Yesterday's post was a piece I intended for The Weekly World Review. The paper went bust the week I finished, so the story sat here for a few years. Here's a longer story.
Life’s Work
Sleet and snow fell on the last two dingy businesses buried in the ass of a particularly dead end alley. Rumbling, destitute garbage trucks picked up the futile town’s trash. Dr. Carl Dobbs, a seventy-five year old physician, cut rate DNC specialist, and easy touch for junkies, kept an office on the second floor of the hundred year old Meeker building. Two floors down, in the basement, the employees of the other business, Genius Printing, celebrated with a party.
Habitually unsuccessful, Gene and Gordon Ponce, the Genius brother owners, landed an exclusive deal with a national. For service and loyalty, they promised the world to long-time printer Kile Benton and forlorn typesetter Marge Sausage. The four knocked down shots and talked a big future.
“Plenty awork, plenty amoney,” Gene said. Gordon, the silent brother, said nothing. “We’re gonna bathe in green, work like machines, get rich past our wildest dreams,” Gene rarely rhymed. “Let’s have shot.”
Another lemon? A raw tongued lick? Marge thought. Good luck?
“We all gotta work harder for the benefits. We gotta plug-in, keep the juice going, keep that money flowing,” Gene rarely rhymed again.
Marge shivered. Not much heat at the Meeker. Nearly endless winters produced Bob Crachett-like conditions throughout the building. Marge wore thick clothes and warmed her hands by a tiny ceramic heater placed near her workstation.
Slightly drunk, she dropped one last shot and wrapped-up in her coat to leave. Wind slapped her exit like a silly laugh. She walked over grey, sludge-covered streets. Every step sloshed or splashed. Heavy boots resisted the four blocks to the old U.S. Grant Hotel, a crumbling, four storey building where she lived in Suite 303.
Only two other tenants, both long-timers, lived there. Ming, the Super, occupied a ground floor suite. A very old, seldom seen woman named Mrs. Calypso wiled away her final years in Suites 300 and 302 across the hall from Marge. A prostitution business run from a corner of the lobby kept several rooms busy on fourth.
Suffering a lack of confidence, the thirty-nine year old Marge moved to town twenty years before. She chose Gyreton because that’s how far her money took her, by bus, from the old home place. She stayed. A sister from Bristol visited her twice in the first ten years, but they lost touch. She never asked about her parents.
During her first year in town, Marge worked for an attorney named Don Fulcher. Work turned to play, play to sex. They fucked like bunnies for nine months. Twenty years older than she, Fulcher strung her along with promises of children and bliss, and kept her in a motel outside of town for convenience and his wife’s sake. Nineteen and uncontrollably in love, Marge did everything asked.
The affair came to a horrific, unexpected termination when Mrs. Fulcher’s private dick blew the whistle, and Mrs. Fulcher, with a double barrel blast from a 12 gauge, blew her husband through his plate glass office window during business hours. A woman scorned. Tisk, tisk. She smiled at Marge and took herself out.
Marge moped around for nearly four months until the Genius job opened. Gene and Gordon advanced her money and got her a place at the Grant. She settled in and worked with the loyalty of a machine.
Ming greeted her wet, drunk, winded entrance to the Grant lobby. “Good evening Ms. Sausage. Ready to marry? I make good husband,” he said.
“You’ll have to catch me a little drunker than this,” Marge said.
“Ha, ha. This best time. You just right.”
“What about Mrs. Ming?”
“Her? She hate me. Hate her, too. Talk talk talk. All day. All time. Drive me nut. Wish I drunk.”
“Whatever helps.”
“I big help. Marry me. See. I always help.”
“Any mail?”
“Just magazine. Many good story. You see.”
“You read all my mail?”
“Just magazine. Look at picture,” Ming said.
“Don’t forget my order.”
“I remember. Have good evening.”
“You, too, Ming.”
Marge whined as the elevator meandered up to the third floor. She enjoyed the lift. Extra weekend time transcended shitty weather, but her freezing apartment slapped that. The heating/cooling system often inopportunely failed. Pissed, Marge complained by phone to Ming. He took care and she took a bath.
