Chapter Eight
It feels very strange to see the campus from the transit station and not the drive and parking lot. Instead of showing my ID tag to the guard at the car entrance, I show it to a guard at the station exit. Most people on this shift are already at work; the guard glares at me before he jerks his head telling me to go through. Wide sidewalks edged with flower beds lead to the administration building. The flowers are orange and yellow with puffy-looking blossoms; the color seems to shimmer in the sunlight. At the administration building, I have to show my ID to another guard.
“Why didn’t you park where you’re supposed to?” he asks. He sounds angry.
“Someone slashed my tires,” I say.
“Bummer,” he says. His face sags; his eyes go back to his desk. I think maybe he is disappointed that he has nothing to be angry about.
“What is the shortest way from here to Building Twenty-one?” I ask.
“Through this building, angle right around the end of Fifteen, then past the fountain with the naked woman on a horse. You can see your parking lot from there.” He does not even look up.
I go through Administration, with its ugly green marble floor and its unpleasantly strong lemon smell, and out again into the bright sun. It is already much hotter than it was earlier. Sunlight glares off the walks. Here there are no flower beds; grass comes right up to the pavement.
I am sweating by the time I get to our building and put my ID in the door lock. I can smell myself. It is not a good smell. Inside the building, it is cool and dim and I can relax. The soft color of the walls, the steady glow of old-fashioned lighting, the nonscent of the cool air—all this soothes me. I go directly to my office and turn the AC fan up to high.
My office machine is on, as usual, with a blinking message icon. I turn on one of the whirlies, and my music—Bach, an orchestral version of “Sheep May Safely Graze”—before bringing up the message:
I reach for the office phone, but it buzzes before I can pick it up.
“I told you to call as soon as you got to the office,” Mr. Crenshaw’s voice says.
“I just got here,” I say.
“You checked through the main gate twenty minutes ago,” he says. He sounds very angry. “It shouldn’t take even you twenty minutes to walk that far.”
I should say I am sorry, but I am not sorry. I do not know how long it took me to walk from the gate, and I do not know how fast I could have walked if I had tried to walk faster. It was too hot to hurry. I do not know how much more I could do than what I have done. I feel my neck getting tight and hot.
“I did not stop,” I say.
“And what’s this about a flat tire? Can’t you change a tire? You’re over two hours late.”
“Four tires,” I say. “Someone slashed all four tires.”
“Four! I suppose you reported it to the police,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“You could have waited until after work,” he says. “Or called from work.”
“The policeman was there,” I say.
“There? Someone saw your car being vandalized?”
“No—” Against the impatience and anger in his voice I am struggling to interpret his words; they sound farther and farther away, less like meaningful speech. It is hard to think what the right answer is. “The policeman who lives with—in my apartment house. He saw the flat tires. He called in the other policeman. He told me what to do.”
“He should have told you to go to work,” Crenshaw says. “There was no reason for you to hang around. You’ll have to make the time up, you know.”
“I know.” I wonder if he has to make the time up when something delays him. I wonder if he has ever had a flat tire, or four flat tires, on the way to work.
“Be sure you don’t put it down as overtime,” he says, and clicks off. He did not say he was sorry I had four flat tires. That is the conventional thing to say, “too bad” or “how awful,” but although he is normal, he did not say either of those things. Maybe he is not sorry; maybe he has no sympathy to express. I had to learn to say conventional things even when I did not feel them, because that is part of fitting in and learning to get along. Has anyone ever asked Mr. Crenshaw to fit in, to get along?
It would be my lunch hour, though I am behind, needing to make up time. I feel hollow inside; I start for the office kitchenette and realize that I do not have anything for lunch. I must have left it on the counter when I went back to my apartment to file the insurance claim. There is nothing in the refrigerator box with my initials on it. I had emptied it the day before.
We have no food vending machine in our building. Nobody would eat the food and it spoiled, so they took the machine away. The company has a dining hall across the campus, and there is a vending machine in the next building over. The food in those machines is awful. If it is a sandwich, all the parts of the sandwich are mushed together and slimy with mayonnaise or salad dressing. Green stuff, red stuff, meat chopped up with other flavors. Even if I take one apart and scrape the bread clean of mayonnaise, the smell and taste linger and are on whatever meat it is. The sweet things—the doughnuts and rolls—are sticky, leaving disgusting smears on the plastic containers when you take them out. My stomach twists, imagining this.
