a problem, in a sense, of waste disposal…
It hadn't seemed important at the start – merely a question of temporary storage – but thanks to the weather it is now approaching an emergency. He cannot put it off any longer; there is no more time to lose. He simply has to get the man and woman out of the apartment. If they chance too near that couch… well, it might prove rather nasty for them all.
Nasty indeed. That's just how he is feeling at the moment. But after the woman has buzzed him inside and he's passed through into the hallway, his face remains frozen in its customary smile. Even here, someone may be watching; you can never be too sure.
Only when he finds himself within the familiar confines of the elevator, safe amid the privacy of its battered metal walls, does he allow the mask to slip. As the door scrapes shut and the little car lurches skyward, the smile drops away and his lips curl back in a snarl of animal fury. Teeth gnashing with a sound like grinding stones, features contorted almost beyond recognition, he shakes his tiny fists in the air, and all the evening's pent-up rage comes bursting out of him in a frenzy of noise and spit and flying limbs. Like one possessed he flings himself about the car, fists lashing out to beat against its walls; walls and floor reverberate with the pounding of his shoes, and the little car rocks back and forth as if a swarm of maddened bees were trapped inside.
At last, on the fifth floor, when the car has come to rest, its doors slide open on the plump, unassuming figure of an old man. He stands there looking cheerful and composed, if a trifle winded, and his eyes twinkle with impish good humor as he steps into the hall and makes for the apartment at the end. Mopping his brow with a small white handkerchief, he blinks amiably at the heat, fixes his smile in place, and rings the bell.
Voices are coming from the living room. He cocks his little head to hear and sniffs the air that flows beneath the door. No, there is no question about it: he will have to get them out of there, away from that accursed couch, and soon – before they open it and find what is hidden inside. Flesh, even when suitably prepared, does tend to smell so in warm weather.
I was going to answer the door, but Carol beat me to it. Never saw a girl get dressed so fast.
In her own screwed-up way she probably felt guilty about my being there, because she proceeded to make a totally unnecessary fuss over Rosie – what a wonderful surprise this was, how much she'd been wanting to get the two of us together, etc., etc.
Can't say I was especially pleased to see him again, considering his rotten timing – in fact, I spent several minutes silently cursing him -but I have to admit the guy seems inoffensive enough (though I could do without the lisp and the mincing little walk). He was all smiles, from the moment he waltzed through the door, amp; despite his age he appeared to be constantly in motion, sniffing around the room like an overgrown pink puppy; you could almost see him wagging his little tail.
I thanked him, of course, for that crazy deck of cards – hadn't yet gotten around to writing the thank-you note, and now I won't have to – amp; must admit the old guy showed a rather flattering interest in my work. Exchanged chitchat about film courses, grad school, the plight of Ph. D. s, but I got the impression it was mainly for Carol's benefit. He seemed pathetically attached to her; in fact, the only time he looked a little hurt was when Carol said she was surprised to see him. He just couldn't understand it; had she forgotten about their dinner date tonight? Apparently she had, or at least that's what she claimed. She acted very embarrassed, apologized amp; all, but behind his back she shrugged at me and shook her head. Maybe Rosie's the forgetful one.
Anyway, we decided to make it a threesome for dinner. Playing the proper hostess, Carol asked us if we wanted to have a glass of wine before going out. I certainly could have used one by that time, preferably ice cold, the way I was feeling, but Rosie said he was famished and seemed eager to get away.
Outside, it was already dark – one of those hot, smelly New York nights when the streets echo with mambo music amp; drums. There was violence in the air, even more than usual, amp; everyone seemed to be out on the sidewalk dancing or drinking or waiting for something to happen. On nights like that, in Puerto Rican neighborhoods like Carol's, you can almost imagine you're in the tropics. The sound makes you impatient, it's hard to concentrate on things. Not such a bad feeling, really, though it has its scary side. I can see why so many people I know retreat to Fire Island or the Hamptons for the summer; I can also see why, if I were a bit younger amp; poorer, stuck in the city with nothing to lose, I'd be tempted to bash somebody's brains out with a tire iron. As it was, my impulses were somewhat more humane; I felt like pulling Carol out of the glare of the streetlamps amp; making love to her all night. I'd even have been willing to go back up to that stuffy little apartment with the roaches amp; the heat.
