Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

“So I guess you’re at least a little rich,” she said. “Maybe you can answer this. How come these rich ladies I work for, every time I see them, they’re in sweatsuits rushing out to their fancy gyms? They want to work out, how come they don’t clean the house once in a while? I’m not saying put me out of a job, but I sure wouldn’t mind if they washed a floor or vacuumed a rug between my visits. You know what I mean?”

  Adam nodded.

  “What’s your name?” she asked Adam, and hearing the answer, she said, “That Eve sitting beside you?”

  “Jennifer,” said Jennifer.

  “You boyfriend and girlfriend?” asked the woman.

  Adam blushed.

  “School buddies,” said Jennifer.

  “That’s nice,” said the woman. “Friends. Would have been nice if Adam and Eve was like you two, one white, one brown. We’d all be beige by now. Less chance to hate.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “My dad says people always find ways to hate.”

  The woman nodded. “True,” she said. “Still, you know what? I seen the two of you together as we pulled up to the Citgo, I thought, maybe the world is getting a little better. It just takes so-o-o long. I never had a white friend. What you kids up to?”

  Jennifer told her they were going to the county building for a school project. “The N-7 to the N-24?” asked Jennifer.

  “Oh no,” said the woman. “That N-24’s gone. They got rid of it last year during budget cuts. People in Tremble, they think their taxes might go up a penny, first thing they do is cut another bus route. You got to take the N-7 to the terminal. Then the Q-13 to the Shell station on Dutch Broadway, where you get the P-104. You make sure you get transfers from the driver.” They looked confused. “I should write that down?” she said. Adam handed her his pad and a pen. He was struck by how slowly and carefully she made her letters. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “You’re not sure, you ask. You’d be surprised, most people welcome the chance to perform a small kindness.”

  She rose to leave. “You have a good day,” she said to them. “It was nice meeting such lovely friends.”

  The ride took longer than they expected, over two hours. There was plenty of time to do the geography list. They got all the way to T: Tel Aviv, Telescope Peak, Tora Bora.

  In the lobby of the county building, a sleepy-looking woman sat at the information desk. Behind her, on the wall, hung a large building directory sign. It listed every department’s room number. The sign was crooked, with lots of letters and numbers missing. Instead of Code Enforcement, it said “od Enforcement.”

  “Take the elevator down two floors to LL1,” said the woman. “Turn right and walk to the end.”

  They were surprised the elevator was operated by a human, a man dressed in a blazer; they’d never ridden an elevator where they couldn’t press the buttons themselves. The operator pulled a folding metal gate across the opening, then rotated a handle on a wheel to shut the door. Adam was fascinated. He felt like he was in jail. The elevator made whooshing noises and moved slowly. At LL1 the man cranked the handle again, the door opened, and he pulled back the metal gate.

  “Od Enforcement, last room on the right,” he announced.

  Adam and Jennifer looked at him funny, but his expression didn’t change.

  They were in the subbasement. The hallway had the eerie look of a place with no windows, walls that were white, and lighting that was too bright. The overhead fluorescent fixtures gave off a humming noise.

  The door at the end was open. When they stuck in their heads, they were surprised at how small the room was. The furniture was a dirty khaki-green metal. Along the back wall were filing cabinets, the drawers so stuffed, papers and folders stuck out everywhere.

  Taking up almost an entire wall was a map of Tremble County. Hundreds of red thumb tacks dotted the map. At the top was written, A.S. PHASE I. There was a red bar graph that went from 0 to 100 percent. The red color was nearly to the top now and someone had scribbled, Phase I: 98 percent complete!

  No one was sitting at two of the desks, and both were filthy, covered with files, newspapers, pink memo slips, dirty coffee cups, candy wrappers, soda cans, empty pizza boxes, and the remains of several bagels and glazed doughnuts, all forming a coating so thick, Adam couldn’t see the desk surface. Each desk had a black rotary dial phone that made Adam’s eyes bug out; only once in his life had he seen a phone with a twirl dial — at his grandmother’s summer cottage. Both desks had an electric typewriter and an in-basket; there were no computers.

