Originally written in late 2012/Early 2013, published on this blog in January, 2013.
In Order to Take, One Must First Give
For
Leigh L. Fox
The church bell rang loud and clear. He looked down at the street as taxis turned from the left and to the right. Spittle hung from his mouth and he tried to follow a strand of it fall sixteen stories to the ground. He lost it after four stories. Several sweaty and discolored twenties were clutched in his hand. The wind ripped across his back and he stared at the busses now, stopped and then creeping down Seventh Avenue. He foresaw this image a month ago, but didn’t know how it would pan out. He let go of one oily, sweaty twenty and followed it down. The wind blew it up, then gravity tackled it down. The bill was much easier to follow than a droplet of spit. It landed in front of Pennsylvania Station and he watched a half dozen people scramble to grab it off of the concrete.
His ears felt numb, as did his hands. Perhaps he couldn’t hold onto the rest of the bills, he thought. He stared at them, a half smile on his face, as tears began to bellow. The money wasn’t important anymore. This played over and over again in his head. The expression changed after he listened to his inner-self several times. The smile was gone and he carried a sense of bewilderment on his face now. His shoulders arced and created a small shrug. This was an unexpected action and it took him by surprise. Another twenty tussled in the wind and blew to the street with great power.
The man turned to look into the room. The television was left on and faint voices could be heard. The curtains waved like flags at half-mast through a small crack in the door. Through tiny lights from the surrounding buildings he could catch brief reflections of his face. It was blue, red, yellow from the images on the television on the other side of the glass. He felt as if he looked sickly, like a ghost of himself. A bottle of champagne rattled next to his foot as he stumbled while peering at himself in the pane.
“Shit,” he said.
The bottle toppled over to the side and he picked it up in a swooshing motion. Lightheaded, he grabbed the balcony railing with his hand stuffed with bills. He thought it was cold, at least ten degrees without windchill, even colder higher up. The champagne was a gift from a client and was sent up by room service with an enormous fruit basket and La Maison du Chocolat truffles. He didn’t care for French sweets, so he gave them to the bellhop, who was grateful and said he’d give them to his mother. The fruit was another story.
At that moment, he decided to pour some champagne on the bills. His imagination ran wild with the idea of frozen bills falling from the sky for people to grab at on the street. He thought of the long, fluttering drop and the aimless masses grabbing at the money, only to see it slip through their fingers. The smile returned to his face as he doused one twenty with the bubbly and took a long pull himself. He straightened the bill and kissed it. The man then took off his socks, looked at his red feet and stood on the bottom rail of the balcony. He couldn’t feel the railing as his feet were as numb as his hands. With clumsy maneuvering, his hands feeling like they were on fire, he further straightened the bill on the top railing, rubbing it back and forth. He inspected it one more time and let it go. His torso peered downward.
This time the bill did not float upward at all. It fell to the ground faster than the others. Fascinated, he thought the density of the liquid must have added such weight and weight adds velocity to objects. It fell differently than he imagined. He still expected it to have some wavering, some hesitancy before plummeting to earth. But, its grace was gone by the added weight of the liquid. It touched the ground, in what seemed like to him, would be considered a splat. The sound, if only in his mind, was just that. He felt entirely unrewarded. People below walked over it, until a young boy with enormous mittens bent over. He tried in vain to grab the bill and had to take off what looked like awkward hand moccasins to do so. The man saw the boy’s mother clap and they continued on their way.
How could it take so long to notice a twenty-dollar bill falling from the sky? It is Christmas for Christ sake. People are out of work, looking for work, unemployed, fucked.
He concluded they just weren’t looking for money falling from the sky. Why would they? Who would think that someone would simply shower people with cash? Then he remembered reading an article about a man who would put hundred dollar bills into the hands of the homeless as they were sleeping. That is true generosity, he thought. He noticed he was still standing on the balcony in his bare feet and felt a tear drip from his eye. It wasn’t a tear of sadness, but more a tear of the great pain the wind was subjecting him to on the balcony. The temperature kept dropping. It hurt, plain and simple.
A panic overtook him. It was a sudden sensation. He felt cold. His knees rattled and his face stung as if wasps were attacking him in succession. A light snow had started to fall and the wind slapped snowflakes on his face. He entered the room, leaving the door open behind him. The curtains spun around in a manic dance, casting ghost-like shadows on the wall, while looking like crazed spirits themselves. The television was playing a commercial for a local hardware store. The man looked at the ad and listened to the thick Brooklyn accent with some interest. He then noticed he was still clutching the champagne and took a long pull. Foamy liquid leaked from the side of his mouth. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the slip and felt like an animal salivating over fresh prey. Disgusted, he walked to the closet and began to undress.
