Mitchell's Presence

by D. W. Marchwell

  “Are you okay?” Rune was studying Arthur’s face.

  “Fine, thank you.” Arthur scolded himself; Jesus, pull it together. “Now, you were telling me about James’s first year of university.”

  “Jesus,” Rune huffed, “I can’t believe I’m going to have live through this with the other two….”

  Arthur tuned in and out, laughing at the right moments, frowning with sympathy at others, nodding his head periodically as if Rune’s comments were the most insightful he’d ever heard. Why hadn’t he called Mitchell by name? Why hadn’t he stood and shaken the man’s hand? Why had he felt so surprised and… what was the word he wanted to use? Betrayed? Certainly that couldn’t be the word he was looking for? Mitchell didn’t owe him anything; it wasn’t as if Mitchell had done anything wrong. Lots of people had two jobs and worked fifteen hour days, maybe longer.

  Mitchell had returned, standing there again, smiling, pen in hand, waiting while Rune finished his little anecdote about the skyrocketing cost of post-secondary education. Each man ordered, Mitchell writing it all down, very quickly, Arthur noted, and headed back to the kitchen.

  Rune had segued into talking about the new development, and, with Mitchell cleanly removed from Arthur’s mind, for the time being, Arthur was once again in his element. As they ate, Arthur detailed similar projects that his firm had handled, giving specifics of how the details would be observed for Dunlop Developments and how Rune could expect updates as frequently as he would tolerate phone calls from Arthur.

  Dessert was refused by both men, coffee consumed, and the bill given to Arthur as requested. Arthur handed his credit card to Mitchell along with the bill and waited for Mitchell to return so he could give a generous tip and sign. Relief flooded Arthur when Rune announced that he would need to leave to make a meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Arthur stood, shook Rune’s hand, promised a follow-up call the next day, and sank back into the booth, suddenly feeling sweat break out over his upper lip. He was entering a reminder to call Rune into his Blackberry when the black leather folder was placed in front of him. He closed his eyes and looked up, not opening his eyes again until he heard his own voice.

  “Mitchell, I’m sorry.” Arthur saw Mitchell smiling and became even more worried.

  “About what?” Mitchell squinted at him as if the older man were crazy.

  “Not saying ‘hi’ or even using your name.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re- you don’t—” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet. “You’re not angry?”

  “Of course not, Arthur, this is my job.”

  “But the bookstore….”

  “Okay.” Mitchell laughed, teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. “One of my jobs.”

  “Are you sure you still want to go out later, I mean, if you’re working two jobs….”

  “Well,” Mitchell said with a wink, “just how late were you planning on keeping me out?”

  “Not,” Arthur felt his chest tighten and his pants become a little more snug, “not too long.”

  “Then I’m sure.” William scooped up the black folder, handed Arthur his card, and extended his hand. “I’ll see you at ten, Mr. Richardson.”

  It took Arthur a couple of minutes to realize they hadn’t exchanged last names, and that Mitchell knew his from his credit card. “Uh, wait, I don’t know your—”

  “MacDonald.” Mitchell was walking backwards, smiling. He turned gracefully just seconds before he would have hit the corner of the bar.

  He’s obviously worked here long enough to know every inch of this place, backwards and forwards, literally.

  * * *

  Arthur arrived early to the bookstore, having decided to leave his car at his condo and take the subway downtown to meet Mitchell. He was mindlessly thumbing his way through Architectural Digest when he felt someone standing beside him.

  “She didn’t like it?” Mitchell was smiling at him, eyes playful and teasing. When Arthur frowned, he added, “Chelsea, she didn’t like her gifts and prefers—” Mitchell lifted the cover of the magazine to see the title, “—Architectural Digest?”

  “Oh, no,” Arthur said as he finally caught on, “the exchange is not for another two weeks.”

  “So.” Mitchell held up his coat and pulled his arms through the sleeves, wrapping the scarf around his neck twice. “Ready when you are, Mr. Richardson.”

