Walter Brand

Potpourri

 

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Losing a Job

 

“Could you join me in the conference room for a moment?”

 

I knew all along but wouldn’t believe it. The thought was placed in the dusk-like part of consciousness. 

 

“Next year will be your last year with us.”

 

The words were blurred--half spoken--between inarticulate and inaudible.  “Ok, I understand, but can you try to clarify this for me?” 

 

He looked squarely and with sincere resolve.  “How can I make this clearer?”

 

His eyes were pale blue and his hair was glossy black. His opaque white skin also took on a pale blue glow. Several gold rings indented the base of the flabby fingers. 

 

But there is a sense of relief that comes when long repressed fears are confirmed in reality. My job had come to an end. 

 

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The Red Light

 

When you are waiting for the traffic light to turn green,

And you bend down to pick up some tiny thing lying at her feet,

So tiny, in fact, it is not even visible.

And she exclaims loudly for everyone nearby to hear, 

“Anything the matter?  Is everything ok?  Are you alright?”

He raises himself up and loses interest.

But she really addresses the women standing beside her, 

Who observes but does not understand what is happening.

She draws attention to herself and the nearby people turn, 

And wait for the light to change from red to green. 

The women standing beside her looks back at her,

And wonders how his perceptive gesture could be met with such outrage.

 

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The Ride Home

 

Early in the morning but still dark, driving that plain looking, middle aged woman home to a three-story, white siding, apartment building under the Triborough Bridge.  She had come from work, a dry and sobering job, a second job. I tried to start conversation from time to time but she hardly said a word except to give directions.  She was polite and tired.  She paid and tipped me fairly for taking her to Queens.  I didn’t notice her crutches when she entered the cab.  She must have concealed them, expecting taxis to pass her by-- “Off Duty” lights suddenly appearing.  But upon leaving the cab, she slipped on metal crutches that stop just below the elbow with long, thin, legs--not the type we use after an accident.  Her back took the shape of an “S” as she moved from side to side toward the three steps leading to the front door.  Moving near the window, I asked if I could be of help immediately seeing the uselessness of the question.  She made an effort to turn her head.

 

“No thanks, goodnight.”  I waited until she found her keys and the door was behind her. 

 

Returning to Manhattan, undisturbed, with synchronized lights--red to green, red to green--I thought about the many people there are in the city and how little consciousness there is of all that happens in the world.  Who could notice that crippled woman making her way up the steps to that flimsy, white speck of a house at four o’clock in the morning?  My breathing was slow.  It must be getting late.  Time to return the cab.  The street was empty.  There were no cars on the road.  I could pull over to rest my eyes.  The lights continue to change from red to green.  Yet, if everyone noticed everything in the world, not much would get done and before long there wouldn’t be much to notice.  Thoughts passed until they were stopped by a frenzied taxi hail.  A man sprang from between two parked cars waving an outstretched arm.  Oh my goodness, check the mirrors, hit the blinker, veer to the right, break hard.  The taxi stopped within inches of a long row of parked cars that forced him to approach the cab from the driver’s side.  There was a generous distance between us so there was time to inspect the man.  I kept the cab in “Drive” with my foot on the brake, prepared to drive away at the slightest sign of trouble.  

 

His hands were in clear view.  He approached.  Everything was fine.

 

“Going to the city?”  

 

“Sure,” I said, too loudly given the still surroundings.  

 

Nothing uplifted the spirits of a taxi driver more than picking up a fare from the outer boroughs back to Manhattan.  It was already morning and the sky was turning purple.  He was going to work at a hotel in Times Square.

 

How lucky he was.

 

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Trouble

 

Flushed like a hyper-active child, excited by the thought of getting caught up in something risky, coasting along the side streets of a hard and desolate neighborhood late at night, early in the morning, knowing no one would be out, letting the cab move on its own without touching the accelerator, using the brake only for lights, slowly taking wide lefts and sharp rights, so the cab felt like a living being looking around the corners.  The game satisfied a sense of fantasy like hiding and seeking, losing and finding, revealing a similarity to the people close to you; appearing, disappearing, reappearing, playing and mocking, now you see me, now you don’t, here I come, ready or not.  A bottle crashes against the sidewalk interrupting the peace and quiet of lurking for trouble.  A man rapidly walks straight toward the taxi in a crippled and lopsided manner, walking, in fact, too robustly given his bent and twisted condition, bobbing up and down and screaming, “What the hell are you doing in this neighborhood you god-damned yellow belly.  Get the hell out of here you damned yellow belly.”  I swerve around the man, jumping the sidewalk, almost swiping the storefronts.  Luckily, there were no street signs on the block. No one was out.  No one saw.  Driving off, a thud comes from the trunk followed by glass shattering on the street.

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Walter Brand is a friend of the Macabre who lives & writes in New York City.

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