Rita Hayworth's Shoes (12 page)

“Moving in?” asked Deck, scratching his bald held incredulously.

“My books.”

“Ah,” he said and they were both silent for a while. “Why are they here?”

“David brought them.”

“Oh,” he said. “He brought them
here
?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“He couldn't just bring them back to your apartment?”

“I guess not.”

“Nice guy,” he said. “So how are you planning to get these home?”

“I have no idea,” she said and they both looked at the boxes again.

“I guess I could help you. I have a car. I could drive the boxes over in my car,” he said, seeming a bit nervous. “And you, too, I mean. I mean, if you don't mind me coming to your house. I mean…”

She turned to look at him. “Deck, are you sweating?” she asked.

Deck smirked. “I am.”

She squinted her eyes at him. “Why are you sweating?”

“Uh,” he stalled. “You know. No hair to hold it back. Just one of those things.”

“I see,” she said. “But that doesn't explain why you'd be sweating in the first place. So, why are you sweating?”

He looked point-blank at her. “Don't really know.”

“Hmmm,” she said, suspicious.

He motioned to the books. “So?”

“Okay,” she said finally. “Why not?”

“Great!” he said, with an enthusiasm inappropriate for someone who has agreed to help someone else move four tons of books. He caught himself and cleared his throat. “Let's get to it.”

Amy's apartment building stood out in her neighborhood of quasi-suburban tree-lined streets, which more commonly featured houses—albeit two- and three-family houses. But it was unusual for a six-story anything to be found here. “Progress” could not be faulted for the building's presence on this block though—nor for its sister structure across the street, a mirror reflection of its rundown, dilapidated twin, as both buildings had stood since before the second World War. And neither had so much as been painted since then. The only way to discern one from the other was that there were different street numbers on the front doors. And, of course, there were the Boys, forever planted on Amy's front stoop. Which was where they were just as Amy and Deck arrived.

“Friends of yours?” Deck asked.

“I guess you could say that,” she replied, admittedly nervous about how this was all going to turn out.

Deck expertly squeezed his old Volvo station wagon into a tiny spot right in front of the building, impressing Amy and apparently also some of the Boys, who appeared to be collecting money from some of the others.

As soon as he stopped the car, Deck got out, walked around and opened Amy's car door for her. They headed to the trunk and Deck and Amy each grabbed a box and headed for the stairs. Though Amy had become increasingly uncomfortable as the Building Boys glared at Deck and she hoped Deck wouldn't notice them staring at him.

“How ya doin'?” Deck smiled as he approached them.

They nodded to him suspiciously. “Everything okay, Amy?” asked Tony, protectively as he edged up to her.

Deck turned to Amy and said, “Why don't I go on ahead?”

Amy smiled embarrassedly. “It's C-9,” she said and handed him her keys. “I'll be right behind you.” Deck grabbed the keys and walked inside and Amy turned to face the Boys.

“He looks like that guy, from that show,” said Tony.

“Yeah, that's right! That old show,” said Mario.

Angelo began nodding wildly. “The one on cable all the time. With the bald guy. What was that called again?”

Amy shook her head in her hand. “
The Addams Family
. And that isn't very nice,” she chided, crossing her arms in front of her.

The guys looked back and forth at each other. “The freaking
Addams Family
?” asked Angelo.

“What's an
Addam's Family
?” asked Tony.

“
The Commish
,” Mario shouted out, like he'd just answered the winning question in a game show.

“Oh yeah,” said Frankie. “I love that fucking show,” he gushed.

“What the fuck is an
Addams Family
?” Angelo wanted to know.

“Before your time,” said Amy, not really bothered by how old this may at one time have made her feel.

Angelo walked toward Amy. “Seriously though, who is that guy?”

“He moving in?” Frankie asked.

“Yeah,” said Mario. “What's with all the boxes?”

“Kind of a freak, if you ask me,” sulked Tony.

Amy was angry now. “First of all, he's my boss. And he isn't a freak. He has alopecia.”

“Alo-what?”

“Alo–” she started to explain, but was interrupted by a shrill, girlish scream coming from her apartment.

