“I smell shit. Where is the shit smell?” Dwight Moorehouse asked out loud to the throng of people who were scurrying along Twenty-Third Street on route to a long Thanksgiving Day weekend. Dwight checked the bottom of his shoes: no shit there. “It must be this goddamn city!" he shouted out to the indifferent passersby.
Arthur Larsen was running late. Dwight had begun regretting this after-work drink with him. It had been a long day and an even longer week. Dwight’s collar was biting him something fierce. It was the little things like that, which could really drive someone to the madhouse. Dwight stared at his reflection in a shop window: his hair, which resembled a toupee, but wasn’t, was all-askew, like a little rascal; but, hell, what did he care, it was Arthur he was meeting, not Raquel Welch.
Arthur finally moseyed on out of the non-descript building that was their workplace. A few co-workers spilled out of the building with Arthur, laughing it up. Glad the holiday weekend had finally arrived. All of them were wearing shit-eating grins, filled with thoughts of turkey and gravy, and long road trips to the relatives. Dwight was praying they weren’t going to tag along with he and Arthur.
Arthur was middle-aged, like Dwight, but not as lean as him. Arthur threw his arms up apologetically to Dwight after he said goodbye to the others.
“Been working on that contract right till the end. You know how it is? Everything last minute.”
“I’m waiting here twenty goddamn minutes,” Dwight said. “My balls have icicles hanging off them I’m so fucking cold.”
"You're a schmuck! Why didn't you wait in the lobby?"
"I'm a smoker ... or have your forgotten?"
“Sorry - not my problem?”
Dwight and Arthur buttoned up their coats as they began to walk. Wind was whipping hard from both the East and Hudson Rivers and clashing at Madison Square Park.
“Do you smell shit, Arthur?”
Arthur sniffed around himself. “Shit?”
"Yeah."
"No ... I don't smell any shit. Did you step in it?"
“No ...well, screw it ...let’s go have a drink.”
They decided to go to the Live Bait bar just down the street. It was a place they wouldn’t ordinarily go to because it was trendy and a bit too young for their taste, but Dwight didn’t much care. Besides, everything in the neighborhood had become trendy. Arthur was a bit surprised that Dwight wanted to go there, for hated being around the young business sharks and artist types that frequented the place. But sometimes Dwight had to reassure himself that he was right in his hatred of them.
“Happy Thanksgiving and merry Christmas to all!” toasted Dwight as he raised his glass to the bar. “Mark my words, Arthur, layoffs when the year is up.” Arthur chuckled and joined Dwight in his toast.
“Nah, I don’t think so. There is way too much paranoia going on.”
“Too much? Ha!”
“Who cares? Let the chips fall where they may.” Arthur grabbed a handful of nuts and threw them back. “They’re only rumors anyway.”
“A rumor this big ain’t just dreamed up, Jack. Someone knows something. ‘Let chips fall where they may!’ Throw twenty-two years out the fucking window?” Dwight tossed off the last of his ale and slammed the beer mug down hard on the bar. “Yo! Bartender? Another for me and my friend,” Dwight barked down the bar toward a muscle bound bartender type who was working his routine with some college girls. Dwight turned his attention back towards Arthur again, who was finishing up his drink. “People like us, who don’t particularly like our jobs, who have nowhere to go, who haven’t been on a job interview in eons … well, it’s scary, Arthur, scary as all hell.”
“I don’t hate my job, Dwight; I’m actually quite content.”
“All right, excuse me, Arthur, you’re the one in a hundred. I’m sorry. Just like you to be different.”
“Whatever.”
“So, like I was saying … this here layoff … it throws a big fucking wrench in the lives of people who don’t want change, don’t trust change. It throws the wrench into their mundane fucking lives, know what I mean?”
“You mean, your mundane life.”
“Yeah, my mundane life and no one else’s.” Dwight looked down at the bar with growing impatience. “Where’s my fucking beer? Where’s the goddamn bartender!” Dwight banged his beer mug down on top of the bar with much force. “A man in my condition needs continuous tap. See what happens when an Irishman doesn’t run the bar.”