I would drive out and buy something, even though we don’t usually leave at lunch, but my car is still at the apartment, forlorn on its flat tires. I do not want to walk across the campus and eat in that big, noisy room with people I do not know, people who think of us as weird and dangerous. I do not know if the food there would be any better.
“Forget your lunch?” Eric asks. I jump. I have not talked to any of the others yet.
“Someone cut the tires on my car,” I say. “I was late. Mr. Crenshaw is angry with me. I left my lunch at home by accident. My car is at home.”
“You are hungry?”
“Yes. I do not want to go to the dining hall.”
“Chuy is going to run errands at lunch,” Eric says.
“Chuy does not like anyone to ride with him,” Linda says.
“I can talk to Chuy,” I say.
Chuy agrees to pick up some lunch for me. He is not going to a grocery store, so I will have to eat something he can pick up easily. He comes back with apples and a sausage in a bun. I like apples but not sausage. I do not like the little mixed-up bits in it. It is not as bad as some things, though, and I am hungry, so I eat it and do not think about it much.
It is 4:16 when I remember that I have not called anyone to replace the tires on my car. I call up the local directory listings and print the list of numbers. The on-line listings show the locations, so I begin with the ones closest to my apartment. When I contact them, one after another tells me it is too late to do anything today.
“Quickest thing to do,” one of them says, “is buy four mounted tires and put them on yourself, one at a time.” It would cost a lot of money to buy four tires and wheels, and I do not know how I would get them home. I do not want to ask Chuy for another favor so soon.
It is like those puzzle problems with a man, a hen, a cat, and a bag of feed on one side of a river and a boat that will hold only two, which he must use to transfer them all to the other side, without leaving alone the cat and the hen or the hen and the bag of feed. I have four slashed tires and one spare tire. If I put on the spare tire and roll the tire from that wheel to the tire store, they can put on a new tire and I can roll it back, put it on, then take the next slashed tire. Three of those, and I will have four whole tires on the car and can drive the car, with the last bad tire, to the store.
The nearest tire store is a mile away. I do not know how long it will take me to roll the flat tire—longer than it would one with air in it, I guess. But this is the only thing I can think of. They would not let me on the transit with a tire, even if it went the right direction.
The tire store stays open until nine. If I work my two extra hours tonight and can get home by eight, then surely I can get that tire to the store before they close. Tomorrow if I leave work on time, I might be able to do two more.
I am home by 7:43. I unlock the trunk of my car and wrestle out the spare. I learned to change a tire in my driving class, but I have not changed a tire since. It is simple in theory, but it takes longer than I want. The jack is hard to position, and the car doesn’t go up very fast. The front end sags down onto the wheels; the flat tires make a dull squnch as the tread rubs on itself. I am breathless and sweating a lot when I finally get the wheel off and the spare positioned on it. There is something about the order in which you are supposed to tighten the lug nuts, but I do not remember it exactly. Ms. Melton said it was important to do it right. It is after eight now and dark around the edges of the lights.
“Hey—!”
I jerk upright. I do not recognize the voice at first or the dark bulky figure rushing at me. It slows.
“Oh—it’s you, Lou. I thought maybe it was the vandal, come to do more mischief. What’d you do, buy a new set of wheels?”
It’s Danny. I feel my knees sag with relief. “No. It is the spare. I will put the spare on, then take the tire to the tire store and have them put on another, and then when I come back I can change that for a bad one. Tomorrow I can do another.”
“You—but you could have called someone to come do all four for you. Why are you doing it the hard way?”
“They could not do it until tomorrow or the next day, they said. One place told me to buy a set of tires on rims and change them myself if I wanted it done faster. So I thought about it. I remembered my spare. I thought how to do it myself and save money and time and decided to start when I got home—“
“You just got home?”
“I was late to work this morning. I worked late today to make up for it. Mr. Crenshaw was very angry.”
“Yes, but—it’s still going to take you several days. Anyway, the store closes in less than an hour. Were you going to take a cab or something?”
