bags with his foot toward the door to the basement.
"Let me guess," I say as
I walk down the hall with the bags, steadying myself against the wall.
"When those invading schvartzes come through the front door, you want to
give them something to nosh on before you clobber them with your Louisville Slugger."
"You're very funny," my
father says in a dead voice.
I hoist the bags up and follow the
old man down the stairs to the basement. Each step creaks and threatens to snap
right out from under me. The hallway smell is here too, though much stronger.
There's no light at all. The only reason I don't trip and fall is that I grew
up going up and down these steps. When I get to the bottom, I put the bags down
and windmill my arms in relief.
My father finally turns on the
light. It's a moment before I get my bearings.
I take a good look around and begin
to shake my head. What my father has done down here is extraordinary—in fact,
it's the most orderly, sustained act of madness of his largely irrational life.
There's a tall stack of Del Monte sliced peaches against one wall. Dozens of saltine cracker boxes are
piled against the adjacent wall. In the dim light of one bare yellowish bulb, I
can't see all the Bumblebee tuna cans lined up against the boiler, but there
are at least one hundred of them. On the other side of the basement, there are
rows of Gatorade and Mott's apple juice bottles. It's like he's built himself a
kind of fallout shelter in case race war breaks out in Queens .
"Why are you doing this?"
I ask him.
"I just have to," my
father says. "I just have to."
I try to think of something to say,
but no words come to me. A steady drizzle of dust falls from the ceiling and
the old pipes make wrenching sounds. I bow my head, turn back to the stairway,
and slowly head upstairs toward the faint light.
9
"Let me ask you
something," Richard Silver said. "I was sitting in here before and I
was looking around—and it's a very nice bathroom, I admit. I paid a lot of
money for it. And there's mirrors on the ceiling and there's mirrors on all the
walls. Right? There's mirrors everywhere you look. Right?"
Both he and Jessica Riley looked up
at their reflections on the ceiling.
"Right," she said.
"So why do I wanna watch
myself take a crap?"
"I don't know."
"I don't know either." He
seemed genuinely perplexed. "I see myself sitting on the toilet and I
think of death."
"Why?"
"Because I look fat sitting on
the toilet. I look like Elvis Presley just before he died."
"You're not fat."
"I'm the same age as Elvis
Presley."
"No, you're not," Jessica
said. "Elvis was forty-two. You're forty-eight."
"I'm forty-nine. Thanks a
lot."
"What're you wearing
tonight?"
"Green Armani suit, red tie,
black shoes I just picked up at Church's." He looked at himself in the
medicine cabinet mirror. "Maybe I don't mean like Elvis Presley. Maybe I
mean like a Roman senator about to expire in the baths. You know?" He
looked at her. "What're you making that face for?"
"You're thinking about death a
lot."
"No, I'm not. I'm thinking
about the value of things."
"What?"
"Look at this," he said,
taking a gold-backed toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet. "My secretary
got this for me the other day as a birthday present from Hammacher Schlemmer."
"Yeah. So?"
"So look at it. Half the
bristles are gone already."
"But, Richard," she said
with a sigh. "This is a joke. This isn't a real toothbrush. She got you
this as a joke."
"Yes, it was a joke, but
there's a serious point underneath."
She waited three beats before she
asked what it was.
"Society is falling apart from
the bottom up," he said. "We can't even make a toothbrush with
bristles that stay on and people expect us to maintain the infrastructure of
the greatest city on earth. It's madness. The fabric that holds society
together is tearing."
"You are in a bad mood."
"Yeah, I guess I am." He
shrugged. "Get outta here a second, will you. I gotta take a leak."
She
"Let me guess," I say as
I walk down the hall with the bags, steadying myself against the wall.
"When those invading schvartzes come through the front door, you want to
give them something to nosh on before you clobber them with your Louisville Slugger."
"You're very funny," my
father says in a dead voice.
I hoist the bags up and follow the
old man down the stairs to the basement. Each step creaks and threatens to snap
right out from under me. The hallway smell is here too, though much stronger.
There's no light at all. The only reason I don't trip and fall is that I grew
up going up and down these steps. When I get to the bottom, I put the bags down
and windmill my arms in relief.
My father finally turns on the
light. It's a moment before I get my bearings.
I take a good look around and begin
to shake my head. What my father has done down here is extraordinary—in fact,
it's the most orderly, sustained act of madness of his largely irrational life.
There's a tall stack of Del Monte sliced peaches against one wall. Dozens of saltine cracker boxes are
piled against the adjacent wall. In the dim light of one bare yellowish bulb, I
can't see all the Bumblebee tuna cans lined up against the boiler, but there
are at least one hundred of them. On the other side of the basement, there are
rows of Gatorade and Mott's apple juice bottles. It's like he's built himself a
kind of fallout shelter in case race war breaks out in Queens .
"Why are you doing this?"
I ask him.
"I just have to," my
father says. "I just have to."
I try to think of something to say,
but no words come to me. A steady drizzle of dust falls from the ceiling and
the old pipes make wrenching sounds. I bow my head, turn back to the stairway,
and slowly head upstairs toward the faint light.
9
"Let me ask you
something," Richard Silver said. "I was sitting in here before and I
was looking around—and it's a very nice bathroom, I admit. I paid a lot of
money for it. And there's mirrors on the ceiling and there's mirrors on all the
walls. Right? There's mirrors everywhere you look. Right?"
Both he and Jessica Riley looked up
at their reflections on the ceiling.
"Right," she said.
"So why do I wanna watch
myself take a crap?"
"I don't know."
"I don't know either." He
seemed genuinely perplexed. "I see myself sitting on the toilet and I
think of death."
"Why?"
"Because I look fat sitting on
the toilet. I look like Elvis Presley just before he died."
"You're not fat."
"I'm the same age as Elvis
Presley."
"No, you're not," Jessica
said. "Elvis was forty-two. You're forty-eight."
"I'm forty-nine. Thanks a
lot."
"What're you wearing
tonight?"
"Green Armani suit, red tie,
black shoes I just picked up at Church's." He looked at himself in the
medicine cabinet mirror. "Maybe I don't mean like Elvis Presley. Maybe I
mean like a Roman senator about to expire in the baths. You know?" He
looked at her. "What're you making that face for?"
"You're thinking about death a
lot."
"No, I'm not. I'm thinking
about the value of things."
"What?"
"Look at this," he said,
taking a gold-backed toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet. "My secretary
got this for me the other day as a birthday present from Hammacher Schlemmer."
"Yeah. So?"
"So look at it. Half the
bristles are gone already."
"But, Richard," she said
with a sigh. "This is a joke. This isn't a real toothbrush. She got you
this as a joke."
"Yes, it was a joke, but
there's a serious point underneath."
She waited three beats before she
asked what it was.
"Society is falling apart from
the bottom up," he said. "We can't even make a toothbrush with
bristles that stay on and people expect us to maintain the infrastructure of
the greatest city on earth. It's madness. The fabric that holds society
together is tearing."
"You are in a bad mood."
"Yeah, I guess I am." He
shrugged. "Get outta here a second, will you. I gotta take a leak."
She
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