Lucky Alan : And Other Stories (9780385539821) by Jonathan Lethem Page B
Authors: Jonathan Lethem
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situation. Just a gig between real jobs,that’s what I keep telling myself.” He tossed his fuming butt into the gutter, quite near. “There’s a million stories like yours and mine.”
“That’s not what I was getting at,” Stevick began, but, uninterested, the counterman had returned inside. The café’s population had never completely recovered from the jackhammer exodus; that, combined with the rain, kept Stevick’s vigil a lonely one. He preferred it, actually. The usual early-afternoon dog-walkers passed by, hunched in tented plastic ponchos, their smaller dogs, the terriers and dachshunds, sheathed in sleeveless plaid coats, but Stevick had always regarded the walkers as ships on a distant sea, some passing flotilla. Even on days of bright sunshine, they were too occupied with canine herding and the management of plastic-bagged turds to engage in the human life of the street. Though few other humans acknowledged him, Stevick liked to believe that he was still a participant in this mainstream. Whether his relation to the man beneath the boards qualified as a human transaction was another question.
*
Toward evening, the rain tailed, though not enough so that Stevick lowered the umbrella. The café’s clientele turned over; the tables were set for dinner, decorated with lit candles, menus in place; the staff even switched off the WiFi in order to chase out the most tenacious of theafternoon Googlers. Others of Stevick’s neighbors, the professionally dressed, beleaguered rush-hour subwayers, slavers in financial offices, trudged past the corner with their own umbrellas. Though Stevick always thought of them as upright sheep, some were surprisingly bold in their muttering.
“What did you say?” Stevick shouted back.
“You heard me, friend. You’re lowering property values for the rest of us.”
“Not in my backyard, eh?” Stevick said. “Boy, when something like this arrives in your midst you learn pretty fast who’s who in this neighborhood, you yuppie.” Stevick spoiled for a fight, feeling now all the insurgent defiance he ought to have summoned for the diggers of the hole. But what was done, was done. Defense of what should never have been in the first place had become Stevick’s province.
“You artists need to grow up and learn the difference between an installation piece and a hole in the ground,” the man sneered. Surely Stevick’s age or younger, yet dressed like Stevick’s grandfather, he added, “Slack-ass.”
Stevick was incensed. “There’s a man in this hole!”
“Don’t bore me with your disgusting personal situation!”
“It’s not a personal situation, you fucker!”
“Roll up and die, grubbie!”
“Yaaaaarrrr!”
They charged with umbrellas out-held, Stevick feeling he’d abandoned his station but unable tostem the urge to gore the man on the sidewalk and see him plead for mercy in the rain. Yet the two men essentially missed, failed to engage, the broad opened umbrellas merely grazing in a rubbery wet shudder as they passed. The single thrust having apparently exhausted his neighbor as much as it did Stevick, the man regathered his briefcase tightly beneath his elbow. “I need to go pay the nanny,” he murmured as he slunk off. Stevick retreated to his task.
It was night, and inside the café the menus at several of the tables had been taken up, wine poured, little plates delivered by the time another specialist made contact with Stevick. He wasn’t, as Stevick might have hoped, a sentry arriving to relieve Stevick of a duty that, now that he contemplated it, he had to admit was self-assigned. Rather, the jumpsuited man, a sturdy, almost fat one this time, with heavy, black-rimmed eyeglasses and a Yankees cap shielding him from the rain, appeared to be some kind of inspector, charged with ensuring the rightness of the site and recording in cryptic shorthand, with a ballpoint pen on a clipboarded sheet, certain impressions. The man double-parked his car,
“That’s not what I was getting at,” Stevick began, but, uninterested, the counterman had returned inside. The café’s population had never completely recovered from the jackhammer exodus; that, combined with the rain, kept Stevick’s vigil a lonely one. He preferred it, actually. The usual early-afternoon dog-walkers passed by, hunched in tented plastic ponchos, their smaller dogs, the terriers and dachshunds, sheathed in sleeveless plaid coats, but Stevick had always regarded the walkers as ships on a distant sea, some passing flotilla. Even on days of bright sunshine, they were too occupied with canine herding and the management of plastic-bagged turds to engage in the human life of the street. Though few other humans acknowledged him, Stevick liked to believe that he was still a participant in this mainstream. Whether his relation to the man beneath the boards qualified as a human transaction was another question.
*
Toward evening, the rain tailed, though not enough so that Stevick lowered the umbrella. The café’s clientele turned over; the tables were set for dinner, decorated with lit candles, menus in place; the staff even switched off the WiFi in order to chase out the most tenacious of theafternoon Googlers. Others of Stevick’s neighbors, the professionally dressed, beleaguered rush-hour subwayers, slavers in financial offices, trudged past the corner with their own umbrellas. Though Stevick always thought of them as upright sheep, some were surprisingly bold in their muttering.
“What did you say?” Stevick shouted back.
“You heard me, friend. You’re lowering property values for the rest of us.”
“Not in my backyard, eh?” Stevick said. “Boy, when something like this arrives in your midst you learn pretty fast who’s who in this neighborhood, you yuppie.” Stevick spoiled for a fight, feeling now all the insurgent defiance he ought to have summoned for the diggers of the hole. But what was done, was done. Defense of what should never have been in the first place had become Stevick’s province.
“You artists need to grow up and learn the difference between an installation piece and a hole in the ground,” the man sneered. Surely Stevick’s age or younger, yet dressed like Stevick’s grandfather, he added, “Slack-ass.”
Stevick was incensed. “There’s a man in this hole!”
“Don’t bore me with your disgusting personal situation!”
“It’s not a personal situation, you fucker!”
“Roll up and die, grubbie!”
“Yaaaaarrrr!”
They charged with umbrellas out-held, Stevick feeling he’d abandoned his station but unable tostem the urge to gore the man on the sidewalk and see him plead for mercy in the rain. Yet the two men essentially missed, failed to engage, the broad opened umbrellas merely grazing in a rubbery wet shudder as they passed. The single thrust having apparently exhausted his neighbor as much as it did Stevick, the man regathered his briefcase tightly beneath his elbow. “I need to go pay the nanny,” he murmured as he slunk off. Stevick retreated to his task.
It was night, and inside the café the menus at several of the tables had been taken up, wine poured, little plates delivered by the time another specialist made contact with Stevick. He wasn’t, as Stevick might have hoped, a sentry arriving to relieve Stevick of a duty that, now that he contemplated it, he had to admit was self-assigned. Rather, the jumpsuited man, a sturdy, almost fat one this time, with heavy, black-rimmed eyeglasses and a Yankees cap shielding him from the rain, appeared to be some kind of inspector, charged with ensuring the rightness of the site and recording in cryptic shorthand, with a ballpoint pen on a clipboarded sheet, certain impressions. The man double-parked his car,
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