“I will roll it,” I say. The wheel with its saggy flat tire mocks me; it was hard enough to roll to one side. When we changed a tire in driving class, the tire had air in it.
“On foot?” Danny shakes his head. “You’ll never make it, buddy. Better put it in my car and I’ll run you over. Too bad we can’t take two of them… Or, actually, we can.”
“I do not have two spares,” I say.
“You can use mine,” he says. “We have the same wheel size.” I did not know this. We do not have the same make and model of car, and not all have the same size. How would he know? “You do remember to tighten the ones across from each other—partway—then the others, then tighten the rest of the way in opposites, right? You keep your car so carefully, you may’ve never needed to know that.”
I bend to tighten the lug nuts. With his words, I remember exactly what Ms. Melton said. It is a pattern, an easy pattern. I like patterns with symmetry. By the time I have finished, Danny is back with his spare, glancing at his watch.
“We’re going to have to hurry,” he says. “Do you mind if I do the next one? I’m used to it—”
“I do not mind,” I say. I am not telling the whole truth. If he is right that I can take two tires in tonight, then that is a big help, but he is pushing into my life, rushing me, making me feel slow and stupid. I do mind that. Yet he is acting like a friend, being helpful. It is important to be grateful for help.
At 8:21, both spares are on the back of my car; it looks funny with flat tires in front and full tires behind. Both slashed tires we took off the back of my car are in the trunk of Danny’s car, and I am sitting beside him. Again he turns on the sound system and rattling booms shake my body. I want to jump out of there; it is too much sound and the wrong sound. He talks over the sound, but I cannot understand him; the sound and his voice clash.
When we get to the tire store, I help him lug the flat tires on their wheels into the store. The clerk looks at me with almost no expression. Before I can even explain what I want, he is shaking his head.
“It’s too late,” he says. “We can’t change out tires now.”
“You are open until nine,” I say.
“The desk, yes. But we don’t put tires on this late.” He glances at the door to the shop, where a lanky man in dark-blue pants and a tan shirt with a patch on it is leaning on the frame, wiping his hands on a red rag.
“But I could not get here earlier,” I say. “And you are open until nine.”
“Look, mister,” the clerk says. One side of his mouth has lifted, but it is not a smile or even half a smile. “I told you—you’re too late. Even if we would put tires on now, it’d keep us after nine. I’ll bet you don’t stay late just to finish a job some idiot dumped on you at the last minute.”
I open my mouth to say that I do stay late, I stayed late today, and that is why I’m late here, but Danny has moved forward. The man at the desk suddenly stands taller and looks alarmed. But Danny is looking at the man by the door.
“Hello, Fred,” he says, in a happy voice, as if he had just met a friend. But under that is another voice. “How’s it going these days?”
“Ah… fine, Mr. Bryce. Staying clean.”
He does not look clean. He has black marks on his hands and dirty fingernails. His pants and shirt have black marks, too.
“That’s good, Fred. Look—my friend here had his car vandalized last night. Had to work late because he was late to work this morning. I was really hoping you could help him out.”
The man by the door looks at the man behind the desk. Their eyebrows go up and down at each other. The man behind the desk shrugs. “You’ll have to close,” he said. Then to me, “I suppose you know what kind of tire you want?”
I do know. I bought tires here only a few months ago, so I know what to say. He writes down the numbers and type and hands it to the other man—Fred—who nods and comes forward to take the wheels from me.
It is 9:07 when Danny and I leave with the two whole tires. Fred rolls them out to Danny’s car and slings them into the trunk. I am very tired. I do not know why Danny is helping me. I do not like the thought of his spare on my car; it feels wrong, like a lump of fish in a beef stew. When we get back to the apartment house parking lot, he helps me put the two good new tires on the front wheels of my car and the slashed tires from the front into my trunk. It is only then that I realize this means I can drive to work in the morning and at noon I can replace both slashed tires.
“Thank you,” I say. “I can drive now.”
“That you can,” Danny says. He smiles, and it is a real smile. “And I have a suggestion: move your car tonight. Just in case that vandal comes back. Put it over there, toward the back. I’ll put an alarm call on it; if anyone touches it I’ll hear the alarm.”
