Lipstick on a Fishbowl
Gerry was reading one of Elena’s old letters for the third time when the doorbell rang. He looked at the clock next to the TV, wondering who could be coming to see him so early in the morning. He had not been out of his apartment in more than a week and expected no one. He inquired about the visitor’s identity, but a second round of rowdy knocks and tenacious rings drowned his voice. “Who is it?” he yelled this time.
“Building manager.”
Gerry felt his lower jaw tighten, panic overcoming him. “Just a sec,” he said, placing the letter on the armrest. He brushed the letter as he got up and it fell on the floor, his sneaker leaving a footprint where Elena had written: “Gerry, my love . . .” He tried to wipe off the dirty imprint with his tee shirt. He stretched the sheet of paper then pressed down with his fist to flatten the crease. But the page had a fold, and it could not be erased. The building manager knocked on the door again. I’m coming, I’m coming, Gerry muttered, bothered. He placed the letter on the couch and hurried to the door.
“Mr. Rodriguez . . .”
“Please, sign here,” Mr. Rodriguez said, shoving an official document in Gerry’s stubbly face. Gerry stepped back and watched the form flapping in the manager’s hand. “Please, sign.”
“What
is it?”
“You know.”
Gerry averted the manager’s gaze and forced himself to scan the form. His mind could only record the large heading: Eviction Notice.
“Can’t we talk about this?”
“Please sign.”
“I’m not signing this.”
“You
have no choice.” He handed Gerry a pen and with a fat finger pointed to where Gerry should sign.
“By
the end of the week, I’ll have your money. You understand . . .”
“Six
months, Mr. Carlson! Six months!”
“By
the end of the week. I swear to . . .”
“This
is not a flop house!”
“I
spent the last ten years in this building with my wife. I’m
not moving out!”
“Please
sign.”
“By
Friday, I promise. I’ve been a great tenant. You and
I have a good relationship. Customer relationships take a long time to build.”
Mr.
Rodriguez lowered the form. “But you’re a bad customer now.”
“Let
me restore your confidence. By Friday.”
The building manager stared down at the form, troubled by the dilemma. His nose flared. He huffed a couple of times. Mr. Rodriguez placed the pen back in his pocket. Feeling a nearing agreement, Gerry kept the pressure on the manager. “By Friday. If I fail, I’ll sign the notice. Deal?”
Mr. Rodriguez folded the notice and retreated down the corridor, cussing.
“By the end of the week, Mr. Rodriguez. By the end of the week. I owe you one.” Gerry followed the manager down the corridor. Mr. Rodriguez shook his head again and disappeared into the elevator without saying a word.
Gerry remained on the landing for an instant, looking at the empty corridor. He walked back to his apartment, pressing the door shut with the weight of his body until he heard the latch click. He headed straight for the couch and slumped into the pillows. His heart was pounding. What was happening? What was he going to do now? The interaction had happened so fast. After all these lethargic months, he could not recognize himself. The person who had just been interacting with the building manager was the old Gerry. The confident corporate Gerry, working in New York’s best financial institutions. He noticed Elena’s letter next to him and placed it next to a small rounded fishbowl full of letters and envelopes, a fishbowl with a dark red lipstick mark. Elena’s lips. Six months now since she had died. He had changed. He was a different man, at least he thought he was. A discomforting feeling sat inside his chest. What had happened on the landing made him feel as if he had abandoned Elena. It had been too easy. He had lost none of his negotiating skills. He was moving on and yet was not done with his grieving. It was too soon to let go of Elena. He was not ready. Yet every bone in his body breathed with life. He was ashamed to admit to himself that he was full of life. He looked around the room, to her small red flowered dress spread out on the armchair in front of him, to the pictures of her scattered around. He had to retain the apartment, to keep her memory alive. Their memories.
He picked up the letter from the fishbowl and started to read it once again. But now the words meant nothing to him. They were distant and cold. He had to find money, find work. He had other priorities to attend to. His own life was now in jeopardy. His mind was in a jumble. He stared at the TV screen instead, Elena’s letter dangling in his left hand. He reviewed the last days of her life, trapped at work, coming back late, leaving early. He could have spent so much more time with her. And then at the hospital holding her hand when she stopped breathing.
A fire-truck unleashed its screeching siren down Broadway. It made Gerry turn towards the window. The sun was hitting the wall of the building across the street. The white-brick façade glistened and refracted a dazzling light back into Gerry’s face. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth. The hum rising from the street mixed with the television’s soft backdrop. “You’ve got to do it! Got to do it,” he mumbled to himself. “You’ve got to go!” His best friend, Jim, had suggested that he resumed his life a little. That was three months ago. Back then, Gerry didn’t have the drive, the heart. He had no doubt Jim would have lent him the rent money if only he had not been not crippled with debts. There had to be another way. He remembered the business card of a consulting investment firm whose chief Jim knew personally, and to whom Gerry had been highly recommended.
