Family Practice by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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CHAPTER 2
He didn’t know one kind of Victorian house from another and also realized that even if he did, so many repairs, additions and improvements had been made over the years, he might wind up describing one with the absurdity of “modified Italianette, by way of 1920s arts and crafts with a penchant for mission, mitigated by 1980s functionality and tempered by ten years of neglect.” It was much easier and more to the point to say a big hodge podge. He did his best to put his aesthetic musings aside and focus on the job at hand.
The one way traffic imposed an insurmountable limitation on his ability to follow anyone leaving their house on foot going in the other direction. The parked cars baking on both sides of the street would probably render him invisible doing the same.
However, the proximity of many houses and their abundance of windows would leave him unprotected from curious eyes. The wide spacing of the street lamps must have been accomplished one of the years that the city had a budget crisis, as there would be spots in complete blackness. There were only a few kids on the street now, sitting on cars fortunate enough to have been placed in a shady spot, the heat loving boys throwing around twenty-five cent “spaldeens,” which would often “accidentally” come the way of the girls, falsely pretending to act cool within the
shade of indifference. Though there were enough open parking spaces now, people were still at work.
All in all this should be an easy job. Being spotted by neighbors was of minimal concern; he just needed to remain invisible to one person; Candy. The one way nature of the street, coupled with the possibility of her leaving on foot in the opposite direction, would probably be alleviated by the fact that he could drive around the block and again find her at the corner. When he got to Number 694 he was pleased with its approximate middle of the block location and his artsy senses were re-aroused by its glorious, consistent, non-uniformity.
The people who lived here knew exactly what they wanted and had no qualms about showing it. The sun reflected off the uncovered windows which prevented him from seeing inside and he also surmised that a person could be looking out, invisible to him, so he didn’t linger. Two lots away, on the opposite side of the street he noticed an old, one level building, which appeared to be an abandoned, dilapidated garage in a night-time dark spot.
He considered that this could be a party spot for local teenagers, but even if it was, it would be a perfect place to park, as they would probably want to remain hidden more than he did.
He walked back to his office parking lot and drove his black 1968 Mercury sedan to Liberty Lane and parked it in front
of the garage, planning to come back just before dark and hopefully get an opportunity to use the loaded flash camera he left in the front seat. He again used his pedestrian skills to get back to his apartment at 990 Headwaters Road, just behind Journal Square, hoping to get some rest.
His first floor studio apartment sat in the back corner of what was once, a single family, square, two story, flat roofed structure, as was the entire block. Most were now covered with aluminum siding of various colors or fades and were also broken up into apartments. Mark’s stood out as the only one inventive enough to make facial use of speckled black and white roofing shingles. As all the buildings were attached Mark’s only window looked out at a small unmaintained backyard, strewn with discarded items, some he remembered from three years prior. He had a certain affinity for the place as its $80 per month rent was about the best one could do; it was a short walk to his office; the people on the block varied from Indian immigrants, to Haitian black, to Puerto Ricans and older eastern European whites, most without the full use of the English language, ensuring limited conversations not advancing beyond “Hi,” and because he didn’t have to go through the trouble of moving to get there.
He climbed the soggy gray carpeted steps to the landing, went in and saw that his door had already been opened for him.
He approached carefully, reaching for the gun that he had again left at the office, fearing that one of the people he had shadowed might now be trying to pay him back; though it would have to be one of the extremely stupid ones to advertise his presence. He couldn’t exclude anyone, or maybe they were gone.
He heard no sounds and went in slowly, very prepared to duck and run. He saw Margie sitting on the toilet, not choosing to close the door, with her 30 by 38 blue jeans hugging her ankles. He relaxed. She saw him, jumped up pulling at her Levi’s, tripping as she tried to approach him and agitatedly said; “Where the fuck are they?” through full beige painted lips. He had known her a few years now and could always count on her severe manic depression to immediately tell if she was hot or cold. Her bra-less 36 inch chest was almost covered today by a torn pink tshirt that simply said, “Led Zeppelin.”
With a faint smile he calmly said; “Where the fuck are what?”
She charged right at him and made a half-hearted attempt to scratch his face, which he easily deflected, keeping hold of both her hands. He took one more chance at a little smile, trying to lean against her, but she jerked her hands down and pulled away. He concluded that this was going to be a hot day, but not the kind he liked. He watched her hands and feet, anticipating further assault and was consequently prepared when
her right foot went for his shins, able to overstep her foot with his own causing another entanglement.
“Stop grabbing me, asshole,” she disgustedly said.
“Then stop kicking me.”