Live Bait was packing them in tight; it was the six o’clock crowd, and as they entered, they'd pass behind Dwight and bump into him. Dwight would just clench his teeth down and throw a false grin at the passersby.
“Why did I come here? Not only am I thirsty, but now I’m hungry. Damn it all! Yo! Fabio!” Dwight yelled down the bar, waving his arms.
“Did you tip him on the last round? That could be why he’s avoiding you like the AIDS.”
“Of course I tipped him! Who do you think I am? Tipped him pretty damn good, too. I was in a pretty good mood till I came in here!” Dwight yelled out as he banged the bar again.
“If you’re hungry, there is half a sandwich on that plate just behind you on the table over there,” Arthur said. “Doesn’t look as if its been touched.” Arthur smiled and got off his bar stool. “I have to water the rose bushes, be right back.”
Dwight turned to look at the sandwich sitting on the table. No one was sitting there. He grimaced and rubbed his neck; it hurt something awful. The table looked as if it had been recently vacated. Dwight casually spinned off his bar stool and leaned over the railing separating the bar from the dining tables. Dwight inspected the sandwich; looked like basic ham and Swiss. Good enough, Dwight thought, as he picked up the plate and placed it upon the bar in front of him. Dwight loved to see what he could get for free in life. It was a game of small victories for him - like a hobby. Dwight smelled the sandwich and decided that it was good.
As Dwight chomped down on the sandwich, he eyed all the pretty girls. He imagined himself nailing one of them in the corner by the jukebox – in full view of everyone. Boy would I love to show all the young, pretty boys how a real man does it," Dwight said with a snarl.
It was then that Dwight started to think of Vivian, wherever she was in the world? It had been Vivian’s birthday just a few days ago. God, Dwight reminisced, this is my third Thanksgiving without her. He drained his drink. Why is everyone smiling so much, thought Dwight as he looked around. I'll smack all those smiles off all of your faces.
Arthur returned from the head.
“Things taste pretty good when they’re free, huh?” Arthur said.
“Fucking-A-right, Bucko!”
The bartender finally made it down to Dwight and Arthur. Dwight was already feeling a little better.
“Excuse me, young man, but might my friend and I have another round?"
A miniscule and bespectacled man wearing a tight, English cut suit, tapped Dwight’s shoulder with a heavy finger. Dwight turned.
“Yeah,”
“That was my half-a-sandwich, prick!”
“You want it back? Wait …” Dwight said as he placed the last bit of sandwich in his mouth. “Now, be careful who you are calling prick, ya cheap Charlie.”
“Fuck you!” said the little guy as he stood up on the balls of his feet. He was about half the size of Dwight. “Do you always take food that doesn’t belong to you? I went to the bathroom. I wasn’t through with it yet! Didn’t you mommy teach you anything about manners?”
“I didn’t listen to my mom, I was too busy screwing yours,” Dwight said with a howling laugh.
The diminutive little fellow hauled off and socked Dwight right across the nose; then, just as quickly, came back with four rapid smacks and backhands across Dwight’s flushed kisser. Dwight reeled and almost fell off his stool as Arthur shoved the little guy away.
“Enough!” Arthur shouted. “It’s only half a sandwich!”
“Where do you get off talking shit about my mother!” screamed the little guy.
Dwight just sat on the bar stool inspecting his nose, staring at his hands with a blank expression.
“He didn’t mean it, Sir,” Arthur said. “He’s got a lot on his mind. Bartender! Please get this man in the blue suit whatever he likes – on me.”
The little fellow was having none of it as he stormed off.
“Are you okay, Dwight?” Arthur asked.
Dwight wasn’t even hearing Arthur. He hadn’t been smacked like that since Vivian. All of a sudden calmness wafted over Dwight. Why did he just sit there and take it? Why hadn’t he pulverized the little squirt? He wasn’t quite sure.
“Dwight? Buddy?” Arthur asked, squeezing Dwight’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m all right. Come on, I wanna show you something.”
