Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 14
Having the luxury of a totally free day Dave elected to take the long way into Manhattan; public transportation. Leaving after rush hour he found the room necessary not to have to jostle with professional commuters who try to create space where there is none by deft maneuvering of the full sized newspapers they pretend to be reading. Three blocks from home, in front of the waterfront high rises he caught a half empty bus, populated with typical metropolitan types. Though skin colors and the clothing that hid most of it ran the gamut, they all made no eye contact indicating a desire to be left alone; one proper looking white woman, probably new to the area, reading what sounded like an instructional book titled; “How To Be Alone.”
He took a seat near the middle. His left inside smudged window position almost provided a decent view of the black river he caught glimpses of between buildings. The pair of unoccupied, orange-brown, half armchairs were marginally connected at intervals by a few barely exposed eyelet bolts, which threatened to disengage with every bump in the road. The plastic covering showed many tears, some patched with gray duct tape. In either case brittle edges stood up, prepared and capable of impaling anyone dumb enough to be under-dressed in shorts.
Dave looked through the window and oddly, his mind went to math. It was always his least favorite subject as its lack of essay questions made it audacious in its demand for one, and only one correct answer. He always considered baseball
different. Despite its use of figures any single pitch, any single at-bat, any single game and any single season were random events dictated by the God of Chaos, which corresponded nicely with the players’ high degree of superstition. He wondered if right now, since the Crows had swept the seven games of the American League playoffs, would the odds catch up with them in the Series against the New York Giants, who had struggled to pull out two seven game affairs? Traditional math says no, but traditional math has never played baseball.
The closer he got to New York City the more dingy buildings sided with gray truck exhaust blocked his view of the river.
This was where “The Big Apple” had been dropping its unwanted worms for eighty years. Now, close to where he had grown up, he saw the dwellings of people who knew and accepted their place; second to New York. The culture made a virtue of it, laughing at the strivers, content to be okay without any effort. They formerly enjoyed ridiculing the Crows, while they worshipped the Giants.
The bus entered the Lincoln Tunnel, today only one lane open due to the work being done to repair another terrorist blast. The group seeking credit called themselves “Al Qaeda in TSA” (Tri-State-Area), another group of two male, unaffiliated, losers, in their early thirties, still living with Mama, who thought that they were improving their own lot by destroying the lot of the other, perhaps not very different from many except in
their internet acquired ability to make a bomb. Thinking they would acquire the stature of Bin-Laden, they got the stature of a backward cartoon character no one ever heard of, excepting their long suffering mothers.
The bus seemed to circle upon entering Manhattan, non-descript in smooth concrete at this point as no one wished to live on a perennially trafficked street, except the transvestite hookers who catered to bus and truck drivers. Upon entering Port Authority, the bus continued its circling pattern as it went round and round ramps, slowly descending to the bowels of the building, said by some to be the home of the Phantom of the Opera, with 158 reported sightings. Dave didn’t believe this as the Phantom loved music and all that could be found at the main level was boom box rap.
After what seemed adequate time to attain a BS in Math the bus parked and the passengers who refused to notice the other’s existence made their ways down the three steps and to the plain silver elevator, which in its simplicity and fingerprints, predated stainless steel refrigerators. Riders jostled for position in an impersonal game reminiscent of “neighborhood” touch football. Dave took the stairs.
When he reached the main level he was greeted by
“friendly,” fast-talking people who seemed as if they needed an urgent bathroom trip, who wanted to know if he was looking for anything in particular. He honestly told them that he wasn’t. He
animatedly walked through the huge lobby, trying to create the impression that he was a man on the go, hoping to discourage the
“guides.” He passed through the ground floor, which was lined with retail stores and restaurants patronized by the locals, exited and saw Mickey Mouse. Smiling old Mick was ensconced on the roof of a twelve story building, waving and smiling to everyone, noticed only by the out-of-towners. Dave said; “Hi,”
and walked uptown.
He retrieved the crumpled paper from his jeans pocket to make sure he knew where he was going, a lifelong directional problem never ameliorated by membership in a 4-H club. It said;
“Raymond Deitrich, 778 Water Street (between 48th and 49th Streets, on First Avenue.) Top floor.
He crossed Eighth Avenue and walked down the Disneyland that was the tourism-in-mind gentrification of Forty-Second Street. At Fifth Avenue, the dividing point between the East and West sides, he briskly walked uptown, taking in the come and go stores selling electronics, often without guts, and “boot legged” DVD’s at half price, often with rolling frames. The super wide streets were packed with shoppers, some excitedly pointing at things unavailable in their home town stores but within easy reach with a few keystrokes. The aging group still enjoyed shopping surrounded by real merchandise, apparently disdaining the nowhere feeling they got in cyberspace.
At Forty-Fifth Street the stores began their climb to upscale status, displaying French and Italian sounding names and employing sales help for whom English was a recently acquired second or third language. Merchandise included unisex silk scarves of faded pastel colors, populated by collages of tiny human figures doing genteel, archaic things. Some were dressed for a wedding and walked their open-mouthed, happy dog along the water’s edge, without the company of a cell phone. Dresses and sport jackets, some on sale for only $800, commanded the attention of the thinning crowd, whose sophistication only permitted terse, unsmiling comments which indicated relative comparisons to other nouvelle designer apparel.
