When he stepped off the elevator, he thought he heard ringing. A phone ringing. A phone was ringing, that’s for sure.
It was like his piss hitting the toilet. At first you don’t even notice it, then some guy’s standing next to you in the john at Mitchell’s and suddenly that steady stream is the only thing you hear.
He told his legs to hurry. They were old and tired and he had to wear support hose to bed and elevate his feet, and he walked as fast as he could. Static from the tight-woven carpet made his pant legs cling. He remembered how he used to ride the stationary bike. You pump and pump and it feels like you’re not getting anywhere and then, 20 minutes later, you’re there. Why did he stop? One day he got tired, but he told his daughter he still rode it so she wouldn’t nag him anymore. She was the expert on his life. Three times a week, he told her.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Who could be calling? Yesterday they called from the podiatrist’s office to reschedule his appointment. He’d been taking a little snooze–what a miserable time of it he’d had the night before. Looking at the clock. Turning on the radio. Milt Rosenberg going on and on with that gun fanatic. What a no-class moron. Maybe he’d go back to the Halcion. Half a pill, that’s no big deal. Lowenstein had said it was OK. But Cheryl’d said “You take sleeping pills?” Like he was some kind of addict. She could fall asleep with her eyes open. What did she know?
With the sleeve of his jacket, Jack rubbed his forehead. His feet pushed ahead. Go, he said. A couple months ago his car had stalled in a flooded viaduct on the way back from the Warehouse Club and he’d had to walk knee-deep in water to call AAA for help. Trash swirled around him. The water dragged his pants down. He’d lifted one foot in front of the other. Go. Why didn’t you tell me? Cheryl said weeks later when he finally mentioned what had happened, but all he said was I’m telling you now. You could have drowned, his son Larry said when they talked long-distance. I could’ve, Jack had said.
Once he’d played poker with her husband, Eddie Weiss. Doctor Eddie Weiss. A heart man. Thought he knew everything. Had no card sense. Played like flush was a medical condition. If it was football they’d have called him for delay of game.
Maybe you’ll invite me in for coffee tomorrow, nu?
