Comfort Station
Page 4
Three of the “urinals” were in use at the moment, and Mo was about to turn away and return to his office when it struck him that one of those three men looked vaguely familiar. Doctor Greenbaum? No, but nevertheless familiar. Where had he seen that neck, those slightly hunched shoulders, those slightly parted feet, that neat haircut before?
Here! Right here! Mo snapped his fingers in surprise when he realized that the customer currently paying attendance on “Urinal” Number 4 was the exact same customer who had been paying attendance on “Urinal” Number 4 two hours ago, when Mo had made his last check of the operational area.
The poor man must have kidney troubles, Mo thought, and was about to turn away and retire to his office when a sudden suspicion entered his mind with the weight of intuitive truth. Was this customer present again or was he present yet? In other words, had he been standing there at “Urinal” Number 4, unmoving, for the last two hours?
It seemed impossible, and yet … Somehow, Mo suspected there was more to this situation than met the eye.
Still, he did not respond with any overt action. Years of dealing with the public had taught Mo to be cautious and circumspect in all dealings with the public until such time as he had all the facts at his command and was prepared to act with the assurance that he was definitely making the right move. Any other course, as he well knew from his years of dealing with the public, would be folly. Therefore, he moved with caution and circumspection in dealing with this representative of the public, so as not to be guilty of folly.
He pretended to use “Urinal” Number 3.
A glance to the right was sufficient to demonstrate that the individual under scrutiny was not actually employing “Urinal” Number 4, but was merely standing in front of it, just as Mo himself was not actually employing “Urinal” Number 3, but was merely standing in front of it.
Another glance to the right was sufficient to demonstrate to Mo that the individual under scrutiny had a vague, faraway, glazed look in his eyes, and that his lips appeared to be moving slightly, as though he were whispering to himself. Mo cocked an ear, but could hear nothing.
Was the individual under scrutiny perhaps suffering from some sort of illness? Should a medical specialist be summoned at once from the contemplation of the shambles he had made of his own life to give succor and assistance to the individual under scrutiny? Or was he perhaps, this individual under this scrutiny, a nut: the sort of unfortunate who sits beside you on the bus, starts twitching his lower jaw, and commences a long, belligerent, one-sided conversation with Harold Stassen?
Tentatively, Mo reached out his right hand and, with the thumb and first two fingers, tapped the individual under scrutiny tentatively on the forearm, while at the same time with his mouth Mo said: “Excuse me.”
The glaze over the individual under scrutiny’s eyes crumbled to confusion, and he babbled, “It was a long time ago that I remembered my mother got the phone call—”
Mo, quickly retracting the hand touching the individual under scrutiny, said, “What?”
The individual under scrutiny blinked. “What did you say?”
“I said excuse me.”
The individual under scrutiny looked hopeful. “Are you trying to pick me up?”
“Oh,” Mo said, in some personal distaste, stepping backwards with alacrity from “Urinal” Number 3. “You’re one of those,” he said.
“I am if you are,” the individual under scrutiny said. “On the other hand, I’m not if you’re not.”
“I’m not,” Mo said.
“Too bad,” said the individual under scrutiny. “It might have made a nice change of pace.”
Mo, not at all easy in his mind, retired to his office and said no more.
2:00 P.M.
IT HAD BEEN A long hard day for Fred Dingbat, but he didn’t really mind: that was a part of the price one paid—and willingly, gladly—for the right to be at the center of things, here at the heart of the civilized world, operating the flagship of the metropolitan transit system, the mighty 42nd Street Crosstown bus. He had seen much these last eight hours, Fred had, much that he would remember and reflect on for long in the hours and days ahead, but for now his responsibility was nearing its end. Three minutes to two, he was told by his wristwatch: he was making his last westbound run, and would soon be relieved by the two-to-ten man, Seward Looby, a friend of Fred’s for years, ever since that time in Korea when …
But no. That was in the past, let the past bury the past, there was to be no more thinking of the past from now on.
