The Things They Left Behind.pdf

The Things They Left Behind

The things I want to tell you about—the ones they left behind—showed up in my

apartment in August of 2002. I’m sure of that, because I found most of them not long

after I helped Paula Robeson with her air conditioner. Memory always needs a marker,

and that’s mine. She was a children’s book illustrator, good-looking (hell, fine -

looking), husband in import-export. A man has a way of remembering occasions

when he’s actually able to help a good-looking lady in distress (even one who keeps

assuring you she’s “very married”); such occasions are all too few. These days the

would-be knight errant usually just makes matters worse.

She was in the lobby, looking frustrated, when I came down for an afternoon walk. I

said Hi, howya doin’, the way you do to other folks who share your building, and she

asked me in an exasperated tone that stopped just short of querulousness why the

super had to be on vacation now. I pointed out that even cowgirls get the blues and

even supers go on vacation; that August, furthermore, was an extremely logical month

to take time off. August in New York (and in Paris, mon ami ) finds psychoanalysts,

trendy artists, and building superintendents mighty thin on the ground.

She didn’t smile. I’m not sure she even got the Tom Robbins reference (obliqueness is

the curse of the reading class). She said it might be true about August being a good

month to take off and go to the Cape or Fire Island, but her damned apartment was

just about burning up and the damned air conditioner wouldn’t so much as burp. I

asked her if she’d like me to take a look, and I remember the glance she gave me—

those cool, assessing gray eyes. I remember thinking that eyes like that probably saw

quite a lot. And I remember smiling at what she asked me: Are you safe? It reminded

me of that movie, not Lolita (thinking about Lolita, sometimes at two in the morning,

came later) but the one where Laurence Olivier does the impromptu dental work on

Dustin Hoffman, asking him over and over again, Is it safe?

I’m safe, I said. Haven’t attacked a woman in over a year. I used to attack two or

three a week, but the meetings are helping.

A giddy thing to say, but I was in a fairly giddy mood. A summer mood. She gave me

another look, and then she smiled. Put out her hand. Paula Robeson, she said. It was

the left hand she put out—not normal, but the one with the plain gold band on it. I

think that was probably on purpose, don’t you? But it was later that she told me about

her husband being in import-export. On the day when it was my turn to ask her for

help.

In the elevator, I told her not to expect too much. Now, if she’d wanted a man to find

out the underlying causes of the New York City Draft Riots, or to supply a few

amusing anecdotes about the creation of the small-pox vaccine, or even to dig up

quotes on the sociological ramifications of the TV remote control (the most important

invention of the last fifty years, in my ’umble opinion), I was the guy.

Research is your game, Mr. Staley? she asked as we went up in the slow and clattery

elevator.

I admitted that it was, although I didn’t add that I was still quite new to it. Nor did I

ask her to call me Scott—that would have spooked her all over again. And I certainly

didn’t tell her that I was trying to forget all I’d once known about rural insurance.

That I was, in fact, trying to forget quite a lot of things, including about two dozen

faces.

You see, I may be trying to forget, but I still remember quite a lot. I think we all do

when we put our minds to it (and sometimes, rather more nastily, when we don’t). I

even remember something one of those South American novelists said—you know,

the ones they call the Magical Realists? Not the guy’s name, that’s not important, but

this quote: As infants, our first victory comes in grasping some bit of the world,

usually our mothers’ fingers. Later we discover that the world, and the things of the

world, are grasping us, and have been all along. Borges? Yes, it might have been

Borges. Or it might have been Márquez. That I don’t remember. I just know I got her

air conditioner running, and when cool air started blowing out of the convector, it lit

up her whole face. I also know it’s true, that thing about how perception switches

around and we come to realize that the things we thought we were holding are

actually holding us. Keeping us prisoner, perhaps—Thoreau certainly thought so—but

also holding us in place. That’s the trade-off. And no matter what Thoreau might have

thought, I believe the trade is mostly a fair one. Or I did then; now, I’m not so sure.

And I know these things happened in late August of 2002, not quite a year after a

piece of the sky fell down and everything changed for all of us.

On an afternoon about a week after Sir Scott Staley donned his Good Samaritan armor

and successfully battled the fearsome air conditioner, I took my afternoon walk to the

Staples on 83rd Street to get a box of Zip discs and a ream of paper. I owed a fellow

forty pages of background on the development of the Polaroid camera (which is more

interesting a story than you might think). When I got back to my apartment, there was

a pair of sunglasses with red frames and very distinctive lenses on the little table in

the foyer where I keep bills that need to be paid, claim checks, overdue-book notices,

and things of that nature. I recognized the glasses at once, and all the strength went

out of me. I didn’t fall, but I dropped my packages on the floor and leaned against the

side of the door, trying to catch my breath and staring at those sunglasses. If there had

been nothing to lean against, I believe I would have swooned like a miss in a

Victorian novel—one of those where the lustful vampire appears at the stroke of

midnight.