  “I’m ready, Mr. MacDonald.” Arthur led Mitchell to the door and held it open. “So, have any favorite places?”

  “How about Chino’s just down the street?”

  Arthur bowed and motioned for Mitchell to lead the way. As they walked—foot traffic almost non-existent at this time of the night—Arthur was struck by how comfortable and warm it felt to be walking with Mitchell. Mitchell was in just as good a mood as he’d been this afternoon in the restaurant, but moreso even, more flirtatious, more boisterous. Mitchell kept pointing out which storefronts had already mounted their Christmas decorations, which decorations he liked, not mentioning the ones that he, or so it seemed to Arthur, found unsuitable or too garish. When Arthur would comment on those, Mitchell would just shrug and say that he was a lower-maintenance kind of guy.

  Arthur was learning a lot from their little walk; Mitchell did not like flash and show, did not walk against traffic signals, and offered spare change to each and every vagrant that they passed. If Mitchell was walking by, the empty hands thrust out in front of him did not remain empty for long. When Arthur asked him about this, Mitchell just shrugged and said that it didn’t mean as much to him as it did to whomever’s hand was empty. Arthur was convinced that Mitchell would be broke before the end of every month if he did this every day. No wonder he works two jobs.

  They made it to the small café and took a table in the corner, Arthur sitting, as was his habit, with his back to the crowd. Mitchell took the initiative, asked for Arthur’s order, and walked to the counter. Arthur noticed how light and graceful all of Mitchell’s movements were, how Mitchell seemed to offer the same warm, charming, disarming smile to everyone, even to the person who cut in front of him in line. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t really interested in merely trying to bed Mitchell; it made him nervous to realize that he was actually interested in Mitchell’s life.

  “So,” Arthur started, by way of opening the conversation, “why two jobs? You making sure you can pay for all those Christmas presents for friends and family?”

  “No.” Mitchell handed over Arthur’s latte and sat down. “I’ve just got a lot of energy.”

  “You work two jobs, practically all day long,” Arthur asked, astonished, “all year long?”

  “Yes, I do.” Mitchell sipped his hot chocolate, studying Arthur’s stunned expression. “You don’t know anyone else who works two jobs?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No, most people I know can barely handle one job.”

  “Speaking of jobs,” Mitchell folded his arms on the table and smiled up at Arthur, “you know what I do, but you haven’t told me what you do.”

  “Architect.”

  “Wow!” Mitchell’s expression brightened even further. “That must be an incredible feeling, building houses and condos and other buildings that people will use and live in for years and years?”

  Arthur nodded and then tilted his head to one side. “It can be very interesting, yeah. If you’re interested in demanding clients, incompetent co-workers, and marathon late nights fixing everything so the client will be happy.”

  “And, the client being happy, seeing the smile, that doesn’t make it all worth it?”

  “Not as much as cashing the check.”

  Mitchell laughed, and then his expression became more serious. “Money’s not everything, Arthur.”

  “No, it’s the only thing.” Arthur deadpanned, noticing that Mitchell did not find it funny. “Yes, it gives me satisfaction to be able to please the clients.”

  “Satisfaction?” Mitchell raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly, indicating hi
s playful mocking.

  “What about you, Mitchell?” Arthur sipped his latte, leaning back in his chair, wondering how long it would take him to get Mitchell to admit that he hated dealing with customers. “You love helping all of the slobs and cheapskates in the restaurant, not to mention all of the holiday shoppers who expect you to do their shopping for them?”

  “Of course,” Mitchell’s lips curved into a slight smile as he peered at Arthur from under his lashes, “you never know who you might meet.”

  “Okay, okay.” Arthur held up his hands. “You win. And thank you.”

  “It’s easy to find what you don’t like in life, Arthur.” Mitchell reached over and touched Arthur’s hand, briefly. “I like the challenge of finding the beautiful or the fascinating in something… or someone,” Mitchell whispered, leaning forward, “that others see as worthless.”

  “And giving away all your spare change to beggars?” Arthur moved his leg, accidentally brushing against Mitchell’s under the table, feeling Mitchell pull his leg back.