Nearing the Twelfth Avenue terminus of his route, Fred peered through the forty-four-inch-by-ninety-inch windshield of his omnibus and saw waiting on the sidewalk there the familiar figure in bus-driver gray, his cap at a jaunty angle, a pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth, his head cocked at a jaunty angle as he waited for the bus to arrive.
But wait just a minute! A pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth? But Seward Looby didn’t smoke! That figure waiting there, so familiar, dressed in the familiar bus-driver gray, cap at a jaunty angle, head cocked at a jaunty angle, could not be—because of the pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth—Seward Looby after all, but must be someone else.
A forebodal feeling fell flat on Fred.
And now, the distance rapidly closing between the large bus and the waiting individual, Fred could see that in truth it was not Seward Looby but was the man known to both Fred and Seward Looby—and so many others—as Supervisor Cracky. What was Supervisor Cracky doing here, instead of Su? Fred’s forebode increased.
The bus reached the intersection and pulled to a stop at the curb. Fred opened the doors and the last passengers—a wino trying to forget and an angry couple from Fair Haven, Vermont, off to the auto pound to reclaim their towed-away Studebaker—stepped down to the sidewalk and left Fred without a thought. Such is the general public.
Supervisor Cracky swung aboard with the litheness that belied his age. Few, looking at him, realized that Supervisor Cracky was one hundred seventy-four years old. At times, when Fred realized just how much past Supervisor Cracky must be oppressed by, he shook his head in wonder that the Grand Old Man, as the guys at the bus garage appelled him, managed to go on at all, much less to be the unending source of inspiration and encouragement that he was to all the men beneath him in the chain of command.
Looking at Supervisor Cracky now, Fred saw that beneath the jaunty exterior of the other’s façade Supervisor Cracky was in fact troubled. Perhaps very troubled. Fred’s forebode fleshed out to an apprehense. “What is it, chief?” he asked, his voice husky with emotion.
“I’m afraid there’s trouble, Fred,” Supervisor Cracky said, his voice husky with emotion. “Do you think you can carry on for a while?”
His voice husky with emotion, Fred said, “Is it—Su?”
“Su’s oldest,” began Supervisor Cracky, his voice husky with emotion. “Matilda. You know her, don’t you?”
Fred could only nod. He remembered Matilda: a cheerful, radiant child he was wont to dandle on his knee. At the memory, his knee once again seemed to feel the tender weight of her, dandling there.
“She’s come down with bubonic plague,” Supervisor Cracky said, his voice husky with emotion. “The whole neighborhood in Corona’s been cordoned off. You can understand the potentiality of plague in a high-density-population area like New York City, of course.”
Fred could only nod. The general public probably wouldn’t be able to understand, but he did.
“The police have the whole area closed off,” Supervisor Cracky said, his voice husky with emotion. “They’re washing everybody’s mouth out with soap, but God alone knows how long it will take.”
Fred could only nod.
“It’s all complicated by the fact that a kidnapped sex-symbol movie queen is known to be somewhere in the area,” Supervisor Cracky went on, his voice husky with emotion, “with her kidnappers. Also, a pitiful young escaped mental patient has vowed to fling h
imself from the roof of every Cape Cod in Queens and thus slowly beat himself to death, and he too is alleged to be in the same area.”
Fred could only nod.
His voice husky with emotion, Supervisor Cracky said, “On the other hand, because of flashflooding in Fort Tryon Park, a hell of a leak in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and an anti-bus-exhaust demonstration by well-meaning if misguided individuals in the Washington Park area—the bus routes were determined before most of the demonstrators moved into those apartments, but try to be logical with the general public—the fact is, I have no substitute bus driver to take our friend Looby’s place. Fred? Do you think you can carry on alone?”
Fred could only nod.
3:00 P.M.
IT WAS A LONG time ago that he remembered his mother got the phone call …
“Excuse me, fella. Do you mind?”
Recalled to the present by these words, Arbogast Smith blinked rapidly and looked about to see a truculent man with wet hands standing in front of him. An attempted pickup? His blood stirring at the thought of a little action after all—why else be recalled to the present?—Arbogast feigned a limp-wristed manner and said, “Did you want me?”
