Dan Fante - Spitting Off Tall Buildings

‘You saying it twice has created a permanent impression.’

She didn’t like my remark. She made a squinty face that caused a whole section of her brittle wrinkles to roll and fold quickly, then even out. ‘And don’t wear any one shirt more than three shifts maximum. Understand?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Smelling like a dock worker or having a shoddy appearance is grounds at my theater. And don’t be late anymore. Being late after the first time is also grounds.’

‘Got it.’

‘And not doing what your supervisor tells you is grounds too. Immediate grounds. Your supervisor is Eddy, my nephew.’

‘You’re not my supervisor?’

‘Congregating with other employees and talking to women customers, except to answer questions, is out. You a sissy?’

‘No.’

‘This is a movie house in Greenwich Village, not a discotheque for my employees to hobnob with chippies and the local hippie weirdos. This is a place of business. You smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘You smoke on your own time. Smoking downstairs in the alcove outside the bathroom or sneaking in back of the curtains by the inside exit doors and having a cigarette is also grounds. Eddy knows. Smoke on your break only. Smoke outside only. Understand?’

I exhaled heavily. ‘I believe I do.’

‘Don’t be smart. Yes or no is the answer.’

‘Okay, yes.’

‘So you’re up to speed so far?’

‘Twelve thousand percent.’

She went on. ‘Stay away from the projection booth upstairs. The night man is union. He’s a dope smoker and a drunk but there’s nothing we can do until we catch him. His contract states that he’s entitled to lock the booth door but he’s not fooling me. I won’t tolerate juicers or pot heads.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘I mind my own business.’

‘You start tomorrow, Dante. Your work schedule will be four to twelve with Mondays off. Ask for my nephew Eddy, the Assistant Manager. He’ll train you.’

‘What was today?’

‘Today was your interview.’

‘I thought today was my first day. Does that mean I’m not getting paid for today?’

‘Today was not your first day. You’re not working today. Eddy is off. Tomorrow is your first day. Today is Monday. Tomorrow is Tuesday.’

‘I was told by Miss Herrera at Olson’s to report for work today. Monday. Four p.m. I know the days of the week. Yesterday was Sunday, today is Monday.’

‘I just said that you have Mondays off.’

‘So what I was told by Herrera at Olson’s was bunk. No matter that my pay checks come from her.’

I’d pissed Mrs. Lupo off. She began gesturing. Her spiderweb wrinkles flexed and relaxed then tightened again. ‘Hand those here, please,’ she snapped, grabbing at the clothes.

I gave her the uniform, the shirts and the bow tie.

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ she said. Then she dumped the clothes on the dressing-room table in a heap and pulled the cord turning off the light.

‘Look. Okay,’ I said, surprised, squinting in the blackness. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow.’

Mrs. Lupo didn’t answer. The darkness had covered her exit. I turned and caught sight of her making her way up the first few flower-carpeted stairs twenty feet away. ‘Hey, okay,’ I called again. ‘I’ll be here.’

She paused, turned back in my direction: ‘Three p.m. sharp. Tomorrow. Tuesday, Mr. Dante. You don’t work on Monday. Monday is your off day. Take the uniform with you.’

‘Right. I know about Monday.’

Her voice was echoing in the basement like the announcer at Shea Stadium. ‘Report to Eddy. After the first week, if he thinks you’ve got promise he’ll make a recommendation to me. I decide whether to put you on full time. I call the temp company.’ Then she bellowed, ‘Understood?’

‘Okay,’ I yelled back.

Her dark eyes met mine from the staircase. ‘Dante’s an Italian name. You’re Italian?’

‘On my father’s side.’

‘Northern Italian?’

‘Half Italian.’

She assembled a small, pleated, triumphant smile. ‘Go home. Be here tomorrow.’ Then she spun around and I watched as she bounced up the rest of the carpeted stairs. An ancient gymnast in spy shoes.

THE NEXT DAY I arrived late again at almost three-thirty because I got up with a hangover and then forgot to bring Herrera’s subway instructions and came off the train at an express stop instead of exiting at the Twelfth Street station. I had to walk back from West Fourth Street. The attendant guy at the Times Square booth had told me the wrong train to get on. In New York the booth guys at the subway don’t give a rat’s dick because they’ll never see you again so, when they’re not sure about an answer to a question on which train to take to get somewhere, they give out bunk directions. Doing it they get a little cheap thrill.

There had been no sleep all that night because of the swarming in my brain. I’d drunk several beers and a bottle of Nyquil then read for hours but my interior brain foam could not be silenced. Around dawn, as one roomer after another ran the hot shower water through the rattling pipes and opened and shut the clanking bathroom door in the hall, I tried writing on my play, hoping it would help. Working now on Act I, Scene iii. I typed non-stop for two hours. Afterward, exhausted, I still couldn’t sleep so I dressed and went out, ate breakfast at the diner where I found out LaVonne worked the afternoon and night shift, then returned to my room. I read what I’d written on the play, hated it, tore it to shithell then fell asleep in a chair about eleven o’clock.

In the men’s changing area in the theater basement I got into my roll-up white shirt, bow tie and tux, then went upstairs and asked around the other staff until someone pointed out Eddy the Assistant Manager outside on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes, conversing with a neighborhood guy.

He was taller than his wrinkled, rat-faced aunt; big-nosed and witless. When he saw me coming he intentionally turned his back. I realized he’d identified my tux and had simply chosen to stiff me.

Waiting there looking at his back, I allowed myself to stand like a fool for half a minute or more, being dipped in the conversation piss of him and the street guy. When I felt the knot of anger in my stomach ready to pop, I interrupted. ‘Hey, excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you Eddy?’

He twisted his face, then looked at me. Because the neighborhood guy was his audience and because I’d cut into his conversation, I would be made to suck shit. ‘Yea, I’m Eddy. Whaz up? Who wants me?’

‘My name is Bruno. I’m the new usher.’

He had me. ‘New usha?’ he sneered. ‘Wha new fuckin’ usha?’

‘Mrs. Lupo hired me yesterday.’

‘Mudda’s fuckin’ cunt! Da ol’ bitch hiah’s someone and don tell me fuckin’ dick! Den she fuckin’ dumps it on me on hah fuckin’ day off! Mudda’s fuckin’ cunt!’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Do? Go ta fuckin’ woik. Wha da fuck else izz zah?’

‘I’m supposed to be trained.’

‘Oh, okay! Fuck me! Ya know, fuck me!’

I couldn’t leave and the other guy was fully engaged in the performance. Eddy looked at his watch, sucked quickly at the cigarette pinched between his lips and his rodent snout, then issued instructions: ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘we got us a fuckin’ show change in twenty minutes. Go fine dat lazy fuckin’ old Vic. He’s my upstahs guy. Foist, get a fuckin’ flashlight from da box unda the rigista inside. Den fine fuckin’ Vic. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

He flipped his cigarette violently against a parked car. ‘Tell ‘im Eddy says ta show ya whaz what, okay? But I wan yaz by da exits woikin’ beforah da shows change soz the two of youz can help out. Got dat? Can ya handle dat?’