Lunch With Louie
The demon that regularly assaults Steven Mayer returns in full force this night at 2:32. Shame, as Steven names it, rouses him before he can mobilize his defense strategy.
Knowing that the Army advocates attempting to escape as soon as possible after enemy capture, he has directed himself to fight off the invading thoughts immediately, so as not to be taken prisoner. Think only good things.
He makes his nightly trip to the toilet, stumbles back to bed and tries to return to his dream. There he is a powerful young man full of hope and confidence and living the ultimate boy/man fantasy: two men on base, down two runs in the bottom of the ninth, and he’s just driven a three-two pitch so far out of Yankee Stadium that it’s instantly historic, like one of Mantle’s rifle shots that defined glory.
He pushes his mind to return to that dream, focusing on visual slivers: the pitcher’s wind-up, the release, the fastball coming straight to his sweet spot, the assured movement of his legs, mid torso, forearms, and wrists, and then getting right behind that spinning red-stitched white leather ball with the meat of his bat. He grabs at images from the dream for traction like a mountain climber frantically feeling for a life-saving foothold. But nothing sticks. Steven can’t get back to that golden ballpark with its white-lined symmetry, its green grass and brown clay, can’t get back to round the bases and savor the cheers. Shame hits him harder than he could ever hit that fastball.
Familiar with the terrain, the invader now works its way through his consciousness with the usual weapons: Kicked out. Fired. Let go. Terminated. The more accurate, less hurtful version of what had happened is never used: Your position, Steven, has been eliminated for economic reasons having nothing to do with performance. At this stage in the torment, though, that detail has become academic. It no longer matters to Steven that he was laid off and not fired.
Worthless. Failure. Useless. Loser. The words rip into him, guaranteeing sleeplessness. Still, if being laid off was his only battle, by now, twenty months into it, he would be awake for only an hour. Two, at the most. But the complete career analysis takes over: all the mistakes made, things said, not said, roads taken and not taken. Conclusion: He’s sixty years old and done.
He feels Sheila stir next to him in the bed. Her foot touches and caresses his, a move that used to initiate sex but that he knows is now intended to comfort him. She’s saying: Try to sleep, Steve, please.
Guiltrushes in. Two lives turned upside down. Sheila’s comfortable life gone, along with much of their savings. The part-time retail work she used to enjoy for stimulation is now a full-time necessity. But she doesn’t complain. She even manages to tolerate his moodiness. At least the kids are grown and on their own, he thinks, although he senses that Richie and Susan not only worry about him, they also pity him. Steven - the family rock , mentor and advisor, string-puller and tab-payer , the one who insisted on providing the best for them all - lies in bed and wonders if he still has his children’s respect.
He finally enters something resembling sleep at 6:30, which lasts two hours. He awakes in an achy fog made worse by the immediate awareness that he is idle while most everyone else is working; he is still in bed with tangled sheets and strewn pillows while others are at the office or on their way. At 9:00, he is groggily moving around the kitchen of what was their first home, a rent-controlled two-bedroom apartment that later became their Manhattan pied-à-terre, and a year ago became their home again. The rooms are small but nicely decorated and filled with pricey items from the two houses that they were forced to sell. There are a few new pieces: the greatly reduced white leather Barcelona chair from a showroom going out of business gives him special pride.
Barefoot in his boxers and t-shirt, with his face unshaven and a head of hair that has seen nighttime warfare, he thinks of all the groomed men in their suits who are striding into their offices. That had once been him, with his fitted Canali suits, his custom shirts and polished Ferragamo shoes.
A scent of rose over wood and leather works its way into his awareness. He hears Sheila’s hurried high heels, evocative of commitment and industry, tap across the living room’s wooden floor before she enters the kitchen. A black business suit follows the outline of her full body and deep blond hair with brown lowlights frames a face that betrays no serious signs of aging. God, she looks great, Steven thinks, an assessment he knows is shared by men of various ages on the streets of Manhattan.
Steven, too, had been a model of gracious aging, but lately he has given up on the effort. Four months have gone by since he last dyed his hair – this had been done at the strategic advice of an executive search coach - and now the grey is winning. His once-angular face is starting to show the effects of the third and sometimes fourth daily double vodka. Facial puffiness is winning over bone structure at a steady rate. His former fit body, tuned by regular workouts, is softer and more ample.
“Another bad night?” Sheila asks, as if the argument last night hadn’t happened.