“I ought to.....” She put her right hand in punching position to which he did a Joe Frazier cover up and she relented.
She said; “I don’t want to see you anymore,” for easily the fifth time that he could recall, “And I want to take my records out of here.”
Mark considered saying; “If you don’t want to see me, I guess my apartment is the best place to accomplish that,” but rather he said; “I’m sorry,” not certain for what. He had learned from some weird movie that this tactic disarms people.
In a conciliatory tone he added; “Don’t make a big deal out of nothing. What do you want from me?”
The tactic didn’t phase Margie one iota as she angrily responded; “My records, stupid. Shove that bullshit somewhere.”
He went to three yellow boxes on the floor near the turn-table and said; “They should be here. Which ones are yours?”
“I don’t know. Probably the ones you sold to pay the rent.”
“I didn’t sell any records. I sold some of MY books. They couldn’t be yours because you can’t read.”
“I can read you, easily enough.”
“Margie, please. Take whichever ones you want. I’ve got a job tonight and I really need to eat and sleep a bit.”
She looked through all the records, while sitting on the floor tossing them to one side or another, consequently getting everything out of order, settling on about ten that probably really were hers, as they were much louder groups than he generally appreciated. She started to stalk out with them balanced somewhat between her right arm and the hole in her Tshirt. Feeling relaxed again, Mark made one more attempt at amusement saying; “Margie, did you remember to flush?”
“No, I left it for you,” as she closed the old white painted wooden door behind her. When she got to street level she saw Mark’s dented red 1967 Corvair parked in front and gave it a kick, hoping to make another one, but her soft sneakers were not up to the task.
Now, Mark was too keyed up to sleep, so he lit a joint he had in the mini-refrigerator, at the same time taking out the remains of a hamburger he had purchased at “The Griddle”
sometime within the last five days and put it in the oven. One good thing about old meat, lettuce and tomatoes is that if you don’t get food poisoning, you don’t have to worry about constipation.
He sat on the yellow two cushion “contemporary” couch that hugged the wall and turned on the portable television set, rolling the chrome cart closer to himself. The channel he was set to was playing some 1940s film noir in supposed black and white that looked more like shades of gray. The movie was somewhat near the middle and he didn’t know what was going on, but liked the atmosphere down there.
At Liberty Lane, Connie, having finished feeding a voracious husband, was in the Art Nouveau first floor living room taking some notice of the ebony pieces inlaid with silver.
She dialed her memorized number, not knowing or caring that Warren was standing on the other side of the open door in the adjoining room. He listened to her end of the conversation.
“Benito, hi.” Pause.
“I’m ready for you too, baby.” Pause.
“I’ll be there unadorned and weak in the knees.” Pause.
“Hey, before you float away.” She had one bare leg on the couch and one on the floor. She reached down with her right hand to wipe away some moisture left recently on the boxed inlay of the low coffee table. “I got that young private detective tailing Candy and Callie.” Pause.
“No, he has no idea.” Pause.
“If he gets smart, I’ll straighten him out with the purple mountain’s majesty. He’ll forget whatever he thinks he knows.”
Pause.
“He’s very hungry.” Pause.
“See you in the elevations.” She hung up and turned around to see Warren standing ten feet away.
Exhilarated and with his eyes glued to the still moist coffee table he said; “That small morsel you gave me didn’t fill me up. I’m still hungry. And when are you going to get me more photos?”
Her eyes slightly squinted and a knowing smile came to the corners of her lips. She put one leg back up on the couch and said; “Clean up this boxed inlay. The wetness seems to keep coming. I think some got on my pretty foot.”
He assumed his favorite church position, proud to satisfy both his thirst and hunger at the same time. She looked down at him doing the eager attentive job he so relished and said;
“You’re such a good little slave. You have my permission to play the second fiddle.” She sat on the couch and closed her eyes, dreaming of things to come.
Mark woke up refreshed at 5:00PM and switched the channel to the evening news. The overly serious, forty-ish, male model was talking over a film clip of Richard Nixon waving to his fans
as he exited Air Force One. He was showing everyone the peace sign, a victory sign, or the bird, it was hard to tell, as he returned from Europe, ostensibly gathering support for his
“Peace with Honor” withdrawal from Viet Nam plan. Nixon was no doubt anxious to talk about that, though reporters were more interested in “who knew what and when?” regarding the Watergate scandal, new “facts” and allegations coming to the forefront in his absence. Why they bothered to ask him anything was the unsolved mystery, as no one believed anything he said. There was no good answer possible as he was already confronted with the Catch-22 logic that even if he was innocent he should resign, as answering questions about Watergate took too much time from his other duties. Mark was especially nonplussed about the whole thing since he was in the business of spying on people for relatively trivial things; it seemed painfully obvious that the same thing would go on in higher arenas.