Naked now. The wall-sized mirrors displayed a man in his late-thirties. His hands were bright red, as were his toes, nose and neck. His face appeared battered and swollen. Creases wrinkled the corners of his eyes. They looked swollen and moist. A tattoo was inked upon his chest, above his heart. It read, “Me, Myself and I” in cursive italics. He had a bit of a beer belly, but that was expected of a man of his age and in his position. Part of his living was entertaining others and closing deals. He picked up his stomach, squeezed a bit of the flab and let it drop. His arms were toned from carrying his briefcase and his bi-weekly trips to the gym. His muscles flexed for a moment, then relaxed. In the reflection behind him, he saw his wallet on the bed. He opened the closet, put on a bathrobe and headed to the bed.
His wallet was gigantic, filled with photos, old business cards, credit cards and other tokens of uselessness. Most people looked at and laughed at its enormity. He began taking everything out of it. He began with the top flap and smiled when he saw a frayed card with his tattoo artist’s name and number on it. He made piles, one to keep and one to throw away. He found an old fortune from a Chinese restaurant. He kept it from one of his first dates with his wife. It was barely legible and he mouthed the words.
“In order to take, one must first give.”
A guttural chuckle came from his mouth. He stared at it and then put it into the keep pile. He looked at it once again before continuing the rummage. The discard pile kept getting larger and larger as he became more and more willing to part with the past. Then came the photographs. He always carried one of himself as a toddler. The edge of the old photograph was stained yellow, taking on the color of a smoker’s fingers after a heavy night of drinking. Further, the photo had creased in the middle and a crack formed down his forehead, but he wore a beaming smile. The location was unknown, a child simply sitting in a patch of grass. He couldn’t remember how he acquired the picture.
He fumbled a long strip and dropped it on the bed. He unfolded it and saw a set of images taken inside of a photo booth. He and his wife made several faces. The first one was serious and comical. Both of them looked directly into the camera, as if looking at a piece of postmodern art. The next photo in the strip was of them kissing. It didn’t look staged. The kiss was sincere and passionate, he thought. The following picture was an unexpected one. They were moving away from each other after the kiss and the timer snapped an image. They were frozen with smiles on their faces. The last consisted of a hugging pose. She was sitting on his lap. He looked at the photo strip for a moment longer and placed it next to the one of himself as a toddler.
The final photograph in his wallet was of his children as youngsters themselves. The two kids, brother and sister also sat in an unidentifiable field. Their mother was in the distant background. Her pale legs were off to the right corner of the photo. The kids were only a year apart and crawling towards him as he took it. The younger of the two, the boy, was pulling himself through the grass with his elbows as his sister was crawling on all fours. His daughter had a small dandelion in her hair; while his son had yellow cheeks form flower face painting. Both of them had his eyes. Finally, he laid the photo next to the strip.
They created a vivid narrative of his own personal history, from the near beginning of his life up to a few years ago. The kids were now six and seven years old. He thought about their schooldays and the vacation that was about to begin and all they would learn in the future. Yet, emptiness crept through him as he thought about their futures. This feeling was difficult for him to wrap his head around, nor could he bother to make much sense of it.
He looked away from the bed and fetched the champagne bottle. He took a healthy gulp of it and returned to the stack of money. The entire room was cold and the curtains were still aimlessly blowing. A small pile of snow piled at the doorway. He could see vapor coming out of his mouth as he took heavy concentrated breaths. He counted the cash in his hand. There were thirteen twenty-dollar bills left. $260. He took off his robe and walked over to the mahogany closet. There were two suits hanging next to each other. He pulled the black one off of the hanger and placed it on the bed on top of the discard pile. The photos sat next to it. Now, he thought, looking at the empty suit, that the collection neared completion.
He took two steps away from the bed and looked at his collage. After staring at it for a minute or two, he walked away to return to the closet. The second suit was grey with black pinstripes. He discarded his robe, found a pair of underwear, a white tank-top and put on the pants. His belt was across the room on a chair so he sauntered over and buckled it. The man reached for a white button-down hanging from a chair and hung it over his shoulders. He returned to the mirror and slowly buttoned the shirt and tied a red necktie around the collar. After tucking in the shirt and inspecting the creases, he returned to the closet and put on the jacket. First, he buttoned the middle button, but thought again and unbuttoned it.
