Smog - Baggage of Enternal Night (11 page)

“So how are you?” she asked.
“Busy day in the junk trade?”

“I made a few dollars.”

“Enough to take me to dinner
next week? Just you and me, maybe a night of dancing at Morton’s Jazz Club?”

“I think that could be
arranged.”

She ran a finger along the back
of my hand. “We don’t get out enough, Charlie. It’s always nice just to be with
you.”

“Agreed,” I said. “Maybe we can
get together this weekend.”

Gail nodded as Geoff Van Duyn
and his wife returned to the table.

I sighed inwardly. Van Duyn
looked as if every businessman I had passed at the bar were rolled up into one
mega-agency man. Though I’d never met him, I knew much about Van Duyn through
conversations with Gail in which she’d recite each workday’s highs and lows,
her projects and aspirations and office gossip. I knew he liked theater but not
sporting events, yachts but not planes, stocks but not bonds. Van Duyn liked
his coffee black, his ties red, and his wives blonde.

Gail worked in the corporate
office for Rockwell’s department stores, a chain of high-end retailers that
carried everything a modern family could want, from clothes to bedding to
appliances to toys. She managed procurement for designer women’s clothes, some
of it pretty hoity-toity fashion. I needled her whenever I won a piece of
luggage with Rockwell’s dresses tucked inside; everything became “second-hand”
eventually. I purchased things for pennies of what she sold on the racks.

Van Duyn was Vice President of
purchasing. He was her boss and, as such, determined her future with the
company.

Introductions were made, and he
started right in on me.

“You a businessman, Charlie?”

“I’m self-employed.”

“No kidding. A self-made man?”

“A man still in the making,” I
said.

He guffawed like a cat choking
up a hairball. “Funny stuff.” He turned to Gail. “You didn’t tell me he had a
sense of humor.”

“That’s Charlie,” she said, and
I could sense the nervousness in her voice.

“So what is it you do?” Van
Duyn asked.

“I’m involved in a few
different ventures. I write editorials and buy and sell collectibles.”

“Sounds like hobbies, not an
occupation.”

“I control my own destiny,” I
said, cringing at the slip of cliché.

“I’ll give you that,” he
replied. “But why knock yourself out, scrambling for pennies? Get a real job, I
say, so you have security and can share life’s luxuries with Gail.”

“Let me tell you, Geoff,” I
said. “A man is successful if he lives every day with the ability to do what he
wants.”

Van Duyn nodded, expecting me
to continue. I didn’t have any more to say on the subject, but they were all
looking at me and the silence grew awkward fast. I grasped for something else
to add that would seem important.

“Our time on Earth is limited,
and there’s no point wasting it living someone else’s life. Every man’s vision
of triumph is different, and the truest measure is how honest you are with
yourself. Pursue your passion, and success will follow.”

What I said sounded so sincere
and knowledgeable I wished I’d written it down for future use, though I didn’t
think I could repeat it again with a straight face. It was probably just
recollection of some jumbled phrases from old management pep-talks, back when I
was
in business. But the others nodded and agreed, commenting on the
wisdom I’d shared. Van Duyn said if I ever wanted to try my hand in the
department store business, he’d have a job for me. A waiter arrived to take our
order, and afterwards the conversation changed to lighter topics.

I can’t say the rest of the
evening was pleasant, but it was more bearable than I’d expected.

Chapter 3

The
next couple days passed as if they didn’t exist. I felt antsy like there was
something I was supposed to do, or else I was missing an affair, the way a
celebration occurs and you show up at two in the morning after it’s ended. By
the time you arrive, everyone is passed-out drunk, the music’s turned off, and
the pink streamers hanging off light fixtures just look limp and spent. During
that time I penned some editorials and nursed a steady, dull ache in my head,
sold some collectible spoons to a silver dealer, and wrote a monthly letter to
my folks back home. Each night I dreamt of people sitting around a campfire in
the snow, like a powwow. Around them spread a forest, and I wondered if it was
the same snowy forest that Joey said he dreamt of. The people sitting around
the campfire had empty faces, just the shell of an egg sitting on top of a
torso, and they disappeared into the night one-by-one.

By the time Thursday afternoon arrived, I was
bored and desperate for some action. I’d been waiting for today’s baggage
auction for a long time; I hadn’t been to an auction or race in a week, as all
the tracks were closed for the summer heat and most other “venues of chance”
were on hiatus. I ironed my pants and dialed Joey at the same time, holding the
handset in the crook of my neck while steam drifted up my face.

He picked up after nine rings.

“Hey, it’s me, Charlie. You ready? Roman’s is
opening in half an hour. Want me to meet at your room?”

“Charlie...?” His voice drifted, as if my name
were a question or a fleeting memory from something long ago.

“Yeah, from upstairs. You drinkin’ already?”

There was a pause between us, and in that lack of
conversation I heard dim voices in the background, muffled by distant music,
but words repeating, chanting.

The records.

“Hey, pal,” he said slowly. “I’m not feeling up to
snuff today. Why don’t you go on without me.”

