RECYCLABLE GLASS
Mark Blickley
The 7:27 boulevard bus paused at the red light on the corner of Kennedy and Bentley. While staring at the line of cars of idling in front of him, and without turning his head, the driver honked his horn and threw a mechanical wave.
This gesture of recognition was directed at the old man making his way down the street. As the light turned green the bus operator glanced in the old man’s direction. Of course he was there. The driver smiled to himself and shook his head.
For the past six years at precisely this time the senior citizen had always appeared. It amazed the driver since it was obvious the old man had suffered a stroke. He moved as though his ankles were bound by slave bracelets.
As the bus zoomed past the old man halted. By the time he had lifted his head he was waving his walking stick in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. Coughing seized him for a few moments, but he was pleased by the driver’s show of camaraderie.
The scorching sun allowed a thick blanket of humidity to hug Jersey City.
In retaliation, the old man loosened his tie and unbuttoned the vest concealed under the stain sports jacket. With a determined expression, he began pushing forward.
After a few minutes, he succeeded in reaching the end of the block. Checking vigilantly before crossing, he decided to make his move. Everything seemed to be in order: the light was still green, but more importantly, the DO NOT WALK sign was not flashing underneath it. This meant he had at least sixty seconds to execute the crossing.
In the past the old man had this street crossing down to fifty-six seconds. But now the government had decreased his time by making it legal for cars to turn right on red lights. This called for more caution. Since the old man’s retirement nineteen years earlier, he had learned that the car horn had replaced the brake when drivers were competing with pedestrians for space.
Halfway across the street he panicked. The light changed colors.
Horns began to scream. The old man froze. Directly in front of his outstretched walking stick ( a cane was for old geezers) a battered Toyota screeched past. “Get the hell outta the way, ya old fart!”
Biting his lip, the old man gaped at the automobile. A young head popped out of the back window.
“Why don’t you die?” it shouted, before disappearing into traffic.
Two other cars silently whizzed by him. A third car released him from his paved prison by stopping long enough for him to arrive at the opposite corner.
Smiling broadly at the driver, he did a playful hop over the curb. The old man felt good. Usually a half-dozen would pass before permitting him to proceed. It was not a rarity for him to be trapped in the middle of the street until the light once again turned a comforting green.
Things are looking up, he thought, grinning.
What disturbed the old man most about his daily journey, however, was the block on which Martinez and Sons Glassware Company was located. The store took up half a street; its windows were lined with mirrors. It bothered the old man to pass this block. No matter how hard he fought the temptation, it was impossible for him not to glance at his image as he crept along.
The reflection was an obscenity to him. He would try to reason with it, but it refused to be intimidated. Of all the hardships he endured during his morning excursion, this was the one part that truly angered him.
The day was really looking up. The store which usually opened at 8:30 a.m., was closed. This meant that the iron gate was strung across the huge display window, a fact which pleased the old man.
When he looked at his reflection he laughed out loud. “Finally caught you! Did you really think you’d overtake me?”
His likeness looked as though it had been captured and jailed; his image was peering at him through thick metal bars.
The old man threw back his shoulders, disregarding the ache. Picking up his pace somewhat, he reminded the reflection that his birthday feel on the same day and in the same year as Clark Gable’s.
“That’s right. 1901. Good Lord, the girls knew it, too.” He pointed an accusing finger at the mirror. “Maybe I forget the exact day, but I’ll never forget all those women.”
As he passed the last section of the window he blushed. It wasn’t proper to think of the many young ladies who had awarded him their most prized treasure. A feeling of guilt overtook him. Ashamed of himself, he began drifting back to the day he had met Colleen, the wife he buried shortly after his retirement.
The old man took a seat on a bench; overhead hung a sigh, BUS STOP. On the end of the bench sat a young girl dressed in frayed blue jeans cutoffs and a Homey the Clown tee shirt.
“Mister,” she asked, “ can you lend me a quarter so I can catch the bus?”
No reply.
“Excuse me, sir, do you have a quarter I can borrow?”
The old man twisted his neck in her direction. He reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of change that he dropped into her hand. The young lady leaped off the bench and giggled.
“Gee, thanks! Wow!” Seconds later she disappeared down the street into a candy store.
The old man stared at his scuffed shoes. A rumbling sound interrupted his thoughts. A bus door swung open.
“How ya colleen’, Pop? Watcha colleen’ at his stop?”
The old man frowned. “You’re early, Hector. No trouble I take it?
“Naw, it’s this lousy heat. I usually park at the terminal and read the paper but this ain’t got not air conditioning. You know the 343. Only one on the line without air and I get stuck with it. Gonna come aboard?”
“No thanks, it’s not time yet. I appreciate your stopping for me, though.”
“No sweat, pal. Listen, see ya tomorrow, and take that jacket off or you’ll cook.”
“Will do, amigo. Take care.”
The old man gave Hector a cheerful smile as the bus roared off, and then checked his watch. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule.
