Basic Forms

by Skolnik, Fred;

  Now that the auditors were gone Hirsch found that he had a good deal of spare time on his hands. Solly suggested that he might just as well pick up where the two auditors had left off, becoming, in effect, an internal auditor, loyal to no one but the Company itself. The idea was not unappealing. It was even ingenious. Solly must have discussed it with the higher-ups before broaching it to Hirsch and had to be given credit for his innovative thinking. Such thinking would not have gone unnoticed among the top brass and could augur well for his future in the Company, just as Hirsch’s unexpected promotion augured well for him and was in fact accompanied by the raise he had been virtually promised, though now he would be doing the work of two rather formidable individuals. He discussed the entire matter with Harriet. She was not enthusiastic but also not displeased, though she thought another ten dollars was “peanuts” for the work he would now be doing. Hirsch agreed but pointed out that once he had an inside track there was no limit to how high he could go, for surely Solly too was on the way up, and was he not being groomed as his successor, as he had often told her in the past when they discussed his future in the Company. It was better not to appear too greedy when you had the Company over a barrel. Certainly they required his services, and there was no one else who could do the job, for he knew the ins and outs of the entire Company, where all the documents were stored, who did what and where and why. The treasurer himself would be hard put to lay his hands on the information Hirsch possessed.

  Harriet concurred, or so Hirsch thought. Therefore he requisitioned a few notebooks and moved his desk into the storeroom, which was actually quite pleasant with all the alterations that had been made to accommodate Walt and Charlie—fluorescent lighting for example and handsome shelves and of course a private telephone line which Hirsch insisted remain in place. Hirsch’s move triggered a series of corresponding changes in the seating arrangements of the office. Payroll was moved into the space that had

  previously been occupied by Hirsch, opposite the corridor and the main entrance to the office. The buxom assistant sat in Hirsch’s old place, at her own desk, so that when Hirsch peeked out of the storeroom he could see the wisps of hair blown charmingly across the back of her neck. The matron sat at the rear and a little to the right of the assistant, so that if he stood inside his door Hirsch could observe the latter without being seen by the former, and of course when the matron was out of the room could come up right behind the assistant as Walt and Charlie had once come up behind him. Mr. Kroll was moved into the room previously occupied by Payroll, feeling that his cage was insecure. Solly and Hirsch exchanged knowing looks when Mr. Kroll made his wishes known. Hirsch’s replacement, a youngster just starting out and reputed to be very quick with numbers, was moved into the cage, but without the lock, and given the additional duty of helping out Dolores and the other women in Accounts Payable, who were now moved across the room, to the side where the cage was located. Consequently the women of Accounts Receivable were moved to the side of the room previously occupied by the women of Accounts Payable.

  Everyone took his own desk, as it was recognized that people

  developed an attachment and even proprietary feelings toward the office furniture they habitually used, and the big computers were turned around to face in the opposite direction. Solly oversaw this entire immense operation which took the better part of a week to complete and was rightly lauded for his work, notwithstanding the fact that there was some understandable confusion in the first days under the new seating arrangements. For example, the fat matron in Payroll automatically went to her old room and was startled to discover Mr. Kroll stamping papers there. The foreign girl with the bad teeth went to her old place on the other side of the room and wondered what had become of her desk. All of this was sorted out quickly enough. People were adaptable, when all was said and done.

