The Waiting Room Read online

From above, the sixties protest song grew a little louder.

  And the two girls in pink taffeta melted into the wall like ice.

  NINE

  I called Abner's number again from the kitchen phone; he answered on the first ring. I heard him say sleepily, "Yes? Hello," and I screamed at him, "Goddammit, Abner, who are these people?"

  "Sam? Is that you?"

  "Damn it, Abner—I wake up . . . I wake up, and I turn the light on, and there are these two girls in my room, and they're giggling at me—"

  "Sam, I'm sorry; I warned you—"

  "I'm coming over there, Abner, right now, and we're going to hash this out."

  "You're coming here, to the house?" He sounded incredulous, happy. "That's great, Sam. Really. I'll make some coffee for you, we'll talk, we'll talk… Sam, this is very good news, I need a friend here—"

  My anger began to fade under the influence of his sudden good feeling. "Sure, Abner," I sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "Great." A pause, then, "Sam?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you remember the way here, Sam? To the house."

  "Good Lord, Abner, of course I do." It was my pride speaking, and it spoke far too soon.

  "Then I'll be waiting for you," Abner said.

  ~ * ~

  I was on the subway an hour later. It was not quite five in the morning, and the train was all but empty, except for a young Puerto Rican couple necking in front of me, an older man in a stiff gray pinstripe suit in the seat to my right, and a red-haired woman at the rear of the car, seated facing away from me.

  I was tired, I was hungry, and my head had started to ache shortly after I'd left the apartment. (I'd dressed like a madman, and didn't realize until I was on the street that my jacket was buttoned crookedly, that my shoes were untied, and that I'd forgotten to put underwear on.) I busied myself with reading some of the transit advertising—“Join the Coffee Generation," "Join the Pepsi Generation," "Read The Me Generation." I whispered that "generation" seemed to be the word of the hour.

  "Sorry?" said the man in the stiff gray pinstripe suit.

  I shook my head and explained that I'd been talking to myself, that I hadn't meant to disturb him.

  He smiled. He had a round, smooth pink face, high cheekbones, and big, watery hazel eyes. He was thin, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he talked. "Oh," he said in a creaking, high-pitched voice, "what was it that you were saying?"

  I thought of telling him it was none of his business, but he seemed harmless enough. I raised my chin to indicate the transit signs above him. "'Generation,'" I said, "seems to be the word of the hour."

  "Does it? Why's that?" His congenial smile became quizzical.

  Again I indicated the transit signs over his head. "I was talking about the advertising up there, above you."

  He leaned my way in his seat and craned his head around to look at the advertising. "Hiram Walker?" he said. "I don't understand." He straightened, looked at me.

  I forced myself to smile. My headache was gathering strength. "No, no, I mean ... if you look again, you'll see that some of the advertising has the word ‘generation' in it---"

  "It's thirty-eight years, you know," he cut in happily. "A generation is thirty-eight years. Most people don't know that. I know it. I'd guess that we're"—he pointed quickly at his chest, then quickly at me—“a good generation apart—"

  "Yes, sir," I said; I was growing annoyed with him. "I suppose we are."

  "But I don't see what it's got to do with the advertising." He looked again. "’Be a Pepper'? What's a Pepper?" He looked back at me. "What's a Pepper?—I know what salt is." He chuckled to himself.

  I nodded. The headache was very bad now; I put my hand to my temple.

  The man said, "You talk to yourself quite a bit, do ya? I had an aunt once who talked to herself from morning till night, nonstop—she talked about her life, she talked about her children, she talked about her lovers—I guess she probably had as many lovers as a dog has fleas—and she talked about all the Presidents she'd seen come and go, 'specially Hoover, 'specially Roosevelt—Teddy, not Franklin Delano—"

  "Please," I cut in sharply, "I'd rather just sit quietly."

  "And she talked about her houses, and she talked about her"—I closed my eyes; I realized he was going to rattle on for quite some time—"and she talked about her cats, she had plenty of cats, and she talked about everything under the sun from morning till night—"

  "If you don't mind . . ." I stopped; I was on the verge of shouting.