Two related but distinct emotional waves struck me. The first was that sense of

horrified shame you feel when you know you’re about to be caught in some act you

will never be able to explain. The memory that comes to mind in this regard is of a

thing that happened to me—or almost happened—when I was sixteen.

My mother and sister had gone shopping in Portland and I supposedly had the house

to myself until evening. I was reclining naked on my bed with a pair of my sister’s

underpants wrapped around my cock. The bed was scattered with pictures I’d clipped

from magazines I’d found in the back of the garage—the previous owner’s stash of

Penthouse and Gallery magazines, very likely. I heard a car come crunching into the

driveway. No mistaking the sound of that motor; it was my mother and sister. Peg had

come down with some sort of flu bug and started vomiting out the window. They’d

gotten as far as Poland Springs and turned around.

I looked at the pictures scattered all over the bed, my clothes scattered all over the

floor, and the foam of pink rayon in my left hand. I remember how the strength

flowed out of my body, and the terrible sense of lassitude that came in its place. My

mother was yelling for me—“Scott, Scott, come down and help me with your sister,

she’s sick”—and I remember thinking, “What’s the use? I’m caught. I might as well

accept it, I’m caught and this is the first thing they’ll think of when they think about

me for the rest of my life: Scott, the jerk-off artist.”

But more often than not a kind of survival overdrive kicks in at such moments. That’s

what happened to me. I might go down, I decided, but I wouldn’t do so without at

least an effort to save my dignity. I threw the pictures and the panties under the bed.

Then I jumped into my clothes, moving with numb but sure-fingered speed, all the

time thinking of this crazy old game show I used to watch, Beat the Clock .

I can remember how my mother touched my flushed cheek when I got downstairs,

and the thoughtful concern in her eyes. “Maybe you’re getting sick, too,” she said.

“Maybe I am,” I said, and gladly enough. It was half an hour before I discovered I’d

forgotten to zip my fly. Luckily, neither Peg nor my mother noticed, although on any

other occasion one or both of them would have asked me if I had a license to sell hot

dogs (this was what passed for wit in the house where I grew up). That day one of

them was too sick and the other was too worried to be witty. So I got a total pass.

Lucky me.

What followed the first emotional wave that August day in my apartment was much

simpler: I thought I was going out of my mind. Because those glasses couldn’t be

there. Absolutely could not. No way.

Then I raised my eyes and saw something else that had most certainly not been in my

apartment when I left for Staples half an hour before (locking the door behind me, as I

always did). Leaning in the corner between the kitchenette and the living room was a

baseball bat. Hillerich & Bradsby, according to the label. And while I couldn’t see the

other side, I knew what was printed there well enough: CLAIMS ADJUSTOR, the

words burned into the ash with the tip of a soldering iron and then colored deep blue.

Another sensation rushed through me: a third wave. This was a species of surreal

dismay. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m sure that at that moment I looked as though

I had just seen one.

I felt that way, too. Yes indeed. Because those sunglasses had to be gone—long-time

gone, as the Dixie Chicks say. Ditto Cleve Farrell’s Claims Adjustor. (“Besboll been

bery-bery good to mee,” Cleve would sometimes say, waving the bat over his head as

he sat at his desk. “In-SHOO-rance been bery-bery bad.”)

I did the only thing I could think of, which was to grab up Sonja D’Amico’s shades

and trot back down to the elevator with them, holding them out in front of me the way

you might hold out something nasty you found on your apartment floor after a week

away on vacation—a piece of decaying food, or the body of a poisoned mouse. I

found myself remembering a conversation I’d had about Sonja with a fellow named

Warren Anderson. She must have looked like she thought she was going to pop back

up and ask somebody for a Coca-Cola, I had thought when he told me what he’d seen.

Over drinks in the Blarney Stone Pub on Third Avenue, this had been, about six

weeks after the sky fell down. After we’d toasted each other on not being dead.

Things like that have a way of sticking, whether you want them to or not. Like a

musical phrase or the nonsense chorus to a pop song that you just can’t get out of your

head. You wake up at three in the morning, needing to take a leak, and as you stand

there in front of the bowl, your cock in your hand and your mind about ten percent

awake, it comes back to you: Like she thought she was going to pop back up. Pop

back up and ask for a Coke. At some point during that conversation Warren had asked

me if I remembered her funny sunglasses, and I said I did. Sure I did.

Four floors down, Pedro the doorman was standing in the shade of the awning and

talking with Rafe the FedEx man. Pedro was a serious hardboy when it came to letting

deliverymen stand in front of the building—he had a seven-minute rule, a pocket

watch with which to enforce it, and all the beat cops were his buddies—but he got on

with Rafe, and sometimes the two of them would stand there for twenty minutes or

more with their heads together, doing the old New York Yak. Politics? Besboll? The

Gospel According to Henry David Thoreau? I didn’t know and never cared less than

on that day. They’d been there when I went up with my office supplies, and were still

there when a far less carefree Scott Staley came back down. A Scott Staley who had

discovered a small but noticeable hole in the column of reality. Just the two of them

being there was enough for me. I walked up and held my right hand, the one with the

sunglasses in it, out to Pedro.