Dave took Forty-Eighth east viewing a mixture of residential and commercial structures of lower proportion, in that most of the side block’s height did not exceed three stories. Though the variations were sufficient to interest the observations of the well-travelled, redundancy was demonstrated in brownstone, brick and an occasional limestone, now broken up into pricey condos of six per building, two per floor, with an ethnic or health food store in the basement.
Dave got to First Avenue and saw the busy harbor straight ahead. He didn’t want to dawdle and risk being late, so he made a left onto a block he had never before seen. “A car dealership right in the middle of Manhattan!” he thought. “Weird.” He tried to picture how a truck carrying eighteen autos would get through
Manhattan streets. “With difficulty, I guess.” He shrugged, smiled and saw that next to it was an older, tallish, brick building with gold lettering above the entrance saying 778 Water Street. No doorman stood near so he pushed the black iron door and it swung open easily. A few people were chatting in the white tiled lobby. Dave thought they were office workers on some sort of break, as they took cursory looks at him, but quickly returned to their main engagement. The dark green walls appeared as if they had been painted by someone who was charging by the bucket as it was lopped on creating a texture analogous to a river frozen in cold or time which was decorated in the wrong color. To make matters more surreal it had sparse, thin, golden lines on the surface. He went directly to the waiting black-doored elevator and pushed the highest numbered button; nineteen.
Dave heard the whoosh and felt the tremble of the rising box. As he was its prisoner he hoped that it was in good operating order. It was good enough to deliver him to the top floor. The doors slowly slid open and he withdrew. He entered the hallway which was identical to the lobby. He looked at the signs on the closed doors for one saying Raymond Deitrich. He saw names like Bombay Paints, New York Cruise Lines, Athenaeum Asides, Florence Remains and Parisian Prizes. He re-checked his crumpled note and when he wasn’t looking a pretty, long haired blond woman of about thirty approached. He flinched as he put
the paper back in his pocket as he was startled. He smiled sheepishly and said; “Sorry.” She nodded. He added; “Do you have any idea where I can find Raymond Dietrich?”
She murmured; “Follow me,” and led him to a door which was opposite the one he had just taken that said; “Broom Closet,”
and used a key to open it. Inside was another elevator with an open set of doors. She walked in and he followed thinking; “This is getting kinky. Great.” He ogled her unadorned milky white legs well on display under her retro 1960’s micro mini. She said; “Goin’ up,” and Dave coughed not knowing if that was a question or a statement of fact. Rather than risk answering in a broken voice he pushed the highest button. The doors closed and he felt a lifting sensation.
She said; “You must be Dave Nelson.”
Feeling more comfortable Dave smiled and replied; “In the flesh. And you are?”
“Katharine Dorio, Administrative Assistant for Raymond Deitrich.”
“An Italian blonde?”
“From up north.”
The slow motion elevator continued its groan until it came to an abrupt stop, jostling the two occupants. The doors opened and they were inside an office with a large neat mahogany desk in the center. Standing at the yellow back wall was a black man in heavy wraparound shades stroking an oil painting of an oak
tree in fall, some red leaves already lying at its base. The man said; “Is that you Katharine?”
“Yes, and I brought a guest.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s Dave Nelson, the best pitcher in baseball.”
Dave was properly and truly modest, saying; “Maybe this year. It took long enough.”
Katharine said; “Dave, meet Raymond Dietrich.” She returned to the elevator.
Dave thought the man looked like Ray Charles at age forty.
His movements which defied the direction of his head made Dave think that he was similarly blind. The two slowly moved toward one another, right arms extended and shook. Dave said; “Be careful,” as he guided Raymond to the large Chippendale wing chair behind the desk and sat on a flimsier looking Heppelwhite model on the other.
Raymond said; “Thank you, but I don’t require any guidance.
I don’t want to sound rude, but it has something to do with my oversupply of pride.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It was a generous offer. Just don’t do it again.” Raymond smiled.
So did Dave before he realized that Raymond couldn’t see it. He was never previously in this situation and he was at a loss for words. He came up with; “I smiled too.” Suddenly
nervous Dave quickly added; “Were you looking at that oil painting?” and drew back his lips in a grimace.
Raymond laughed and said; “It takes a while. Just keep at it and you’ll be fine.”
Dave thought; “Sounds like my father.”
Raymond continued; “Actually I was feeling the painting.
Oils have texture you know and Katharine and I have a little game. She picks them out and I have to decipher what it is. It’s more difficult than you would probably imagine. For instance I now know from the texture that that one is a tree, but never having seen a real tree my first guess was Medusa.”
Dave thought he understood how Raymond could make that mistake, but was again having difficulty speaking. It seemed that everything he thought of would display some pity. He finally said; “How long did that take?”
