The Courier

Dennis was this eager young guy trying to start his own business. He had made a pledge to himself to do anything it took to make his business successful. His business consisted of him delivering groceries by himself on his bicycle. The only problem, as far as his business went, was that even with the high gas prices, trucks could still do his job cheaper and faster.

Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.

Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.

There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.

"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.

"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.

He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.

He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.

Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.

Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:

Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.

"Why don't you just call a cab?"

*

Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.

Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.

"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."

*

Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.

What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.

At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.

Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"

Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.

"Can you please come inside?"

The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.

Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.

The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"

Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"

The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.

Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.

"Julie?"

*

Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.

Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.

"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.

"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."

"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.

Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.

"What's dripping in there?"

"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.

"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."

"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."

"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."

Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.

The Closet

I was building Curtis's closet in the dark hallway of his house. I used a big rectangular sponge, the size of an old King James Bible, instead of sandpaper to sand down the final layer of spackle. That was a very intentional way to eliminate that fine white dust that you would get from sanding the normal way. It was also supposed to yield much better results.
Curtis was a pastor for a small church. I wondered if he drew a commission off the tithes, or if he lived by faith. I didn't want to judge him either way. I was a very easy going guy.
He had taken off a while ago and I forgot to ask when he would be back. I suspected any minute.
I pushed the sponge to the bottom of the warm water in the blue pail and squeezed the air bubbles out. Then I pulled it up and squeezed out the water. I tried to focus on being a part of things.
I pressed the damp sponge against one of my joints and rubbed it back and forth, massaging the already smooth surface. I had taped and spackled so deliberately and carefully that it almost didn't need the sanding, wet or dry. I could have almost gone straight to the painting.
That spackle, dry as a wood splinter, sucked the moisture from my sponge. It felt like washing a rusty car.
There was a guy, I couldn't remember his relation to Curtis, who lived there, on his couch. I should have known him better by now, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember the details of his life. He was roaming the house, aimless as a ghost. I could hear him singing one of those irritating Christian rock songs. It was a love song to Jesus, but if you didn't know any better, it would have sounded homo-erotic.
As he approached the door of the closet he sang, "I want to be in his arms again." He sounded sad and he had his hands behind his back, like this was Sunday school.
I looked at him, which caused him to stop his serenade. He commenced staring closely at my handiwork.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"About what?"
"Anything."
"I think I've just been dumped," he said, holding up a cordless phone. "She said we should spend time apart. I'm too immature."
I could imagine that. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap, a football jersey and long glossy basketball shorts.
I shined the fluorescent flashlight across the spot I had been sponging. I could see tiny deep lines that would show through the paint. This was a setback. "I'm gouging it," I said.
"You need sandpaper or something?"
"The sponge is supposed to be the best possible method. This's never happened before."
I squeezed the sponge extra hard and barely dusted the spackle. "How's the job hunt?" I asked.
"Well, it's tough when you don't have a car."
I remembered seeing him and his girlfriend stepping out of a car. It must have been hers. She also had a kid about four years old. I couldn't remember how old this guy was, but he seemed much younger than me. Nor could I remember his name.
You can only ask someone their name so many times. After a while you start to look callous.