  Hirsch liked the new arrangement. He could close his door and daydream. He could spend time with whomever he liked, sit on the corner of a woman’s desk and look down her blouse. He could circulate freely through the building, up to Miss Malone in Personnel, who would now be obliged to reply to him in a civil manner, and down to the treasurer’s secretary, who also operated the Xerox machine. It was not difficult to find pretexts for these visits. For example, he might inquire of the treasurer’s secretary how many photocopies she made each day, who were the most frequent users of the machine, how defective copies were disposed of. In Personnel he might ask Miss Malone with her pointed breasts if she had ever considered dressing more casually in the office or using a lighter shade of lipstick. In effect, he was now directly responsible to one of the vice presidents and reported his findings once a week, though he never neglected to fill Solly in, and could see that Solly appreciated this consideration, acknowledging it with a curt nod of his head. On the other hand, it was also clear to Hirsch that his replacement had been designated to occupy the same position relative to Hirsch as Hirsch had once occupied relative to Walt and Charlie, namely, to give him the runaround when he applied too much heat. Therefore Hirsch often found, when he occupied his perch at the edge of the foreign girl’s desk and gazed at her perfect breasts, that she quickly referred him to the youngster in the cage, who proceeded to lead him on a wild goose chase that might consume half the day. He naturally complained to Solly, but Solly winked and walked away.

  All these exhilarating exploits and adventures he enthusiastically narrated to Harriet. People looked at him differently now, he told her. He carried a certain weight. People were even wary of him, particularly if they had something to hide. He would have liked to talk to Walt and Charlie, pick up some pointers, exchange experiences, but no one knew where they were, not even the Accountant General’s Office. It was as if they’d disappeared from the face of the earth, though there was a rumor, probably false, Hirsch believed, that they had absconded with a large sum of money and were living a life of ease on some South Sea island, surrounded by half-dressed native women and sipping tall, fruity drinks from morning to night.

  Hirsch himself would have liked such a life, but if he could not have it he would just as soon make do with the life he had, that is, the life of an internal auditor with a handsome wife. He supposed some people envied him. Undoubtedly his replacement did and could only aspire to taking Hirsch’s job if not his wife, just as Hirsch aspired to taking Solly’s. Hirsch did not resent his replacement. He was above that now. He looked at corporate life with an experienced and even jaundiced eye. He had become a pragmatist. There were not a few things his replacement might learn from him. He might become his mentor and his replacement a protégé. Then his replacement would begin to dress like him, ape his mannerisms and style of speech, as was often the case in such relationships and had certainly been the case in Hirsch’s when he had been under Solly’s sway. But he had outgrown that phase of his life, as was only natural. He thought of himself now as a senior member of the team, a staff officer, as Solly would have put it, rather than an officer of the line. He smoked his pipe more often. He did not speak hastily or eagerly but weighed every word. Harriet must have

  noticed the difference, though she was hardly ever home, or at least not when he was there. This troubled him, as did many other matters, despite his ten-dollar raise, which might have explained his often preoccupied air. Each night he went to sleep with the same thoughts in his head and each morning he woke up with them in his head again. They were like motifs, or even melodies, though often somber. They were like little points of light sending out synaptic threads like raw and pulsing tentacles twisting around each other. He could hear that music now. These recurring themes or images made the river flow. They were the seat of all the things he felt, the center of his life.

  Harriet had not come home. He listened for the sound of her heels against the pavement in the street below, telling him that all was well. It was late at night. The train had screeched and rattled on the track. The doors had opened with a pneumatic hiss. The train had gone on and on into the nig
ht, as though it would never stop, and he could imagine himself on such a train, seeking her forever in that night. The gun was standing upright in the bedroom closet. The three boxes of shells were under the linen they had never used. The kitchen knife was long and sharp. He stood in the doorway trying to penetrate the silence of the empty room which strained against the empty air. What had she worn? Where had she gone?

  Hirsch remembered that Christmas week. On Christmas Eve a few of the temporary workers at the department store had gone out for drinks before going home. In effect, their employment had been terminated and they would all have to start looking for jobs again the day after Christmas. The spirit of the holiday season was in the air but they were all understandably in a somewhat maudlin mood. Hirsch was living alone. He had no plans. He had no prospects. He thought about Harriet. He had been attracted to her. He took the subway home staring at the window of the train where his face was reflected wraithlike in the glass. The train rattled and swerved and passengers shifted their weight to keep their balance. Sometimes his eyes met a woman’s eyes and they were locked together for a moment before he turned away. He spent Christmas Eve alone. He had no plans and no prospects. There was a party in the building. He heard the music and the laughter. It might have been above him. There was a pounding sound that reverberated in the room. It must have been the pounding of a drum.

