Pinball, 1973 (8 page)

“No,” I said.

“It starts getting hard as a rock from the outside in. Takes a long time. And the last thing to go is the heart. It just stops.”

I sighed. “But I don’t want mine to die on me.”

“We know how you feel,” said one. “But you know, the load’s too heavy for you.”

That was putting it mildly. As offhandedly as you’d say, might as well not go skiing this winter because there’s not enough snow. At least I could still drink my coffee.

Wednesday night the Rat nodded off at nine o’clock, only to wake up again at eleven, unable to get back to sleep. Something squeezed tight around his head, as if he had on a hat two sizes too small. A downright unpleasant feeling. Nothing to do but get up. The Rat walked into the kitchen in his pajamas, and gulped down a glass of ice water. Then he started to think about her. As he stood at the window watching the beacon light, his eyes drew back along the jetty until he was looking in the vicinity of her apartment. He thought of the waves pounding in the darkness, the sand peppering her window. But no matter how much he thought about it, he never made any headway – who was he kidding?

Ever since he’d met the woman, the Rat’s life had become an endless repetition, week after week. He couldn’t keep track of the date. What month was it?

October, probably. Or was it? Saturdays he’d see her, then for three days from Sunday to Tuesday he’d dwell on the memory. Thursdays, Fridays, half the day Saturday, he’d be making weekend plans. That left only Wednesdays up in the air, with nothing to do. No progress, no setbacks. These Wednesdays...

After a leisurely ten-minute smoke, he changed out of his pajamas, put on a windbreaker over his shirt, and went down to the underground parking garage. After twelve, there was hardly a soul out and about. Only the streetlamps shining on the darkened streets. The shutters on J’s Bar were already rolled down, but the Rat pushed them up half-way, ducked under, and headed on downstairs.

J sat alone behind the counter smoking a cigarette, some dozen towels he’d washed draped over the backs of chairs to dry.

“Just one beer, how about it?”

“Fine by me,” came J’s cheerful reply.

It was the first time the Rat had come to J’s Bar after hours. All the lights were out, save

the ones over the counter, even the ventilation and air-conditioning were silent. Only the smell that had soaked into the floor and walls over the years lingered.

The Rat stepped behind the counter, took a beer from the refrigerator, and poured himself a glass.

The air hung in layers of murky darkness out beyond the bar, warm and dank.

“I really hadn’t planned on coming here tonight,” the Rat apologized, “but I woke up craving a beer. Be out of here before you know it.”

J folded up the newspaper, put it on the counter, and brushed some cigarette ash from his trousers.

“No need to drink and run. I’ll even cook something up for you if you’re hungry.” “Nah, that’s okay. Don’t bother. Just beer’s fine.”

The beer was awfully good. He drank the glass in one go, then let out a satisfied sigh. Then he poured the remaining half a bottle into the glass, and fixed his gaze on the receding head of foam.

“Care to join me in a drink?” the Rat inquired.

To which J smiled uneasily. “Thanks, but I don’t touch the stuff. Not a drop.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

“It’s just my constitution. Can’t handle it.”

The Rat nodded a couple of times, then sipped his beer in silence. Once again it startled him how little he knew about the Chinese bartender. J was a terribly quiet man. He never volunteered a single thing about himself, and if anyone ever asked, he’d cautiously pull out a ready answer, smooth and innocuous, as if out of a drawer.

Everybody knew that J was a first-generation Chinese, which was not particularly rare as foreigners went in this town. In the Rat’s high school soccer club, one forward and one back had been Chinese. No one made much of it.

“Kinda lonesome without music, huh?” said J, throwing the Rat the keys to the jukebox.

The Rat chose five numbers, returned to the counter, and continued with his beer. An old Wayne Newton song flowed from the speakers.

“Don’tcha have to be getting back home?” the Rat asked.

“I don’t mind. It’s not like somebody’s waiting, ya know.”

“Live alone?”

“Uh-huh.”

The Rat pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, straightened it out, and lit up.

“There’s only a cat,” J said out of nowhere “An old cat, but a good friend to talk to.”

“You talk things over, do you?”