“Oh my God, I’m going to be late”’ After pulling himself up, he cursed the once strong arms that had made him the number one laborer at the steamship company.
Besides muscle, though, I had brains, too, he thought. Made it all the way up to head bookkeeper by using them. Forget the shell. It’s the brain that matters. —I’ve got to maintain it.
After conquering four more blocks he arrived at his destination. It made him feel good to watch the busy activity associated with the morning opening of the Post Office. He looked up at the flag dangling limply from the mast, as if suffocated from a lack of breeze. It should be firm and upright, he thought, not weak and flabby like his own ancient body.
Inside the building were the usual hoards of people in lines. Being fifteen minutes late he feared the worst. Gradually he inched towards the wall lined with post office boxes.
“Why, Mr. Quirk, I was worried. I thought something terrible happened.”
“No, Ma’am. I guess this humidity took more from me than I had anticipated giving. Kind of you to wait, though.”
The old man focused all his attention on the aged woman. How much she reminded him of Colleen!
“Well, after all, Mr.Quirk, I mean, Horace, today’s my turn to buy the coffee...”
“And I the donuts.”
“Correct.”
“Have you received your check yet, Mildred?”
“Yes. I saw them put yours in, too.”
The old man went over to his mailbox and withdrew the envelope inside.
“Life sure plays some strange games on us, Mildred. Six years ago we both decided, on the very same day, mind you, to put an end to all those stolen checks every month. Scary how accustomed we had become to missing them.”
Mildred nodded in agreement.
“You know something, Mildred. Loosing those checks are the best thing that’s happened to me in six years.”
Mildred pretended to dismiss the flattery, but the added wrinkles at the corner of her lips gave her away.
“It’s funny how us old fogies refuse to use banks. Since ‘31 neither Ted nor myself ever stepped inside of one.”
“Colleen always thought I was too angry with banks. I can hear her now, saying, ‘Horace, you shouldn’t resent what happened in the past. It’s dangerous.’ She was some woman, my Colleen.”
“She certainly must have been, Mr. Quirk.”
Strolling around the corner to the diner gave the old man a thrill, as it had every morning for the past six years. It felt good, it felt natural, to be with a woman. The few times Mildred hadn’t shown up at the Post Office always put him in an extremely melancholy mood for the rest of the day.
The little table to the left of the grill was reserved for the elderly couple. Josh, the proprietor, issued strict orders not to seat anyone there until after eight-thirty.
As they were led to their seats Horace contemplated Mildred’s appearance. She wore bright red lipstick which showed telltale signs of extended coloring past the outline of her lips. In fact, it reminded the old man of the happy smiles painted around the mouths of circus clowns. The red lipstick made a striking contrast to the black veiled hat pinned to a thin crop of platinum curls. Her eyes were a sparkling gray.
Those eyes reminded the old man of something his father had once told him to say about his great-Aunt Kathleen.
“Horace, whenever you meet an old woman, say like your Aunt Kathleen, never forget that despite the years she’s still got a young girl’s vanity. I know it’s hard and I brought you up not to lie, but listen, the one safe thing you can compliment on ‘em is their eyes. Leave the wrinkled skin around ‘em alone. Just tell ‘em how beautiful, or lively, or even better, how sparkling their optics are.”
There was no need to falsely charm Mildred or—her eyes. What an attractive woman she must have been, mused the old man. Her face, now caked with powder, was probably as smooth and clear as Colleen’s.
During their coffee and donuts each spent about twenty minutes bring Ted and Colleen back to life. Neither one would pay much attention to the other; after six years of repetition it didn’t matter. Yet missing these weekday interludes was unthinkable.
The old man loved the chance to relive his youth. While talking (or listening), a vivid portrait of himself some sixty years earlier would materialize.
What a great day, that day he first met Colleen. A promotion had just been awarded him from longshoreman to bookkeeping clerk. And he was only twenty-nine years old -
The clipped moustache (why, you look just like that picture actor, honey!) under the prominent nose was stretched by a perpetual grin that day.
Now Horace had to think seriously about settling down and raising a family. This was a tougher decision than most fellows were faced with since young Mr. Quirk was engaged to three girls at the same time. One of his fiancees lived in Hoboken, another over in New York, and the third was a vaudeville dancer in Atlantic City.
While mulling over the choices before him at his favorite speakeasy in Union City, in walked the bartender for the upcoming shift with his handsome daughter. Horace was captivated by his eyeful of that exquisite dish. It was lust, later converted to love, at first sight.
She had long, wavy nut brown hair off-setting a cute turned up nose. Her pale blue eyes sent an inviting message over to his stool. What a petite figure, firm and well developed . . .
“And Ted would pick me up and throw me into the pool right in front of all the children. I pretended to be angry but I loved it!”
The old man took his last gulp of chilled coffee and signaled for the check. “Would you like anything else, Mildred?”
“No thank you, Horace.” She watched his eyes following the progress of the waiter. “I really enjoyed myself this morning, dear.”
