A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Oh, I know," Pat says. "Some days are just like that. Would you like me to fix you a go-cup?"

"A what?"

"A cup of coffee you can take with you?" She nudges Paul into the kitchen, whips open cabinets and cupboards-coffee, milk, sugar-and gets it all into a brew. She flashes a shelf filled with sip/no-spill mugs covered in logos: FRANK'S HARDWARE, 7TH ANNUAL CONFERENCE ON HOME AND FAMILY, a gigantic one from National City Bank Corp.-THINK BIG-YOUR DEPOSIT IS YOUR FUTURE.

"Pick one," she says as she writes his name on a piece of white Johnson Johnson adhesive tape.

Paul pulls out the one marked MUDSLIDE BAKERY AND BREWERY.

She slaps his name on the side, fills it with coffee, and tops it with milk. Her aim is off; milk splashes across the counter.

"Shoot," she says, grabbing a dish towel. The milk runs over the edge, dripping down the cabinet and onto the floor.

"Are you all right?" Paul asks.

"Is it so obvious?" Pat asks.

Paul looks at her, thinking, She looks deranged. It's her hair; she didn't brush her hair-that's the first giveaway. "It's not like you to spill the milk," he says.

She fits the nonspill sip-top onto his mug. "I'll be better soon," she says, walking him to the door. "Have you got everything? Have you got your briefcase, your papers, your good thoughts to start the day?"

"I'm good to go," he says, gesturing at her with the coffee mug.

"Something special you want for dinner? Wednesday is grab bag. Everyone puts in their wishes in the morning, and each person ends up getting at least one thing they want."

"Anything is okay with me," Paul says.

"Nope," Pat says. "You have to name it. Name it now, or I'll have to hunt you down at the office." She stoops to pick up the morning paper. "What's your favorite dinner?"

Food. He is being asked to think of food for dinner when he hasn't even eaten breakfast.

"What do you crave but never get?"

He gives Pat a strange look, as though she's changed the subject.

"Things you eat for dinner," Pat says, prompting him-it sounds like a category on Jeopardy: "I'll take meat and vegetables for two hundred."

"Pot roast, mashed potatoes," he blurts. "Yellow cake with chocolate icing."

Pat smiles. "That's nice. That's so nice. I knew you'd be good under pressure. Go on now," she says, stepping back into the house. "You don't want to miss that train."

He checks his watch again, it's 7:07. He has the jump on things. Out the door and into the air, carrying the warm mug of coffee in front of him, slightly ahead of him, he travels, trots toward the train, struggling to master the combined arts of race-walking and coffee-toting. He feels like an ancient warrior woman trying to balance a jug of water on her head as she hurries back from the well to her village. He tries to take small sips along the way but finds it only slows him down-he saves it for the train.

As he passes McKendrick's place, Paul looks up at the house, thinking he might spot the old guy starting his slow roll down the driveway, white knuckles gripping the bar of his walker. McKendrick isn't out yet, but there's a light on in the kitchen. Paul is tempted to press himself against the glass and say, You were right, old man, work is where it's at. I'm on my way, getting a good start, bright and early, out of the gate and down the straightaway. He is tempted to knock on the window, but there are high thorny hedges blocking him, and he's carrying his coffee, and if he's not careful, he'll be late. He makes a mental note to do a little something for the guy, buy him a magazine, a tape, or some sort of a toy-would an inflate-a-mate mean anything?

Paul walks on, counting the sidewalk cracks, watching the ground in front of him, not letting his eyes get too far ahead, not wanting to see too much-thinking of the squirrel from yesterday, again hearing the crushing crack, picturing the tail flapping its frantic last gasp. Paul doesn't want anything to upset him or throw him off. He doesn't want to know too much.

At the station he buys himself a pack of Kleenex and a roll of Life Savers. He takes out a tissue and wipes the morning dew off his shoes. He is perfect and is taking pride in his perfection. He sips from his go-cup. He is buoyant and bouncy and filled with big ideas. All night he was thinking about the house, putting French doors in the dining room where the hole is, having them open out onto a deck. Maybe glassing in the side porch.. Why just repair, why not rethink, remodel?

"Don't you just love your mug?" the woman sitting behind him on the train says. "I couldn't get to work without it."

"Yes," he says, sipping. "It's my first time, but I'm loving it." He sips some more, all the while staring at his name taped to the side-Pat's clean print. He tilts his head back and drains the mug, realizing that it reminds him of Sammy's old teething cup. A drop of coffee runs down the corner of his mouth; he blots it with the back of his hand.

The cup is empty. Now what? What do you do with it when you're done? It's too fat to fit inside his briefcase. Do you just hold it, or do you tie it to your belt and let it hang off you, banging like a beggar's tin cup? He has the urge to throw the cup away, to abandon it on the train and tell Pat that he lost it. Suddenly he hates the cup. It is not his cup, it is not his friend. He feels none of the attachment that a man can form for his regular mug.

The train pulls in. He gets off, carrying his briefcase in one hand, the annoying cup in the other.

TERMINAL BAKERY: FREE REFILLS. LET US PUT OUR COFFEE IN YOUR CUP. That's what the sign in the station says. The woman from the train is waiting in line, her mug extended. He gets in line behind her, thinking, Why not? He could use a little more; a little more might make everything all right.

"Java joe?" the guy behind the counter asks.

"Fill 'er up," Paul says.

"Hi and low? Tall and light? Wet or dry? Sauce on the side?" the guy asks.

Paul has no idea what the guy is getting at. "Milk and sugar," he says, looking around, noticing that a lot of people are carrying cups. That's how they do it, he thinks, that's how they keep going day and night; guzzling gallons of joe and eating muffins bigger than their heads-muffins like intestinal sponges that soak up all the coffee, muffins with names like "Wendy"-a blend of apple, oat bran, and mandarin oranges; or "Todd"-with the weight of cappuccino cheesecake; and "George"-pure corn.

Filled to the brim, he is out of the station, into the subway, and then up the stairs, onto the streets, and into his office building. He pushes into the crowded elevator just as the door is closing. He presses 44. As the elevator rises, it fills with the volatile vapors of hot-coffee farts, the fumy flatulence of breakfast cereals, of AllBran and yogurt, of Egg McMuffin, of sausage on a biscuit. The gaseous display becomes all-encompassing. No one speaks, no one knows who let loose-at least it wasn't Paul. Was it by choice, a kind of kamikaze welcome-to-work terrorist attack, or did it erupt involuntarily? It just gets worse. The noxious intestinal output, the rear-end rocket seems to be of the variety that explodes in sections on a kind of timed delay. Laughing gas, tear gas, mustard gas. Napalm. Paul stops breathing. The elevator rises. On the forty-fourth floor, Paul bursts out, gasping, hoping his clothing hasn't absorbed the spoorish scent, hoping he doesn't stink.