  The third desk, the one nearest the door, was so close to the other two that the woman sitting there could put notes into the in-baskets without standing. Not that she couldn’t have used the exercise. She was a very, very large woman. And immaculately neat. Her desk shined, it had been dusted so often. The only things on it were a huge bound ledger; a stack of pink message pads; and a copy of People magazine’s special double issue, the fifty most beautiful people in the world.

  The woman was taking a call and hadn’t noticed Adam and Jennifer. Adam, however, recognized her voice immediately.

  “Honey, I’m sorry, the Herbs are very busy today,” the woman was saying to the caller. “I know you’re frustrated . . . we all are. . . . Now, don’t get upset. That’s not going to help. . . . You hold on just a second, I actually think I hear them coming. You may be in luck — this may be the Herbs. . . . I’m going to run over and see if it’s them on the far side of the office. . . .”

  Adam and Jennifer glanced around, surprised. They hadn’t heard a thing, except the fluorescent lights humming. The woman put down the phone but did not budge. She opened her People magazine and read the bio of the twenty-seventh most beautiful person in the world. When she’d finished, she picked up the phone. “Still there? . . . Let me catch my breath. . . . I been racing all over, honey. Thought I had one, but it wasn’t a Herb. . . . Yes, I could take a message, but I have to warn you . . .”

  Adam whispered to Jennifer, “The Herbs, they’re terrible about returning phone calls, honey.”

  “They’re terrible about returning phone calls, honey,” the woman said into the phone.

  Adam whispered to Jennifer: “Code enforcement is thankless work.”

  The woman said, “Code enforcement is thankless work, honey.”

  Adam and Jennifer ducked back into the hallway. They listened for the woman to finish, then walked in. She was recording the last call in the ledger on her desk.

  She glanced up and startled. “God, you scared me,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was here. We don’t usually get visitors.” She sized them up, then said to Jennifer, “You selling Girl Scout cookies, honey? We do get people your size once in a while, ambitious little girls, mommies work in the building, selling those delicious cookies.”

  They shook their heads. “We’re here to see the Herbs,” said Jennifer.

  “Which one?” said the woman.

  “They’re pretty much interchangeable,” said Adam.

  “Ahhh,” said the woman, eyeballing Adam real good. “That they are. . . . Well, as you can see, they’re not here right now. Fact is I’m not expecting them back today. They’re out doing code enforcement.”

  “Thankless work, code enforcement,” said Adam. “Probably’s made them very bitter Herbs.”

  The woman nodded nervously. She slipped the People magazine special issue back into her middle drawer.

  “Still having trouble with their stomachs?” asked Adam.

  Jennifer leaned over and picked up the remains of a glazed doughnut from a Herb’s desk. She’d never felt such a rock-hard doughnut. It must have been there for months. “This could destroy anybody’s stomach,” said Jennifer, wagging the doughnut at the woman. “Ever see how much oil’s used to cook a doughnut?”

  “Look,” said the woman. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow. The Herbs might be in then.”

  “It’s OK,” said Jennifer. “It took us two hours to get here by bus.”

/>   “We’ll wait,” said Adam.

  “As I explained,” said the woman, “I don’t expect them and —”

  “We brought stuff to do,” said Adam. He pulled out the geography packet. “Homework,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Ufa is located?”

  The woman shook her head. She kept glancing at the wall clock. It was nearly three, the universal hour for the afternoon coffee break in government offices. “Sure I can’t help you?” said the woman.

  “Definitely not,” said Adam. “We have a question about accessory structures in the front half of housing lots. Only the Herbs can do interpretations.”

  “No one can speak for the Herbs,” said Jennifer.

  The woman nodded. “Well, generally that’s true,” said the woman. “But in certain cases I — as third ranking here — am permitted to give a non-binding advisory opinion.”

  “I don’t know,” said Adam. “When it comes to code enforcement, nothing is simple.”

  “That is one way to look at it,” said the woman. “The other way we can look at it is ‘What the hell, let’s give it a shot.’”