He freshened up, only mildly cognizant of the buzz from the joint he had smoked two hours prior, retied his blue kerchief and left. He eyeballed his dented red Corvair and couldn’t detect any new gouges Margie might have left and as he strolled down the street he hoped that she hadn’t learned how to do anything more insidious to it, as he felt he needed two usable, non-descript vehicles for his on again, off again, surreptitious endeavors. As he walked north he watched the sun to his left,
in its last stages of struggling to win its inevitable losing battle with the horizon.
Liberty Lane was awash with activity as people were returning from work and teenagers were on their way somewhere for an evening lacking parental supervision. As he had hoped, nobody seemed to take any particular interest in him as the adults moved quickly, so they could park their butts in front of the television as quickly as possible, after a long, boring and sometimes contentious day and the kids were too busy trying to get a word in with their group of eager companions, each putting their own commentary on the expected adventure of the evening.
Either that or everyone considered Mark to be an undesirable they didn’t want to know.
He sat in the Mercury’s driver seat and adjusted the outside mirror to where he could see number 694. He turned on the ignition to make sure that the car was still working and to see the gas supply; a smidgeon under one-eighth of a tank. He hoped Candy wasn’t into marathon trips. He never knew what to do with himself while he was patiently waiting, so he let his mind wander as he stared at the house that as yet had not shown any signs of life. It didn’t seem very long ago that he was one of the teenagers, who would now be off on some type of exploit, rather than the floundering blockhead watching the merriment.
He knew that his was an old, well-worn story shown in the
popularity of Peter Pan, but he would have to modify that tale somewhat as he desired eternal youth, but only sometime after reaching puberty.
As the sun went down for the ten-count, house lights spread their cheery artificiality over the area; including those emanating from gigantic 694. At least now he knew that someone was home. He realized that he might have already missed Candy as she could have been among one of the groups he had seen when he first entered Liberty. There were certainly a number of girls with straight black hair present. He might have unconsciously made the judgment that she wouldn’t be going off to meet her forty year old boyfriend in a group, but how could he have been so sure. It’s 1972. Anything goes. “Well, no matter,” he thought, as if he had missed her he would be able to sit all night, catch a few winks and get paid for it.
It was now 9PM and the street was quiet and empty. The night air had lowered the temperature enough that he felt cold in his Bob Marley T-shirt, so he opened the trunk, got out and retrieved the dark blue sweatshirt kept there, pulling it over his head, doing his best not to disturb the kerchief. When he sat back down he folded his arms across his chest and enjoying the warmth, closed his eyes and started to doze off.
He heard a door slam and he saw the blonde hair of Connie.
She left the house, went to its garage and drove away alone in
her Camaro. He picked up his left hand and put it outside the window, trying to show her that he was on the job, but she was more intent to get somewhere, driving quickly as if she were late, angry, or both. The street was again silent and Mark was tired from all the days walking, so he returned to a slumbering position, his head against the now closed window.
At 9:15 he again heard the door slam, jarring him back to the moment and he saw the black haired girl leave the house, walking quickly the other way down Liberty Lane. “Oh, shit,” he said to himself, not wanting to move. When she had covered about 100 feet, he turned on the engine and drove in the only direction he could, consequently having to go around the block.
When he again located her she was standing at the corner of Liberty and the Boulevard, looking at the cars going by and her wristwatch. She was wearing blue bellbottoms and a pink-red blouse, covered by a blue denim jacket. He momentarily thought;
“Light colors or dark? Seems either/or. Let’s see if she meets up with an old fart.”
Mark parked in the middle of the Boulevard block and hoped she didn’t notice. In only a few seconds a new black Cadillac stopped in front of her and she hurriedly got in the passenger’s seat. Mark again started his car, let a few others get between them and followed North on the Boulevard. It’s a good road for
surveillance as it is two lanes in each direction with an almost constant flow of traffic.
After only a few blocks the Caddy put on the directional and made a left onto Stuyvesant Avenue and Mark got behind it.
Through the rear window he could see the couple was constantly turning toward each other, placing hands on the other’s body, not paying much attention to the road and consequently weren’t prone to noticing him. The street was lined with active commercial structures on both sides; places to get tires, small warehouses with open metal doors, truck parking lots, all night indigestion diners and auto repair shops, which he wished he knew less well. The properly placed aluminum street lamps provided adequate brightness to the small, broken, concrete sidewalk, whose cracks were currently home for two foot weeds and was now being traversed by five grim, bare-boned German shepherds in search of opportunity. Each business was enclosed by a chain link fence. The ones who thought they had something worth stealing topped it with angled barbed wire. What they had in common was that each appeared to have been rammed by a car, or two, or three, the bent metal always pointing in.
