I smooth the sleeve of my coat, brush lint from it. White lint on black fabric—like stars in the night sky. I tug at the lapels, make sure they’re straight. My black suit is definitely my best suit. The fit, the look. But I take the grey one, too. Just in case. In a garment bag, of course, its hangers sticking out the top.
What if it started raining? And something splashed up on my pants? I’d need to change. That’s why I brought my grey suit. It’s almost as good as the black, though not quite. The sleeves are just a twinge short. But it still looks good.
I set out pretty early this morning. It’s sunny, clear. Warm. I have to get downtown. By St. George Station.
I need to get there. I check my watch. I have an hour.
With my first cheque I could buy something good. A painting. Put it in my bedroom. I’d like to own art. It’d look good on my wall, too. I need something there. And then I could go out to supper. At some place fancy. I could wear my black suit there, too. And impress everyone with how good I look. And I could bring someone home. Show her my art. Offer her some expensive wine. Make love to her under my new art.
If I get there in time.
The train’s doors open and I step in after the pile of people pour out. There’s a seat for me. That’s good. My knee’s starting to twitch. It happens when I’m nervous. It just shakes. Twitches. Feels weak, maybe gives out and my leg folds under me. And I don’t want to land on the floor today. Not while I’m wearing my black suit. Though if it got dirty, I at least have my grey suit and I could put it on. I want to make a good impression, of course. And I think it’s good I have two suits. That’ll impress them. Two suits! And such good ones, too.
I sit down on one of the red seats. I brush it first, of course, dust it with my fingers. A few crumbs of dust, maybe some crumbs of food fall to the floor. I sit down and hold my knee. It’s still shaking, bouncing around.
My palms are sweating. That happens when I’m nervous, too. I wipe them, one at a time, on my pants, shifting the hangers of the grey suit between my hands.
The train starts, swaying. It moves slow today. Or maybe it just feels like it does. I check my watch again. I still have plenty of time. I made sure I left plenty early. People like it when you’re on time. Early, even. Eagerness and ambition and all that. They’ll think I’m good. I know it. On time, well-dressed. And with an extra suit. That shows I’m prepared. Be prepared. Like the Scouts. I never was one. But I remember kids talking about it at school. Sometimes. They liked it. But I’m always prepared. I didn’t have to go to Scouts to learn that.
I get off at the Bloor-Yonge Station today. It’s still nice out, so I figured walking to the place by St. George Station would be all right. I like walking. I get to clear my head. And even though my knee might give out and I might fall on the sidewalk and get my suit dirty, I think it’s a risk I should take. Since it’s so nice out. And sometimes walking calms me down. And since I have my grey suit just in case anyway.
I bet they’ll like that I’m so healthy. That’s what happens when I walk to so many places. I don’t really like being on the subway. It’s dim and it’s small and it smells and I can’t breathe good with so many people around me.
I walk along Bloor. I don’t like how everyone talks about directions in the city in north, east, south and west. I never know which way to go. Maybe I should carry a compass with me. I wish people would just say: “turn left on Bloor and then right on St. George.” Instead of “head west on Bloor and then north on St. George.” I don’t know those. I didn’t go to Scouts, remember? Or maybe if they just added the directions on the street signs. An “E” and an arrow pointing east for east. And then all the rest like that, too. That’d be good. I have lots of great ideas like that. They’ll love me for that, too. Creative, imaginative. Smart.
But I get things figured out anyway, even without the directions marked for me. They’ll like me because I’m resourceful. I know how to get things done, even if it does take me a little longer. And then once I do something three or four times, I can usually get it right. Oh yeah, and I have a strong handshake, too. But I can’t look someone in the eye. I guess I should work on that. Eye-contact is hard for me. I don’t like that. It’s like I’m being judged. Like people are trying to figure out too much about me. I like keeping a bit of me just for me.
I’ll look them in the eye today, though. I feel confident. I have my black suit on. And I look good. Professional. It’ll be nice to be making such good pay. I can maybe move to a nicer place. And put the painting on the wall in a living room. Maybe I could find a place with a fireplace and hang it on the wall above. And it’ll be the centre of attention in the room. And everyone who comes to visit me will be drawn to it and remark on it and they’ll know I’m successful because I have some real art in my house.