The weather was getting nasty. The wind was beginning to sting the open areas of skin exposed to the temperature. Dwight and Arthur buttoned up their coats and hurried across the street to the southeast corner of Madison Square Park. Arthur got a glance of the subway entrance: home was on his mind.
“So, what is it that you want to show me?” Arthur asked as they entered the darkened park.
“It’s just over here,” Dwight said as he lead the way, past the homeless, past the business people hurrying through the park on their way home. Buses were lined up on Madison Avenue. Some were loading passengers; others were parked and had bus drivers sitting behind the wheel reading the sports section.
Dwight found an empty bench and plunked down on it. He sat quite serenely, with hands folded in his lap.
“This is the spot where Vivian and I had our last fight. This is the location I last saw her, running up Madison to catch an express bus. It was just before Thanksgiving weekend, three years ago. I haven’t spoken to her since.”
Arthur was patting and rubbing himself all about the upper torso to keep himself warm. “Why do you have to torture yourself before the long weekend? Come on, this does you no good.”
“I can’t just leave, yet. Bucky Washington will be by soon. Ya know he’s a former song and dance man?”
“Who cares about Bucky Washington? I’m freezing my ass off!”
“I do! He depends on the money I give him. He’ll be around in about twenty minutes. Then after that, Tony and Ray come around. They are can collectors. Tony and Ray are good people. Tony was a prizefighter and Ray was in sanitation - that is until he knifed some poor bastard. He did time for that, now he survives off cans and bottles. I want you to meet all of them.”
“I’m sure they are all wonderful people, Dwight, but I have to get back. I have an hour commute and I still have to make up with the wife before the in-laws come over. Besides, you’re a little drunk and you need some rest.”
“My best buddy of all is that guy right over there,” Dwight said, pointing to a large statue of a proud looking guy wearing a goatee.
“Who?” Arthur asked in confusion – looking around and spotting the statue. “Him? That’s a statue.”
Dwight got up from the bench and walked over toward the statue wearing a grin on his face. Arthur was squinting – trying to make out the name on the plaque.
“Who is that? I can’t read the caption.”
“That is Roscoe Conkling. He saw the fight Vivian and I had that cold night. How I lunged toward her – choking that alabaster throat with my own hands – leaving red fingerprints on her neck. I wanted to really hurt her, Arthur. I had stored up a lot of rage inside me; I never loved, I never loved you, she said. She ran into the night – gone forever. I didn’t even try to stop her. I don’t know why.”
“Listen, Dwight, I’m sorry, it’s all very sad, but I don’t know you all that well to hear all this. You are drunk, and quite frankly, a bit batty. I’m going to go now. You should go home too and sleep it off,” Arthur said as he extended his hand out to shake it with Dwight’s.
“All right, Arthur, I understand,” said Dwight as he shook Arthur’s hand. “I have Roscoe, he listens to my gripes. I mean, Christ … he’s a fucking statue, some former New York legislator or some shit; but he never turns me away.”
“I’m very happy for the both of you. Now, are you going to be all right? Do you need some cash?”
“Nah, I’m all right, Arthur, thanks, go ahead. I’m all right,” said Dwight as he playfully shoved Arthur.
It had begun to snow.
“Are you sure, Dwight?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“All right. See you on Monday.”
With that, Arthur hurried through the fresh snow toward the Path train entrance. Dwight watched him run off, then turned to Roscoe. Roscoe held his hand out. Dwight liked that about him.
It was just before midnight and the snow was coming down good now. Dwight was lying horizontal on the bench before Roscoe. A six-pack of beer sat on the concrete just below the bench. Dwight was tired and freezing, but he just didn’t want to move. He stared up at the Empire State Building, decorated with red and yellow lights for Thanksgiving Day.
Some folks were making a racket as they passed on the sidewalk just behind Dwight’s bench. Dwight turned to look. It was a group of four blind girls holding hands, laughing and having a good old time. One of the girl’s laughter sounded a little like Vivian’s. Dwight turned back around and drifted off to sleep to the music of their laughter.
by Brian Hughes