“Yeah.”
“Doing anything special today?” She is careful not to ask whether he has any interviews, but she want to make sure he’s got something to keep him busy.
“No. Maybe I’ll take a walk to the park or just around. What’s it like out?” he asks.
“It looks gorgeous. Get out and enjoy it,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Any more thoughts of teaching?” she asks lightly.
“We’ve done this, Sheila. How many times do I have to tell you what everybody knows - the schools are cutting back.”
“Well, how about taking a course, then?” she asks, her voice only hinting at frustration, anger and emerging fear as she continues to watch him gradually shut down.
Steven’s temper now pops through his thinning skin. “Like a fucking dilettante? I need to work, not sit in a classroom.”
Determined to avoid an explosion, Sheila keeps her response amiable. “But you always wanted to get into photography. Something creative. Maybe it could lead to a new … a new career.” She falters, and then keeps going. “Why don’t you take your camera today?”
“I’ll see.” I’m begging you, Sheila. Leave me the fuck alone.
“I have to run, Steve. I’m late.” More worry. “Let’s talk tonight. Okay?
Bounce ideas around? I love you.”
“Love you,” he mumbles.
Sheila leaves for work, and he is left to his juice, coffee, toast and The New York Times. The daily crossword has become an important part of his day’s work, yielding success or failure. He washes the breakfast dishes, Sheila’s and his, and by 10:00 he’s ready to face another day as a consultant, freelancer, advisor or semi-retiree.
It is one of those spectacular early June days in Manhattan that arrives with HOPE as its headline. Steven heads out into it in old jeans, a faded polo shirt and no camera. What he does carry is a glimmer of that hope. Maybe this brilliant day will share some of its promise, if only for a few hours. He stops first to observe the progress at the construction site across the street. He has been following the work every day and today he notices that the men have added a new floor to the building they are constructing. He watches as the carpenters, ironworkers and crane operators move through their tasks and he thinks of his father, a skilled roofer. These men, who build homes and keep people dry and safe, have become his heroes.
Leaving the West Village, he makes his way over to 7th Avenue and crosses it to walk north. He has altered his routine today to walk, if only for a couple of blocks, on the busy avenue instead of taking his usual stroll through the picturesque side streets. It’s the warm sunshine that makes him decide to walk by Morandi at the corner of 7th and Waverly Place.
The late breakfast patrons occupying a couple of the sidewalk tables produce in him the pang he knew he’d feel. He and Sheila used to frequent Morandi. They were well known to the staff and were treated as famiglia. During pleasant months, they’d dine outside by candlelight, taking in the scene on Waverly Place. When it was too warm or cold or raining, they’d nestle inside at their favorite table, surrounded by dark wood and old brick.
Morandi makes Steven think of Sheila. He knew that their dinners there used to fill her with a quiet ecstasy. The welcome bestowed upon her by Roberto, the maitre d’, was warmer and more sincere than any celebrity would receive. Steven also got the Roberto treatment, partly out of respect for his stature in the media world, partly because he was a nice guy, but mainly, Steven knew, because he accompanied Sheila. And he loved seeing his gorgeous, down-to-earth wife treated like a queen.
Recalling Sheila’s happiness as she basked in Roberto’s adoration, Steven feels guilt once again gnawing him. It’s the usual remorse involving her downsized life with its deprivations and sacrifices. But it’s also about their fight last night and his outright nastiness. Sheila had suggested he get in touch with Marty Rosen, his closest friend. “Why don’t you get together with him? You need that kind of companionship. You know, an old friend that you’re totally comfortable with, who you don’t feel you need to impress.”
“Friendship is overrated at our age,” he said, not attempting philosophy, just honesty.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with having someone other than your wife and children to care about you?”
“Because it’s bullshit,” he said, finishing his second double vodka.
“Why, Steven?”
“How many close friends do you still have?” he asks.
“I have a lot of friends.”
“I mean really close friends who you can call in the middle of the night and say ‘I need you.’ ”
“Alright, I guess one. Michelle.”
“Yeah. And you only see her once every four or five months.”
“But we speak to each other every week, and I know she’s there for me if I need her,” Sheila said.
“Is she? Really? I doubt it. People are caught up in their own lives,” he said.
“Steve, call Marty. He’s there for you. You could use some guy support now.”
“Marty’s strictly out for himself. So fucking self-absorbed in his own bullshit law career. I’m tired of hearing how great a litigator he is.”