She clicked on a light and settled with a magazine into her favorite chair and scanned an article on date rape while waiting for her boyfriend or best friend to call. The boyfriend always cancelled out in bad weather. He called and cancelled.
He, Raymond, skipped a lot. Nothing made him test the elements, even though he worked as a mailman, bound to deliver regardless of conditions, for chistsakes. A mama’s boy, he never married. Still lived with the old bat. Little wonder, Marge often thought. Worth the wait or not? No choice. Small towns, small games. Only the lukewarm Raymond vied for her attention. No electricity. Involvement by default.
Marge’s upside down twin, Sue, kept the world moving. In fact, Marge saw Sue more frequently than the nearly sexless Raymond. Single, but twice divorced, Sue’s narrow vivaciousness merged well with Marge’s hollow, depressive soul. They disdained everything they coveted. Bitches and gripes rattled in their guts.
Dinner came with a 6:20 knock. Marge searched for her purse. She always ordered the special with a sweet tea for a total of $7.85, not counting the $2.15 tip she always gave the delivery boy, Jimmy.
She opened the door to some guy besides Jimmy holding the bag.
“Yes?” she said.
“Delivery for 303. Special and tea,” the guy said.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me. I expected to see Jimmy. Could you put that on the table?”
“Sure. $7.85, please.”
“Yes. And here’s something for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me, but where’s Jimmy? He always brings my dinner.”
“I’m sorry to tell ya this, but he died last night,” the guy said.
“How did he...?”
“They said he had some kinda disease. Don’t know what. Had it a long time, they say. Died last night.”
“I’m so sorry. He’s delivered here for years. I’ll miss him.”
“Everybody says that. Thanks, and enjoy your meal. Sorry about Jimmy.”
“Thank you,” Marge said, and closed the door.
Jimmy’s death shocked her. Slow, honest, dim-witted to the core, Jimmy did everything right, and like a puppy took her teasing and chiding without comprehension of subtle cruelties. His passing left a hole in her heart.
Sue called with a hole in her head. “Help me, Marge. Let me come over,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got mugged.”
“What? Are you all right?” Marge said.
“Got a big bump on my head. I’m a little dizzy.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor. Are you bleeding?”
“Not now. Can I come by?”
“Yes. Come right now. How are you traveling?”
“I’ll take the cab.”
“I’ll call Ming for ice.”
“Get a lot. I’m thirsty, too,” Sue said.
“Hurry over.”
Marge called down to Ming and ate dinner while waiting. She finished with his knock.
“Here you ice,” Ming said from the doorway.
Sue walked up behind him. “Boo!” she said. Ming jerked around.
“You scare man death,” he said. “Wanna marry? I excellent husband. Take care of desire.”
“Tempting, but no thanks.” Sue flashed a twenty. “Run down and get me some cigarettes.”
“What kind?”
“In the green pack. Got that?”
“I get everything. You get everything, too, if we marry.”
“Answer’s no, now beat it, Casanova,” Sue said.
“You change mind. We marry one day,” Ming said.
“Whatta creep,” Sue said behind the closed door.
“I turn him down everyday,” Marge said. “How’s your head?”
Sue pulled a bottle from her bag. “Bruised, just like this champagne. I’m ready to party, girl.”
“I’m a little drunk now.”
“We can get stoned as statues. Let’s start with some scotch,” Sue said, producing another bottle.
“I had some at work. I was dozing when dinner came, right before you called.”
“Party at work?”
“We’re all gonna get rich.”
“Where’s flamin Raymond? His mama break down again?”
“He never comes out on a night like this. I didn’t want to fool with him tonight anyway. My little delivery boy died last night.”
“The tard? Jimmy?”
“He died last night.”
“Shame. What killed him?”
“The boy today said he had a disease.”
“Looked okay to me,” Sue said.
“That’s what I thought, too. Who knows?” Marge said.
“What’d you have for dinner?”
“The special.”
“Me, too. Let’s drink and watch tv.”