“Geez, they’re liquidating baggage from the Lincolnwood
Hyatt today. The Lincolnwood! Kim Novak roosted there last month, vacationing
from Hollywood. I heard the porter lost one of her satchels. Who knows what
might turn up today.”

“Make a bid for me. I’m gonna take it easy.”

“You want me to pick up some soup for you on the
way back?”

“No, no, pal, it’s okay. I’m just gonna sleep it
off.”

I shrugged, as if he could see me through the
phone line. “Okay, hope you feel better tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “We’ll be fine.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” I asked, but the line went dead as
he hung up.

I never knew Joey to call off plans due to
sickness. Catching the sniffles wasn’t reason enough to skip playing the
auctions. Of course, age
was
catching up to us, and the weather extremes
didn’t help. As of late, I also had felt sluggish, my mind a bit muddled. Maybe
there was a bug going around the hotel. Now that I thought about it, that
wouldn’t surprise me at all. Who knew what kind of foul things died in the
ducts, their carcasses left rotting so the gases of death bubbled out from the
hissing vents into our rooms. Les Deux Oies wasn’t exactly a sanctuary of
sanitation; I’d seen mold in the halls and roaches scurrying into ever-widening
cracks. Not a lot, mind you, but their occasional appearances were just enough
to remind you that things causing the willies existed all around and there
wasn’t much you could do about it. I had spoken to the building’s
superintendent, Horace Wetzel, about the declining condition, but he just
nodded and said he’d check it out, all the while giving me that look:
if you
don’t like it, you can go somewhere else.

So I did, at least for the evening. I went to Roman’s.

By the time I arrived, the auction house was
filled with gamblers, investors, goons, and degenerates. It reminded me of a
scene from an old James Cagney mobster movie. Groups of men dressed in shiny
suits stood around, their eyes hidden in the shadows of low-slung fedoras, and
they all turned to me as I walked through the front entrance.

“Charlie, over here,” Ray Galler called out. He
stood with a couple of bespectacled men who were built skinny and narrow-faced
like accountants. “This is John A. and John T.” He tilted his head at me.
“Johns, this is Charlie Stewart.”

“Did you hear Kim Novak’s satchel is supposed to
be here?” one of the Johns asked.

“Knew since it went missing,” I replied with a
wink.

“This is the Johns’ first time at the auctions.
I’m training them to run my stores, and I told them you’re one of the smartest
bidders to watch,” Ray said. He looked past me. “Where’s Joey?”

“Took a sick day. Too much sun.”

“Huh. Not like him to miss out on something like
the Lincolnwood.”

“Don’t I know it, but what can you do if health
deals you a bum hand for the day? Take it and reshuffle tomorrow.”

“One less bidder sounds fine by me,” the other
John said.

I was going to snap something back, real witty,
too, but the auctioneer started in on his spiel.

I had twenty bucks in my pocket and was itching to
spend it. The first case went up: a caramel-colored piece of luggage with a
saddle belt wrapped around each side. I bid my opening dollar and Ray went to
two. The dollars increased until Ray won at six and a half. The next item was a
checkered satchel. Ray won that, too. An hour later, I still had twenty bucks
in my pocket.

I’d been outbid on everything, most noticeably by
Ray and the accountants. They must have bought at least three-quarters of the
luggage so far.

“What gives?” I whispered to him. “You’ve spent
half the economy of Detroit. You know something I don’t?”

“Feeling lucky today, Charlie. It’s more than Kim
Novak who’s stayed at the Lincolnwood lately.”

That did it. I’d been moping around all week, and
I refused to go home empty-handed now. The next item the auctioneer called out
was a leather suitcase, its face more cracked than a smiling politician. The
edges were frayed and the locks shed flecks of rust.

“Opening bid, do I hear an opening bid for this
fine gentleman’s case?” said the auctioneer.

“One dollar,” Ray said.

“One dollar over there, do I hear two?”

“Ten,” I called out.

The auctioneer coughed.

I hated myself. I knew it was a bad bid, a
dabbler
move, but the craving to win had hold. Buyer’s remorse was nothing compared
with the hasty impulse to make an offer on an item, knowing the auction was
soon-to-close; I came all the way down here and I
had
to gamble on something.

“Ten dollars, the man with the big wallet. Now
ten, going eleven, going eleven once, going eleven twice. Sold! Ten dollars.”

“I wouldn’t have gone past two,” Ray whispered.

“Sometimes it takes a little jolt to get into the
action,” I said.

“The action’s all gone, buddy. There’s only one
more case left.”

A porter carried out a busted suitcase held
together by bailing twine.

“Last item,” called the auctioneer. “A promising
treasure trove, this case is bursting with potential. Do I hear an opening
bid?”

Ah, to Hell with it
, I thought.

“Ten dollars,” I shouted.

I heard the crowd collectively groan.

Later, as we collected our winnings, Ray
approached and slapped me on the back.            “Tough bids,” he said,
snapping his fingers.

“Just like playin’ ball. Some games you’re a star,
and others you wish you never signed up. Maybe Joey was onto something staying
home.”

“Who knows, you could find the Queen’s Diamond
hidden inside.”

“Not in these dogs.” We both knew I’d been a
dummy.