  Adam glanced at Jennifer, who nodded.

  Adam said, “We want to know if the crackdown on accessory structures means no basketball hoops in driveways and on sidewalks.”

  The woman’s face lost its color. “Basketball hoops?” she gasped. “What in the world would make you think that law would apply to basketball hoops? That is a good one.”

  Adam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted the hoops saved. But he hated to lose a great story.

  “So you’re saying basketball hoops are not affected,” said Jennifer. “The hoops can stay?”

  “Oh no,” said the woman. “I didn’t say that. You were right, this is way too technical for me. I would not touch basketball hoops with a ten-foot pole. You’ll have to ask the Herbs how many basketball hoops will be coming down.”

  “‘How many hoops will be coming down,’” Adam repeated. “How many.”

  “Not for her to say,” said Jennifer.

  The woman was tapping her fingers on the desk. She was really getting fidgety. She opened a drawer, grabbed her pocketbook, and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “Mind if I smoke? I usually go out for break, but I’m not supposed to if anybody’s here.”

  “Smoke in a government building?” said Jennifer. “Isn’t that against the law?”

  “What about the effect of secondhand smoke on children?” said Adam. “I don’t think that’s good.”

  “I’m sure,” said Jennifer, “that would be a violation of the fire code, public health code, and as I think of it, probably your very own building code.”

  The woman leaped from behind her desk. She was pretty agile for a large woman. She hurried to a closet, yanked out two folding chairs, and placed them beside her desk. “Promise you’ll stay in those seats until I get back?” she said. “I won’t be long. We only get fifteen minutes. Can I trust you?”

  They nodded. “We’ll stay in the seats,” said Jennifer.

  “Terrible things happen to children who lie,” said the woman. “Crossies don’t count.”

  “No crossies,” Adam agreed.

  When the woman left, Jennifer put her finger to her lips. She waited for the second hand on the clock to mark a minute. Then, holding the chair against her bottom, she half stood and crab-walked to the door, keeping the chair under her. Ever so slowly she peeked her head into the long corridor. Empty.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Adam. “You’re walking like that chair’s glued on.”

  “Staying in my seat as promised,” said Jennifer. “I once saw this investigative reporters’ convention on C-SPAN. The speaker said reporters can’t lie, but they don’t have to volunteer the whole truth. We told that lady we’d stay in our seats; we didn’t say how much the seats might move around. Get busy!”

  Adam rolled his eyes but followed her lead. Holding the chair to his butt, he waddled to the wall map. “A.S. Phase I — must be accessory structures,” Adam said.

  “Albert Einstein reborn,” said Jennifer. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Adam scanned the map for the words “basketball” or “hoops” but couldn’t find anything. It was obvious each red pin stood for an accessory structure. But were they hoops?

  Standing half-crouched with the chair tight against his butt, he had trouble seeing the top of the map. But he found the Tremble River, then followed its winding path down to his part of town, locating his street. There were two red pins. That was it! Two red pins! There were two hoops on his street, his and the Corcorans’. He looked at the street next to his, where he knew there were no hoops. No pins! He looked at Jennifer’s street. “You the only hoop on your street?” he asked.

  “Just us,” she said.

  “One pin!” said Adam. He tried every friend with a hoop — Kaiser, Weiss, O’Shea, Gross, Ramirez, Capone, Glazer, Carey. A perfect match: one hoop, one pin.

  “Got it!” said Adam excitedly.

  “Count them,” said Jennifer. “Quick.”

  Adam let out a moan. There were so many pins.

  Jennifer said, “Use your estimation skills, boys and girls,” and Adam understood. In second grade they’d learned several estimation tricks. If he counted every pin in one part of the map — say one-fifth of it — he could then multiply that total times five and get an estimate for the entire map.

  He got busy but before long was distracted by a low whistling from Jennifer. Other people’s whistling was so annoying, especially when he didn’t know the tune. He tried to put it out of his head but finally whipped around to make a nasty comment and realized Jennifer was frantically waddling her chair back to its original spot. Why did he always turn stupid in emergencies? He pulled his chair tight, then race-waddled back.