Mark hung back 100 feet from his prey and was somewhat relieved when two cars pulled out of driveways, getting between them. The pace was very slow as the crumbling road, improved
with twelve inch deep wading pools precluded speed, unless the driver enjoyed smacking his head on the roof.
Three long blocks of commerciality ended at the stop light at the intersection with Columbia Way. Mark looked at his gas gauge, hoping it would hold up, as he didn’t want to again utilize the pavement to get back home, this time having to share the road with canine companions. When the signal flipped to green he was surprised that the Caddy didn’t make a turn, like the two cars between them, but continued straight through, onto little used and aptly named Hook Harbor Road, known for its long term abandonment and teenage fornication. Its Hudson riverfront perimeter was now decorated with telephone pole sized round logs protruding from the water at all angles, some seeming to be supporting each other, as the docks they were once part of, moved to the opposite, New York City side of the river decades prior when Mayor Frank “I am the Law” Sully demanded a cut of three times the going rate to “do business” in Jersey City.
Mark followed, now very wary that the lack of other traffic would highlight his Mercury, hoping that, if noticed, his targets would assume that it belonged to another couple out to float an additional life raft at the piers. He wondered if the forty year old businessman was intent on saving the hotel charges, or if he was still trying to seduce the fifteen-year-
old girl into his teenage fantasy. Or was it hers that he was acclimating himself to?
Both or neither came to mind, when one-half mile into the unlit Hook, Mark saw lights in the windows of an erect, large, wooden industrial building with five loading docks and more lights from the 100-200 cars sitting or looking for an available space in the parking area. He instinctively knew that they would join the gang and had no idea what kind of a clique that might be, as his teenage forays into the land of blind desolation, left him with the impression that every single thing was abandoned.
The ten acre property was encased by an eight foot chain link fence topped with a barbed wire hat cocked to one side. As he had just guessed, the black status car stopped at the open gate and was waved on by two formidable looking men in dark suits and ties. They looked as if they stood 6’0” to 6’3”, weighed between 250 and 300, had slicked back black hair topping their fleshy olive faces and worst of all, the bulges in their chests looked like they were packing. Mark slowed down trying to follow the Caddy’s progress, but lost sight of it in the crowd. He too pulled up to the open gate and one of the huge greeters stood in the middle of the opening blocking him and the other walked around to the driver’s side, bent down to the open window and said; “I think you made a mistake, pal.” Mark looked
at the cars already in the lot and noted the domination of Mercedes, Caddys, BMWs and Lincolns, so he thought it possible that they might not think he measured up. He said; “My goddam Mazzerati is in the shop again. You know how it is with Italian sports cars. They gave me this piece of shit for a loaner.” He took his foot off the brake and the car moved slightly forward.
“Hey, hey, Mr. Mazzerati. I don’t give a shit if you come here in a Rolls Royce. This is ‘members only,’ capish?”
“All right, all right. How do I become a member?”
“You don’t become one. You’re invited if you know the right people.” He gave a strong facial indication that he was quickly tiring of the conversation and added; “What are you looking for anyway?”
Not having a good answer and sensing that the wrong one might put him in an uncomfortable situation, Mark said; “Good question. How many of us really know what we’re looking for?”
Both big guys started kicking the car and the spokesman said; “Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of here right now.” He put his hand inside his jacket, near the bulge and Mark quickly discovered reverse gear and backed out. When he was back on Hook Harbor Road, he put it in drive and slowly crept by the two greeters. He heard; “Don’t come back here, asshole,” and “Stupid fuckin’ scumbag.” He couldn’t make out the rest, but had the idea.
Mark peered into the rearview mirror and saw them watching him, until another car approached the gate, requiring their attention. He made a right into the pitch black side street, turned the lights off and resumed his passive watching and waiting.
Connie entered the closed, but lit up Toyota dealership at 9:30PM. She found Benito Vespucci in his yellow carpeted back office, sitting in his swivel chair staring into space. He said; “You’re late. You’ve been a very bad girl, Connie.”
She unbuttoned and stepped out of her knee length tight purple dress. Her 40 year old body had the patina one gets from decades of loving use, which Benito immediately started visualizing in all its forms. She did a slow, middle wiggling dance as she approached the chief in the interior room. She had ample room as her only competitors for floor space were a small bookcase containing car manuals and a light green metal filing cabinet of three stacked attached drawers. She said; “I’m sorry. I see the picnic is over.”
