Shovel Ready (6 page)

Funny thing is, most people choose real-life memories. Your husband turns around in the airport, back from the war, and it’s really him. Your miracle mother comes out of her coma. You cut class and the bedroom door swings open and your high-school crush finally drops her dress. What people want is to live in that heart-swell of
I can’t believe this is happening
, over and over again.

Black-market agencies sell this service. Split-second timing. Our watchers are the industry’s best. Results guaranteed.

If they fail, who’s going to tattle? You’re lost in a loop somewhere, your needle bobbing on the inner edge of the record, at the far shore of a vast ocean of black.

So you better hope they loop the right moment.

Because if they miss, that person standing over you,
watching you fall into the dream, if they miss, even by a moment, half a moment, or just a breath, then you’re stuck, and your husband never turns around and you never know if he made it, or your mother stays sunk in her coma with you anchored bedside worrying, or you stare at that bedroom door forever, knob trembling, wondering what’s about to come in.

I choose not to believe it. Seems too convenient, and besides, if I buy that, then I might believe I’m not ending someone. I’m just pausing them, maybe in the happiest moment they’ve ever had.

That seems cheap. It’s a cop-out. So I think of it the other way.

Most of them have already given up on this world, the nuts-and-bolts world. This party’s over and they’ve moved on to the after-party. They’ve left their bodies behind.

I’m just sweeping up.

In any case, that is what I am used to. All jobs don’t go like that, obviously. But you’d be surprised how much overlap there is between people with the money and desire to disappear into pretend extravagance forever, and people who want those people dead.

What I am not used to is eighteen-year-old runaways carrying bowie knives and babies.

But that’s fine.

Because she’s pregnant.

So our business here is done.

I kill men. I kill women because I don’t discriminate. I don’t kill children because that’s a different kind of psycho.

And while I’ll admit I’ve never tested this particular scenario
in practice, I think it’s safe to say that pregnant teenagers fall under the category of a different kind of psycho.

Harrow I can handle. Sometimes circumstances change. My policy in this regard is actually pretty simple. I give back the money. What you do then is your business. As for me and the girl?

Our paths uncross.

In the meantime, though, what I can do is offer her that hot shower after all. And a bed. And bus fare. And maybe waffles for breakfast.

Back here in the nuts-and-bolts world, we can’t all be holy Roman emperors. But we do enjoy a waffle now and then.

Like I said, I live in Hoboken. Jersey boy. Like Sinatra. I wasn’t making that up.

And I did play Mitch. Would have made a better Stanley. Hated learning lines though. Hated crowds. Hated acting, basically. Enjoyed kissing the girl who played Stella though. One day as a stand-in.

And my dad was a garbageman. An actual garbageman, I mean. So after high school I followed him into that line of work.

And I married the girl who played Stella.

My Stella.

Better than any encore.

PATH trains to Jersey shut down years ago, half the underground tunnels collapsed. No one commutes from Jersey to Manhattan anymore.

So I own a boat.

Just a rowboat with an outboard. Lock it up with a heavy
chain at a west-side pier. I give Persephone a handkerchief to tie over her mouth like an outlaw. I do likewise. This time of year, you don’t want to be drinking the Hudson. Not even spray.

Any time of year, for that matter.

Then I yank the cord and we cross state lines.

Behind us:

American Century, with a
CLOSED
sign. Which is weird, because it’s 24 hours.

Counterman sighs, expecting a hold-up, knows the protocols, starts scooping out bills from the tray.

Southern gentleman asks in a Southern accent about a young pregnant girl, possibly with a man.

Counterman shrugs.

Waitress is more helpful.

I seen them.

That’s what a big tip gets you these days.

Heard something about Hoboken. Sinatra. Girl didn’t even know who he was.

Says it in a tone of what’s this world coming to, am I right?

Southern gentleman nods.

Much obliged.

She smiles back.

Smile distended in the convex of the aviators. Clownish.

Also distended: Her blood, her brains, on the back wall, like a thrown pie.

Turns the long revolver on the counterman. Like a diviner’s rod, seeking water.

Finds blood.

The apartment is palatial, just because everyone cleared out. After Times Square, finance types were the first to evacuate. Packed up their pinstripes and skedaddled. For them, Times Square was like a roach bomb, sent them scurrying, either to full-time bed-rest or safer cities or both. Most even left the furniture behind.

Their hasty exit, my real-estate opportunity. For a few months there, after Times Square, when no one thought anyone would stay, you change the locks on a place, it’s basically yours. Mayor declared a tenant amnesty, a homesteader’s free-for-all. Disputes got settled with fistfights, not leases, and the cops were otherwise occupied. It settled down eventually. Turned out there was plenty to go around.

Come reelection time, the mayor clamped down. Ran on a platform of rebuilding and rebirth. Stood on a dais and declared the city shovel ready. I think he was right, but not in the way he meant.

I probably could have moved to Park Avenue if I’d wanted to, but it felt like the right time to retreat across the river. Always preferred this side, in any case. Even if it means you need to own a boat.