“I never heard him brag,” she said. “Well, maybe a little, when he won that big case against Microsoft. But that was a coup.”
”You know, Sheila, I’ve known Marty for what? Over forty years? My college roommate. And he’s never really asked me about my career. Marty’s like this: ‘Hi, Steve. Everything good at work.’ A statement, not a question. And anyway, you know me. I’m not good at opening up. I’m not going to expose myself to Marty,” Steven said.
After a long pause that Sheila deliberately let pass without a word, he started up again, “I tried a couple of times. Once, when I was still working and fed up with the politics, the bullshit … and then another time after I was laid off – God I still have trouble saying that – Marty didn’t even listen to the hints I threw out. He never picked up on them. You know, ask questions when I was still working like, ‘Steve, are you happy? Let’s have a drink and talk about it.’ Or, after it happened like, ‘Steve, how can I help? If you need someone to talk to, Steve, I’m here. How about lunch tomorrow, Steve?’ Marty’s just a goddamn disappointment.”
Steven pours himself another drink.
“Stevie, slow down with the vodka. You’re just gonna work yourself up some more.”
“Goddammit, leave me alone,” Steven yelled.
“Okay. I will. But it’s just … I know where this is going. You’ll have another drink and you’ll hate the world,” she said. “I just want you to be happy, not angry.” Not getting a response, she added, “You know, maybe you should have brought up your career with Marty, your accomplishments, what you did every day. Or even that you were becoming unhappy.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I told you that’s not my style. And, for God’s sake, you should know that without my saying it. My fucking point, Sheila, is he could have asked … Like I always asked him. Marty’s like most people, just caught up in his own shit. He listens but doesn’t hear. Now it’s an effort to call him - or anyone else for that matter. Why bother? ”
“Steve, you’re becoming so negative. You were never like this. It’s not attractive, you know. It’s just not appealing.” Instantly, she regretted saying this, regretted revealing her exhaustion and loss of interest. She was simply beginning to care less.
Steven recognized the meaning behind her words and Shame moved quickly to amplify it. “Look, I am what I am. If you don’t like it, just leave. Or I will. Really. You can find someone else. Actually … maybe you already have, for all I know. So go to him.” He took a long hit on his drink and shook the cubes, ready for a refill.
“There is no one else, Steve, you know that. But I can’t take this anymore, watching you destroy yourself and us. You keep pushing me away. You are. Not our situation. You. To be honest, all the hours I work … it’s not just about making more money. I can’t wait to get out of here every day, to go anywhere!” she said.
Sheila took a deep breath. “We can get through this,” she went on, more calmly. “But I just can’t take your cynicism, your pessimism . It’s like a monster shows up every time you have two drinks. You’re a winner, Steve, but you’re acting like a loser.” Another misguided comment, she knew, but she thought, To hell with it. I can be reckless too.
It all went downhill after loser. Steven told her to go fuck herself, made himself another big drink, and went into the second bedroom they use as a den to watch MSNBCso he could really get mad. Sheila cut a slice of the meatloaf she had baked to last three meals, added some asparagus she had steamed and sat at the kitchen table to eat alone, knowing that after she went bed he would cut his own slice and make a sandwich, sit at the same table and ultimately work his way to their bed, guilt-ridden. But he would not say I’m sorry. Stevencan no longer bear to offer an apology to Sheila because he can no longer bear to acknowledge the lack of credibility he has even with himself.
Before the coming of frayed nerves and thinned skin and after thirty-three years of marriage, they had luxuriated in the knowledge that they could blurt out their feelings to one another. They could yell go fuck yourself, without fear, without the need toapologize. But what once had been a harmless barb has now become an arrow with a poison tip.
Reaching University Place, Steven is finally shaken from his memories of the previous night by the beauty of the June day. He is struck by the excitement he sees in the faces of NYU students as they pass by. But the euphoria is not confined to the young. Faces of all ages are beaming with the joy of a perfect spring day in New York. It is as though a sepia photograph from long ago has magically come alive in glorious color. He squints at the sun and his shoulders relax a bit, as warmth begins to seep into his skin.
