Street
was sleepy and slow, and he remembered that this was the original Saratoga Springs, but the water had dried up and they lost
their resort privileges to the big brother next door. There wasn’t one apartment available in all of Saratoga in August, but
here “For Rent” signs peered from windows all over town. He could probably find a little studio for two hundred bucks a month,
a carpeted hideaway where his daughters couldn’t find him and he could work just a few hours a week to make the rent, spend
the rest of his time drinking alone in leisure.
There was nothing spa-like about Ballston Spa: it was a northeastern ghost town. But it was beautiful, it was much more beautiful,
really, than Saratoga, with its unassuming buildings no one bothered to renovate, all sitting patiently on Main Street not
even waiting for change. All the cruddy storefronts had put in lace trimmings and changed their signs from “Junk” to “Antiques.”
Nobody believed it.
Nora dropped him off in front of the drab county office building, a big box of beige stucco.
“How about you get your license renewed sometime this week?” she asked.
“Oh, like you’re too busy to drive an old man around.”
“I am busy,” said Nora, putting the car in reverse.
“Pick me up in half an hour,” he called after her.
Inside it was just as beige and so air-conditioned he perspired even more, big jewels of sweat under his pits. A male receptionist—he
looked mildly retarded with his jowly jaw, eyes too close together, and a pinstriped oxford shirt buttoned all the way to
the top—sat at the front desk.
“Did you used to live at the Furness House?” Belly asked him.
The man looked up. “Can I help you?”
Belly saluted him. “I’m reporting to my parole officer within forty-eight hours.”
“Name?”
“William O’Leary.”
“Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand if it’s all right with you.” He patted his hips. “It’s hard on the old joints getting up and down.”
The man didn’t look retarded anymore. He looked mean. “Sit,” he said.
The only magazines in the waiting area were the self-help kind—lists of job agencies and healthy-living stuff. There was even
a whole magazine for walking. If Belly opened up a place for people who’d just gotten out of jail, there would be
Playboy
s all around.
Walking.
He shook his head at the strange ways of the working world.
“Mr. O’Leary?”
It was just his luck his parole officer had to be a good-looking redhead. Good-enough-looking, anyway.
“Belly,” he said.
“Come on back, Belly.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “You can call me Ms. Monroe.”
He followed her down a long line of beige cubicles, watching her butt sway in her tight jeans. The face, the face was take
it or leave it, but the ass was nonnegotiable.
“What’s your first name, Ms. Monroe?” he asked.
“Ms. Monroe,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Her cubicle’s prefab walls were covered in uplifting prints and slogans. A poster Nora had as a child hung above Ms. Monroe’s
desk: a gray kitten dangling from a tree with “Hang in there” written underneath. Only Ms. Monroe had crossed it out and tacked
on a piece of paper that read
Quit your complaining.
She looked over his file. “How’s it going?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That good, huh?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Adjusting okay?”
“It’s only been a day.”
She took a copy of his release plan from his file and listed one by one everything he had agreed to and he nodded at the whole
list and when she was done he said, “You want me to pee in a cup and then I can go?”
We could walk across the street to Wendy’s, he thought, and sit in a booth and drink Frosties till our mouths are nearly numb
and then we’ll warm each other’s tongues. It’ll be just like high school, but good.
But Ms. Monroe looked up from his file and said, “Actually, I’ll decide whether you
was sleepy and slow, and he remembered that this was the original Saratoga Springs, but the water had dried up and they lost
their resort privileges to the big brother next door. There wasn’t one apartment available in all of Saratoga in August, but
here “For Rent” signs peered from windows all over town. He could probably find a little studio for two hundred bucks a month,
a carpeted hideaway where his daughters couldn’t find him and he could work just a few hours a week to make the rent, spend
the rest of his time drinking alone in leisure.
There was nothing spa-like about Ballston Spa: it was a northeastern ghost town. But it was beautiful, it was much more beautiful,
really, than Saratoga, with its unassuming buildings no one bothered to renovate, all sitting patiently on Main Street not
even waiting for change. All the cruddy storefronts had put in lace trimmings and changed their signs from “Junk” to “Antiques.”
Nobody believed it.
Nora dropped him off in front of the drab county office building, a big box of beige stucco.
“How about you get your license renewed sometime this week?” she asked.
“Oh, like you’re too busy to drive an old man around.”
“I am busy,” said Nora, putting the car in reverse.
“Pick me up in half an hour,” he called after her.
Inside it was just as beige and so air-conditioned he perspired even more, big jewels of sweat under his pits. A male receptionist—he
looked mildly retarded with his jowly jaw, eyes too close together, and a pinstriped oxford shirt buttoned all the way to
the top—sat at the front desk.
“Did you used to live at the Furness House?” Belly asked him.
The man looked up. “Can I help you?”
Belly saluted him. “I’m reporting to my parole officer within forty-eight hours.”
“Name?”
“William O’Leary.”
“Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand if it’s all right with you.” He patted his hips. “It’s hard on the old joints getting up and down.”
The man didn’t look retarded anymore. He looked mean. “Sit,” he said.
The only magazines in the waiting area were the self-help kind—lists of job agencies and healthy-living stuff. There was even
a whole magazine for walking. If Belly opened up a place for people who’d just gotten out of jail, there would be
Playboy
s all around.
Walking.
He shook his head at the strange ways of the working world.
“Mr. O’Leary?”
It was just his luck his parole officer had to be a good-looking redhead. Good-enough-looking, anyway.
“Belly,” he said.
“Come on back, Belly.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “You can call me Ms. Monroe.”
He followed her down a long line of beige cubicles, watching her butt sway in her tight jeans. The face, the face was take
it or leave it, but the ass was nonnegotiable.
“What’s your first name, Ms. Monroe?” he asked.
“Ms. Monroe,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Her cubicle’s prefab walls were covered in uplifting prints and slogans. A poster Nora had as a child hung above Ms. Monroe’s
desk: a gray kitten dangling from a tree with “Hang in there” written underneath. Only Ms. Monroe had crossed it out and tacked
on a piece of paper that read
Quit your complaining.
She looked over his file. “How’s it going?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That good, huh?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Adjusting okay?”
“It’s only been a day.”
She took a copy of his release plan from his file and listed one by one everything he had agreed to and he nodded at the whole
list and when she was done he said, “You want me to pee in a cup and then I can go?”
We could walk across the street to Wendy’s, he thought, and sit in a booth and drink Frosties till our mouths are nearly numb
and then we’ll warm each other’s tongues. It’ll be just like high school, but good.
But Ms. Monroe looked up from his file and said, “Actually, I’ll decide whether you
Similar Books