He eyed his watch. 9:00 Am. He glanced at the TV where a black fighter plane dashed over a mountaintop, diving towards the earth with a deafening sound. Within seconds the plane had launched two simultaneous missiles, painting in the sky with two fugacious smoky trails. They exploded into some unidentifiable target. Rows and rows of synchronized soldiers parading down a square succeeded the airplane. They walked in unison, arms and legs rising and falling with a metronomic precision.
Gerry jumped to his feet and rummaged through the piles of files and papers on the coffee table looking for the business card. Peabody Management Ltd. designated the cream colored card. He dialed the firm’s number. A woman answered. As he introduced himself and asked to meet with Mr. Peabody, his eyes fell upon a black-and-white photograph of a young couple. A picture of Gerry and Elena. The man’s arm wrapped her shoulder, her head rested on his hand. She had long dark wavy hair and tender green eyes. Gerry could hear his own cheerful, estranged voice when he explained his interest in a job. He turned his back to the picture.
“Well, all I can do for you . . . is either today at 10:30am or next Friday . . .” said the secretary.
“10:30 today? I’ll take it.”
“That’s only in an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
Gerry scribbled the company’s address on a small green piece of paper bearing the inscription Zolotof, the world’s only medical alternative. He grabbed several cream-colored files, placed a few copies of his resume inside one of them, seized his satchel, and tossed the files inside. He glanced back at the picture frame. “Wish me luck,” he said, but the cheery tone of his own voice made him once again realize Elena had deserted his mind. He had not experienced such a lightness since her death. The conversion puzzled him and intensified his distress.
He only had an hour to get to the appointment. He ran to the bedroom to get changed. Walking by a walled mirror, he caught sight of himself carrying his satchel. He looked at his reflection, wondering why he was carrying the satchel into the bathroom. He dropped the satchel to the floor. His face looked tired. Unshaven with eyes hemmed in a deep blackened furrow, a saddened expression. I’m a mess, he thought. Steam was coming out through the open shower door as he laid his suit on the bed. It was his favorite suit. The suit she loved to see him wear.
Gerry flagged at passing cabs. None stopped. He darted down the street buzzing with pedestrians and headed towards the subway station. He was full of vitality. The crowd overwhelmed him. It had been so long since he had set foot in the street. He slalomed towards the 96th street station at a fast pace, his gait being forced to a standstill when the people in front of him scuffled down the station’s soiled and uneven stairs. Below the blue banister surrounding the subway’s entrance, Gerry glimpsed the ads for missing persons. Children, teenage girls, a couple of young women. Disappeared for reasons unknown. The ads were taped to the tiles. The wall still bore the peelings of old discarded posters. He stood staring at the picture. These people meant nothing to him, and yet he could feel the parents’, the lovers’ pain. The pain of the loss, of the absence, of the missed opportunities. People walked by without paying attention. The thought that someday he could walk past Elena’s picture without paying attention devastated him. It would never occur. He scurried down the corridor feeling a lump in his throat. The soaring heat fanned the stench of urine straight into his face.
On the crowded platform, a thick mob waited in silence. A traveler leaned over the platform’s edge to see if a train was approaching through the dark tunnel. A voice on the speaker punctuated the wait, inaudible in the cavernous station, the words echoing and blending together. “Due to . . . delay at . . . no train for . . . Then a loud crackling noise over the line.
“What did he say?” asked Gerry. A bald man with glasses shook his head in ignorance. He turned around to avert Gerry’s inquisitive look. A fashionable blond woman who had overheard the question shrugged his shoulders. She carried a fashion bag from a store called Elena. Elena. She was everywhere. Maybe she was telling him something. Protecting him his endeavor. He was going to the interview to keep the apartment. To retain the place where they had lived, shared their lives together. It was to consolidate their bond. When he lifted his head again he had half-chewed his thumb nail off. No train in sight. A short woman with a black dress reading a newspaper stood next to him. Gerry looked over her shoulder and read his horoscope, “The last few weeks have been tough for you. You have received advice from lots of people. The word of the day is Prudence. The new solar eclipse starting in two days will have an unexpected outcome, until then take no risks. You’re been living too much in your head . . .” He did not like what he was reading. He needed luck. He needed something good to happen to him. He had had enough with trauma, had his share. The woman turned the page. Gerry smiled at her when she realized what he was doing. He drifted down the platform. His watch indicated 10:05.