Steven continues north on University to Union Square, where the Greenmarket stalls are filled with artisanal cheeses, breads, fish, meats and produce. A year and a half ago, he and Sheila would drop a hundred dollars or more here without hesitation on a Friday on supplies for the house in Armonk for a weekend of feasts. Depending on the season, they’d buy tuna brought in daily from Montauk, cherrystone clams, porterhouse steaks, apple cider, white cheddar, heirloom tomatoes, huge savory onions, freshly made mozzarella, berries of all types, rustic breads, and a tin of Martin’s hard pretzels.
On his way to Madison Square Park, he allows himself a rare treat and buys a $7 ham and Swiss sandwich on rye and a $1 bottled water; these he carries into the park to a bench where he intends to spend a couple of hours. Steven has visited this bench or one nearby with great regularity since the day he was told his job was being eliminated.
He still spends too much time replaying the conversation that day between him and Gordon Schmidt, his new boss. The end had come over a cup of coffee at a table at the Plaza Hotel’s Palm Court, with its mirrored doors, marble columns and domed yellow-and-green skylight.
The low regard Steven had for Gordon Schmidt had turned into loathing as the younger man announced he was personally taking over Steven’s responsibilities as part of a broad cost-cutting measure. It was, he explained, an unfortunate but necessary response to the dire state of the media business. While Steven knew the cuts had to have been sanctioned at the highest level of the company, he was convinced Schmidt had somehow engineered his specific removal to save his own hide and demolish any rivals.
Up until that cup of coffee, it had been a magnificent mid-October morning, full of autumnal richness, but the vivid colors of the trees in Central Park had blanched when Steven left the Plaza. He had to return to the office to pack his belongings and say his goodbyes. The shock of losing his job served to numb the pain.
He had spent a few weeks trying to absorb the trauma and then he began to look for work. At first, there was no shortage of meetings to fill his calendar. But the economy seemed to be collapsing all around him, and as more and more executives got laid off, the meetings began to dwindle, along with return phone calls and emails. Even those who owed Steven favors had nothing more to say to him. Not only were there no jobs to be offered, but the people who might offer them were losing theirs. After a year, he read that his old company was sold at a bargain price and that the buyer decided to not retain Schmidt. But by then, Steven was too beaten by defeat to care much.
His days, once filled with urgency and importance, now consist of doing crossword puzzles, washing dishes, making lunch, pacing, and spending hours on the Internet, where he keeps up with the most far-flung news, searches for job and business ideas, reads movie and book reviews, and checks out photography classes. But the highlight of his days, weather permitting, has been walking to this park, where he sits and thinks about happiness. Not past happiness; he has too many doubts now about the past. Instead he dreams of future fulfillment, though he has no idea what that might look like. Maybe photography? That might be nice: something new, yet an old passion, creative, his own thing. But the idea of reinventing himself at sixty is too daunting, and so he remains immobilized on his bench.
As he eats his ham and cheese sandwich, Steven tries to appreciate the glorious day. The park’s six acres contain tall English elms and pin oaks cloaked in the vibrant green of late spring. The playground is alive with laughing children and light glitters on the reflecting pool and the fountain.
Office workers, tourists and mothers pushing strollers fill the interconnecting oval paths that crisscross the park. People idle at benches, stand on line at the Shake Shack kiosk or sit around its small tables consuming what many consider to be the best burgers in the City, though they are no longer in Steven’s budget. He takes in the colors of the new season, the yellows, greens, pinks and blues that people are wearing and the rainbow of freshly planted flowers. He wishes he had his camera.
As Steven savors the sun’s glow, the day’s gentle warmth and light breeze, he tells himself it’s okay to enjoy this moment. The regret he feels for not having brought his camera gets put aside. Just another mistake.
He notices a gray squirrel foraging at his feet. Early June is the hardest of times for squirrels, he knows. The nuts buried in the fall have sprouted and are no longer edible, but it is too early to gather a new bounty. So this little guy, with his thickly furred tail, is staying close to Steven’s park bench in hopes of scrounging a crumb or two.
He is struck by the unexpected brilliance of the squirrel’s gray fur; the most underrated color in the spectrum looks positively vivid. The squirrel, with its coat of elegantly layered gray accented by white and brown, now has his undivided attention.
Steven sees shrewd vigilance in the squirrel’s eyes. What’s he protecting himself from? Surely not foxes, coyotes and hawks in Manhattan. More likely cars and bicycles and the heavy feet of pedestrians who are oblivious to a squirrel’s needs, blind to the life they may be about to step on. He notices the squirrel has a limp. From a bad fall? Or a reckless human? This squirrel is a survivor.