“Listen, the reason I’m bringing the Johns into my
business is that I want to spend more time hunting for the
real finds
,
peoples’ heirlooms and found artifacts. The baggage auctions are great, but I’m
fixing on attending antique show circuits and estate sales, connecting with
property liquidators and dealers.”

“Branching out? There’s no one better finding
value in the throwaway trade.”

“It’s all part of a grand plan,” he said. The two
accountants appeared on either side of him like a pair of guard dogs.
“Acquisitions are the key.”

The crowd was thinning, bidders making their way
to cars waiting outside. Most of the auction attendees were suspicious of
everyone else and guarded their wins the way misers watch pennies. I always
thought it was guilt that gnawed at men like that; those who stole before were
most likely now to distrust the world around them.

I turned back to Ray with the mountain of cases
piled around him. He must have bought at least fifty items. “So what do you
want? A hand carrying out your winnings?”

He snorted. He snapped his fingers. “I want to see
your apartment, Charlie. You and Joey bring some top finds to me. What do you
do with the rest of your winnings, the loafers and perfumes and broken toys
that most of us cart home like we’re the city garbage men?” He toed my case,
the one held together by twine.

“It keeps me company at night,” I said.

Ray snorted again. Snapped again. “I’ve been
trading collectibles a lot longer than you. Let me take a look at what else
you’ve got. I may find some things in your home with value you don’t know
about. I could take ’em off your hands.”

He was offering to cart out some of my junk
and
pay me? I asked, “Tomorrow afternoon soon enough?”

“I’ll be there at three.”

I wished him luck for the rest of the night and
went out the door.

The trip back to Les Deux Oies was slow-going. I
had a Ford and I babied her. She was a powder-blue Crestline, ’52 model, lot of
miles and a lot of good memories. But she was ailing now, the transmission
gears starting to slip and alignment pulling to the right. I’d just replaced a
cracked windshield and blown muffler, and I knew some expensive repairs were in
my future. I cussed myself out that I’d gotten caught up in the bids and blew
through a twenty for no good reason.

Back in the apartments, a funny thing happened. I
was going up the rickety elevator, suitcases in hand, along with a man I
recognized as one of Joey’s neighbors, Martin something-or-other. I didn’t
particularly know him, though we’d been introduced in passing a year or two
ago. He was young and blond, some sort of Scandinavian stock, and married to a
gorgeous dame who could have passed for his sister.

“Evening,” I said and nodded a greeting at him.

He returned the sentiment.

As we arrived at the fourth floor, I felt a tug in
my mind, like a cartoon-hand aroma tickling my senses, enticing me to get off
and follow its lead. The doors parted, and Martin stepped out, muttering, “
Vkhodite
.”

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t respond, just hurried away, vanishing
behind the closing doors. The elevator rose, and the cartoon-hand aroma
sensation passed, but I felt the aftereffect; that tingling when you know
you’ve narrowly missed something bad, the out-of-control car coming right at
you, and—just when you brace yourself to be hit—it corrects itself and drives
away. I sensed it was Joey’s room calling me, and my gut instinct said to stay
away. My gut instinct said to never go down there again.

By the time I settled in for the evening, I’d
tossed back two Stroh’s beers and set a third on top of a hope chest that once
belonged to a woman whose son helped build the Empire State Building. I knew,
because inside were photo albums of him wearing suspenders and a flat cap in
all manner of poses along the timeline of its construction. I thought often of
the photos I possessed of other people’s lives, people I didn’t know but whose
memories I kept stashed under trunk lids. Were these people all dead now? Did
they have families who wondered whatever happened to pictures and mementoes
passed down from generation to generation until, one day, such remembrances
simply absconded into the unknown?

The cases I won were left open on the floor where
I’d dumped their contents. I’d spent twenty bucks and lugged home a pair of
four-foot paperweights, for all the worth they held. The first case with the
cracked face was stuffed with wrinkled children’s clothes, and the busted
second case contained paperwork relating to a dairy business proposal. I did
find one item of interest, hidden under a false bottom beneath the kids’
clothes: a nudie magazine from 1939. I thumbed through it and mused that these
were simply more photographs of other people’s lives come into my possession.

As the deep-sea shadows of night rolled in, I
found myself contemplative again of life, and the “what if” questions flicked
through my thoughts.
What if
I had stayed with my family out in the
Kentucky wheatlands, where the sun shone across a wide blue sky like molten
gold. Maybe I’d be a hayseed farmer, plowing Poppa’s fields and spending
afternoons fishing in the Blueway River with little care in the world.
What
if
I forgave Danielle, the woman I was engaged to a decade ago, who cheated
on me with the jockey? Maybe we’d be settled now with a couple of children,
living in a cottage down by the lakeshore.
What if
I never met Danielle?
Maybe I’d be more open with Gail, more trusting to share my feelings with
her…I’m sure I would have proposed by now.
What if
I had managed to keep
a “real” profession, accounting or insurance, something stable where I could
surrender to those long hours but feel the elusive hope of “security”? I
thought I’d be dead from a heart attack.
What if
Momma and Poppa were
right?
Nothing good ever comes from moving to the city. What if, what if,
what if...