“I want you,” said the truculent man, “to move the hell over so I can get at the paper towels.”
“Oh! I am sorry!”
“Faggot,” muttered the truculent man, as Arbogast stepped to one side. He muttered and mumbled to himself while drying his hands, then rounded on Arbogast again to declare, “Why don’t you faggots go back to Russia?”
Arbogast considered showing his badge and explaining to the truculent man what he really was and why he was really here, but of course that was known as “blowing one’s cover,” which might simply confirm the truculent man in his misunderstanding. Arbogast decided to say nothing, to swallow his pride for the good of the job he was here to do. Or would that also be misconstruable by the truculent man?
Hands at last dry, the truculent man made his departure, in the process stepping quite severely on Arbogast’s left foot. It had been done deliberately, of course, there was no question about that in Arbogast’s mind. But try to prove it in a court of law. What the general public—and the Supreme Court—failed to understand was the actual real-life problem of the actual real-life cop on the beat. (Another unfortunate phrase under the circumstances, that one.)
Oh, well. The truculent man was now gone, and a sort of waiting-for-Godot silence had returned to the Bryant Park Comfort Station, the unlikely setting for Arbogast Smith’s attempt to make a name for himself in the ranks of New York’s finest.
He briefly reconsidered the janitor, the fellow who spent most of his time in the closet and who had made some sort of oddball overture a couple of hours ago. Put the nab on him after all? It wasn’t as though the janitor—custodian, they liked to be called, as he remembered—didn’t have a legitimate right to be here. But on the other hand, think of the psychological implications: why would a man choose a job in a place like this?
Arbogast cleared his throat with a sudden uneasiness, remembering that he too had opted for a job that had led him here.
All right, he’d leave the custodian alone for now. But if nothing else came up in the course of the day, it might not be a bad idea to put the nab on the custodian just to show the people downtown—at headquarters—that he, Arbogast Smith, was actually doing something around here.
In the meantime, he took a little walk around the area, counting shoes. There were still no more than two to be seen under the door of any stall. Unfortunate.
But the regulars were still here. He remembered them well, having observed each of them as he had entered his stall, keeping a mental file of their appearance in case he should ever need to know what any of them looked like. It was a cop kind of thing to do.
In Stall Number 1 was a nervous, middle-aged, balding sort of fellow with a satchel, an accountant type. He’d been in there since around nine o’clock this morning.
In Stall Number 2 was some kind of long-haired hippie with a valpack. He’d been there since around ten.
And in Stall Number 5 was a stocky foreign-looking fellow with a pencil moustache, who’d showed up a little before lunch.
It was awful to have bowel problems. Arbogast knew; they ran in his family. He shook his head with sympathy for the three sufferers in the stalls.
But each of the three was still alone, and therefore not Arbogast Smith’s official concern. Turning away, he ambled slowly toward the sinks, his mind turning to thoughts of the long trail that had led him, from his mother’s knee, to this very spot.
It was a long time ago that he remembered his mother got the phone call …
4:00 P.M.
LANCE CAVENDISH STRODE WESTWARD on 42nd Street, eyes flashing in his dark-hued face as he surveyed the scene. Rain rained, drenching the already-drenched city, but Lance was well protected within his Bill Blass raincoat and his Italia boots. His Afro hairdo, sculptured in the shape of a flamingo standing on one foot, was tucked away protectively under his Christian Dior hat, and his sensitive hands were protected by buff gloves from Countess Mara.
Like most Americans of African descent, Lance Cavendish was a Renaissance man, whose cool humor and good competence were a legend where’er he would wander. Having finished the architectural plans for the new Black Studies Center at Yeshiva University earlier than anticipated, Lance had taken time out from his busy schedule to present to the New York Public Library the original manuscript sheet music of his “Separate But Equal Cantata,” a defense of community control of neighborhood schools from which the pupils have been bussed, and was now on his way to the West Side Airlines Terminal, whence he would delimousine and deplane for Washington, D.C., to return to his seat in Congress, where he had a vital speech to deliver on offshore fishing rights before hastening off yet once more; he was to open in Las Vegas’ Sahara Hotel in just three days and was still to decide whether to appear as a singer or a comedian.