A train pulled in. It rushed past Gerry at great speed and slowed down with a deafening shriek. Gerry muffled his ears, his satchel jammed between his knees. The crowd had doubled during the wait, and the cars were already jam-packed. The doors opened, a voice from the car’s speaker gave instructions: “Let them out, let them out if you’re not getting out! Move straight into the car to let the passengers in.” Gerry pushed his way in and found himself squashed against the window. He was relieved he was going to be on time, unlike grimacing passengers left on the platform.
At the following station, the throng waiting on the platform was even larger. Pressured by the impatient travelers, Gerry was forced out onto the platform, beyond the two human walls that had formed on either side of the doors. He could no longer board the car. He rushed down the platform to find a spot where he could squeeze into another car. The siren sounded and the doors slid closed. He put his foot in to prevent the door from closing. The conductor came through the speaker with a menacing tone. “Do not hold the doors! Preventing the doors from closing is a federal offense. If you hold the doors you’ll get arrested.” Gerry removed his foot and whacked the door with his satchel. The train departed without him. Panic overtook him. 10:12 and still so far away. He had to be on time. He could not afford to make a bad first impression. I need this job, I need this job, he kept repeating to himself. The eviction notice, the fear of losing the apartment. The memory of Elena increased his resolve. I’ve got to get myself together, he told himself, pacing up and down the platform. He checked his watch again and started to chew another nail.
Blue sparks flared against the dusty tiled walls. Gerry stopped pacing the platform. A train was approaching. He was tense. His hands sweaty. He rushed inside the car. A young couple was sitting in front of him. The young woman was asleep with her head against her friend’s shoulder. They reminded him of his picture with Elena. Gerry loosened his tie and looked away. He mopped his brow and slackened his sticky shirt. He ran a nervous hand inside his jacket and retrieved his wallet. He opened it and stared at the small photograph of him with Elena. The young couple in the car was in the same position. He moved down the car away from them.
The bright phosphorescent light around a commercial caught his attention. “What if you are a sick passenger?” Gerry snorted. He peered at the other ads. They all talked to him. “If you are in debt, we can help” ; “Be sure you are on the right track.” The young man was now stroking her cheeks. Gerry gazed again at the poster above the couple, “What if you are a sick passenger? If you are ill you will not be left alone.” All these advertisements he had taken for granted now talked to his fears, his concerns, and his sadness. They knew his secrets and addressed his pain. There were people out there who understood his suffering. He straightened up, annoyed with himself for being so prone to such shoddy tricks. How vulnerable he was. He knew commercials were designed to milk people’s sadness. Now he was one of the cows. The train gained speed and zipped through the empty tunnel. The passengers wobbled in unison. Once in a while, under the car, the metallic slithering of the bogies on the tracks.
Downtown, Gerry entered the skyscraper’s lobby. “These doors are for physically challenged only,” indicated a white sign next to the sliding glass doors. Without breaking his pace, Gerry trotted across the lobby. Its ceiling as high as a cathedral’s, all in white marble and pink limestone, with immense, long and narrow windows where the sunlight poured in. He reached the security desk and joined the waiting line. A huge clock hung above the counter. Ten minutes before 10:30. Gerry was panting. Beads of sweat ran down his temples. Per chance his watch matched the clock.
In front of him in the line, a short man with a pair of wide auburn-framed sunglasses was conversing with a gray-haired woman in an olive suit. Gerry noticed an officer beckoning to the woman. “Next” said the officer without a trace of energy in her voice. But the woman in the olive suit kept talking.
“There’s someone free,” Gerry said to the woman, pointing with his head to the officer.
The woman glared at Gerry and turned back towards the be-spectacled man: “They interrupt you and they don’t even say “Excuse-me.” She then finished the sentence she had started and walked to the counter, chin up. Gerry had eight minutes left.
He wiped his magnetic visitor’s card at the turnstile and pushed the bar in front of him with his satchel. Soft music was coming through the elevator’s speaker, an instrumental version of “You are the Sunshine of My Life.” Soon the elevator filled and Gerry found himself shoved up against a fat woman who turned around with a reprimanding expression when she felt Gerry against her. He tried to step back, but the doors sealed them in. Inside, no one spoke. Gerry closed his eyes. He visualized himself performing well in front of Mr. Peabody. You’ve got to act confidently. You’re the best. You’ve done great in the past, you’ll do great again. His tense body reminded him that he did not believe a word of what his mind was constructing. As soon as the elevator started to move, Gerry felt the floor vibrating. The elevator leaped up, quaked, came to a standstill, and then slammed against something. Anxious expressions were exchanged. The soft music continued playing. Someone rang the emergency bell. An inquiring voice came over the speaker.
