belt on the old Milnor single-pocket while Dave and his helper, a college dropout named Steve Pollack, were loading the industrial Washex machines with motel sheets.
“Bart!” Ron Stone greeted him. He bellowed everything; thirty years of talking to people over the combined noises of dryers, ironers, shirt presses, and washers on extract had built the bellow into his system. “This son of a bitch Milnor keeps seizing up. The program’s so far over to bleach now that Dave has to run it on manual. And the extract keeps cutting out.”
“We’ve got the Kilgallon order,” he soothed. “Two more months-”
“In the Waterford plant?”
“Sure,” he said, a little giddy.
“Two more months and I’ll be ready for the nuthatch,” Stone said darkly. “And switching over… it’s gonna be worse than a Polish army parade.”
“The orders will back up I guess.”
“Back up! We won’t get dug out for three months. Then it’ll be summer.”
He nodded, not wanting to go on with it. “What are you running first?”
“Holiday Inn.”
“Get a hundred pounds of towels in with every load. You know how they scream for towels.”
“Yeah, they scream for everything.”
“How much you got?”
“They marked in six hundred pounds. Mostly from the Shriners. Most of them stayed over Monday. Cummyest sheets I ever seen. Some of em’d stand on end.”
He nodded toward the new kid, Pollack. “How’s he working out?” The Blue Ribbon had a fast turnover in washroom helpers. Dave worked them hard and Ron’s bellowing made them nervous, then resentful.
“Okay so far,” Stone said. “Do you remember the last one?”
He remembered. The kid had lasted three hours.
“Yeah, I remember. What was his name?”
Ron Stone’s brow grew thundery. “I don’t remember. Baker? Barker? Something like that. I saw him at the Stop and Shop last Friday, handing out leaflets about a lettuce boycott or something. That’s something, isn’t it? A fellow can’t hold a job, so he goes out telling everyone how fucking lousy it is that America can’t be like Russia. That breaks my heart.”
“You’ll run Howard Johnson next?”
Stone looked wounded. “We always run it first thing.”
“By nine?”
“Bet your ass.”
Dave waved to him, and he waved back. He went upstairs, through dry-cleaning, through accounting, and into his office. He sat down behind his desk in his swivel chair and pulled everything out of the in box to read. On his desk was a plaque that said:
He didn’t care much for that sign but he kept it on his desk because Mary had given it to him-when? Five years back? He sighed. The salesmen that came through thought it was funny. They laughed like hell. But then if you showed a salesman a picture of starving kids or Hitler copulating with the Virgin Mary, he would laugh like hell.
Vinnie Mason, the little bird who had undoubtedly been chirruping in Steve Ordner’s ear, had a sign on his desk that said:
Now what kind of sense did that make, THIMK? Not even a salesman would laugh at that, right, Fred? Right, George-kee-rect. There were heavy diesel rumblings outside, and he swiveled his chair around to look. The highway people were getting ready to start another day. A long flatbed with two bulldozers on top of it was going by the laundry, followed by an impatient line of cars.
From the third floor, over dry-cleaning, you could watch the progress of the construction. It cut across the Western business and residential sections like a long brown incision, an operation scar poulticed with mud. It was already across Guilder Street, and it had buried the park on Hebner Avenue where he used to take Charlie when he was small… no more than a baby, really. What was the name of the park? He didn’t know. Just the Hebner Avenue Park I guess, Fred. There was a Little League ball park and a bunch of teeter-totters and a duck pond with a little house in the middle of it. In the summertime, the roof of the little house was always covered with bird shit. There had been swings, too. Charlie got his first swing experience in the Hebner Avenue Park. What do you think of that, Freddy old kid old sock? Scared him at first and he cried and then he liked it and when it was time to go home he cried because I took him off. Wet his pants all over the car seat coming home. Was that really fourteen years ago?
Another truck went by, carrying a payloader.
The Garson Block had been demolished about four months ago; that was three or four blocks west of Hebner Avenue. A couple of office buildings full of loan companies and a bank or two, the rest dentists and chiropractors and foot doctors. That didn’t matter so much, but Christ it had hurt to see the old Grand Theater go. He had seen some of his favorite