  They sat still, concentrating on slowing down their breathing. Adam could hear voices in the hall. Men’s voices. The Herbs! He could make out bits of conversation. They sounded happy. Adam heard a whoop. They were getting closer. Then one chanted, “Done, done, done.”

  “All one thousand and forty-eight,” said the other.

  “Done, done, done.”

  They burst into the room and Adam was amazed. The Herbs looked exactly like he’d expected, two older men in plaid shirts with potbellies, green work pants, and keys jangling at the hip. The black Herb, Herb Green, was carrying a box of Tasty Choice doughnuts, and the white Herb, Herb Black, had three coffees in a cardboard tray. They practically danced to their desks, giving their visitors big smiles.

  “Must be Girl Scout cookie season,” said Herb Green, smiling at Jennifer. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  “If we’d known,” said Herb Black, “we wouldn’t have bothered with doughnuts.”

  “Any new cookie selections this year?” asked Herb Green.

  Jennifer hoped her smile didn’t look as nervous as it felt. “We’re not from the Girl Scouts,” she said.

  “Actually we’re reporters,” said Adam.

  “Student reporters,” said Jennifer, explaining about the Slash.

  The Herbs asked how they could help.

  “We’re working on a story on accessory structures,” said Adam.

  “Oh, we don’t need a story on that,” said Herb Green, cheerfully. “We already had one in the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser. Nice little write-up.”

  Adam nodded. “But it was kind of general,” Adam said. “We wanted to know what it meant by accessory structures.”

  “Mrs. Boland thought it was best to keep things general,” said Herb Black.

  “Mrs. Boland?” asked Jennifer.

  “Mrs. Sumner J. Boland?” asked Adam.

  “Herb, is there another Mrs. Boland?” said Herb Green.

  “Not that I know of, Herb,” said Herb Black. “Mrs. Sumner J. Boland. Chairwoman of the county zoning board. Number-one zoning official in Tremble County. Our boss. The woman we report to. At our last zoning board meeting, she
told the reporter from the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser that it was best to keep the story nice and general. No point of upsetting people. No sense of crowding up a story with a lot of details.”

  “Herb’s right,” said Herb Green. “It works out nice. The Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser reporter is very respectful about listening to Mrs. Boland since her husband owns the newspaper. Same with the folks over at Bolandvision News 12. Good reporters. They write what you tell them. Cuts down on confusion. Fewer mistakes. Everything’s nice and coordinated.”

  Adam and Jennifer nodded.

  Herb Black put the coffee that said “3 creams/3 sugars” on the woman’s desk. Herb Green took his black; Herb Black took his light. “Doughnut?” Herb Green asked the youngsters. “Got plenty. We only needed six, but for a dollar and nine cents extra, you get a dozen. The more you spend, the more you save, ha-ha.”

  Adam was starving but caught Jennifer’s eye and said no thank you. Jennifer felt it wasn’t proper to accept any gift — no matter how small — from someone they were writing about: it looked too much like a bribe.

  Remembering how hungry he was made Adam agitated. He needed to get this over with and get out of there. It was too much pressure, all this dancing around the subject.

  “Listen,” he said. “That nice woman who was sitting here — before she left for her break, she told us she didn’t know how many basketball hoops would be coming down because of the new enforcement policy.”

  Herb Green was about to bite into a cream-filled when he abruptly stopped and put his doughnut down. “She told you that?” said Herb Green.

  Adam nodded. “She said we’d have to ask the Herbs how many hoops would be coming down.”

  “She said that?” asked Herb Black.

  The two reporters nodded.

  The Herbs looked at each other. “You want me to handle this, Herb?” said Herb Black.

  “All yours, Herb,” said Herb Green.

  “I want to be clear,” said Herb Black. “This crackdown does not affect hoops in backyards or playground hoops. It does not affect indoor hoops. It’s only outdoor freestanding hoops in the front part of a housing lot.”