I shined the light across the seam again. It made shadows inside all the scratches the sponge was making. It looked like the tiny lines they scrape into sidewalks just before the concrete sets. "I need to get away from this for a minute," I said.
He was tossing the cordless phone, making it flip and spin like a high diver. He needed inspiration, or at least someone to tell him what to do.
The most inspiring thing I could think of was, of course, my Shogun. "Let me show you my bike," I said.
He followed me outside where I pulled my bike off the side of the garage and rolled it to the middle of the driveway.
"You rode here?"
"That's my point!" I said. "It's only ten miles to the light rail. If you had a bike, you could apply all the way from Philadelphia to New York!"
He pinched the front tire, kind of condescendingly. "Man, that's a nice bike," he said with strained enthusiasm. "You must fly... like Lance Armstrong."
I was a little confused at that comment. I stared at him. Apparently he thought speed was the whole point. "It can only go about fifteen miles an hour," I said. I pointed to the center of the rear wheel, where there would normally be a derailer and gears. "I took it down to a single speed."
"No kidding! This thing is tight! You must go like," he paused, "friggin' Lance Armstrong."
I took the bike and leaned it back against the garage. I couldn't tell if this guy was joking or not. His girlfriend was right. This guy was just a kid. "Yes I do," I said. "I fly just like Lance Armstrong."
"Must be in shape, dude."
I was completely deflated by his stonewalling. All I wanted was to help him out and he was shutting me down. "Yes, that's why I brought you out here: to tell you what great shape I'm in and to say that I fly like Lance Armstrong. Any questions?"
He was back to flipping that phone again. He was chewing something and when he spat, he dropped the phone and the battery danced across the driveway. Where the spit landed it was black like chewing tobacco.
"If you really wanted to work," I said, "you could make it happen."
He stooped down, grabbing the pieces. "I know I'm a loser," he said. "I'm gonna' go kill myself now."
Did he think that was funny? I wondered. Then he laughed nervously and gave me a wink. It was the kind of wink your uncle gives you. It was a demeaning thing to do, but he must not have understood. So I let go of it.
"You're in a slump," I said. "You can turn it around. You just have to want to. You know you can choose to want it."
"I see your point," he said, defeated. He opened the door and held it open for he. Now I needed a break not only from the work, but from this guy too. Being nice is hard work sometimes. He tried to push the battery back into place. As soon as the cover snapped back on, the phone rang, like an automatic reset alarm had been triggered.
Of course he answered and forgot about me. The door shut behind him.
I wasn't ready to go back in there and face him again, or the spackle, so I scrounged around in the garage for a while. It was an absolutely devastating use of space. It made me never want to own a house. Bicycles were lying onto of a radial-arm saw. A ladder was leaning across a decapitated basketball hoop. Under a crumpled sheet of plastic I found an unopened Coke. Jackpot, I thought.
I sat down on a paint can and started to drink it. It was sweet and perfect and the bubbles bit into my tongue. I held it there in my mouth, savoring it. You have to try to be part of things this way. Ultimately it makes you more compassionate.
Then I realized that if Curtis returned at just that moment, it wouldn't look good for me. So I downed the rest of the Coke, cutting short my meditation session. I returned the empty to where I'd found it and went back inside.
The guy looked much better. Much happier. He was in to some serious phone twirling.
"She take you back?" I asked.
"Nope," he said. "Forget her! That was Sarah. Looks like I'm not single anymore!"
I gave him back that wink. He was back on top, thanks to me. I wanted him to hold onto that triumph, but I couldn't share in his little celebration. Whatever he was feeling was certain to be temporary. He hadn't figured anything out. In the long run, I realized, it would be better if he had to find his own way. He seemed like a puppet.
"Praise God!" he said. Then he waited for my reply.
Of course, I nodded. That's what you do. He looked closer at me, to make sure it was the real deal, so I kept it up. I kept nodding until he believed me. Then I reluctantly picked up the sponge again. It was heavy with water. I was beginning to think it would ever do the trick. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sand paper," I said. I dropped the sponge a little too hard into the bucket, and a few drops splashed onto my wall.
He surprised me by pulling a sanding sponge out from behind his back. Those basketball shorts didn't have any pockets. He must have had it tucked between the elastic and his skin. "Here," he said.
"That's been touching your ass hasn't it."
He stood there holding it out to me. "I guess."
I hesitated to accept because something seemed strange about it, the way he was holding his arm out. He looked like a statue, almost. And I was like a smaller statue, looking up at him. It made me a little uncomfortable but reluctantly I accepted. "I hope you like dust," I said.
I took the pail into the bathroom just across the hall and poured it down the toilet. I poured it slowly, watching the cream colored water fill the bowl. As the dirty warm water flowed in I could hear it forcing the cold clear water down the pipes, unused.