  "And she talked about sin, and she talked about God, and she talked about—" He stopped suddenly. I heard a harsh, gurgling noise. I opened my eyes, looked.

  The red-haired woman looked back; she was standing behind him, her eyes wide, hands hard on his throat, and he was groping crazily in the seat, eyes as wide as hers.

  "Love," she shrieked, "is sacrifice. Love is giving, and taking. Now do you love me, now do you love me?"

  The Puerto Rican couple vaulted from their seats, ran to the car ahead.

  The man in the gray pinstripe suit went limp under her hands.

  It was only then that I realized that the woman was the same woman I'd met on the ferry, the same woman who'd knocked at my door.

  I threw myself across the aisle at her, caught my groin on the seat edge, tumbled over so her heels were near my mouth, grabbed her by the ankle, yanked hard. She fell toward the window, hit it with the side of her head, and crumpled so her thighs fell across my arm, so her stomach went into my shoulder and a gust of foul air escaped her.

  I grabbed my groin and launched into a fit of panic-ridden cursing that continued a good minute or two, until, at last, I pushed myself to my feet and saw that except for the body of the man in the pinstripe suit—who had fallen over the seat, mouth open wide, feet on the floor—the car was empty.

  The train stopped moments later.

  TEN

  It was clear that the man in the pinstripe suit was dead.

  A well-dressed black man in his early thirties got on. He saw the man in the suit, gave him a quick once-over, and glanced questioningly at me.

  "Bum," I managed, "dead drunk," and shrugged. The man shrugged, too, then turned and found a seat at the back of the car.

  Minutes later, I was on East 57th Street and looking for another subway entrance so I could get to Queens. The Manhattan sky was a still, dark gray, only a little lighter than the old man's pinstripe suit, and the air had a grisly cold snap to it that smelled vaguely of car exhausts and tar.

  I heard, from behind me, across the street, "Hey, up yours!"

  And, "Yeah, up yours, too! You get the fuckin' heavy one!"

  I looked. Two garbage collectors, a beefy white man and a tall, muscular black man, were arguing over who was going to pick up which garbage can. A yellow garbage truck waited several feet away, a plume of gray exhaust billowing around it. I called to them, "Hey, where's there a subway entrance?"

  The beefy white guy called back, "You just come outta one!"

  "I know. I want to go to Queens; I need a different one." It still hadn't dawned on me that I didn't know precisely how to get to the beach house. I thought a moment, added, "One that doesn't smell so bad."

  Both of them laughed shortly. "Shit, my man," called the black guy, "they all of them smell, you know, but you go on down to West 60th Street and you'll find yourself one that maybe smells a little different."

  "Yeah," I called, "sure, thanks—I hope so." I was beginning to look and sound like a complete ass. "Thanks again," I called. They stared blankly at me a moment, then got back to their argument about who was going to lift which trash can. The truck driver leaned on his horn for a couple of seconds. They continued their argument. The truck driver leaned on his horn again. The argument continued.

  I called, from fifty yards down the street, "For God's sake, why don't you both pick it up?!"

  In unison, they turned, leveled their gaze on me, and started walking very slowly in my direc
tion. The truck's gears meshed, and it lurched forward several feet, gray exhaust billowing around it like a cloud.

  "I was only being helpful," I called. "I was only trying to be helpful."

  The white guy, the black guy, and the truck all continued slowly, methodically in my direction.

  I turned and ran. When I'd made it to Fifth Avenue, I looked back briefly and saw that they were still coming my way. I looked up Fifth, saw a cab coming, and hailed it. It pulled over. I got in.

  "Queens," I told the driver.

  He turned, looked at me. "It's a big place, mister."

  "So's the moon," I said.

  "You're a real card."

  "Somewhere near the ocean, then. North of Queens, near the ocean."

  "It's your quarter," he said, put the flag down, and closed the Plexiglas partition between the front and back seats.

  ~ * ~

  A good forty-five minutes later, the cabbie pulled up in front of a small shopping plaza, turned in his seat, and said, "This okay, fella?"

  I shook my head. "No. I'm sorry. I'm going to a house on the beach somewhere. This isn't the beach."