And there’s no more Wall Street, not in New York. There’s still the actual street, in the city, that you can walk on, but that financial part? Moved elsewhere. London, Beijing, Seoul. For awhile, they tried swapping stocks in the limnosphere, set
up a virtual exchange, but there were too many distractions, too much money to be made indulging other vices. So they set up a separate network and do all that money-swapping somewhere overseas. All the bankers and brokers relocated. Good riddance. And thanks for the divan.

Okay, divan is a word I had to look up. A visiting lady-friend said it to me once. Said she admired it.

My hand-me-down divan.

Persephone is admiring my divan. Stretched out, leaning back on it, more obviously pregnant. White wifebeater under the unzipped hoodie, revealing a sliver of belly. I’d guess maybe five months. Like I’m a doctor now.

I give the tour.

Room back there. Lock on the door, as promised. Bathroom’s there. Clean towels etcetera. I sleep out here.

Thanks.

Hugs the guest pillow to her chest. Asks an obvious question.

Why are you being so nice to me?

It was a sad day when people started to ask that routinely, don’t you think?

She laughs.

I don’t really remember when they didn’t.

You have a change of clothes?

She shakes her head. Unzips the rainbow knapsack with the decal of My Little Pony. I half-expect a tinier pony to come out.

Instead, a bottle and diaper inside.

You won’t need those for awhile.

I know. I just like having them with me. Remind me why I’m doing this, you know?

Makes sense.

The knapsack was mine when I was a little girl. Always made me feel safe. I hope to pass it on, if she’s a girl.

Looks a little worse for wear.

Yeah, well. I couldn’t find the part of Central Park with the Laundromat.

She smiles.

You’re not from some youth hostel, are you?

Me? No. I am from Hoboken though.

Are you going to hurt me?

No.

Were you going to hurt me?

This one’s tougher. I say no. Because I would have tried to make it painless. Still a lie, I know.

Well, thank you. For your help. I haven’t met too many people here who would help me.

Not a problem.

You listen to music?

No.

What do you listen to?

I hold up a hand. Moment of silence.

The city quiet.

I listen to that.

Lot of people tapped in here, huh?

Yeah. Not most. But a lot.

I guess I should be getting to bed.

Yell if you need something. I’m a light sleeper.

She looks me over. Then asks.

How old are you anyway? I told you. It’s only fair.

Me? I’m you, plus fifteen years.

She winces. Laughs again.

God, I hope not.

Morning. Making waffles.

I mix batter, then head down to the street corner. Pick up takeout coffees, bagels, and the
Post
. Three comforts that outlived the apocalypse.
Daily News
went under and the
Times
long since disappeared into the limnosphere. Now it’s just a ticker running through rich people’s dreams.

But God bless the
Post
. They still publish. On paper.

I get back, she’s up and dressed. Left her a sweatshirt, which on her grew into a dress.

Sorry about the fit. All my clothes are garbageman clothes.

It’s clean. It’s great.

You sleep okay?

Yeah. About three weeks’ worth.

She giggles.

What?

You have a waffle iron.

Yes I do.

You don’t really strike me as a waffle-iron kind of guy.

Best way I’ve found yet for making waffles.

Can’t argue with that.

It was a gift. From my wife.

Eyebrow arches like a cornered cat.

Really. And where’s she?

Deceased.

I’m sorry.

Cat relaxes. But slowly.

I slide a waffle on her plate.

So what’s next?

I’m not sure. I’ve thought about Canada.

Last I heard, border’s closed.

Yeah. I heard that too.

Plates cleared, coffee drained, waffles eaten.

Me doing dishes.

What can I say? I don’t mind. I have a dishwasher too. Never used.

I like to clean up my own mess, as a rule.

She wanders over to the fridge while I’m not paying attention.

Stainless steel. Sub-Zero. A remnant from the Wall Street types.

You got any ice cream?

She glances over.

So sue me. I’m pregnant.

Opens the freezer.

Inside, a single Ziploc baggie. Inside the Ziploc, a butcher-paper-wrapped package, about the size of a brick.

Cat arches again, but playful.

What’s this? Your secret stash?

I step over right-quick.

That? No.

She pulls the baggie out. Holds it up. Laughing now. Teasing.

What, you deal coke? Is that how you afford this place?

I snatch the bag back.

No. I do a bit of butchering.

Really?

It’s a hobby.

Cool. So what’s that? Please tell me it’s bacon.

No. Not bacon. Just bones. For stock.

Well, look at you, Mr Julia Child. Let me know if you rustle up some bacon. I’m not a big meat eater but I’ve had weird cravings of late.

Rubs her belly.

I stash the bag. Close the freezer. Step between her and it.

Try to smile.

Can’t let the cold out.

I don’t have many visitors. So I get sloppy. Forget.

A freezer is a very bad place to keep your souvenirs.

Lazy Sunday. Me in an armchair. Her on the sofa with Sports.

Regular Cleavers.

I flip through the
Post
.

A22. Tiny item.

DEATH DINER DOUBLE SLAY
.

The American Century.

I fold the paper back. Read it. Fill in the parts between the lines.

Surveillance tape caught him: Buzz cut. Aviators. Left the cash in the cash drawer.

Odd detail. Before he left, everyone dead, he holstered the pistol.

Stopped at the sink.

Washed his hands.

Buzz cut. Aviators.