“What is it?”
“Nothing’s happening in here,” someone said with a laugh. Half the elevator jeered while the other glanced about confused. The doors opened, and the legs of a security officer appeared. He squatted down and ordered everyone to climb out. The elevator had collapsed two feet below ground level.
“You’re too heavy. Too many people in there,” said the security guard, rolling his eyes upward. One by one, he hoisted the passengers out. The fat woman waited for everyone else to go first.
Gerry once again stood in front of the row of elevators, hesitant. The incident seemed a bad omen. Maybe I’m not meant to be here? Elena’s telling me something. He opened his satchel and double-checked the time and address of his appointment. Maybe I’m not supposed to work here. There’s no such a thing as “not supposed to be.” He put his hand on his heart to feel his wallet. She was still against his heart. He entered another elevator. “Sweet Dreams are Made of This” played on the speakers. The people inside had formed three rows and waited in silence. The elevator darted upwards, whizzing past dozens of floors. Gerry yawned and pinched his nose to loosen the pressure in his eardrums. He reached the forty-fourth floor within seconds and followed the signs along the long carpeted corridor that led to the second elevator that would take him to the seventieth floor. It was two minutes left before ten. In the blurred reflection of the elevator door, he readjusted his tie and inspected his appearance.
The office was roomy and bright. Gerry went straight to the secretary. She was seated behind a large mahogany desk and talked on the telephone. Whether you want to shave your legs or take a bath, this stuff’s amazing, he heard her say. She had short spiky carrot-colored hair and in some places her white skull was visible. The office felt peaceful. One of the walls consisted of a fountain glass pane. A thin sheet of water dropped from the ceiling cascading down onto a floor of pebbles and blurred the view. A series of rectangle-shaped neon lights, mounted on a railing, shot at the fountain. Every three or four seconds, the neon changed color. People walking behind the fountain were reduced to dark colorful shadows.
“Can I help you?” the secretary asked. Her large smile faded when Gerry turned towards her. Still, he smiled back disturbed, introducing himself. He noticed the pictures of her family on the desk. A man carrying a baby. She was watching him and he smiled at her. She smiled back. She led him to an adjacent room and explained that Mr. Peabody had not yet returned from a meeting. He would not be long.
She showed Gerry to a bright, coffee-scented room, a coffeemaker gurgling on a counter. He poured himself a cup and gazed through the windows, looking onto the immense, clear skyline that stretched beyond the Verazzano Bridge. He was perched high above the other buildings in lower Manhattan. I wish Elena could see this, he thought. The pane was flush with the floor. He drew near the window until his body touched the cold glass. From the top of the building, the impression of floating high in the air exalted his senses. Only a sheet of glass separated him from the clouds. The air was hazy Scattered clouds projected their shadows onto the Hudson’s surface A minuscule helicopter darted across the blue sky A wafting red balloon with a large commercial on its sides drifted like a sluggish and aimless rocket Below, the statue of Liberty appeared small and gray In the distance several anchored tankers. Ellis Island looked deserted, its redbrick buildings smothered by a voracious foliage. A rusty tugboat hauled a barge laden with trash. Glints of light sparkled as the sun reached pieces of broken glass or metal scraps. A scattered flock of seagulls hovered over the barge, in silence, but for the incessant hiss of the air-conditioner at Gerry’s feet. He looked down at the minute street below, sprawling at the tips of his shoes. The whole street fit under one shoe. How small and insignificant people looked. In just one squash he could obliterate it. He felt powerful like in the old days. I’m back in the game, he caught himself saying. Give them what they want and you’re back in action.
“Mr. Peabody is ready to see you,” said the secretary.
“Amazing sight.”
She did not respond. He followed her. The water streaming down the glass partition changed color. The red faded into pink, then became mauve, then blue.
Mr. Peabody sat behind his desk in a blue and white tracksuit, his face bright red, his breath rapid and loud. He lifted his body from the leather chair without ever leaving it, stretching his arm across the table to shake hands, then slumped back into the chair. Mr. Peabody’s hand was clammy. Gerry discreetly wiped his own hand against his suit.
“Sorry for the delay, I just got back from the gym. No time to change.” He reached for a tissue and mopped his forehead. He glanced at Gerry with the same baffled look as the secretary's. Gerry knew that something was not right with his . . .
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