A couple, walking in the park holding hands could just make out the top two floors of the twelve story pre-war apartment building clad in pale yellow. If they stopped and looked-up they might spot his apartment on the southwest corner. The casement window should have been open since it was the first warmish day after a long winter, but it wasn’t. The one-bedroom, one bath unit’s saving grace was a good sized living room and a U-shaped kitchen with a spacious eating nook and a glimpse of the park.
Ned did not look out the window, much less the park. Instead he rolled the spring of his disassembled ballpoint pen back and forth, intently. The cotton tablecloth was ordinary—a shade between white and beige, so the tiny silver spring stood out as it moved across the fabric, otherwise dormant. Luckily, the pen’s thin, long tube, once filled with ink, had gone dry before leaking over his shirt’s plaid pocket.
He liked the pen. Didn’t love it. There was one he loved, but he didn’t let himself think about it since it was gone now. But this one had a nice feel in his hand—like it wanted to stay there. Just hold me. That’s right. A bit tighter. There you go. Perfect. I’m yours, see!
Ned did see. He had seven left from a box of ten but why toss this one just because the ink had run out? The thing about this pen was the sound of the plunger as he pressed it down and released it. Ned wasn’t one of those nervous clickers who used to drive him nuts at work. He was a one-click and done guy. This pen had changed its tone a few months ago, going from a tinny high pitched “click” to a more mature “clunk.” It reminded him of the old car Karla once drove. Cute, easy to maneuver, always started and yet once you thought everything was right, something would go wrong. And you’d have to begin again. Ah…but the sound of the door closing was worth the price of admission. It felt like a vacuum seal when you shut it. Almost like the door was being sucked into the car’s body by some invisible force. Funny how that sound made them feel so safe despite the rusted out holes in the floorboards. Driving over the bridge to the city, they could see right through the grates on the span to the canal and the ships down below, joking and laughing all the way across.
From the kitchen junk drawer he brought several half-empty ink refills to the table and took them for a test drive on the newspaper. Small clockwise spirals. The first one tore into the unread comics and he tossed it aside, but the others flowed freely on the sports page. He compared the colors, all slightly different blues, and picked the one that was the brightest. It was Spring, after all.
“You and your special things, Ned!” Karla had a habit of telling him. One of her patented sayings. She had a basketful. But it was empty now. Years ago, when they were cleaning out the basement after the kids had moved on, they would give each other a thumbs-up to save an item, thumbs-down to toss and sideways, if unsure. Mid-way through the triage session she held up a baby blue clock radio with her thumb down and Ned rushed over, eyes-wide and snatched it from her hand, “Oh no, not that. No way!”
Karla had tilted her head to the side, her straight hair swaying and said, “There’s that look in your eye, Ned. Reminds me after our first date. You know. When I told you, ‘Sorry, I can’t go out with you on Saturday. I’m meeting-up with friends this weekend. Maybe next week?’ You looked so upset and confused. Like the world had stopped spinning. Do you remember that hon?”
He didn’t remember at the time, but now—ten years later, he did. Her voice had been so calm and yet it cut through all of his worriedness. That voice that always pulled him back to earth like a kite that needed a longer tail to keep from crashing down. Just the other day it happened again at the grocery store. A woman accused him of jumping the check-out line when he hadn’t seen the queue back into the cereal aisle about seven deep. He thought about defending himself—explaining his mistake or even laughing it off and going to the back of the line. But heart pounding, jaw tightening he set down his basket and left. Karla had been right about it all along—the little transgressions that undercut his sense of himself as seen by others. Back then, she touched his ear with her small warm fingers and reminded him, “It’s these injustices, they hurt you so sharply. I’m telling you Ned, they really are harmless. Look. You got me—on the next date! You won the Karla Lottery! And you saved that damn clock radio.”
Coffee warm in hand, he glanced at the paper, flipped a few pages and then for comfort he drifted back to the spring. Who made it? Sure, China. But who? How? He imagined the thin gauge wire being twisted by some kind of machine, but it would need to be delicate since the spring was so small. Then he thought of the springs in a hand-wound watch—now those are tiny! Ned wondered what a warehouse for tiny springs would look like? Who works there? What do they do? He took the last sip, a bit surprised and pleased with himself that he was thinking this all the way through.