J nodded a few times. “Uh-huh. Been together a long time so we can read each other’s moods. I understand what makes the cat tick, the cat knows what makes me tick.”

The Rat let out a soft grunt from behind his cigarette. The jukebox whirred, and “MacArthur Park” clicked into position.

“So tell me then, what does a cat think about?”

“All sorts of things. Just like you and me.”

“Gee, that’s tough,” the Rat laughed.

J laughed too, then reflected a moment and ran his finger along the counter. “Crippled in

one leg.”

“Crippled?” the Rat asked.

“The cat, it’s lame. Four winters ago, I think. It came home all covered with blood. The

poor thing’s paw was all pulpy like marmalade.

The Rat set his glass down on the counter and looked J in the face. “What on earth happened to it?”

“Don’t know. I guess it got hit by a car. But y’know, it was somehow worse than that. Getting run over by a tire wouldn’t do that. I mean, it looked as if it’d been mangled in a vise. Flat as a pancake. I’d almost bet it was someone’s idea of a practical joke.”

“Come on,” the Rat said shaking his head in disbelief. “Who’d want to do that to a cat’s paw?”

J tamped one of his filterless cigarettes over and over again on the counter, then put it to his lips and lit up.

“You said it. Not a reason in the world to crush a cat’s paw. It’s a real well-behaved cat, never done anything wrong. Nothing anyone would have to gain by crushing its paw. It’s just senseless and cruel. But y’know, the world’s full of that kind of groundless ill will. I’ll never understand it, you’ll never understand it. But it exists all the same. You might even say it’s got us hemmed in.

The Rat nodded once more, his eyes fixed on his beer glass. “I just can’t understand why.”

“That’s all right. If you can let it go at not understanding, that’s the best anyone could expect.”

So saying, J blew cigarette smoke out into the dark emptiness beyond the bar. He followed the white smoke with his eyes until it completely vanished in the air.

A long silence passed between the two of them. The Rat gazing at his glass, lost in thought, J running his finger back and forth along the counter top as usual. The jukebox began to play the last record. A soul ballad in falsetto.

“Say J,” said the Rat, eyes still on the glass, “I’ve lived here for twenty-five years, and it seems to me I haven’t really learned a thing.”

J said nothing, but just stared at his fingers. Then he gave a little shrug. “Me, I’ve seen forty-five years, and I’ve only figured out one thing. That’s this: if a person would just make the effort, there’s something to be learned from everything. From even the most ordinary, commonplace things, there’s always something you can learn. I read somewhere that they say there’s even different philosophies in razors. Fact is, if it weren’t for that, nobody’d survive.”

The Rat nodded, then finished off the last inch of beer in his glass. The record ended, the jukebox clicked off, and the premises fell quiet again.

“I think I see what you’re getting at, but” the Rat began, then swallowed the thought. But

– the word was on his lips, there wasn’t anything more he could say. So he smiled and stood up, thanked J and said, “Can I give you a lift home?”

“Nah, it’s okay. My place is close by, and besides I like to walk.” “Well, now, you get some shut-eye. Regards to your cat.” “Thanks.”

Climbing the stairs, he stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The Rat made his way to the parking lot, tapping the trees along the roadside lightly with his fist as he walked. He came to a halt in front of the parking meter, stared at it for no reason at all, then got in the car. After a few wrong turns, he found himself cruising toward the ocean. He stopped the car along the shore road in view of her apartment building. Half the apartments were still lit. In a few, shadows moved behind the curtains.

The woman’s apartment was dark. Even her bedside lamp was out. Probably asleep. It was a terribly lonely feeling.

The sound of the waves seemed to be growing louder. Almost as if any minute now they would break over the seawall and wash the Rat – car and all – somewhere faraway. He switched on the car radio and let back the reclining seat, eyes closed, hands behind his head, half-listening to some deejay’s drivel. He was dead tired, thanks to which, whatever emotions he might have had, simply came and went without gaining a foothold. The Rat began to relax and lay down his empty head on the mingled sounds of the waves and the deejay until sleep crept over him.