“Now what?” she left the Boys standing there, worried that David had been back after all and perhaps Liz had left a stool sample on the floor…

She raced up the stairs and pushed open her front door. There was Deck, frozen in the center of the living room, still holding his box. “What is it? What's wrong?” she asked him.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, with a false calm.

“What?” she asked.

“That.”

Amy finally saw what had terrified him. She was annoyed. “Sparky! She's out
again
?” she said. “Shit. You just can't trust these Eastern milks. Total escape artists,” she said, bending over and picking up the snake without flinching. “Totally sneaky.”

“That's a snake!” Deck shrieked.

“Yes?” she replied, as casually as if he had said, “That's a sandwich.”

“There's a snake running loose in your apartment,” he said, now barely able to breathe.

She found herself amused at his terror. “Snakes don't exactly run, you know,” she giggled. “They—”

“
Why
is there a snake loose in your apartment?”

“You know, for such a big guy, you're kind of a chicken,” she laughed. She took a few steps toward him to see if he wanted to pet it, but when that caused the last remaining drop of color to vanish from his face, she thought better of it.

Instead, she headed to the other side of the room, where she pulled open a curtain to reveal a whole wall of snakes, stacked neat and tidy in a series of plastic bins in a variety of sizes. Without blinking an eye, she moved the lid Sparky had tripped and poured the snake back into her enclosure. “Deck, meet the babies. Babies, meet Deck.”

“What the—”

“My ex was a herpetologist,” she said. “You know this.”

Deck cocked his head and began shaking it. “He took all your books but he left the snakes.”

“He was being nice,” she said. “I guess he knew how attached to them I was and—”

“Sounds like a real prince,” Deck said, clutching his box of books like it was a specialized snake deterring shield.

“Honestly, they aren't that bad,” she said. “They're just snakes. Are you sweating again?”

“Just tell me this. Would they be here if it wasn't for him?”

She looked at them. “Dunno.”

“Huh,” he said, calming slightly. “So what do they eat?”

“What? Oh yeah. Uh…” she looked away. “Mice…”

He was aghast. “You drop live mice in there?” He looked around wildly. “Where do
they
live? In the bedroom? What kind of a person—”

“Hey, slow down a minute,” she soothed. “The mice are not alive and they are frozen.”

“Still.”

Now she was annoyed. “What? You don't eat meat from your freezer?” she shook her head. “Honestly, you're such a hypocrite.”

Deck put down the box of books and folded his arms defensively. “I am,” he baited.

“Do you have pets?”

“A cat. I have a cat. Fluffy.”

“Huh,” she said. “That's an original name.”

He smirked at her. “A
normal
person pet. A gentle, cuddly, loving pet.”

“Gentle?” she laughed. “You have mice in your building?”

“It's Queens.”

“Uh-huh. And do you have any mice in your
apartment
?” she asked, looking at her fingernails.

“No.

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“I… uh…”

“Just as I thought,” she said, triumphant. “And those little mice are still
alive
when Fluffy gets her meaty paws in them,” she said. “Now think about that!”

He was silent for several moments. Then he shook his head. “I think you've already given me plenty to think about today.” He turned toward the door and started to leave.

“Wait,” she called after him, feeling a bit panicked. “Where are you going?”

He turned back to face her. “There are like fifty more boxes out there,” he said.

“Right,” she said, relieved.

“Why?”

“No reason,” she said. “Just, um…just thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiled and headed down the stairs.

Amy grabbed a knife from the kitchen and began slicing open the boxes. Seeing her books all tucked away inside them, she immediately anticipated reconnecting with long-lost friends. She greeted them warmly as she pulled each one out, caressing their covers, inspecting their bindings. She couldn't wait to rediscover them. And then she heard a commotion on the stoop and she raced to the window to see what was wrong.

She spotted Deck, rubbing his head and then laughing with the guys. She couldn't hear the details of the conversation, but it looked like Deck was telling them something. And then they all laughed and offered him high fives. She headed back to her books.

His first trip back, Deck made alone. The second marked an appearance with Mario, toting a couple of boxes. And then Mario and Frankie. And then Mario and Frankie and Angelo. On the final trip, Amy looked up. “No Tony?”

