A. Homes - Music for Torching

Paul would like that office. Nothing good has happened to him at work in a long time-he's just been sitting there, waiting.

"It's got a view, it's got an executive loo. Do you know how fantastic it is not to have to go down the hall and lock yourself in a stall when you have to shit? I can't shit in public places, can't do it," Warburton says.

Paul nods. He wonders if Warburton is playing with him. He checks his watch; he's going to miss the 4:23, he's going to be late for Mrs. Apple. "It's a nice office," Paul says. "But the decor is awful. Sid Auerbach had no sense of style."

"It could be redecorated."

"Repainted? Recarpeted?" Paul asks.

"Outfitted," Warburton says. "Just the other day, I saw a desk chair with arms that were adjustable in a thousand small increments. A chair so comfortable it's like a coffin; you can sit in it for years. Something to think about," Warburton says, leaving. "Something to sleep on."

Elaine is going to meet the guidance counselor. He will tell her what to do, she will do it, and she will feel improved. She drives down Central Avenue. The traffic is heavy. She hurries. In the parking lot of the diner, she freshens her lipstick, brushes her hair, and checks herself in the rearview mirror.

He sees her immediately. He waves from a booth in the back. "Bud Johnson," he says, shaking her hand.

"Elaine."

He is dressed like a teacher: short-sleeved dress shirt, pen protector in the pocket, glasses. His hair is not dark and curly;

it is deeply receded, thinning, and largely absent. "You're probably wondering why you're here. Let me tell you who Bud Johnson is," he says. She gets the feeling that he'd done this before. "In high school I was an average student from an average family. I grew up in Yonkers. No one talked about options. At the end of high school, I joined the Army. I believed 'Be All That You Can Be.' I wanted to fly helicopters." He taps his glasses. "I have bad eyes, I couldn't fly anything. I hated it. After four years, I got out, went back to school, and studied counseling, figuring I might be a college counselor, help kids decide where to go. I ended up at Westchester Tech because I mentioned that I like fixing things. Anyway, that's where I am. I arrange internships, placement services-I know lots of good mechanics, technicians, repair people. It serves me well. If I can't fix it myself, I know who can."

"What do you fix?" Elaine asks.

"I can do most of my car, simple carpentry and electrical, a little plumbing, painting, and I like computers." He tells her this the way some people say they speak foreign languages-a little French, a bit of Italian, a few phrases in German. He pauses. "I thought we could talk about what might interest you. I did a little digging; the most obvious areas would be nursing, travel, and real estate. But I don't guess those appeal?"

Elaine shakes her head. Without warning she begins to cry. She doesn't mean to cry, but she does. She pours uncontrollably. He hands her paper napkins. He looks a little uncomfortable-hoping no one sees him with a weeping woman. "I don't think it can be fixed. I don't think you can help me. Our house caught on fire, my husband got a tattoo, the children are staying with neighbors, and you wouldn't believe the rest if I told you. This isn't just about a career. It's my life. I'm stuck." She sniffles. "You're probably wishing you hadn't come. You're probably thinking, Who is this crazy woman?"

"What does 'stuck' mean?"

"It means I should make some big decision, I should do some enormous thing. And I can't do anything. I can't stand my life, and I can't change it."

"Maybe it's not an enormous thing," he says. "Maybe you have to do one small thing and then another small thing."

"How could I let this happen? I don't remember myself this way."

"We're going to take this one step at a time," Bud says. "You reached out and called me-that's a good thing."

Elaine looks at him. He doesn't seem to want to fuck her; Elaine is relieved. Is he married, is he gay? She can't tell.

"I brought some interest questionnaires." This is his big moment, the moment he studied for. He spreads a pile of pages out across the table. Elaine picks up something called "The Fear In- dex-Are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner? Taking a bath? Being naked? Seeing others naked?"

"That's from something else," he says, taking it away. "It must have gotten mixed in."

She picks up another one. More questions: "Do you like numbers? What are your favorite subjects? What is your favorite time of day?"

He orders a piece of pie while she fills in the blanks. When she's done, he collects the pages. "I'll review them later."

The waitress brings her a cup of coffee.

"Some things are nearby," he says. "Iona, Sarah Lawrence, and if you're willing to travel, to go into the city, the whole world opens. You could become a polygraph expert in six weeks, you could learn dog grooming in ten."

"I just want to feel better."

"When you have something of your own, you'll feel better. Go to the library, ask the librarian for career books. Start making lists. You don't have to commit to anything, just start thinking about what interests you. You have my number, call me. And if you need someplace to go, to get out of the house, or hide out, come by the school. I'm there from seven-thirty till four."

The check comes. Elaine grabs it. "Let me get this," she says. "It's the one thing I can do."

"I'll talk to you on Monday," he says. "We'll figure it out. We'll get you unstuck."

"Thank you."

PAUL IS LATE. He scurries. He gets off the train two stops past home and walks three blocks to the motel. He goes into the office and gets the key.

Her car is parked, waiting.

"I'm late," he says.

"I thought maybe you weren't coming, I always think maybe you aren't coming."

"I missed the four twenty-three. I tried to call."

"I took the boys for ice cream," she says. "They had banana splits. I ate half of each one just to be fair."

This is the part he hates most-standing in the parking lot, exposed. He wonders how many affairs come here, he imagines lots, and yet he's never seen anybody.

"Now I'm nauseous," she says.

"Do you want a soda?" He's jiggling the key in the lock.

"I brought some scotch," she says.

They close the door.

"The school play was this afternoon," she tells him, as he pulls the curtains closed.

"How was it?"

The drapes are heavy like lead. They block out all the light, except cracks around the edges.

She turns on a lamp by the bed.

"Sammy makes a handsome rhinoceros, and Nate's quite the hunter," she says proudly.

The motel room is brown. Dank. It consists of various shades of dirt, of earth, of funk. The wallpaper is vinyl and curling in spots, the carpet is bald chocolate, the bedspreads coffee chenille. The television set is old and has rabbit ears, the phone between the beds is tan and has a rotary dial. "Our Love Cave," she calls it. Sometimes, if he gets there early, he buys coffee and doughnut holes from the place around the corner and they sit on the edge of the bed eating and talking. It's too weird to always fuck and go.

"We don't have much time," she says, pulling a small airplane bottle of scotch out of her purse. He gets a glass from the bathroom-SANITIZED FOR YOUR COMFORT AND PROTECTION-and rips off the paper. She pours herself a little and gives him the bottle. He sips.

She undresses. He takes off his shirt and gives it to her-she wears it. They lie together on top of the bedspread, the scotch between them.

"How are you?" she asks, and he thinks she really wants to know.

"I'm all right," he says. "And you?"

"Okay."

They kiss. They share the flavor of the scotch, the thickness of the tongue. He kisses her in a way that he can't kiss Elaine anymore, deep, filled with need and longing.