After a brief mirror inspection, his eyes returned to the project on the bed. He grabbed two oranges left from the fruit basket on the dresser. The champagne was getting flat, but he took a large gulp before visiting his piece. He looked at it quizzically and straightened out the suit then buttoned the middle button. The oranges were still in his hand. He looked at them as if he didn’t know what they were doing there, then placed them ten inches above the neckline of the suit.
There was work to be done. The man rushed over to his shoes and socks and put them on his feet. A frenzied excitement filled the room. In a bound, the man leaped to the dresser and grabbed his wad of twenties. As he walked to the balcony door, the curtains lashed him across his face. Stung and surprised, he grabbed them in a fit and yanked them down. They blew several feet from the doorway and landed in a heap on the carpet. He continued through the doorway and faced the balcony. The snow was coming down harder and it was windier than before. He had to squint in order to see the street below.
He opened his arms as wide as he could. The wind made his jacket flap behind him and he could hear it rustle. His left hand had the stack of bills in it. He looked at them and peeled one away. He stretched it out and released it into the night air. The wind picked it up and blew it outward, over Seventh Avenue and next to the giant Madison Square Garden sign. It was hard to see, but he noticed a group of people huddle to the corner. He thought a man came out of it with the bill. He crumpled the next one and threw it out into the breeze. It didn’t travel as far and landed in front of the hotel. He folded the next one into a miniature paper airplane. It settled in the middle of the street. A brave soul quickly got it.
Cabs and busses rolled by. The snow was beginning to stick and the black asphalt was fading. It was coming down at an angle and swirling all around his head. His hair was covered in snow and his jacket was emitting wafts of steam. He paused for a minute and turned around to look into his room. He looked at the bed, the wallet and empty suit. Nothing had changed.
His attention returned to the balcony. This time he took out two bills and released them in opposite directions. From what he could tell, a crowd amassed and people were looking up, waiting for more money to fall. Because of the drifting snow, it was getting harder and harder to see the street. He counted the money. Eight twenties left. His tie blew up into his face. He moved it and took another bill out of his pocket. People were looking up now and more had gathered on the whitened sidewalks. Three more bills were sent over the balcony into the snowy abyss.
He heard a loud tire screech. There was a moment of silence and then some shouting. Startled, he ran to the balcony edge and peered down below. It was hard to see, but a yellow cab had stopped at a right angle, it’s front facing his hotel. People were looking down near the tire of the taxi and some were screaming. Several people ran out into the street to stop traffic. All of the cars came to a halt, with a few trying to back up Seventh Avenue.
The man entered his hotel room, grabbed his room card and ran to the elevator. He waited for what felt like eons. As he stood, he watched the lights above the elevator blink and stop on different floors. He kept pushing the down arrow, hoping it would make it move faster. Finally, it made it up to 16. He was dripping water from the melting snow on his head and his suit was wet, yet he felt warm. His pulse was racing.
The interior of the elevator was covered in mirrors. He faced himself from the front, left and right. He thought the expert tailoring of his suit was ironic considering how his face looked, red and whipped from the snow and wind. After a few peripheral glances, he decided to look up at the ceiling. The elevator stopped at the eleventh floor. A couple entered. The woman was wearing a black skirt and a raccoon fur. The man was wearing khakis and a pea coat. They looked at him, soaking wet and he moved to the back against the wall. They exchanged awkward smiles. The man looked down at his shoes and then straight ahead. The couple stood silently. The woman caught a glance of the man in the mirror and then held her companion’s hand. The man placed his hands on the glass behind him. He felt claustrophobic and trapped, wishing he were alone on the ride down to the lobby.
The couple stepped off of the elevator slowly. He ran past them and dashed to the revolving doors. The lobby was packed with people. He touched a few on the side as he ran past them. In a blur, he saw the bellhop who gave him a nod. He did not return it. His mind was only focused on the street scene outside. As he neared the door, he could make out faces from outside. One woman cupped her mouth and turned her head away. There were several others awkwardly standing around looking down, then they shifted their gazes to their left and right. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He could see eyes filled with sadness and terror.
He circled his way through the door and the sounds from the street were deafening. There were hundreds of people stopped on the sidewalk. Policemen were attaching yellow tape to poles, effectively stopping traffic from entering Seventh Avenue below 34th street. A Middle-Eastern man was sitting in the wet snow against a bus stop crying, his hands wrapped around his face. People were pointing up and then to the street. He listened to the conversations around him.
“Money was dropping, man. I mean, fucking twenties. Just, dropping.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah, for real.”
“The poor girl.”
“Nothin’ comes for free, dawg. Nothin’.”