The doorbell rang. It was probably a delivery. But Ned discounted that since he didn’t get many, if any, deliveries. Besides, he hadn’t ordered anything recently. He had pretty much everything he needed right there. The bell rang again. Twice.
Ned’s heart raced. It was an automatic response out of nowhere, like waking up from a wacky dream and panicking that you lost your wallet. In a few seconds it subsided. The chime rang again. Ned wished he had one of those doorbell cameras that show up on your phone, but he figured since the neighbor across the hall had one, he was covered. Stalled at the kitchen nook, he swiveled on the bench with his legs free to stand-up but his feet were firmly planted—hoping the ring would go away. It did. He pivoted one leg back under the table when the knocking started. Solid. Direct. Loud enough to need an answer.
He got up, and that brought his heart down a beat. Another knock. Firm. Ned walked across the small living room to the door and took a look through the peephole. The stranger’s face looked like a carnival funhouse mirror—big swollen head, blue short-sleeved shirt and blue pants with tiny legs. It was a man, late-thirties and he was carrying something in his arms, like a basket. The man smiled and looked straight at the peephole, directly at Ned.
Ned opened the door, standing about a foot back from the threshold. The stranger stepped forward.
“Sorry, I don’t know you?” Ned asked.
“Mr. Haskins? Ned Haskins, 11B?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m the new super here at the Fairview. Name’s Rolo. I have something I think is yours.” He held up the basket.
“Well I…”
Rolo’s cell rang and buzzed. “Gotta take this, gimme a second.” He set the basket down and pulled the phone from his toolbelt, “Rolo here. Yes mam. Uh huh. Yep. Ah—I’m with another tenant right now. Sure. I won’t forget. Okey dokey,” and hung up.
Ned remained standing trying to avert his eyes from the basket by staring at the security spring lock on the door.
“New tenant—Mrs. Jones up on 12—always something. Always in a hurry.”
“So?” Ned hadn’t heard about an apartment on 12 opening up. Why didn’t they tell him? Everyone knew they had wanted to move up if someone left. Irritated, he shifted his eyes onto the forehead of the super.
“Well, since I started last month, I’ve been cleaning-up in the basement—you know the storage cages by the laundry room?”
“Yes, but I don’t….”
“Right, you dropped your lease on the storage unit last November.”
Ned looked down at the basket which held a thick black stuffed garbage bag and nodded, holding his gaze on it.
“So when I got around to your cage, it looked empty.”
Raising his eyes, Ned replied, “That’s right, I had it cleared out by a service. Nothing was left. They took it all to Goodwill.”
Rolo shook his head, “Nope, this one was left behind, tucked in the corner by the pipes. I guess they missed it ’cause the bulb was burned out. I replaced it pronto—that’s when I spotted it.”
Rolo lifted the black bag from the basket and spun it around, “Look, it’s got a nametag – Karla H. #11B. Maybe it’s your…”
Karla. Karla H. Karla Haskins. The late Karla Haskins. Ned hadn’t heard her name spoken out loud in over three months and always before from a consoling friend of theirs, hers or his. And now, hearing it from a stranger—someone who never knew her. Or met her. Didn’t he know? He wanted to slam the door, to have it go away. But this Rolo was standing still on the threshold, his head tilted waiting for a response. His lips were moving, but Ned couldn’t hear anything.
Rolo had seen the look on Ned’s face when he read the tag out loud, watched him stiffen, step backwards and shuffle, hunched-over towards the kitchen and then out of sight. He’d seen faces all his life. Close-up. At doors across the city. There’s some serious shit going on with this guy.
Raising his voice to be heard, “Mr. Haskins, I’m coming in now. I’ll leave the bag here, you just need to sign for it.” Rolo pulled a pen from his pocket and a folded receipt book from his tool belt. He could hear mumbling mixed with muffled sounds, maybe sniffling. “You there, Mr. Haskins?”
There was no answer. He stepped into the living room of 11B.
Rolo’s phone rang again. Not Mrs. Jones, this time. Rolo didn’t recognize the number and was about to let it flip to voicemail when he remembered he was waiting for a call back from the HVAC contractor. He picked up.