  He nodded to indicate the meter, which read $22.70; it clicked over to $22.90 as I watched. "You gonna be able to pay me, mister?"

  "Of course I'm going to be able to pay you."

  "You wanta check and make sure?"

  "I don't need to—" I stopped, realized that I'd cashed my last payroll check three weeks earlier, had put most of it in my savings account, and had lived quite frugally ever since. I sat up straight and looked at the meter. "How much is that, now? That's $22.90?"

  "$22.90. That's right." It was clear he was losing his patience.

  I checked my wallet, found three tens and two ones in it. I sighed, relieved, handed him the three tens, told him to give me a five and keep the rest. "This will be okay, right here. Which way's the ocean?"

  He inclined his head to the right. "That way. Just keep walking—you can't miss it."

  "Thanks," I said, and got out.

  ~ * ~

  I have a lousy memory for places—streets, roads, houses—so it didn't surprise me very much when, an hour later, I found myself walking the shoulder of a four-lane highway flanked by industrial buildings. The highway looked like it might lead to Abner's beach house eventually, but could, I thought, just as easily lead to Pittsburgh.

  It was nearing eight o'clock; the sun had warmed things up, and the highway was taking on its morning rush of traffic—cars were moving past in increasingly greater numbers and in increasingly tighter knots.

  I knew the ocean was close by, maybe within a couple of miles, because I could smell it when the wind picked up.

  I tried to recall any landmarks I'd noticed when I'd ridden with Abner. I remembered little except the run-in with the motorcycle cop, getting out of the car, peering at him over the roof. I remembered something large and red behind him. A billboard, perhaps, or some kind of unlikely building. But now when I glanced about, I saw nothing even remotely like it and I cursed myself for having too much pride to get directions from Abner.

  That's when a Nassau County sheriff's car pulled up just ahead of me, and a tall, lean, very powerful-looking cop got out and sauntered toward me. When he was a couple of yards off, he nodded and said, "Good morning, sir."

  "Morning," I said.

  He stopped an arm's length away. "Could I see some identification, sir?"

  "Could I ask why?"

  He nodded again. "Yes, sir. A man roughly answering your description was seen prowling around some back yards a few miles away."

  I shrugged. "Well, it wasn't me."

  "I'm sure it wasn't, sir, but if you could please show me some I.D."

  I got my wallet out and handed him my driver's license. He glanced at it. "You are Samuel L. Feary?"

  “Yes.''

  "Could you come to the car with me, Mr. Feary?"

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "No, sir. Could you please come to the car with me?"

  "If I'm not under arrest, why should I come to the car with you?" I could hear the high nervous whine in my voice, and I realized that he could hear it, too. I put my hand to my temple. "I'm sorry. I'm not feeling very well," I said, and realized that I sounded stupidly melodramatic.

  "Yes, sir. Now, if you come with me, please—to the car."

  I nodded at my driver's license. "Can I have that back?"

  "Yes. In a minute." He held his hand out, took my arm. "Please, sir."

  I walked with him to the car; he opened the back door, asked me to get in. I looked at him. "Can I sit in front?"

  "No, sir."

  "I still don't understand—"

  "Please, sir." He pushed gently at my arm; I sat in the back seat. He closed the door. There were no door or window handles in back; a wire screen separated the back seat from the front.

  The cop got in, left his door open, and said, "We'll just be a few moments, sir, then I'm sure you can be on your way." He called in my name and address. While he waited, I said, "I'm looking for the ocean; I'm going to a beach house on the ocean. "I heard again that high nervous whine. "And I'm afraid since I've only been in this area once before—"

  "Yes, sir. Hold on just a moment."

  I cursed under my breath, said, "Were you in Viet Nam, Officer?"

  "No, sir. I was too young."

  "Well, for Christ's sake, I was in Viet Nam—"

  "You'll have to be patient, sir. Please. I don't want to cuff you."

  "Cuff me?! Why in the hell would you want to cuff me—"

  A woman's voice over the radio said then, "Samuel L. Feary," spelled my name, gave my address, added, "Nega-file, Jack."

