documents explaining how to end world
hunger. Plans to stop global warming. An immunization to protect people from
the zombie lawyer apocalypse. Unfortunately, the contents feel fat and soft,
unlike any of those things.
Outside the wind is howling and the rain so dense that twenty feet
away the buildings look adrift. In front of me a woman holds a yellow umbrella
that collapses from the wind and becomes an octopus turned inside out. She
tries to right it while I burn past her. Since I know my general direction, I
clop onward, steering around the puddles forming in indentations in the
sidewalk and using the tall buildings to shield me from the rain.
By the time I arrive, my flat shoes are squeaking and the lower
half of my pants dripping. My destination is a red brick building that sits
across from the bay. It looks like an old factory that’s been converted into
lofts. The four stories have ignited-eyes for windows, their brightness sitting
back inside their sockets. I take the elevator to the top floor and step off. It
smells strongly of antiseptic and mildly of public toilets inside. At the front
reception, I approach an elderly woman who sits like a solitary pilgrim at her desk.
“I have a delivery,” I say, looking down at the envelope in my
hand and adding, “For John Spencer from Robert Carver.”
“This way,” the woman replies, as if her only job is guiding
people away from her desk. She stands and deserts her post to escort me around
the faux plant and down the white-tiled hallway. On the walls hang oil
paintings of different flower bouquets. One is a fake of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
We pass a glass-walled room where several senior citizens sit around a
television watching a game show, the kind where people gamble on letters that spell
out words. I can’t remember what it’s called. Before turning the corner, we
walk past a hunched elderly man in a wheelchair. He smells of poo and looks at
me as if he’s hiding a madman inside his jacket.
At the door numbered 42, the woman knocks. “Mr. Spencer?” she
says. “There’s a visitor for you.”
I’m hardly a visitor, but I don’t protest. It takes too long for
the door to open. When it finally does, a white-haired man appears wearing a
wrinkly yellow dress shirt and blue slacks. His bare feet look icy on the tiled
floor, a vast contrast to his rosy-cheeked face with pronounced jowls. His room
is no bigger than a parking space. A red-quilted bed sits up against the left
wall, a wooden nightstand nearby, and a solitary chair by the window. The television
holds vigil in the corner on top of a tiny table.
“I hope you have my package,” the man faintly breathes.
“Yes,” I reply, handing it over.
“Come in, come in. I don’t want the smell of Mr. Poop-pants in
here, so close the door, sit down,” he commands me.
“Oh, I just came to drop off—“
“Sit, sit.” He points to the chair.
I close the door and hear the receptionist’s footsteps tinkling
down the hallway. Doing as I’m told, I sit on the lone chair by the window.
Outside are the bay and several tall brick buildings. The rain has settled down
to a steamy mist. Next to me, the clock on the man’s nightstand says 9:40 a.m.,
so I know I have plenty of time to get back to the office. Still I feel the
need to keep moving.
Setting himself down on his bed, the man hisses and rips open the
package. Inside is a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. He holds the slippers up,
inspecting them in the light from the window. Then he turns them over to
inspect the soles. I sit there realizing that delivering slippers to an old man
is worth walking five blocks through torrential rain.
“These are exactly what I wanted. Tell Robert ‘Thank you’ for me,
will you?” With flared nostrils and heavy breathing, the man puts the slippers
on his feet. I consider helping, but he slides his feet in fairly well.
“You must be Caroline?” he says, observing his new footwear.
“Yes.” I want to ask
hunger. Plans to stop global warming. An immunization to protect people from
the zombie lawyer apocalypse. Unfortunately, the contents feel fat and soft,
unlike any of those things.
Outside the wind is howling and the rain so dense that twenty feet
away the buildings look adrift. In front of me a woman holds a yellow umbrella
that collapses from the wind and becomes an octopus turned inside out. She
tries to right it while I burn past her. Since I know my general direction, I
clop onward, steering around the puddles forming in indentations in the
sidewalk and using the tall buildings to shield me from the rain.
By the time I arrive, my flat shoes are squeaking and the lower
half of my pants dripping. My destination is a red brick building that sits
across from the bay. It looks like an old factory that’s been converted into
lofts. The four stories have ignited-eyes for windows, their brightness sitting
back inside their sockets. I take the elevator to the top floor and step off. It
smells strongly of antiseptic and mildly of public toilets inside. At the front
reception, I approach an elderly woman who sits like a solitary pilgrim at her desk.
“I have a delivery,” I say, looking down at the envelope in my
hand and adding, “For John Spencer from Robert Carver.”
“This way,” the woman replies, as if her only job is guiding
people away from her desk. She stands and deserts her post to escort me around
the faux plant and down the white-tiled hallway. On the walls hang oil
paintings of different flower bouquets. One is a fake of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
We pass a glass-walled room where several senior citizens sit around a
television watching a game show, the kind where people gamble on letters that spell
out words. I can’t remember what it’s called. Before turning the corner, we
walk past a hunched elderly man in a wheelchair. He smells of poo and looks at
me as if he’s hiding a madman inside his jacket.
At the door numbered 42, the woman knocks. “Mr. Spencer?” she
says. “There’s a visitor for you.”
I’m hardly a visitor, but I don’t protest. It takes too long for
the door to open. When it finally does, a white-haired man appears wearing a
wrinkly yellow dress shirt and blue slacks. His bare feet look icy on the tiled
floor, a vast contrast to his rosy-cheeked face with pronounced jowls. His room
is no bigger than a parking space. A red-quilted bed sits up against the left
wall, a wooden nightstand nearby, and a solitary chair by the window. The television
holds vigil in the corner on top of a tiny table.
“I hope you have my package,” the man faintly breathes.
“Yes,” I reply, handing it over.
“Come in, come in. I don’t want the smell of Mr. Poop-pants in
here, so close the door, sit down,” he commands me.
“Oh, I just came to drop off—“
“Sit, sit.” He points to the chair.
I close the door and hear the receptionist’s footsteps tinkling
down the hallway. Doing as I’m told, I sit on the lone chair by the window.
Outside are the bay and several tall brick buildings. The rain has settled down
to a steamy mist. Next to me, the clock on the man’s nightstand says 9:40 a.m.,
so I know I have plenty of time to get back to the office. Still I feel the
need to keep moving.
Setting himself down on his bed, the man hisses and rips open the
package. Inside is a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. He holds the slippers up,
inspecting them in the light from the window. Then he turns them over to
inspect the soles. I sit there realizing that delivering slippers to an old man
is worth walking five blocks through torrential rain.
“These are exactly what I wanted. Tell Robert ‘Thank you’ for me,
will you?” With flared nostrils and heavy breathing, the man puts the slippers
on his feet. I consider helping, but he slides his feet in fairly well.
“You must be Caroline?” he says, observing his new footwear.
“Yes.” I want to ask
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