With his tail twitching like a banner in the breeze, the squirrel stares back at him. Steven removes the crust from his sandwich, tears off a few small pieces and drops them on the ground. Louie, he decides to name his new friend. Louie, from “Casablanca.” Captain Louis Renault, the consummate survivor.
Louie grabs a piece of bread and devours it hungrily, and then another. He starts to dart away with a third bit of crust but he changes his mind. Maybe he’s figuring this guy has more bread or maybe, Steven thinks, he’s enjoying the company. Whatever the reason, Louie stays to eat the bread at this safe, friendly bench. Steven continues to drop pieces of rye to his new buddy. Louie emits a few chirps, and Steven responds, “And nice meeting you, Louie.”
They proceed to have lunch together, and Steven is surprised to find that he wants the meal to go on. He watches the squirrel and tries to imagine his life. Able to jump from branch to branch, tree to tree, Louie must have more freedom than Steven will ever know. He has never felt the need to be anything more than a squirrel. Not an Executive Vice President squirrel, just a squirrel. He doesn’t need to wear a watch and worry about being late. He never has to look for work—staying alive is his only job. He is immune to the pain of loss. Lose an acorn, find another.
Steven surmises that Louie has chosen to live in this park, perhaps because of its tranquility. Encircled by a wrought-iron fence, Madison Square Park must offer refuge to a squirrel, as it does to Steven. During his twenty months of being a regular, Steven has come to love the sense of sanctuary he feels there.
The surrounding buildings evoke an older New York. To the south stands the city’s first skyscraper, the Flatiron Building, with its unique triangular floor plan and its ornate limestone and terra-cotta façade. One block east of the Flatiron and half a block north is the Met Life Tower, with its four moon-like clocks - no need to check watches in this neighborhood - and its gleaming golden tower. For three years after it was built in 1909, it was the tallest building in the world. And eight blocks north, the Empire State Building, still tall, still an icon, punctuates the park’s horizon. The grandeur of these buildings belies the warmth of their appeal.
No matter where he is in the park, he senses its just-the-right-size perimeter and is happily contained, protected. And now here’s Louie, another refugee, a survivor, to share it with. In a Bogie deadpan, he silently says, “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Wondering whether he is finally breaking down, Steven gets up from the bench, dares a quiet So long to Louie and tosses out his empty lunch bag. He begins walking south to 23rd Street and Broadway when he spots the back of someone walking rapidly in the same direction. A familiar head and shoulders and walk. It takes him a moment to recognize Billy Marshall, a business acquaintance he’s known for thirty years.
Just a little older than Steven, in his early sixties, Billy is another casualty of the Great Recession who lost his job a few months before Steven lost his. Steven quickens his pace to catch up, but Billy is practically in a run. Thinking maybe’s he’s late for an appointment, Steven slows down. But Billy is wearing worn-out jeans and a tired t-shirt, his hair is long and disheveled and catching a glimpse of his profile, Steven can see he has days of stubble on his face. Not an interview look.
“Billy!” Steven shouts. Not getting an answer, he jogs toward him and yells again. Billy now stops and turns around. Both men are out of breath and take each other in. Steven, on something of a high after his lunch with Louie, smiles. After a moment, Billy smiles, but tensely. Steven sees it as forced, not unfriendly, just unhappy. Shaking hands, Billy’s grip feels loose, damp and rubbery.
“Hi, Steve. How you doing?” Billy says.
“Oh, I’m good. You know, considering,” Steven replies.
“Yeah. Considering. How’s Sheila?”
“Good. She’s working and trying to help us keep things together… I’m not going to bullshit you, Billy. It’s tough. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
“What does she do?” Billy asks.
“She’s manager of the dress department at Saks. How’s Renee?” Steven asks.
“Renee’s okay, Steve. What can I tell you. She’s taken it bad. Things between us have been … well, strained. You know it’s two years now,” Billy says.
After an uncomfortable pause with Billy deep in thought, he adds, “Look at us, Steve, two old fucks in the park on a Tuesday afternoon. You and I used to run the station business, for Christ sake, and now we’re … whatever we are.” Changing subjects, he adds, “At least Sheila’s working, though. Sounds like a good job.”
“Yeah, it is. Doesn’t pay a ton. You know, retail. The truth is, Billy, aside from needing the money - and believe me, I’m thrilled it’s there - I’ve become a colossal asshole to be around. So she likes to get out of the apartment,” Steven says.