“Very good. See, you’re getting there already. It didn’t take long at all. Three days. But now I must determine what kind of tree.”
“How can you do that?”
“Feeling the texture, of course. Now I will read, in Braille of course, of different barks trees have and try to match the words with the feel.”
“Impressive.”
“Not really. I would tell you to try it to see how quickly it can be learned. But you’d be handicapped because you’ve seen
trees.” They both audibly laughed. Raymond continued; “Whenever I correctly state all the details in a painting Katharine replaces it with another. We can keep this game going forever.
Oh, but here I go babbling about my boring life again.” He reached into his top drawer and retrieved papers which he pushed in Dave’s direction and continued; “Why I requested your presence was because I have a new contract to offer you.”
Dave scanned the boilerplate and focused on the essentials.
He was shocked; seven years at four million per. He exhaled perceptibly. Raymond incorrectly interpreted his response as negative and said; “We can renew it for another seven when it’s near the end.”
Dave laughed and never previously would have imagined himself saying something like this, but felt compelled to respond; “No. I mean yes. I mean it’s great. But in all honesty I’ll be forty-one when this runs out and most likely my pitching days will run out long before that.”
“Who says so?”
“The law of averages. It’s unusual to last past thirty-six.”
“That law was rejected by the Supreme Court. Wilhelm made it to fifty because the knuckler took nothing out of his arm.
You might be able to keep throwing that cut splitter forever. It doesn’t require speed, takes nothing out of your arm and nobody can hit it.”
“You’re quite an optimist.”
“Hasn’t this last year taught you to be one, too. Go back a year. If someone said that next year you would be 25-3, with a 2.18 ERA and that the Crows would be American League champions what would you have replied?”
“I’d of thought that they were being tastelessly sarcastic and would have been tempted to punch them.”
Raymond muttered something sounding like; “Hmmph,” and Dave signed three copies of the contract. He pushed two back in front of Raymond and said; “Here’s your two. Thanks. Thanks ever so much!”
Raymond left them there and changed the subject; “I’m having that dome removed during the off season. Its days are long over. The thing is getting to be such a hazard after all this time. Rather than attempting a repair or replacement it’s better to get rid of it entirely. So, you guys might be getting rained out sometimes next year.”
“More in sync with nature.”
“Precisely.” Raymond stood and offered his right hand. Dave got up and shook it heartily.
As Dave turned toward the elevator Raymond said; “I know what you’re thinking. Poor guy is blind. Well, don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve got all the other senses and they’ve been enhanced by their need to compensate. When you Crows are down in Florida for spring training, all you’re thinking about is doing well so
that you can get to be a regular. I’m there too, but I enjoy it more because I can feel it. Do Crows really feel it?”
“Sometimes. ...... Not often.”
“I feel it all the time. I stand there and hear the crack of the bat, smell the newly oiled gloves, hear the chatter, taste my clams dripping with hot sauce and most of all I feel that warming breeze coming in from the south through the gulf.
It’s always there you know, even when you don’t feel it. ......
I know you’re looking at me funny. If you can’t believe that, this is undeniable. It always comes back.”
“Will you be at the next spring training?”
“Sure.”
“How can I find you?”
“Look for the guy with the blissed out face and shades eating clams.”
Dave nodded and grinned, then realized that Raymond could not see his reaction. He was tempted to say something, but didn’t because he then thought that Raymond just might be fully aware. He pushed the elevator button and the doors opened.
Katharine Dorio was standing alone inside.
She said; “Don’t go yet. I want to show you something.”
Dave was led through a back door to the roof. Katharine said; “You see, there is really no twentieth floor. We’re in a small cupola on top of the building. I’ve made gardens of the roof. Do you like?”
Dave’s eyes surveyed the boxes and urns filled with dirt and growing trees and bushes. The edges of the rectangular roof were lined with twenty foot trees; many evergreen and the insides contained the bushes, all still in full bloom. Paths crisscrossed the space and Dave took the closest one, followed by Katharine.
She said; “Over the years I’ve planted everything you see here, growing most from seeds. I like it and it gives Raymond the opportunity to experience real nature right in the middle of the city. It requires a fair amount of work, but Raymond entertains few visitors, so I get the time.”
“It’s beautiful,” Dave said as he went into the trees.
“Be careful. You’re getting near the edge.”
Dave stopped and looked down seeing the tar roof of the car dealership. Always having had a problem with heights he felt a bit dizzy and returned to the central bushes. He said; “No problem. I like it better in here.”
Katharine gently smiled and pointed out some of her favorites as Dave’s spinning head recovered its balance. They tried other paths, Dave discovering that whichever one he took it always led back to the cupola, unless he strayed to the brink and saw the vertigo inducing abyss.
Dave lost track of time as they silently strolled through each internal passageway. When the sun neared the end of its daily trip, she said; “It’s time to go.” Katharine led Dave back
to the cupola. They entered and Raymond was gone. He mumbled;
“Bye,” and entered the waiting elevator.
He took little note of the scenery he encountered on his way back to Weehawken as his mind could not leave the rooftop garden.