Jonathan Franzen - The Twenty-Seventh City - A Novel

“You can’t park here, man. Nobody parks without a sticker.”

He was trying to park in the KSLX parking lot downtown. For fifteen years he’d exercised weekend parking privileges here. Jim Hutchinson had encouraged him to. The lot was generally empty, and if the attendant ever asked who he was he only had to mention Hutch’s name and he could park. He set the brake. “Do you think I have a bomb in my trunk?”

“You said it, not me.” The attendant had a pimply shady face, the face of a small-time counterfeiter or smut dealer. He picked his nose and molded the pickings.

“What seems to be the problem here?” A black policeman had appeared.

“Bozo thinks he can park here,” the attendant said.

“Now look— ” Probst began.

“Oh he does, does he?”

“He’s making ‘jokes’ about bombs.”

“He is, is he?” The officer brushed the attendant aside and bent down so close that Probst could smell his coffee breath. “Who are you?”

“Martin Probst, I’m a good friend of Mr. Hutch—”

“Afton Taylor, first precinct,” the officer drawled, his mouth moisture clicking. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Boabst, now if you could just move your car out of this lot…Parking’s restricted by order of the police chief, I’m sure you’re aware of the circumstances.”

Probst closed his eyes.

“There’s plenty of public parking, Mr. Boabst. Plenty indeed. Where do you think the rest of the world parks?” Officer Taylor stepped back and motioned with his nightstick towards the street. The attendant waved a sissy good-bye with his fingers. Neither had recognized Probst, not even his name.

He’d gotten a late start this morning. He’d waited forever in line at Mr. Gas in Webster (the line at the other pumps had moved right along) after tarrying too long at home. Barbara had affected puzzlement. “You’re going with Jack DuChamp?”

“Yes.”

She grimaced. “Jack DuChamp?”

“Yes. I’m actually thinking it’s going to be pleasant.”

“It’s fine with me,” she said. “But I thought he’d fallen by the wayside.”

“Well.” He never knew what to say when she discouraged a generous sentiment of his. “We’ll see.” He didn’t mention the dream to her. If he had, she probably would have drawn the same conclusion he himself had reached, namely, that he felt guilty about Jack. He did feel guilty. And yet it was the memory of the breasts that lingered.

On Market Street he took a parking space in front of a hydrant, figuring he could pay the ticket. They wouldn’t tow him on a Sunday.

The sky spat a few drops of rain as he approached the stadium. Jack was standing in his wool coat and beige muffler by the statue of the Baseball Star, as agreed. He was rocking on his heels, beaming amiably at the indifferent world. When he caught sight of Probst his expression didn’t change in the slightest.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Probst said.

“Nooooooo problem. No problem, no problem.” Jack chuckled in his salesman’s baritone. “You think they’d start without us?” He handed Probst a ticket and then followed him to the gates, a quarter step behind him. The arm of a turnstile pushed across Probst’s groin. “All the way up,” Jack said.

Though high, the seats weren’t bad. Behind them, the wind cut through the rim of the stadium, through ornamental arches modeled after the primary Arch, the top of which was looming across the field from them, dark gray and proximate. With its legs obscured, it seemed to be standing not six blocks away but on the plaza right outside the stadium, creeping up and looking down on the bluish Astroturf, where the Cardinals and Redskins were locked in combat. “Missed the kickoff,” Jack said. “Second down.”

Probst crossed his arms and leaned forward. The Big Red had the ball on their own 17. An auspicious beginning. The Redskins in their crimson pants and white jerseys kicked at the turf with casual confidence. They’d already clinched the Eastern Division title, whereas the Big Red—“Give it to Ottis for a change, why don’t you,” Jack muttered — the Big Red, for the second year running, were stalwartly defending fourth place.

“ Bumber Brarkty-Bee, Bardkdy Brarkerbark, bicking for the Brarkinals ,” the loudspeakers boomed. Acoustically these seats were inferior.

“Way to go,” Jack said savagely. “Gimme a break ?” He shook his head as the Cardinal punter lofted a good kick that bounced out of bounds at the Redskin 40. Then he turned to Probst, waited for their eyes to meet, and smiled. “How’s Barbara? She come down here with you?”

The fiction was that Probst had been unable to ride down with Jack because he was going out with Barbara after the game. He was prepared for the question. “No,” he said. “She decided not to. I’m going to meet her in Clayton. She—”

“What’s she up to these days?”

Barbara wasn’t the kind of person who was “up to” things.

“She gets around,” Probst said. “How’s—”

“She’s doing great,” Jack said. “Just great. I tell you she went back and finished her degree at St. Louis U.?”

“Really.” (Elaine, of course. Elaine.)

“She liked it so much she kept right on going. She’s going to get her master’s in June.”

“Kerking na tackle, Bumber Berky, Bork McRukkuk…”

“Economics. The good Lord only knows what she’ll do with it. Remember we had an agreement she could go back to school soon as the kids were in high school? I’d honestly forgotten all about it, but she really got into it. She was doing homework? I’ve even ironed a few shirts since she started. It’s done us a lot of good, a hell of a lot of good, Martin. Women these days, they really need that extra, that extra…that extra, I don’t know, ego boost, now that’s a play I’d like to see ’em run more often.” The crowd roared significantly for the first time. “You see the right linebacker move up?”

Probst made a circular yes-no with his head.

Jack covered his square chin with his hand and studied the field. The score? Zero-zero. Probst stole a series of glances at Jack, whose next question had begun to gather like a squall, his eyes darting, shoulders rolling, fingers knotting, until it broke: “Luisa must be starting college soon.”

“Forkty-rork, Dwight Eigenrarkman…”

“She’s applying.” Probst hoped he wouldn’t have to mention where.

“It’d be great to see her all grown up. You know the last time I saw her she couldn’t have been more than four or five. It’s like yesterday, isn’t it? I remember you used to take her on walks, and the time I asked her if she liked walking with her daddy? Remember what she said? ‘He’s too slow.’ In that kind of voice. I’ll never forget that. ‘He’s too slow.’” Jack slapped Probst’s knee. “But now she’s got her own share of admirers, huh?” Jack smiled at the playing field. “Yes sir.” His face went serious. “She have a boyfriend?”

“She…”

“Ten of ’em! Ain’t that the truth. And a different one every week. She’ll — John-son! What in tarnation is he doing? The entire play’s going left , what’s he doing? ”

Probst took off his coat and folded it across his lap, baring his shoulders to the wind. “Well yes,” he said. To his right a quiet man and woman, both sixtyish, were carefully pouring coffee from a thermos into styrofoam cups, the woman peering down as if the cups held something more precious than coffee, her eyes brimming with a sweet purity of concern. It had been a long time since Probst saw such a pretty older woman.

Penalty flags were flying, whistles blowing. The crowd rumbled with disappointment.