  “Makes me smile.”

  “Even though they’ll be spending it on booze or drugs?”

  “Not every person will.”

  Arthur snorted derisively “Isn’t that a little naïve, Mitchell?” He folded his arms across his chest, expecting but not wanting a heated discussion about street people.

  “I’m okay with being naïve, Arthur.” Mitchell smiled sadly and finished his hot chocolate. Arthur got the feeling that the sad smile was because of his comment.

  “I don’t get it.” Arthur was shaking his head, eyes focused on Mitchell’s face. “You’re intelligent, well-spoken, probably well-educated.” Arthur raised his index finger and pointed at the window. “And yet you can’t see that they could solve their own problems if they really wanted to.” Arthur started to count off his arguments using his fingers. “Most of these homeless people are drug addicts or just too damn lazy to do anything else, and what’s worse is that there are people who give them permission to remain that way by giving them money. I just don’t get it.”

  Mitchell looked down at his hands, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Arthur.” Collecting his scarf and standing to shrug into his jacket, Mitchell turned at Arthur’s fumbled apologies. “You haven’t insulted me, Arthur, so please stop apologizing.” Mitchell extended his hand as Arthur stood, draping his own jacket over his arm. “I’m very sorry you don’t get it, Arthur, because you seem like the kind of man who probably did at one time.” Mitchell waited, willing Arthur to understand what he was saying. “Thank you for asking me out.” Mitchell’s hand felt warm and soft, those long fingers squeezing with just the perfect amount of pressure. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

  Arthur slumped back into the chair, stunned that he’d managed to say the wrong thing, again. How had he screwed up this time? All he did was point out that homeless people were there by choice, that each and every one of them was homeless not because of circumstance but because of a lack of desire to change. Isn’t that what everybody believes?

  With a bit of a shrug that seemed to sum up all of his feelings, Arthur made his way to the subway station, and in another fifteen minutes to his warm condo and a glass of bourbon. What a weird day, Arthur thought as he sidestepped yet another homeless person on the steps to the platform. As he neared the bottom of the steps, he turned and looked at the young lady, hair greasy and stringy, clothes stained and worn. Arthur didn’t know anything about drug addicts or alcoholics, and he wasn’t sure if this lady was either, but he reached into his pocket and dropped about three dollars worth of coins into her outstretched hands. Arthur’s chest swelled a little as he saw the look in her eyes, her voice seemingly genuine when she muttered her thanks.

  As he neared the middle of the platform, looking for a spot against the wall where he could lean and wait for the next train, Arthur felt himself smiling, although he couldn’t bring himself to admit that the young girl was anything but a runaway or a drug addict who’d dropped out of school. He took his gloves off and put them in his pockets, not hearing the familiar jingle of change this time. He turned as he heard a soft familiar laugh. To his left, he saw Mitchell, squatted on his haunches, leaning against the wall, deep in conversation with a disheveled teenager who was obviously homeless—a runaway looking for everyone else to support him, Arthur thought as he heard the rumble of the train. Arthur wondered how Mitchell would know such a person. It’s one thing, Arthur thought as he neared the yellow line, to give them money, but to try to get to know them?

  Arthur entered the car and took a seat near the back, noticing that Mitchell was at the other end of the car, nose in a book. Arthur looked at the lone figure, sitting in profile, head bobbing slightly as the train moved along the tracks. As Arthur moved his eyes over the pink skin and rosy cheeks of Mitchell’s face to the long legs underneath the black slacks, Arthur saw a hand come up beside him. Arthur looked up and shook his head, not feeling any guilt this time, since his pockets were empty of any change.

  Arthur watched the elderly gentleman move up towards where Mitchell sat, and a knowing smile crossed Arthur’s lips as he watched Mitchell reach into his pocket and pull out a few coins, plopping them into the old man’s hand. The smile faded as he observed Mitchell closing his book, saying a few words to the old man, and then shifting a little to allow the homeless man to sit. As Mitchell turned to speak with the old man, Arthur could no longer see Mitchell’s face, but he could see that the old man was smiling, laughing, his eyes glinting as the lights from the tunnels and the approaching station flashed through the windows of the car.