  The cop said, "Thanks, Vera," got out, opened the back door, smiled flatly at me, said, "I'm sorry for tying you up, Mr. Feary. You can be on your way now."

  I got out, tried hard to look angry. He apologized again and drove off.

  I turned and looked back the way I'd come. Where the road met the horizon, and all but obscured by a cloud of its own exhaust, I saw that damned yellow garbage truck moving very slowly my way, and two men walking just as slowly in front of it.

  ELEVEN

  I called Abner from a public phone a mile from where the cop had stopped me. Across the highway from the phone booth was what looked like some kind of military installation—an early 1950s fighter plane, painted red, stood in front of it, on a pedestal. I was breathless from running, and Abner noticed:

  "Why are you all out of breath, Sam? What's wrong?"

  "Abner, where's the damned beach house?"

  "What are you—lost? Where are you calling from?" I had seen a highway route marker. "I'm on Route 14. Where's that?"

  "It runs through Nassau County."

  "Abner, there's a garbage truck following me!"

  "Why would a garbage truck be following you on Route 14, Sam? Are you driving, do you have a car?"

  "Christ, Abner—"

  "Is it a county garbage truck, Sam? Can you see the words 'Nassau County' on the side of it? What color is it? The county trucks are blue, you know." A pause; he continued, "Why would it be following you, anyway? Garbage trucks don't follow people—"

  "It followed me here from Manhattan, Abner."

  "It's a Manhattan garbage truck? Does it say 'Manhattan DPW' on it, Sam? Is it yellow?"

  "Oh, what the hell does that matter, Abner?"

  "I guess it doesn't, Sam; I was only trying to be—"

  "Just tell me how to get to the beach house, okay?"

  "No, tell me where you are, and I'll come there, I think that's a better idea. I've got the car—did you say you have a car, Sam? You don't have a car, do you?"

  And the operator cut in, "Your three minutes are up, please deposit another quarter or your call will be interrupted."

  "Dammit," I said, "everybody's so damned polite," and I fished frantically in my pocket, found a quarter, and deposited it. Abner said: "Where on Route 14 are you, Sam?"

&nb
sp; I told him about the military installation across the highway and about the early 1950s fighter plane, painted red, which stood in front of it on a pedestal. Abner said, "I know exactly where you are, Sam. Sit tight. I'll be there in ten minutes." And he was.

  He looked better. He was wearing a white turtleneck sweater, clean but faded jeans, brown Hush Puppies. He looked scrubbed, and rested, too, as if he'd just had a shower and shave after a good night's sleep.

  We pulled away from the phone booth. "You're not serious about this garbage truck, are you?" he asked.

  "A lot of shit's been going on, Abner."

  "It sounds like it." He gave me a big, broad smile. "I mean—a garbage truck?"

  "Abner, what are you into?"

  He gave me another broad smile. "Remember the mausoleum, Sam? In Bangor. Twenty years ago. Did you think that was fun?"

  "We were kids, Abner. And we were stupid. We aren't kids anymore."

  His smile altered slightly. "Who the hell ever grows up, Sam?" He came to a stop at a flashing red traffic light, and started through, though there was a car closing on us. "Jesus Christ!" I breathed, and he stomped on the accelerator. The car closing on us braked hard; Abner whispered, "Gross overreaction, if you ask me."

  "Dammit, Abner," I yelled, "where'd you get your license, at K mart?"

  We were going seventy now. He eased off on the accelerator, let the car slow to fifty-five. "You asked what I'm into, Sam," he said. He glanced at me, a look of dead seriousness on his face. "This is what I'm into, Sam: I'm into reality. I'm into existence."

  "Oh, give me a break," I snarled.

  "I know, I know, it sounds corny, it sounds half-baked, it sounds half-assed, but Sam—listen to me. . ." He stopped for another light, though just barely. "In the past six months, I've done more actual living than I'd done my entire life. That's no exaggeration."

  "What is it you're into, Abner—cocaine, heroin?"

  "C'mon, Sam, you know I'd never touch that stuff."

  He turned down the dirt road that led to the beach house, and I saw that I'd actually gotten pretty close, that my memory hadn't become total mush after all.