“Rolo here—The Fairview. Yep. Oh, it’s you. Yeah I got it. It’s on my desk. Listen—you need to give me a break on the maintenance side. At least 15%. Sure, Thursday morning’s good. I start at 7. Edgar, if you’re a smart guy you’ll bring black coffee and a churro.”
Taking the phone away from his ear Rolo could hear whimpering sounds from the nook.
“Yeah, right. Back at you.” Rolo hung up and put the basket on the ground just inside the door, closed it slowly and waited for Haskins to return. He didn’t.
Tired of inaction, Rolo walked towards the kitchen with the bag until he could see Mr. Haskins at the table nook. He stopped, like in a game of Freeze Tag. The sobs were muted by Ned’s flannel shirt and by how tight his face was cradled in his folded arms.
Why me? Three weeks in and it all starts again. People sucking you into their crazy shit. You call the plays Rolo, not them. Keep it simple. Focus on the list and crossing stuff off. Boom-you’re day is done. Sweet.
Rolo stayed still. Resolved—he was about to call a play from his playbook. Then he remembered the busted ones on his high school football team and what could happen.
Coughing to remind the tenant he was still in the unit, Rolo tried to look relaxed, like he belonged there and that nothing had happened and he could still drop off the bag, get his signature and get back to Mrs. Jones on 12 and put away the sounds of a grown man breaking-down.
Ned raised his head, still seated.
Rolo motioned to the sink, “You could use some water.”
Looking up, Ned nodded, his eyes blurry and red.
Relieved, Rolo didn’t answer and walked to the sink. All the Fairview sinks were the same, white stained porcelain but the faucets were all different, except for 7A—which had the original separate hot and cold fixtures. It eased his mind thinking about something just sitting tight and doing what it needed to do for all that time.
“Ice?”
Ned shook his head, raising up enough to make eye contact. He recalled the knock on the door and the call from someone on the 12th floor, the name ‘Rolo’ and the black garbage bag filled with Karla’s special things. But not much else.
This super getting him a glass of water reminded him of his 8th grade drafting teacher—Mr. Renner. He was average everything but with forearms that made you wonder. Rumor had it that he had been a Marine and re-upped a couple of times and ‘done stuff.’ Rolo looked a lot like Renner, except he had a short beard and an accent. And he had those eyes that looked directly at him, holding him in his gaze. Rolo brought over the glass and set it on the table. Still standing.
As Ned sipped the water, Rolo saw him peek at the calendar by the window. It was from last year. Rolo decided on calling an audible, ”This coffee any good?”
Ned nodded.
Rolo found a chipped cup on the rack and filled it with what looked and smelled like decent coffee. He took a sip before sitting down across from Ned. It was good.
“How long you been here, Mr. Haskins?”
“Seven years, in September.“
“Always 11B?”
“No, we started lower. Over the years we were able to move up as people left.” Ned paused and then as if he was saying a remembered line, “They say 11th on up on the West Side are the best because of the air rights.” He thought about bringing up Mrs. Jones on 12, but let it go.
“Can’t argue with that.” Rolo added, “Unless the lifts are on the blink.”
Rolo thought of asking about the ‘we,’ but decided to drop it. He looked around. Why would someone clear out their storage unit? Why was this apartment so neat? Too neat? Why was the coffee maker such a small one? Why was the calendar in the nook from last October with the 17th blacked out with an angry ballpoint pen? Why give a shit, Rolo? Leave it. Drop the bag, get back to job #1.
“You remind me of someone,” said Ned glancing up.
Caught off guard, Rolo hesitated, “Oh yeah, who’s that?”
“My favorite teacher, back when I was a kid. Taught drafting. You look a lot like him…except for the hair,” Ned stroked his chin, “and he was from Poland.”
Rolo laughed. “I mess around with this beard all the time—hoping it will bring me luck.”
“Luck?”
“Love, you know.”
Ned’s stare went blank. Rolo caught it and quickly volunteered, “You know, my mother was from Latvia and my dad, Sardinia. The original odd couple.”
Ned motioned to Rolo to have a seat at the nook. “Why’d you leave?”