Thursday morning, the twins woke me up. Little did I notice that it was fifteen minutes earlier than usual as I shaved, drank my coffee, and read through the morning paper, still sticky with fresh ink.

“There’s a favor we have to ask,” said one of the twins.

“Do you think you could borrow a car this Sunday?” said the other.

“Perhaps,” I said, “but where do you want to go?”

“The reservoir.”

“The reservoir?”

They both nodded.

“What do you want to do at the reservoir?”

“Last rites.”

“Whose?”

“The switch-panel’s.”

“I see,” said I, and returned to the paper.

Unfortunately, on Sunday it began drizzling from the morning. To be sure, I had no way of knowing what kind of weather was most appropriate for a switch-panel’s funeral. The twins didn’t broach the subject of the rain, so I kept quiet.

Saturday night I borrowed my business partner’s light blue Volkswagen. He insinuated that maybe I’d found myself a woman, to which I merely said

Umm.

The back seat of the bug was stained across one side, probably milk chocolate rubbed in by his kid, though it looked like bloodstains from a machine gun battle. My partner didn’t have any decent cassettes for the car stereo, so we traveled the full hour and a half to the reservoir without any music, driving on and on without a word. As we drove, the rain came down harder and then weaker, then harder again, then weaker, alternating at regular intervals. It was enough to make you yawn, that rain.

The only sound was that of the high-speed whoosh of passing cars on the highway.

One of the twins sat in the front seat, the other sat in the back holding a shopping bag with a thermos bottle and the defunct switch-panel. The girls were properly somber in keeping with the funeral day. And I followed suit. We were even somber as we ate roast corn-on-the-cob at a roadside rest stop.

Only the sound of the kernels popping off the roasting cobs broke the restrained mood. We left behind three corncobs nibbled clean to the last kernel, then we were back in the car and off again.

There were an awful lot of dogs around, wandering aimlessly in the rain like schools of yellowtail in an aquarium. So we had to keep honking the horn nonstop. For all you could tell from their faces, they weren’t the least bit concerned about the rain or the cars. Generally, their expressions would turn downright disdainful at the sound of the horn, but they dodged out of the way just the same. Of course, there was no way for them to dodge the rain. The dogs were sopping wet, right down to their buttocks; some looked like waifs from a Balzac novel, others like pensive Buddhist priests.

The twin in the seat next to me put a cigarette to my lips, and lit it for me. Then she put her little hand on the crotch of my cotton pants, and stroked. Her action was more like some kind of reassurance than stimulation.

The rain seemed destined to fall forever. October rains are like that. Falling steadily, ceaselessly, until everything is soaked through and through. The ground was soggy. The trees, the expressway, the fields, the cars, the houses, the dogs – everything without exception had soaked up rain, filling the world with a hopeless chill.

The road led up into the hills, and eventually we emerged from the depths of the forest onto the bank of the reservoir. Thanks to the rain there was not a soul in sight. As far as the eye could see, rain poured down across the surface of the reservoir.

The sight of that rain-swept reservoir was far more heart-wrenching than I could have imagined. We parked beside the bank, and sat in the car drinking coffee from the thermos and eating the cookies the twins had brought along. There were three kinds of cookies: coffee cream, butter cream, and maple syrup, which we divided up to make sure that we each got our fair share.

The whole time, the rain poured down relentlessly and silently over the reservoir. The sound was something like shredded newspaper falling on a thick pile carpet. It was like the rain that falls in Claude Lelouche movies.

Once we finished the cookies and had each had our two cups of coffee, we all brushed off our laps in unison as if by prior arrangement. No one spoke.

“Well, we might as well get it over with,” voiced one twin.

The other nodded.

I put out my cigarette.

We walked to the end of the catwalk that projected out over the water without bothering to put up umbrellas. The reservoir had been formed by damming up the river. The surface of the water curved unnaturally where it lapped into the folds of the hillsides. The color of the water gave you an unsettling feeling of depth. The raindrops made tiny ripples everywhere.

One of the twins took our dearly beloved switch-panel out of the paper bag and handed it over to me. In the rain, the switch-panel looked more miserable than ever.

“Say some kind of prayer, will you?”

“Prayer?” I was caught off guard.