The old man nodded. “Yes, but it’s so hard to keep track of time these days. So much to be done yet. Isn’t that so?”
Mildred smiled coyly. “Don’t I know, Mr. Quirk! detest all the running around I’m forced to do in order to keep up with this crazy world. I get exhausted just thinking about it.”
With this last remark they concluded their visit and returned to their respective schedules: she to a park bench in nearby Bayonne, he to the bus stop across the street.
When the bus arrived the old man was visibly upset. Hector was not driving. The doors flung open and the old man was shoved to the end of a line of boarding passengers.
After everyone else had paid the fare and secured a seat, the driver waited impatiently for the old man to complete his attack of the high steps leading to the fare box.
While the old man strained to maintain his balance via the walking stick, two thoughts flashed into his mind. One was to fall forward should his legs fail him. The second was how differently he was treated when Hector was behind the wheel. Hector made sure no one pushed him around and always helped him up the steep steps.
On reaching the top step the old man fumbled for the Senior’s discount pass inside his sports jacket and deposited coins into the machine. As he turned to find a seat a swarm of indignant glances greeted him. He gave pleading looks to the men seated directly behind the driver. They in turn, almost as if on cue, rotated their heads and fixed their eyes on some object outside the window.
The bus bolted forward before the old man could get a firm grip on the overhead strap. He was flung to—the other side of the bus. His back smashed into the knees and packages of four horrified women shoppers.
Unable to control himself, the old man let out a cry. It was a soft cry, but it lingered.
Upon the scolding of the women shoppers two men begrudgingly raised up the old man; one sacrificed his seat. Laughter broke out from the rear of the bus.
Perspiration beaded on his bald spot. It began to dribble on to his sports jacket as he tucked his chin into his chest. Once again he drifted off to that first encounter with Colleen.
Outside his apartment building children were jumping rope and an impromptu soccer game was in progress.
“Hi ya, Mr. Quirk! Wanna play with us?”
“Sorry, kids. I’ve had a rough day. I think I’ll go rest these tired old bones, if you don’t mind.”
The children giggled.
The old man enjoyed children and children liked him. But he knew how defensive most parents were these days, and he was embarrassed by their reactions whenever he stopped to speak to their kids.
The old man was appalled by the fear he generated whenever he stopped a young couple to congratulate them on producing the beautiful child they were wheeling in their stroller. His attempts to shake an infant’s hand or stroke underneath a baby’s chin with his finger usually made the parents irritable, and they would quicken their pace. Being around children began to make him feel dirty and he hated that feeling. He comforted himself by imagining that one day these parents would understand the desire of the elderly to once again feel the smooth flesh of youth.
A simple touch was a superior memory to any childhood photograph. The old man refused to stop trying to make contact with fresh life. Yet despite the humiliation, he would always mouth a silent pray that none of these parents would experience the horror of outliving their children.
The elevator ride to his seventh floor apartment was noisy, slow and as frightening as always. It took him a few minutes of fumbling with his keys, but eventually he gained entrance to his home of forty-seven years. The odor of stale air escaped into the hallway as the door closed behind him.
The first thing he did was throw off his sports jacket and switch on the television. He surveyed the apartment. It was filthy.
“Well, I give you a good going over this weekend,” he promised the living room.
The old man hobbled into the kitchen to prepare his daily staple of cornflakes and milk with fresh fruit. After eating, he left the dishes on the table next to yesterday’s plates and lunged for the bottle of cognac propped up on a kitchen chair. He shook it and was upset.
“Did I drink that much yesterday?” he questioned the bottle.
The old man phoned the liquor store around the corner to order another. The shopkeeper refused to send it until the previous bills were paid in full. Horace apologized and promised to pay him when his overdue checks arrived. The ploy did not work, however.
Clutching the cognac bottle, he passed from the kitchen through the living room to his bedroom. He paused to raise the volume of his television set. Although he disliked watching the set, it’s voices replaced the music that once echoed through his apartment before the radio burned up. The noise gave him a sense of belonging.
The old man balanced the bottle of cognac on a night table next to a dusty bible, and walked over to a closet. He pulled out a large cardboard box, dragged it over to the bed. The old man was surprised at how light the box was becoming.
He dipped his hands inside the cardboard box. The clinking of glass accompanied his search. When his fingers locked around a heavy piece of crystal he smiled,—and pulled up a large, ornate goblet.
The old man carefully poured cognac into the crystal goblet. He swallowed it and poured another. And then another. And still another until he drained the cognac. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and it rolled under the bed, unbroken.
Horace stared at the fancy goblet and fingered its engraved designs. When he realized he had no more cognac to pour into it he began to shake. Horace tried to soothe himself by pressing the cool crystal against his cheek.
Sorrow gave way to a blazing anger and he heaved the heirloom with all his strength. It crashed into the wall, splintering into pieces of jagged, dangerous glass.
About a half hour behind schedule the old man passed out.