Rolo turned off his phone as he sat down. “We left, I was just a kid. America, that’s the short answer.” He twirled his cup, always ending up taking a sip from the chipped side.
“I should, but I don’t think I can ever leave this place,” said Ned.
Ned fixed his eyes on the calendar by the nook window. “We were happy here. Not perfect happy. Who is?”
Rolo raised his cup in recognition.
“You see, we worked too hard and way too long. But before the end,” he corrected himself, “before she was taken to the hospital, we were…”
“Content?” offered Rolo.
Ned nodded and pushed aside his empty glass.
“You know, Mr. Haskins, come to think of it, my favorite teacher was in Practical Engineering—fancy name for Shop. Now, she was a rare one. What a pistol. Rode me hard.”
Rolo looked up to the heavens.
“How?”
“Oh, she would say shit like, ‘Young Mr. Rolo—you know people, you know how things work and you like to fix things. The world is your oyster. It’s up to you.’” Rolo smiled as the memories percolated up. “She would keep telling me, ‘Just look people in the eye, it’s good for them and it’s good for you.’ I was shy, you know—self-conscious. Without her, I wouldn’t be here.”
Ned’s eyes drifted over to the bag.
“You might not understand this, Mr. Haskins but I like what I do—and it’s because of her.”
It hadn’t occurred to Ned. But then he thought back to the workers who made the spring for his ballpoint pen and worked in the warehouse. No way that could be good. But for Rolo it might be different. What was a typical day was like for him? Random this. Same that. A few head scratchers. Small victories. Frustrations, to be sure. If he was good and could handle the complaints, a big bonus and tips at the Holidays. Maybe the world was Rolo’s oyster?
Ned stared up at the calendar, the scratched out date and the tied up bag on the kitchen floor filled with her cherished things. I lost my Pearl. He remembered the day he packed it up after her service. A few of Karla’s friends volunteered to help, but he couldn’t imagine them in the apartment. The small talk. Trying to make him comfortable. As if that was something he would even care about? Mostly it was stuff that didn’t mean anything to him, anymore. Giving them away was the easy part. At the end there were a few things still scattered on the floor that deserved something more—like the sideways thumb needing a deeper conversation. But Karla’s voice that once rippled through his head had started receding as if she was whispering into his ear and running away at the same time.
Some items were so small Ned could hold them between two fingers, others were heavy, with awkward shapes and some soft, almost weightless. None of them were valuable so it probably didn’t matter, but it would have mattered to Karla. He could feel her looking down and nodding approval. So he treated them right. Before placing them in the doubled-up heavy duty black bag, he wrapped each item in packing paper leftover from their move up to the 11th floor. He didn’t talk out loud to each item. Or to her. He just took care. Someday somebody would open them up and ask, ‘My they did a nice job wrapping this!’ Or ‘Why did they pack this piece of crap so carefully?’ Ned didn’t want to be around to hear that one. Then he tied the bag with the nametag from her old suitcase and took them all down to the basement storage unit.
“Speaking of work—I need to get back at it, Mr. Haskins.”
Ned kept his head still as his eyes welled-up and his heart pounded.
“Tell you what…” Rolo stood up and took his coffee cup back to the sink and rinsed it while talking with his back to Ned, “Why don’t I take this bundle back down to the basement? It’ll keep and as you said, you aren’t leaving. How does that sound?” Then he turned around. “What d’ya think?”
Ned’s eyes cleared and still seated, “That works. Works fine,”
Rolo nodded.
Rising-up, Ned reached out and shook Rolo’s hand, “I’ll let you know when you can bring it back-up.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Haskins. I’ll keep it safe.”
Rolo placed the bag in the basket and cradled it with one arm, flipped his phone on and headed from the kitchen to the basement enroute to the 12th floor. Glancing back, he saw Haskins reach-up to last year’s calendar and pull it down, open the window and pick-up the ballpoint pen—click it twice and slip it into his damp shirt pocket.
*****
Bob Rehm studied Social Theory at Western Washington State University and later earned an MBA at the University of Washington. His short story, “Broken Plate” was recently published in the Hamilton Stone Review. He was awarded First Prize in the Seattle Sun’s Short Story competition for “Tractor Deaths in Greece,” published in The Duwamish Review.