I carry my grey suit in front of me. So I can see it at all times. If I draped it over my back, with two fingers holding the hangers’ hooks, maybe something would happen to it. Somebody could spill something on it and maybe it’d leak through the garment bag. And then what would I do if my knee gave out and I fell and had two dirty suits? I wouldn’t be successful. I wouldn’t be professional. I wouldn’t get hired. I wouldn’t get the art. I wouldn’t be successful.
So, I walk. And I try to clear my head. So I’m not as nervous when I get to the place by the St. George Station. So I can shake hands and make eye-contact. And speak without that warbling that happens in my voice when I’m nervous. And that thing I do where I just trail off mid-sentence because I’m too nervous to keep my thoughts and mouth moving in time with each other. And stuttering, of course. But lots of people stutter when they’re nervous. Or at least trip over their words. But since I’m walking there, I’ll have time to calm down. To let my knee stop shaking and give me time to think up something witty to say. Everyone loves witty things. I’ll say something witty, we’ll laugh together and then shake hands. And I’ll look them in the eye.
There are people stopped on the corner in front of me. As I step quickly around them into the street, I see them looking at me. They’re probably thinking about how successful I look, how professional, in my black suit. And they probably envy me looking so good.
A car horn blares at me and I jump back. Some person in a hurry, rushing, against the light. I glower at the car as it speeds by, just so the person inside knows how I feel. I wouldn’t want to yell anything, just in case someone on the corner behind me knows the people I’m going to meet. I have to make a good impression on everyone.
Just before I reach the Bloor-St. George intersection, I stop, lean against the fence. I examine my pants for dirt, for wrinkles. I wipe some wrinkles out. Their creases are still perfect. Straight lines down the middle of my leg. Another example of how conscientious I am. Everything looks good. I brush a little rock off my shoe that had stuck there somehow and watch it tumble across the sidewalk. It sits there, in the crack between two squares of concrete, and glints at me in the sunlight. I look left, right. No one’s near. I bend down as though to tie my shoelace and I pick up the little rock. I examine it closely, run my thumb on its roughness and drop it into my coat pocket. Maybe it’ll end up being a lucky rock.
I take a deep breath, tug at my sleeves, smooth the front of my jacket and turn the corner. My knee starts shaking again and I almost fall. But I catch the fence just in time. The fence cuts the soft part of my hand between my thumb and my index finger. I reach into my pocket, pull out the little glittering rock and throw it onto the sidewalk.
The building is large, brick. There are trees on the lawn, and the building is set far back from the street. As secluded as a building on that corner could be.
I start up the stone walkway, toward the front door, twisting, turning the hangers of my grey suit in my hand. When I’m nervous I have to do things with my hands, too. I turn back for a minute, just to collect myself, to calm down. I lean on the fence, breathe deep. My knee stops shaking, my hands stop flapping around.
I think about the painting that I’ll buy with my first cheque. How it’ll look in my room. I think about the fancy dinner I’ll treat myself to.
And that works. I feel calmer now, ready to shake hands, make witty comments, make eye contact.
I wipe my hand across my forehead, which is sweaty. And, as I look down at my now stinging hand, I realise it’s probably got some blood on it, too. I pull my handkerchief out of my black suit jacket’s inside pocket, the secret pocket, and wipe it across my forehead. I look around, frantic now, as it dawns on me what I’ve done to my handkerchief. I won’t be able to use it again.
I take another deep breath, shift my grey suit in its garment bag from my left hand to my right and see the garbage bin in front of St. George Station. I walk over, drop my handkerchief through the almost-rectangular opening marked “LITTER.” I turn around and start toward the side driveway. The people waiting probably can see me through the bay window looking over the drive. Can see me in my black suit. Looking sharp, professional. I drape the garment bag over my shoulder, so I can look more relaxed, at ease.
On my left I see a sign and I stop to read it, so the people waiting for me inside and watching me can see that I don’t miss things. I pay attention to everything around me.
The sign says “Private Property,” and under it someone has scratched in “is theft.” I scowl at the vandalism, so the people watching know I’m on their side. And don’t condone such things.
On the right side of the drive there’s another sign. It says “No Trespassing.” My knee twitches and I stumble. The sign keeps me from falling. The grey suit in its garment bag falls out of my hand, slides down my back. I pick it up, turn and twist the grey suit’s hangers again. I look around the property. I wipe my hand across my forehead. I cough and wipe my hand across my cheek.
I turn around and walk back to Bloor, toward the Bloor-Yonge Station.
No comments:
Post a Comment