“That’s hard for me to see. I mean the part about you being an asshole,” Billy says.
“Thanks, pal, but you don’t live with me. It’s just … you know. If anyone knows, it’s you. Thirty-five, forty years of busting our humps, making names for ourselves. Being players,” Steven says.
“Yeah. Now it’s all over. It’s time to just face it and either move on or not,” Billy says philosophically, and looks down at his worn running shoes. He suddenly adds, “Got to go, Steve. Got an appointment. My best to Sheila. She’s a special lady. Don’t be an asshole.”
“How can I get in touch, Billy? We should talk more. You know, it’s hard to do that with other people who don’t know …’ Steven says, remembering Sheila’s suggestion of the night before.
“What’s your email, Steve?” Billy asks.
“stevenmayer @ gmail.com.”
“Don’t carry a pen anymore, but I’ll remember it and send you my contact info. Bye, Steve,” Billy says.
As Steven watches Billy reach 23rd Street, he thinks, what appointment? He probably just doesn’t want to talk anymore.He sees Billy standing at the curb, moving his head back and forth, following the east-west flow of traffic. Billy’s focus seems to be on the westbound cars that cross Broadway right in front of him. The light turns red for those vehicles and Billy starts to jog in place, ignoring the chance to cross the street, seeming preoccupied. Puzzled, Steven doesn’t move. He sees Billy lower his head and move it from side to side, taking deep breaths like an athlete waiting to make a bold move. When the light changes to allow the cross-town cars to whip across Broadway, Billy coils his body, apparently intent on making a timed move. He waits for what seems like an opportune moment. Making his decision, he suddenly dashes into 23rd Street.
Steven is shocked to see that the timing of Billy’s lurch into the street is off, way off. A fast-moving black Escalade comes to a miraculous screeching, skidding stop, inches from Billy’s moving body. A chorus of “Oh, my God” in at least three languages rises from the tourists and office workers seated at tables in the shadow of the Flatiron Building. Several jump out of their metal chairs and run forward, hands to mouth. The driver of the Escalade also jumps out, furious, red-faced, terrified. He roars, “What, are you fucking crazy? I coulda killed you” as Billy, head down, quickly disappears into the crowd of stunned onlookers.
Slowly walking away, Steven is shaken, gory visions of what almost happened filling his mind. What was that all about? He thinks of Billy’s wife, Renee, a wife of the business, at all the events, knew everyone and worked the room along with her husband; she probably missed the life. Steven recalls that Billy has grown children and a few grandchildren. And he had been one of the best media execs in the business.
Steven’s mind races. What had Billy been thinking? Why so reckless at such a busy intersection? A crazy game? Some excitement in what had become a dull existence? But Billy was the opposite of reckless; he had been a careful, calculating planner.
Then it hits him: Billy’s timing wasn’t off. Find an aggressive driver and enlist him unknowingly in ending the misery. A quick dash into traffic. An accident, the cops would probably call it. Renee would get the insurance money, and if he had accidental death on his policy, she would get the double benefit. Billy, the consummate planner: ‘It’s time to just face it and either move on or not.’ Billy wanted or not. And why not?
Yes, why not? Steven thinks of calling Sheila. To say what though? “Sheila, this is where I might be headed.” But if so, why signal it and be talked out of it and have to continue to feel the pain? Just do it. It’s all about picking the right spot and having impeccable timing. And the car has to be going fast enough. No spending months in a hospital with huge medical bills. It has to be done right so it all ends in an instant. And Sheila gets back her old lifestyle.
He starts walking downtown on the east side of Broadway deep in thought, no longer aware of the vibrant hues that had energized him earlier. The day has shifted to gray. Not Louie’s textured, shimmering gray, but one that is void of life, a dead, blank gray.
Sensing Steven’s weakness, Shame emerges. Fear and dread start to seep through his body. By the time he nears 18th Street, despair deeper than any he has known overcomes him. His body turns into gel, without a skeleton, without muscle, with no physical support. He begins to crumble, three blocks short of the Fourteenth Street intersection that could be crossed at a most opportune moment to end the pain.
As his legs buckle, more self-loathing hits: I can’t even do this right. On the brink of collapse, he hears a woman’s scream. “Get him! He stole my bag.” Her voice preempts every sound around him and every thought within him. The scream is loaded with fear and outrage. She’s lying on the sidewalk in front of him, an old woman, holding her bloody mouth. He runs to her and kneels to help, but she is already struggling to her feet. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” the woman is crying. “But I need my bag. Can’t you stop him?”