“Stand back! Stand back! Stand back!”
“The Knicks fuckin’ lose, then this shit? I don’t wanna get a beer anymore. Let’s just get on the train.”
He saw her. There was a pool of blood around her head. The puddle saturated the white frosting of snow. She was young. Her body lay crumpled in front of the taxi. The driver side door was left open, as were the back doors. A policeman stood in front of her, trying to shield the girl from gawkers. Another officer asked people to disperse. He heard more sirens in the distance. He stared at her for as long as could while throngs of men, women, children and policemen slid past him.
The red stream continued to ooze onto the avenue, melting the snow and then resting upon the black asphalt. He was motionless and in shock. The right side of the girl’s head looked slightly crumpled and her left eye was open, looking up at the sky. It did not move as snow dropped onto her pupil. An ambulance arrived. The medical technicians pulled her motionless body away from the taxi. They placed an oxygen mask over mouth and began to perform CPR. They repeated the thrusts several times, with arms heaving up and down. Her body pressed deep into the street with each new compression. There was no other movement. No sign of life.
As he stared at the scene, he began to feel nauseous. He looked around and saw others. Some were in shock, others looked down while waking at a rushed pace to avoid the situation altogether. A police officer approached the cab driver still on the ground with tears streaming out of his eyes. Another policeman brought him a glass of water and placed his hand on his shoulder. He shuddered at the touch, then accepted it.
His eyes returned to the girl. The oxygen mask had been removed from her face. Another EMT came and placed a sheet over her body. The man could not bear to look any longer. He stumbled towards the front window-pane of the hotel lobby window and leaned against it. He took deep breaths, yet found it hard to breathe. Each inhalation was painful and he felt as if little air were reaching his lungs. The air felt cold and stung the inside of his mouth. He crouched down to the ground and could feel himself stumble a little. His hand braced his weight and landed on cold snow. A few people looked down at him and asked if he were alright. One woman commented that she thought he must be the girl’s father. She called him a poor man.
More officers arrived and began to clear the sidewalks of onlookers. One officer stopped in front of the man and helped him up. He couldn’t understand what the policeman was saying. The sounds around him began to fade into static. They became murmurs and gurgles. The sirens transformed into whistles, while he could hear every crunch of snow trampled under foot by the masses streaming away from the accident. The man nodded to the officer and took a final look as he turned around. More yellow tape surrounded lampposts. Several officers were on horseback and many of the onlookers began to walk away. He continued on through the revolving doors and entered the warmth of the lobby.
Everyone seemed to be moving slowly. He felt hot. As he made his way to the elevator banks, he thought people from the bar were looking at him. The bellhop gave him another salute from the top of his hat and down to his chest. The man nodded as he walked past him without recognizing he had done so. He reached the elevator banks and was grateful to find one at the lobby. He entered it and pushed the 16 and the door close buttons at the same time.
Alone, he covered his eyes to avoid looking at himself in the mirrors. The elevator inched up the building and he managed to remove his index and middle finger from his eyes after it climbed several flights. His eyes were red and he focused solely on them in the reflection. He stared at the ground, unable to look at himself any longer. He glanced up at the numbers above the door. He was at 14. He heard the noise indicating the fifteenth floor had been passed. The elevator stopped at the sixteenth floor, but the doors paused for a moment before opening. He put his hands down by his legs and looked at the hollow face peering back at him and gasped. The doors opened.
The room was how he had left it and he thought it looked ridiculous. He picked up his wallet from the bed and looked at each photograph once more before returning them to their place. He took one of the oranges next. The man removed the peel and ate one slice of the orange before throwing it away. He put the second one back in the fruit basket on the dresser. The closet door was still open and he ran to it to get his valise and suit rack. He placed the black suit onto a hanger and zipped it up. A pile of business cards lay fanned across the bed, scattered by the removal of the suit. He picked them up and placed them in a pile on the nightstand. The man took them one by one and tore them in two. They were then placed into the trashcan.
The bed was clear of his belongings. He sat on the comforter and looked around the room. The curtain was still in a pile a yard in front of the door. He picked it up and placed it on top of the rod it had hung upon. He returned to the bed and stared at the carpet. His hair was wet with a mixture of melted snow and sweat. He cupped his hands together in front of him and began to twirl his wedding ring around his finger. His knees jumped up and down and he extended his arm to reach for the phone. The cradle sat in his hand. The plastic clicked against the metal on his left index finger. His fingers dialed numbers and the line began to ring. A woman’s voice said hello from the earpiece.
“I need to come home,” he said.