Must admit, there's something about her poverty that appeals to me. It's sort of a turn-on to think that, little as I have, I could really be a help to her financially.
It took us some time to decide on a restaurant, since Rosie kept suggesting all sorts of obscure, outlandish places on the other side of town. Maybe he was trying to impress us. Finally we settled on Harvey's; it's just a few blocks east, amp; they never rush you. Carol amp; I made do with omelets – with her crazy notions about food, she seems destined to remain a cheap date – while old Rosie wolfed down a filet mignon half the size of his head.
Dinner was excellent, though we were interrupted in the middle by a very brief brownout; Carol says New York's had a lot of them this year. All of a sudden the entire room went dark, but it only lasted a few seconds before the lights came back on. Still, I was grateful for the candle on the table.
I'm not sure just why, but Carol excused herself right after that, amp; when she sat down again she was looking sort of distant amp; hardly spoke for the rest of the meal. I wondered if somehow she'd been rattled by the lights going out, or if it was something I'd said, but I think now that she was probably just feeling a touch of embarrassment – amp; maybe even, in some weird Catholic way, remorse – over what had gone on back in the apartment. Only natural, I guess; when you've opened up too much to another person, you sometimes tend to backtrack a bit as compensation. Just the same, I do wish she hadn't turned quite so cold.
Rosie offered to foot the bill, as I knew he would, but he amp; I ended up splitting the total between us. Which meant that I sort of got taken. Afterward I expected him to call it a night, amp; was looking forward to some time alone with Carol, but no such luck; it seems our Rosie is something of a night person. He insisted Carol and I accompany him to this old West Chelsea bar he knew about – drinks on him, at least – amp; it turned out to be way the hell over on Eleventh Avenue, practically knee-deep in the Hudson. At the rate he walked, with his stubby little legs, we must have killed a good half hour just getting there.
The place wasn't anything special, but nevertheless we stayed for a couple of rounds. Toward the end Rosie started getting all sentimental over his childhood out in the country somewhere, amp; we more or less let him run on. Hard to picture him as a farm boy.
We didn't get back to Carol's till after midnight. By this time, I think, Carol would've been as relieved as I'd have been to see the last of Rosie, but he mumbled something in this pitiable little voice about being 'close to exhaustion,' amp; quick as a catechism she was asking him up for coffee.
As soon as we stepped out of the elevator, Carol said she smelled something funny, amp; after a moment I smelled it too. We all braced ourselves as she unlocked the door to her apartment, amp; sure enough, that's where it was coming from. Held my breath amp; ran into the kitchen, where I noticed that the pilot light had gone out amp; that the rusting old hulk of a stove in there was hissing like a snake. It had probably been leaking for hours, amp; the entire apartment was filled with gas. If any of us had lit a match the whole place would have gone up.
Rosie amp; I opened all the windows while Carol went downstairs to wake the super. He turned out to be a grumpy old Cuban who acted as if the entire thing were Carol's fault. He took one look amp; said a pipe had broken somewhere above the shutoff valve. He'd have to get some men to fix it in the morning.
Rosie insisted on putting us up at his place. So there we were, piling into a taxi at one thirty A.M. amp; heading uptown, Carol fussing about her stove but maybe just as relieved that everything had worked out this way, amp; me cursing to myself, while Rosie, all unaware, beamed at us from the front seat.
He lives in one of those ugly old buildings off Riverside Drive, way up in the hundreds near Columbia. The apartment itself is really much too big for him – two huge bedrooms, high ceilings with plasterwork and ornamental molding – amp; thanks to rent control the old bastard probably pays next to nothing for it. He told us he'd been living there for more than thirty years, but he certainly hasn't done much with the place. The kitchen was pleasant enough – all china-ware, teacups, amp; painted little trays, like the haunt of some dotty old lady – but the rest of the place barely looked lived in. Nothing on the walls but a few framed art prints – calendar stuff – and a crude, obscene-looking kid's drawing he said was by a little boy he knew. For someone who's traveled as much as he claims, he doesn't seem to have acquired anything very interesting; you certainly can't accuse him of being a