Steven feels something snap into place and he takes off, running south, chasing not his final moment but a young man who has just bashed an old woman and taken her bag. He runs with purpose, dodging bystanders, avoiding cars, zigzagging his way as easily as Louie jumps from branch to branch, his eyes fixed on the blue t-shirt of the mugger.
Just north of Union Square at 17th Street, the young man, blocked by a heavy stream of rushing traffic, hears Steven panting and turns to face him with a leer, as if to say, Okay, you old fuck. Now what?
Steven slows to a purposeful walk. Startled by his own lack of fear, he approaches the mugger. There’s no room for fear in this life-saving mission. Instead there’s a mounting rage. The woman’s bag is under the young man’s loose shirt and locked in place by his left arm.
“Give me the bag,” Steven says, staring directly at the guy.
“Go fuck yourself, grandpa. You ain’t gonna do jack shit.
“Look, punk,” Steven says, spitting the words out, “you have no fuckin’ idea how crazy I am. I don’t care about getting hurt. I don’t care about dying. Understand, you miserable piece of shit? Either make your move or put the bag on the ground and walk the fuck away. Or else I’m gonna take you apart like a piece of chicken for hitting that old woman.”
The rage that’s taking over his body creates a wild, ferocious, crazy face. His eyes open as wide as they can. His body leans forward, taut and coiled. His lips are tightly squeezed, his fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides. These are weapons he has no right to count on. But he can count on the fury that’s pounding in his brain. Armed to the teeth with his wrath, he walks forward and at the top of his lungs, yells, “Now. Do it now!”
The mugger blinks and drops the bag at his feet, muttering “You’re fuckin’ nuts, man,” then quickly turns away, weaving his way back into the Greenmarket crowds.
Steven picks up the bag, handling it carefully like a prize, its lustrous blue patent leather gleaming in the sunshine. As he walks back to the woman, his strides are light and easy, as if there is only air under his feet. During the one block walk he is transformed into a man he vaguely remembers.
The old woman, who Steven now sees is not so old, has some Kleenex pressed to her cut and is back on her feet. She walks to him with outstretched arms. Hugging Steven, she says, “You are a special man.”
When Sheila returns from work, he pours them both a glass of wine and asks her about her day. She is taken aback by his relaxed presence, his switch to wine, his interest in her day. But she goes with it and fills him in on the new line of clothes that she reviewed today. Gray and brown are going to be the big fall colors, and Steven smiles, thinking of Louie. Then she asks him how he spent his day.
He blurts out, “I think I saw Billy Marshall try to kill himself.”
“What?” Sheila cries. As Steven starts to tell her about his brief conversation with Billy in the park, the Escalade and the screeching brakes, he begins to sob. Long gusts of grief shake him: sorrow for Billy, for himself, for Sheila, for them all. Sheila gets up from her chair and sits next to him on the couch, cradling his head and hugging him tightly. She can’t recall the last time he had cried.
Wiping his eyes and getting himself under control, he says, “I should have seen it, Sheila. Made him sit and talk to me.”
“How could you have possibly guessed that was on his mind, Steve? You couldn’t know! But thank god, it’s not too late. You can give him a call and try to have lunch or coffee with him.”
He ponders this and moves off the subject. “There’s more, Sheila. I was able to get a woman’s bag back from a mugger.”
“What? What are you talking about? You’re crazy. Should I be more worried than I already am?”
“I’m fine. Really. He was just a punk. Oh, and I bought a five-dollar bag of Martin’s pretzels in Union Square. Broken. The way you like them. They’re on the counter in the kitchen.”
“Thanks. A treat.”
“Oh, one more thing … “
Sheila is ecstatic. This is the most talkative Steven’s been in months. “Yes?”
“I had lunch with Louie, an amazing survivor. Very courageous.”
“Louie? You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“Well I just met him today. At the park. Madison Square. Louie’s a squirrel, Sheila, a beautiful gray squirrel. He’s an inspiration.”
“Steven, you’re insane,” Sheila says, with a nervous smile. “Anything else, other than lunch with Louie?”
In the same matter-of-fact tone, he says, ”Yeah. One more thing. On the way home I enrolled at NYU for a summer photography class. I want to look out again.” Steven allows himself a large smile, his first in a long time.