Ming brought Sue’s cigarettes and change. She tipped him and turned down another marriage proposal, then twisted around the room tearing plastic off the package. Marge poured drinks. Sue turned on the tv.
“I like the way this is shaping up,” Marge said, “but I still feel sorry for Jimmy.”
“Can’t drown your sorrows without the sorrows,” Sue said.
“How did you get mugged?”
“The guy I’ve been going out with got all out of control when another guy called my apartment. I told him I can’t control who calls. He said he wasn’t a fool. Gave me a little shove when he left. Bumped my head.”
“Drink up,” Marge said.
They watched and drank. Sue talked Marge into a drunken walk. Drinks and bundles. Ming laughed as they left. Their faces glowed in the cold. Gums numbed. Marge slid down.
“You all right?” Sue said, stooping to help. Marge looked up. “Is it okay if I laugh?” Sue said.
“I’m fine,” Marge said from one knee. “Help me up.” Sue tugged her arm and she stood. “I wish Jimmy didn’t die. I treated him just like a little puppy. He always came back no matter how hard I kicked,” she said, crying.
“I’m sorry for you, Marge, but it wasn’t your fault. You’ll find a new puppy. What about Raymond? He’d look good in a collar,” Sue said.
“I don’t know about that. He’s got a long tongue, especially when he’s down in his back, on all fours.”
“He carrying a monkey or a mommy?”
“What do you think?”
“You’d miss him if he left.”
“More the habit of him than anything else. He’s dull as old wax. Ya can’t buff nothing out of him. I’m not even sure you could hear him if he fell in the forest,” Marge said.
“Why don’t you dump him?”
“He’s about the only game in town.”
“There’s others. Why settle?”
“Like I said, it’s the habit of him. But you’re right, he doesn’t make me happy, or much of anything else. I need love. I’m outta here.”
“I’m staying,” Sue said.
Marge dumped Raymond, with little fanfare, by telephone, on that same night. The weekend froze. She sent Ming after the Sunday edition of the NY Times. Moving seemed possible. She fantasized; schemed: work like a machine for a year, save, vacation in the big city, stay. She liked the way it shaped up.
Mad Monday rolled early. Work, piled like uneven skyscrapers, hid most of Marge’s desk. Up to their balls in layout, Gene and Gordon cut and pasted. Marge cranked out sheet after sheet of press-ready copy. “Atta girl!” Gene said. Gordon said nothing.
Where did time go? Marge walked to the diner, not nearly as tired as expected. Running behind her usual time, she found the diner nearly deserted. One elderly couple hobbled slowly out. Old Dr. Dobbs sat alone at a table near the buffet line. Marge mazed her way between the tables and joined him.
Dobbs sniffed a bread crust and smiled. “Have a seat, pretty lady, and tell the old doctor all about it,” he said.
“Nice to see you again, doctor. How have you been?” Marge said.
“Old, poor. I’m coughing a lot. How are you?”
“Fine. Working hard.”
“I thought I hadn’t seen you around much lately. Still in the print shop?”
“Still there. You still in the clouds?”
“Yes, still overlooking the city, trying to be a young man again. It’s hopeless, you know. Thrived once. Now I wonder if I’ll make it through a big lunch.”
“Take your own advice and cut down.”
“On food?”
“On everything,” Marge said, “except coffee. Drink more of that.”
“I’ll try that. Tell me...how’s your boyfriend?” Dobbs said.
“He’s history. We split a few days ago.”
“I’m so sorry. You don’t seem very upset.”
“There was so little of everything I hardly noticed the end.”
Sue and Raymond’s marriage landed with a hollow clunk in Marge’s skull. What now but work? Genius made seven days a week’s worth of it for as many hours over ten each day as a person could possibly squeeze. Marge could almost squeeze a diamond’s worth anytime, and as the brothers had promised, stacks of dollars increasingly filled her bank account. But what of that, and what of time?
As an old woman Marge often drank sweet tea. Her bulbous fingers smarted and drew clinched with arthritis from nearly countless hours of typing. She turned down Ming’s proposals thousands of times before his death, but never met the ancient lady across the hall, and never married.