“What would you call these?” I asked, not bothering to excuse myself or anything,

just butting in headfirst.

He gave me a considering stare that said, “I am surprised at your rudeness, Mr. Staley,

truly I am,” then looked down at my hand. For a long moment he said nothing, and a

horrible idea took possession of me: he saw nothing because there was nothing to see.

Only my hand outstretched, as if this were Turnabout Tuesday and I expected him to

tip me. My hand was empty. Sure it was, had to be, because Sonja D’Amico’s

sunglasses no longer existed. Sonja’s joke shades were a long time gone.

“I call them sunglasses, Mr. Staley,” Pedro said at last. “What else would I call them?

Or is this some sort of trick question?”

Rafe the FedEx man, clearly more interested, took them from me. The relief of seeing

him holding the sunglasses and looking at them, almost studying them, was like

having someone scratch that exact place between your shoulder blades that itches. He

stepped out from beneath the awning and held them up to the day, making a sun-star

flash off each of the heart-shaped lenses.

“They’re like the ones the little girl wore in that porno movie with Jeremy Irons,” he

said at last.

I had to grin in spite of my distress. In New York, even the deliverymen are film

critics. It’s one of the things to love about the place.

“That’s right, Lolita, ” I said, taking the glasses back. “Only the heart-shaped

sunglasses were in the version Stanley Kubrick directed. Back when Jeremy Irons was

still nothing but a putter.” That one hardly made sense (even to me), but I didn’t give

Shit One. Once again I was feeling giddy…but not in a good way. Not this time.

“Who played the pervo in that one?” Rafe asked.

I shook my head. “I’ll be damned if I can remember right now.”

“If you don’t mind me saying,” Pedro said, “you look rather pale, Mr. Staley. Are you

coming down with something? The flu, perhaps?”

No, that was my sister, I thought of saying. The day I came within about twenty

seconds of getting caught masturbating into her panties while I looked at a picture of

Miss April. But I hadn’t been caught. Not then, not on 9/11, either. Fooled ya, beat the

clock again. I couldn’t speak for Warren Anderson, who told me in the Blarney Stone

that he’d stopped on the third floor that morning to talk about the Yankees with a

friend, but not getting caught had become quite a specialty of mine.

“I’m all right,” I told Pedro, and while that wasn’t true, knowing I wasn’t the only one

who saw Sonja’s joke shades as a thing that actually existed in the world made me

feel better, at least. If the sunglasses were in the world, probably Cleve Farrell’s

Hillerich & Bradsby was, too.

“Are those the glasses?” Rafe suddenly asked in a respectful, ready-to-be-awestruck

voice. “The ones from the first Lolita ?”

“Nope,” I said, folding the bows behind the heart-shaped lenses, and as I did, the

name of the girl in the Kubrick version of the film came to me: Sue Lyon. I still

couldn’t remember who played the pervo. “Just a knock-off.”

“Is there something special about them?” Rafe asked. “Is that why you came rushing

down here?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone left them behind in my apartment.”

I went upstairs before they could ask any more questions and looked around, hoping

there was nothing else. But there was. In addition to the sunglasses and the baseball

bat with CLAIMS ADJUSTOR burned into the side, there was a Howie’s Laff-Riot

Farting Cushion, a conch shell, a steel penny suspended in a Lucite cube, and a

ceramic mushroom (red with white spots) that came with a ceramic Alice sitting on

top of it. The Farting Cushion had belonged to Jimmy Eagleton and got a certain

amount of play every year at the Christmas party. The ceramic Alice had been on

Maureen Hannon’s desk—a gift from her granddaughter, she’d told me once.

Maureen had the most beautiful white hair, which she wore long, to her waist. You

rarely see that in a business situation, but she’d been with the company for almost

forty years and felt she could wear her hair any way she liked. I remembered both the

conch shell and the steel penny, but not in whose cubicles (or offices) they had been.

It might come to me; it might not. There had been lots of cubicles (and offices) at

Light and Bell, Insurers.

The shell, the mushroom, and the Lucite cube were on the coffee table in my living

room, gathered in a neat pile. The Farting Cushion was—quite rightly, I thought—

lying on top of my toilet tank, beside the current issue of Spenck’s Rural Insurance

Newsletter. Rural insurance used to be my specialty, as I think I told you. I knew all

the odds.

What were the odds on this?

When something goes wrong in your life and you need to talk about it, I think that the

first impulse for most people is to call a family member. This wasn’t much of an

option for me. My father put an egg in his shoe and beat it when I was two and my

sister was four. My mother, no quitter she, hit the ground running and raised the two

of us, man aging a mail-order clearinghouse out of our home while she did so. I

believe this was a business she actually created, and she made an adequate living at it

(only the first year was really scary, she told me later). She smoked like a chimney,

however, and died of lung cancer at the age of forty-eight, six or eight years before

the Internet might have made her a dot-com millionaire.

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