Dan Fante - Spitting Off Tall Buildings

Ben Flash stayed calm. He stared down at his shoes, then at the elevator doors, then back down at his shoes.

Finally, he got up. I watched as he walked to the other end of the hall to the emergency exit door. He pressed the bar and opened the heavy plated entrance to the stairwell. Then he looked back toward me, motioning me to follow. ‘Over here, Dante,’ he called, half-whispering. ‘I want to show you something.’

I’d had enough. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to see it. ‘Look Flash,’ I called back, ‘let’s forget it, okay? I’m going home.’

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I’m still the boss on the job, right? I’m your supervisor, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Okay, ya know…I said come here. Okay?’

I got up and paced my way down the hall to him.

Once we were both inside the stairwell, Flash let the heaviness of the door hiss it shut.

‘What?’ I said.

From the interior pocket of his coat he pulled a long, brown paper bag. He folded the lip of the bag back to expose the neck of a bottle, then he unscrewed the cap and took a long slam. When he was finished he pushed the bag against my chest. ‘Hit this,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘It ain’t Windex. Take a hit.’

I grasped the bag, tipped it back and took a deep gulp. It was sweet and good. I knew right away; it was Mogen David Wine. Mad Dog 20-20. I took another long hit.

When I returned the jug Flash sucked back a deep draw. ‘Ya know,’ he said, then stared at the floor, getting ready, acquiring syllables; ‘Ya know…I know it gets cold up here. I know that, ya know…Some days up here I hate the fucking cold…Some days I hate fucking God, ya know?…Some days I hate the fucking President of the United-fucking-States. Some days I wish I could park a fuckin’ U-Haul truck loaded with a fucking fertilizer bomb and a fuse in front of the embassy of every dark-skinned minority turban-headed sandnigger Middle Eastern cocksucker that ever mooched a fucking welfare check in this town, ya know…And some days, most days, I hate that fat fuckin’ cocksucker Johnny Murphy. Most days. I could easily kill that cocksucker; squash his ass like a fucking bug for the nasty shit that comes out of his arrogant, mean-ass mouth! Ya know? I can hate that cocksucker real bad! Ya know!…But, ya know, like I said, some days are worse then others…’

He reflected, took another long pull at the Mad Dog bottle, then decided to go on. ‘See Dante,’ he said, ‘here I am, ya know, I’m up here slammin’ my dick against the frozen glass day after fuckin’ day and one fuckin’ Friday a couple a month ago I stop by the fuckin’ office to pick up my fuckin’ paycheck and guess what I find out? Guess? I’ll tell you. I find out that that Murphy cocksucker and the other guy, his boss, I refer to that cocksucker as cocksucker number two; well, these two cocksuckers have conspired together to shave my fuckin’ hours because of some fuckin’ chickenshit clever new loophole they have found out that they can get away with using. See Dante, as of a month ago, cocksucker number two, that other mick fuckin’ cocksucker that employs that fat cocksucker Murphy, don’t have to pay traveling time no more to the employees because, all of a sudden, both cocksuckers have decided together that they can put all of us on fuckin’ independent contractor status, see. So now, everybody loses four hours off their check. Four hours, ya know! Sixteen hours a month!’

He pushed me the bottle and I took my turn. A long pull.

Flash went on. Nothing could have stopped him. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘but here’s the juicy fucking part, ya know; they still take fuckin’ deductions out. Cute, huh? They’ve just changed the name of what they call the fuckin’ deductions. See? So now, because we’re IC status, independent contractors, they can bill us for supplies and shit where before they had to give it to us automatically as part of the job. Now they can fuck us twice instead of once. Ya know, its like a fuckin’ art form. Ya know? I mean, you gotta admire real professional loophole cocksuckers…Cleaning supplies, ya know. Even rags. Believe that! The cocksuckers now charge us for rags! It’s right there on my check stub in the Deductions Column. “Rags,” three dollars. No bullshit. “Rags.” Grand, ain’t it? Ya know…The two mick cocksuckers! They’re like a couple of fuckin’ Northern Ireland hit men. That fuckin’ fat Murphy fuckin’ cocksucker and the owner, that fuckin’ Benjamin Moriarty, mister fuckin’ Red Ball cocksucker himself! Benny Moriarty. I hate ‘em! They’re both cocksuckers, ya know? Know what I mean?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I know what you mean.’

Flash took half a dozen long pulls at the bottle then passed it back. ‘Take a drink, Dante. Hit it! Take a good one!’ he said.

I did. Then pushed it back.

‘So now, because I opened my mouth and complained about their chickenshit tactics with the paychecks, Murphy’s new thing – the dicksuckin’ fuckin’ scumbag cocksucker – Murphy’s new thing is to stick me with every new guy who signs on. No offense, Dante. But, ya know, it’s like my fuckin’ penance for standin’ up for myself. My punishment. I’m on the fat prick’s shit list. See?’

I did. I saw.

‘Hit it again, Dante.’

I did. I took long pulls. Boom! Boom! Boom!

‘Every day around this time I take my break, ya know. I take a full half-hour. Sometimes the full hour. Fuck ‘em, ya know? They ain’t payin’ me for my breaks any more. So I say, fuck ‘em! Ya know?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sure. Fuck ‘em.’

We smoked cigarettes and passed the jug back and forth until it was gone. Flash talked and talked. For him, at least a week’s worth of words. Maybe two weeks’. I was content to drink and listen.

‘Well?’ he said when the jug was played.

‘Well,’ I said.

‘Okay?…Ya know?’

‘Yeah.’ I said. ‘Okay.’

‘You gonna shitcan this deal or stay workin’ with me?’

I thought about it. The Mad Dog had re-adjusted my perspective. ‘I’ll stay workin’ with you,’ I said.

THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON started a long weekend holiday. President’s Day. The changes, the new job, sleeping no more than an hour or two at night had made the voices in my mind too loud for too long. I lied, told Flash I was sick, then borrowed fifty bucks and went home early to get drunk.

The run lasted three days. Wine only.

Late that afternoon, high on Mad Dog 20-20, I stopped in at the luncheonette on Eighth Avenue around the corner from my rooming house.

LaVonne was behind the counter. Her shift was the afternoon and dinner shift. She was young, nineteen, supporting a two-year-old kid with the waitress job. Pure black dancing Afro/Puerto Rican eyes and shiny hair down to her ass when she let it down.

We’d talked quite a bit. About human nature and jobs and this kind of boss versus that kind. She loved movies too and was a big fan of every film Harrison Ford ever made.

I had come in a little drunk many times because I was frequently a little drunk. But this time when I came in it was different. I was very drunk.

The luncheonette was empty except for two neighborhood women at the corner table by the window, and Mister Dave, the owner, in the kitchen frying liver and onions.

I was on the end stool which is where I always sat. I’d been wanting to ask LaVonne on a date for over a month. Out for a walk or for coffee or to the movies. Being drunk helped me make the decision that now was the time.

She had just refilled my coffee cup, then smiled, with her even beautiful teeth that looked as white as a priest’s collar. Spinning away, holding the half-full pot, she was about to start in the direction of the two women customers at the table. I tried to speak, to catch her attention, but the words were slow in coming, derailed at some remote cerebral switching station. So I tried something else, plan B, spontaneously lurching a hand out to stop her. That didn’t work either because somehow the hand collided with her arm, the one carrying the glass pot. It fell and broke on the floor.