  Hirsch remembered that Christmas week. He had seen her at the Library. She had been wearing a blazer. He could not bring himself to let her see what he had become. She had, after all, read his poems. She was handsome, robust, full of life but also self-contained. Wisps of hair fell across her cheek and neck as she raised her face to savor the bracing air. She had broad shoulders and big breasts. He watched her and went away.

  Hirsch remembered other times and other places. It was not always possible to establish the chronology of things. Did this precede that? It didn’t really matter. Things were arranged in their own special way in the mind, under various headings. When a moment was past it did not become history but memory. He thought about Harriet. He would always have a certain picture of her in his mind, evoked at certain moments. He saw her walking, standing, sitting, lying in the bed with the twisted sheet. He saw her heavy breasts and wide hips and the smooth round calves of her strong legs. Before Harriet there had been others. Not all had heavy breasts. Some had been thin with slender necks and flat chests. He had watched them at the Library, between the stacks of books. He had watched and then he had gone away.

  In that winter season he had been alone, and then he was with her, but nothing, really, had changed. He had been taken on by the Company after Miss Malone had interviewed him personally and had climbed the corporate ladder rung by rung until he reached a height from which he could look out toward the horizon and see his future there. He had flirted with the girls of Accounting in the accepted way and looked down their blouses from time to time. He had fenced with Walt and Charlie for a while. He had moved into the storeroom when they left. Harriet had grown listless. She may or may not have put on weight. But she went on sketching Infusoria.

  The gun was in the closet, the knife was on the kitchen table. Where could she be? He tried to remember what she had worn that morning. He remembered watching her roll on her stockings, then stand up in her stockinged feet, looking perhaps stocky in that moment, the towel falling open, her big breasts spilling out, and then the adjustment of her garter belt, the big brassiere, the silky underwear, her slip, her skirt, her blouse, her damp hair. Her brassiere was on the bed, the slip was on a chair. He opened the closet and looked through her clothes. All her blazers seemed to be there but a dress was gone. That told him nothing. It might have been at the cleaner’s with her sweaters and his suit. Where was the receipt?

  Hirsch stared at the closet and stared at the bed. In other contexts he would have welcomed the opportunity to exercise his powers of deductive reasoning, as when Walt and Charlie had pilfered that unpaid invoice from Dolores’s desk, or when Harriet had hidden his pipe and refused to give it back because he had forgotten to get her cigarettes. That had been early in the marriage, a sign perhaps: at first she had been playful, then he had detected the malice and resentment and wondered where it came from. Of course he had found the pipe, because he understood her mind too well. There was a psychology to hiding things and Hirsch had worked it out. But he could not say for certain where she had gone, unless she was hiding in the house. He could only suppose or imagine things. A dress was gone but that may have been at the cleaner’s. She may or may not have changed her blouse. Sometimes she sweated under the arms. She was wearing the same coat but that didn’t tell him much. Her sketchbook wasn’t there, nor her big portfolio, nor her woolen cap.

  Hirsch made his own supper and ate it standing up. Then he sat at the window with the rifle cradled in his arms. Then he tried to read a book and then he watched TV for a while. Then he fell asleep and didn’t hear her come in. In the morning he took the subway to work. It was packed. A man with eyes that would not look away leaned against him in the crowded car. He wore a felt hat and his breath smelled sweet. Hirsch saw his own reflection in the glass as though he was trapped behind it, suspended in the air between the train and the dim station lights. He wore a long coat and his wrinkled suit. He never bought a newspaper but liked to watch the seated women when they crossed their legs, though this was not so simple when the train was packed. Sometimes he leaned against a woman and made apologetic signs. Nothing could be done. Their bodies fit together as though molded on the spot. He always looked away.