  At the next station, the old man disembarked and Mitchell went back to reading his book. On impulse, Arthur stood and made his way towards Mitchell. Mitchell did not look up as Arthur approached until Arthur sat beside him. “I’m very sorry, Mitchell.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for what you believe, Arthur.” Mitchell smiled wanly and went back to his book.

  “No, I know,” Arthur leaned closer, willing Mitchell to look at him, “but it’s not what you believe. You let me know that and I criticized you. And for that, I apologize.”

  Mitchell closed the book, laid it on his backpack in his lap, and turned to Arthur, eyes shining, smile brighter. “Apology accepted.”

  “Which stop is yours?” Arthur nodded at the door, as if the question wasn’t clear enough.

  “Sheppard. You?”

  “Sidney.”

  “You’re next then.” Mitchell smiled and retrieved his book. “Sleep well, Arthur.”

  “Can I, uh,” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet, “would you let me call you again… sometime.”

  “Do you still have my number?” Arthur nodded and saw the mischievous glint in Mitchell’s eyes. “Then there’s no one stopping you.” Arthur smiled and exited the car, stopping on the platform to watch Mitchell through the window until the car disappeared into the tunnel.

  Arthur put his foot on the first step of the stairs and flipped open his phone as he climbed, slowly. He punched in the number and waited for two rings.

  “Mitchell.”

  “Just checking.” Arthur delighted in the laughter coming through the other end of the phone call.

  “Don’t tell me you have trust issues too.”

  “Only after I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth.”

  “You’ll have to do penance, I guess.”

  “Already did.” Arthur smirked. “Gave my last three dollars to a homeless lady in the Younge and Bloor station.”

  “I know,” Mitchell quipped. “How do you feel? Not going to run and warn the liquor stores?”

  “I deserved that.” Arthur laughed, feeling lighter. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “Is there a bad time to call?” Arthur could hear the whir of the car, the opening and closing of doors as he waited for Mitchell’s answer.

  “Sorry, I was getting off the car. No, there is no bad time to call.”

  “
I’ll call tomorrow around noon. Thank you for tonight, Mitchell.”

  “You’re welcome, Arthur. Sleep well.”

  Arthur pushed through the tall glass doors that led to the street, thanking whoever was listening for this second chance. As he rounded the corner to his building, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how much change he had in that little bowl by the door.

  * * *

  Wednesday, December 13

  “Mitchell.”

  “Good morning, Mitchell; it’s Arthur.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t expecting your call until noon.”

  “I said ‘around noon’.”

  “Okay.” Mitchell laughed, bringing an even bigger smile to Arthur’s face. “I guess ten o’clock in the morning is somewhere around noon.” Mitchell sighed as he finished his chuckle. “So, what’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you had any plans for Saturday?”

  “This isn’t good, Arthur.” Mitchell’s voice was solemn, foreboding even. Arthur had a momentary anxiety attack wondering if he’d missed something in the conversation. “It’s only Wednesday, and you’re spacing out our dates already? Admit it, Arthur, you’re bored with me already.”

  “Hardly.” Arthur chuckled, relief washing over him. “In fact, I find myself becoming quite, uh, fascinated by you.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Even with me sticking my foot in my mouth all the time?”

  “It hasn’t been all the time, Arthur,” Mitchell scolded, and Arthur could almost see the knit to Mitchell’s eyebrows. “You have also been generous, kind,” Mitchell’s voice seemed calm, yet assertive, “I mean, you even gave Melinda three dollars last night.”

  “Okay,” Arthur gave a mock bellow, the teasing tone clear in his voice, “I give up, again. Wait, how do you know her name?”

  “I know a lot of things, Arthur.” Mitchell’s tone was mysterious, ominous to Arthur’s ears. “And in answer to your original question, nothing after eight.”

  “Do you have to work on a Saturday?”