“I'm here,” Tony called from the hallway. “Man, you read a lot,” he said, as he dropped the boxes he was carrying on stack of boxes not yet opened. “Here's the last one.”

They all stood around a while, looking around at her apartment, with nothing to say. Then Tony spoke, “There's nothing here.”

And then Mario, “He really took everything.”

And then Frankie, “I kind of like this look. Kind of fresh and minimalist.”

And then Angelo, as he walked to the other side of the room and tugged on the curtain string, “Wait a minute. How is there a window here?” He pulled it open to a collective gasp.

And then Deck, “Please, tell me. Tell us. If he hadn't brought them here, would you have them?”

The Boys looked to her expectantly and she shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know,” she said. “Actually, I don't think so. No,” she sighed. “Not at all. To be honest, I really don't like snakes that much. I mean, these guys I've been taking care of for so long, but, well, I guess, you don't always get to choose what needs your love.”

“That's for damned sure,” said Frankie.

The guys all nodded in agreement. “Catch you later, man,” said Mario as the guys waved and headed out.

Deck and Amy looked at the boxes. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now I pull them all out and shelve them, I guess.”

Deck looked around at the empty room. “Shelve them where?”

“Good question. I guess for now I just pull them all out.”

“I guess we can stack them against the wall. Too bad you have all those shelves taken up—”

“I think stacking will do just fine, thank you,” she snapped defensively.

“Whatever you say.”

“I already started,” she said, pointing to the books she'd already uncovered. His interest piqued, he walked over to the open box to investigate.

“
Candide
,” he smiled. “My favorite.”

“Seriously? Because it's also mine.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Seems a little light for you,” he said, balancing the slender book on one finger like a Globetrotter with a basketball.

She rolled her eyes. “
Candide
is deep and meaningful. I mean, underneath the laughs.”

He considered this. “Nothing says comedy like burning heretics.”

“And light cannibalism.”

“And let's not forget the gang rape.”

They both broke out laughing. “So there is a light side to you yet, eh?” he said.

“For your information, I do have a sense of humor. And, like it or not, there is a lot of deep, important meaning in every one of Voltaire's passages. The idiocy of religion and the aristocracy,” she said. “The futility of hope.”

“I'll give you the idiocy bit, but I'm not sure Voltaire was saying hope was futile.”

“He rewarded everyone's hopes and dreams and Herculean efforts with a lifetime of hard labor.”

“Well, that's one way of looking at it, yes,” he said. “Tending their gardens so they wouldn't have to keep thinking things to death—so they wouldn't
have the time
to think things to death anymore.”

“So, you're saying the best of all possible worlds is one in which people don't have to think?”

“Sort of, yes.”

“You know you're a college professor?”

“Thinking is fine, smartass. I'm talking about thinking things to death. It's a little different.”

“I suppose…”

“Because when they can connect with the land, when they can feel their efforts and really connect to something
real
, that's when they're finally happy.”

“And you say you don't think things to death,” she chided him.

He smiled. “I guess we're more alike than I'd like to admit.”

“Thanks.”

They were quiet for a moment as they sat there pondering each other's words. Then Amy broke the silence. “So maybe you can help me with something else then—”and she quickly added, “something about
Candide
?”

“Shoot.”

“Every time I read it, and I've read it a ton of time, I can't help but think something's missing, you know? That Voltaire meant to say more, and somehow…”

“I'm not sure. I think he makes his point.”

“I still think it's kind of bleak.”

“Man, are you thick. It isn't bleak, it's optimistic. It's called “Optimism” for Christ sakes.”

“It's sarcastic.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Of course it is.”'

“Nope.”

“How do you
know
?”

“I just told you; it's called ‘
Optimism'—‘Candide, or Optimism
.”

“But how do you
really
know.”

“Because sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“And sometimes it isn't.”

“And there you go, totally missing the point again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just like you completely miss the point every time. I think you need to spend some time in the garden.”

“But you really don't think it's strange? That it's bleak? That after all they endured, they still believed what they ended up with was really ‘The best of all possible worlds?'”

“Things didn't turn out like they thought they would, but at least Candide and Cunegonde ended up together,” he said. “Although who would have either other of them in the end anyway?”