Now, striding westward on 42nd Street, humming his cantata while mentally composing a sonnet to the memory of Leadbelly, Lance Cavendish observed the rain splashing onto the sidewalk, running waterily in the gutter, spattering on the passing traffic, dribbling down the front of his own raincoat, and an expression of inner unease touched his handsome brown face. Looking about, he spied ahead through the splashing rain the stony contours of the Bryant Park Comfort Station, and his level amused eyes lit up in an expression of anticipatory relief. His stride increased in length, and purposefulness, and his eyes fairly sparkled.
But then, as the Comfort Station came closer, the expression in Lance Cavendish’s clear-seeing eyes grew more doubtful. Can it be? those piercing eyes seemed to say.
Lance Cavendish came to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the building. His keen vision observed the oval window in the street side wall, observed the entrance over on the right, even observed the statue up in Bryant Park behind the Comfort Station: a green-garbed green man in a frock coat, leaning on a book on a pedestal, holding what appears to be a bag of peanuts in his hands.
(Had Lance Cavendish looked carefully at the north face of this statue’s base, he would have seen the following inscription:
ERECTED BY
VOLUNTARY SUBSCRIPTION
UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE
CHAMBER OF COMMERCE
OF THE
STATE OF NEW YORK
1885
And had he, further, looked carefully at the inscription on the south face of the base, Lance Cavendish would have discovered that the person represented hereon was none other than the far-seeing William Earl Dodge, beloved of millions. Lance Cavendish didn’t look, however; he was otherwise engaged.)
After having fully observed the street side of the Bryant Park Comfort Station, Lance Cavendish strode to the park entrance just to the right of the Comfort Station and slowly but stridingly made a complete circuit of the building, going all the way around it and then coming all the way back around agai
n in the opposite direction, until once more he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the cold gray building.
There was no entrance for him.
Lance Cavendish shuffled away.
5:00 P.M.
THE HOURS CRAWLED BY for Carolina Weiss, former Russian countess now A & E mechanic, every hour seeming to last sixty minutes. Sitting in Stall Number 2 at the Bryant Park Comfort Station, crossroads of a million private lives, she wiled away the wily hours by alternating reflections on the events which had led her here to this place at this time with speculations on what had become of Roland, who was to meet her here at this place at this time, but who had not as yet put in an appearance: the whole leavened with a soupçon of general philosophic commentary on the overall subject of relations, both marital and extra.
Who was it who said the bourgeoisie, having solved all the real problems of human life, had to invent adultery to keep from dying of boredom? Well, no matter: it doesn’t sound like someone we’d care to invite to the house anyway, so who cares what his name is? (The driver’s name! Arbogast Smith’s driver, from 8:00 A.M. Elwood Tripe, that was it! Elwood Tripe. All facts eventually rise, like corpses, to the surface.)
When Carolina Weiss began to reflect back upon her past, it was perfectly true that she had a past well worth reflecting back on. Born to an aristocratic Russian family still living in their beloved mother country years after the Communist overlords had begun to lord it over their unhappy nation, Carolina and her parents and brothers and sisters had managed for years to hide their nobility by overeating. It was Carolina who, at the age of nine, inadvertently gave the game away. Her class taking a compulsory tour of a nationalized mattress factory, Carolina had slipped and fallen from a catwalk, falling a scant two feet and landing on a pile of twenty superthick mattresses. No one thought anything of the incident, except that Carolina complained bitterly that something sharp had dug into her hip when she’d landed on the top mattress. The factory foreman announced this to be impossible, and patted the mattress all over to demonstrate that there was nothing sharp or hard within it. Nevertheless, the child continued to weep and to complain, and her teacher noticed a large bruise beginning to form on the youngster’s hip. The foreman, puzzled, had the top mattress taken apart by factory employees: it contained no foreign matter. Very well, he would have the second mattress taken apart, and then the third, and then the fourth …