  People got on and off. The train emptied out and he was alone in the car as it sped into the night. Then he picked up a discarded newspaper and looked at it for a while, reminded of another life. He stared at his reflection in the glass. He wondered if he would ever find her again. He might stay on the train forever, moving into the night, seeking her eternally as it were. Then he would have entered another realm. It was in him, undiscovered. It had always been in him straining for release.

  Up ahead the Library stood out like a citadel. The stone lions guarded it. He crossed and recrossed the street. He tried to light his pipe. Everyone was hastening home, now that another day was ending. He could hear the women’s heels against the pavement and the distant sound of a pneumatic drill breaking up the sidewalk, and the hum of traffic, and the sound of voices, and the drone of a plane high up in the sky. The air was hot and still. He saw her on the steps, regal in disdain. He rushed forward. She saw him but did not move. All around them people came and went. It was summer. Another day was winding down. He had his briefcase pressed against his chest. And then she was gone.

  In the Automat he watched her eat. She patted her lips and stared into space. Her thick hair fell across her face. Her sweater accentuated her breasts, which were very full and very soft. The room was crowded and noisy with dishes clattering all around them and the tinkle of coffee cups. He remembered other times and other places. He remembered waiting for her at the Library, looking out into the street as though he really expected her to come while all around him other people were similarly waiting to keep appointments, though theirs were real. She came out carrying books. She held them against her chest. She narrowed her eyes and rubbed her nose and saw him standing on the stairs. He kept the gun in the closet, standing upright. The shells were underneath the linen. He watched her sleep with the sheet twisted between her legs. It was hot. Her gown rode up above her hips. The hair was dark between her legs. Her arm was thrown across her face. He took down the gun and sat by the window cradling it in his arms. He pointed it toward the street. He pointed it at himself. He had wanted her, and he had taken her. But that had been long ago. Now her hair was on the pillow like a nest of worms and her mouth was twisted as though in pain, making him think of the dead cats you found in the street. When he touched her she didn’t move. He went into the other room and made a cup of coffee. He drank it standing up.

  The air was hot and st
ill. The street was crowded. The rifle had a telescopic sight. He waited for the phone to ring or a knock on the door. He never spoke to his neighbors but he knew who they were. They were curious about him, wanted to know what he did, where he went, whom he saw. There was an elderly couple upstairs whom he sometimes met on the stairs. The woman may have had arthritis, the man used a cane. He didn’t have time to socialize. He had more

  important things on his mind. He nodded pleasantly but did not encourage them to talk. There was an art to avoiding people and he had perfected it. He averted his eyes or made himself seem preoccupied. There was clearly a little coterie of people in the building who lived a kind of communal life, asking after one another’s health and passing the time of day. They complained about the super and the landlord, the noise in the street, the prices in the grocery. They must have been long-time tenants. Maybe they’d been there since the war. He didn’t know. He had other things on his mind.

  Hirsch remembered the house where he had been born. It was in a long block, steeped in shadow late in the afternoon. The shadows were cool on hot summer days but the air was very still. There were always children in the street. Their voices and their laughter drew him downstairs to join their games. And later, from his window, he watched a young woman in shorts sitting on a fire escape with a cigarette blowing smoke into the hot, still air, and in the night cars came up the street to park, their bright headlights shining through the slatted blinds and casting shadows on his bedroom wall. And it was as though the distant sound of traffic called to him, firing his imagination with a vision of the night. And it was as though his mind raced with the traffic into that same endless night. But that was in another time. And he stood by the open window and looked down at the street where he saw a figure turn the corner and disappear. It was night. Pools of dim light underneath the streetlamps illuminated the sidewalk. Occasionally a car came by. Then his mind began to race. Then he began to dream. Then he yearned to enter the mystery of the night.