My father, to his credit, was wondering if the guy was one of those who had the collective psychosis that infects cities after a war has done its erasing act. You saw it everywhere in New York. On every corner, the ever-tensed sternomastoids, the blood-red eyes of the berserker, teeth ground to stumps, lips soldered into a single angry band of wire, waiting for you on the bus, on the train, in the alley, in the empty lobby, on the deserted stretch of sidewalk, in the stairwell, coming through your windows at night, consumed by a ravaging hunger. For what? Is it a deficiency of compassion that leads us to this, my father wondered, the way a lack of vitamin D makes the bones brittle? The city was starving, and it reeked of ketosis. Broke, smoldering, a gigantic ashen heart. The Skulls, the Nomads, the Savage Samurais roaming the night, bellies rumbling, the kids, everywhere the kids, roaming, always on the move, Central Park, Riverside, tagging trains, boosting anything that wasn’t tied down, Hey, mister, hey, mister, the most feared words in the city. A punch, a crack on the head with a Fanta bottle and the waffle sole of a Chuck in the ribs for good measure, maybe a blackjack or brass knuckles, a quick jab from a ghost that opened your head like an overripe melon. Spread your cash around, stow some in your jock, some in your sock. Keys an awl in your fist. Look crazy. Look poor. Never carry more than one grocery bag at a time. Don’t be old. Don’t be young. Don’t be slow. Travel in packs. Don’t fight back. Don’t look anyone in the eye. If spoken to, get your head down and hustle for the light. If grabbed, submit. If confronted with a knife, monitor your bowel and surrender your wallet. Never widen your eyes, never cry or shake. You’re a teller window, compliant and efficient. If a gun, pray and obey. It will all be over soon.
And if you’re serious about survival, if you have the means and you’re ready to adopt the only truly pragmatic solution, you’ll board yourself up in your apartment and avail yourself of the city’s delivery apparatus, the protection of doormen, hired cars.
You’ll never have to set foot outside again.
But the emissaries of violence weren’t what kept my father up at night. He’d seen worse. He was terrified of the benign. Those who blundered along happily, those too loose with their own fear of the end, those who substituted good luck for ontology. The average schmuck who didn’t keep his tools clean and slept off his hangover behind the boilers.
So Schiff had told him that this obsession with death was a yearning for death, but that felt a little transparent, just a cheap inversion. What help was it? My father maintained his routines, attended to his checklists, guarded his talisman, which did help keep the fears in their cages. He hadn’t always been this way.
He had trouble managing risk and all humans were risks. Machines were risky because they required maintenance performed by humans, humans who might never have to entrust their lives to the proper function of those very machines they were charged with maintaining. Mechanics didn’t drive the cars they worked on. Carnies didn’t ride the roller coasters. Airplane mechanics? Dear god. Elevator technicians? Technicians?
Boarding a train was an act of faith. Riding in an automobile driven by anyone he had known for fewer than twenty years could bring on hyperventilation. Airplanes, of course, were out of the question. They hadn’t always been, but by the time I was in high school, they were off the menu.
Mr. Saltwater? Manny said. He was hopping around, puffing into his cupped hands.
You’re absolutely right. I know, I know, my father said.
Great. Let’s pack it in, sir.
Manny, who would be out on a night like this?
Manny stared back at him and smirked.
My father made a coughing sound that approximated a laugh.
Mr. Saltwater?
Yes?
Sir, do you think you might enjoy watching the gentleman there through your window?
I have considered that, my father answered. But I can’t watch him like I’m a god peering down from above. I need to be in it. Human contact. An attempt to—to connect.
Uh-huh, Manny said.
The figure, meanwhile, was no longer a figure but a man. He was carrying a dining room table on his back, and as he closed the distance, features were beginning to emerge, like photo paper submerged in emulsifier.
I can’t in good conscience leave you out here by yourself, Mr. Saltwater.
Well, that’s thoughtful, but I’ll be fine.
All due respect, but I’m freezing my ass off and I can’t leave you by yourself, so if you want to tête-à-tête with the abominable whatever there—Manny tipped his head and shrugged—you’re gonna have to make it worth my while. Otherwise, we’re both going inside and you can throw ticker tape out your window, for all I care. Sir.
Done, Manny. Consider it done. My wallet is upstairs.
Really worth my while, Mr. Saltwater. If I come down with something and have to call in—
I’ll take care of it, Manny. Don’t worry. And look at this. You’ve got a front-row seat to the human condition here.
I take the 3 train every day, sir. I’m all full up on human condition.
Sure, my father said.
The man was wearing leather ankle boots, the kind that zipped on the side, and he’d stuffed the cuffs of his polyester pants into his snow-crusted tube socks. Balls of freeze hung from his beard. The wool cap and scarf had disappeared beneath clinging white, and plumes of smoke blasted from his mouth as his legs stabbed forward. His coat was wet with snow, the brown fabric splotched with darker brown, creating a camouflage pattern where the water had soaked in. Buttons were entombed in plaques of ice. On his back, an ornate oak dining table, which he’d inverted and was carrying like the