He said; “I’ve saved some things for you. Have a seat.”
She sat on the floor near him and must have thought she was in church. As his hard gaze transferred from the black to the golden hair, he took something out of his desk drawer, changed his mind and put it back.
“Please,” she said, “I'm hungry.”
He again displayed the olive lunchmeat, holding it in his right hand. She started to reach for it, her eyes showing the fascination that went through her when she saw that it still was fresh. She was afraid it might have dried out sitting in the drawer so long.
He looked at her closed eyes and extended cheeks, thinking about how much practice must have been necessary to finish the meal using no hands and not getting a drop on the carpet.
She was delirious and didn’t notice the other two men enter the room through a back door. Once had a camera and started snapping. Benito sat back on the chair with his hands behind his head and said; “Don’t worry. There’s more than enough for all of us.”
Connie didn’t notice them until they were next to her using their hands to investigate if she was hiding anything from them.
She put one hand on each of the turkey lunchmeats, now in her reach: one white and one dark.
Benito facetiously said; “Sorry, I don’t have any forks.”
When they were through with her and ready to sleep, she gave each one last loving kiss, got up and picked up her skirt.
She said; “Benito, when you take over the show you have to let me be in it.” He smiled, nodded and again closed his eyes. She decided that it would be fun to walk home in full view.
Carrying the dress in her right hand she walked out of the car dealership, but the myriad of pleasurable possibilities were dashed by the cold night air, so she drove with the heater on, dreaming about the possible treats at her next picnic, her dress occupying the passenger seat.
She thought about Benito and his two friends. While she enjoyed their company, their limited one dimensional act only produced monotony in the long run. She couldn’t wait to see Warren. Though he had to be careful of being typecast, he learned to do and more importantly, loved every role.
Connie parked in the garage and walked triumphantly into the house to find Warren in the kitchen wearing a bathrobe, which he immediately slipped off when he saw her enter. He had recently had a very close shave, no stubble in evidence anywhere. His shoulder length gray hair flipped around when he eyeballed the long black hair that she had not trimmed in years.
Her light makeup was smeared giving the appearance that she had been playing and his mind pictured her in a few games. Her greatly proportioned meaty body swayed as she walked toward him.
He said; “Do you have any photos?”
“No, I forgot. You’re going to have to be satisfied with the old ones for a while. I brought you some delicacies though.
Follow me.”
She entered the adjoining living room, Warren mesmerized by the threadlike protrusions, so long they could be seen from behind. She sat on their favorite pink, plushy, rococo revival wing chair and he dined on the digital drumsticks and polecat pasta she brought him. She slid forward on the chair and leaned her shoulders back watching him with cold burning eyes. He had placed his three favorite pictures of her picnicking on the floor near the chair and she saw him glancing at them and got mildly annoyed. She picked up the faux antique French phone and dialed a number.
“Hello.”
“Wanda, it’s Connie.”
“Watcha doin’, girl?”
“You should see. C’mon over.”
“Be right there,” and she hung up. Wanda removed her nightgown, looked in a mirror and took a glance at her 180 pound full figured ebony body admiring the untrimmed wild Afro hair the 45 year old had. She slipped on a simple loose black dress, went to the car and commenced her fifteen minute drive.
Warren had already spread the four by four plastic drop cloth on the wooden floor in one corner and Connie pointed at it, looked at him derisively and said; “Go lay down, piggy.”
The humidity went up as clouds rolled in and they heard the pitter-patter against an open window.
She slowly strutted back to the chair, his eyes riveted on the Jell-O globes. She put her knees on the seat, her back to him, with her arms over the chair back. He took one last look at his favorite pictures and did what had become customary.
After a few minutes of his sampling Connie asked; “Do you prefer the lighter or darker meat?” She didn’t expect an answer and appreciated his eclecticism.
The door slowly opened and Wanda stepped right into the room. He looked up and Connie sternly said; “Don’t stop what you’re doing, slave.” When he resumed she asked the broad grinned black friend if she needed anything. Wanda made herself comfortable and also took off her shoes, saying, “My feet need a massage.”
“One of Warren’s trades. Get to it.”
After a while Connie said; “Back on the drop cloth, slave.”
He again got on his back and the open window let in a torrent of rain which seemed to come from two directions.
Wanda wiggled over to the chair and duplicated Connie’s last position and this time Warren got to taste two black pieces of meat, switching up and down to see if a preference would make itself known. Connie neared the window and her right hand got soaked.