“That is a good idea,” I say. I am so tired it is very hard to say this.
“For nada,” Danny says. He waves and goes into the building.
I get into my car. It smells a little musty, but the seat feels right. I am shaking. I turn on the engine and then the music—the real music—and slowly back out, turn the wheel, and edge past the other cars to the slot Danny suggested. It is next to his car.
It is hard to go to sleep even though—or maybe because—I am so tired. My back and legs ache. I keep thinking I hear things and jerk awake. I turn on my music, Bach again, and finally drift to sleep on that gentle tide.
Morning comes too soon, but I jump up and take another shower. I hurry downstairs and do not see my car. I feel cold inside until I remember that it is not in the usual place and walk around the side of the building to find it. It looks fine. I go back inside to eat breakfast and fix my lunch and meet Danny on the stairs.
“I will get the tires replaced at noon,” I tell him. “I will return your spare this evening.”
“No hurry,” he says. “I’m not driving today anyway.”
I wonder if he means that. He meant it when he helped me. I will do it anyway, because I do not like his spare; it does not match because it is not mine.
When I get to work, five minutes early, Mr. Crenshaw and Mr. Aldrin are standing in the hall, talking. Mr. Crenshaw looks at me. His eyes look shiny and hard; it does not feel good to look at them, but I try to keep eye contact.
“No flat tires today, Arrendale?”
“No, Mr. Crenshaw,” I say.
“Did the police find that vandal?”
“I don’t know.” I want to get to my office, but he is standing there and I would have to push past him. It is not polite to do that.
“Who’s the investigating officer?” Mr. Crenshaw asks.
“I do not remember his name, but I have his card,” I say, and pull out my wallet.
Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin, “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.
I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin, who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin, following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.
I put this out of my mind when I start again on my project.
At noon, I take the tires to another tire store, near the campus, and leave them to be replaced. I have the size and kind of tire I want written down and hand that to the desk clerk. She is about my age, with short dark hair; she is wearing a tan shirt with a patch embroidered in red that says: Customer Service.
“Thanks,” she says. She smiles at me. “You would not believe how many people come in here with no idea what size tire they need and start waving their hands.”
“It is easy to write it down,” I say.
“Yes, but they don’t think of that. Are you going to wait or come back later?”
“Come back later,” I say. “How late are you open?”
“Until nine. Or you could come tomorrow.”
“I will come before nine,” I say. She runs my bankcard through the machine and marks the order slip “Paid in Advance.”
“Here’s your copy,” she says. “Don’t lose it—though someone smart enough to write down the tire size is probably smart enough not to lose his order slip.”
I walk back out to the car breathing easier. It is easy to fool people into thinking I am like everyone else in encounters like this. If the other person likes to talk, as this woman did, it is easier. All I have to say are a few conventional things and smile and it is done.
Mr. Crenshaw is in our hall again when I get back, three minutes before the end of our official lunchtime. His face twitches when he sees me. I do not know why. He turns around almost at once and walks away. He does not speak to me. Sometimes when people do not speak, they are angry, but I do not know what I have done to make him angry. I have been late twice lately, but neither time was my fault. I did not cause the traffic accident, and I did not cut my own tires.
It is hard to settle down to work.
I am home by 7:00, with my own tires on all four wheels and Danny’s spare in the trunk along with mine. I decide to park next to Danny’s car although I do not know if he is home. It will be easier to move his spare from one car to another if they are close together.
I knock on his door. “Yes?” His voice.
“It is Lou Arrendale,” I say. “I have your spare in my trunk.”
I hear his footsteps coming to the door. “Lou, I told you—you didn’t have to rush. But thanks.” He opens the door. He has the same multi-toned brown/beige/rust carpet on the floor that I have, though I covered mine with something that didn’t make my eyes hurt. He has a large dark-gray video screen; the speakers are blue and do not match as a set. His couch is brown with little dark squares on the brown; the pattern is regular, but it clashes with the carpet. A young woman is sitting on the couch; she has on a yellow, green, and white patterned shirt that clashes with both the carpet and the couch. He glances back at her. “Lyn, I’m going to go move my spare from Lou’s car to mine.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound interested; she looks down at the table. I wonder if she is Danny’s girlfriend. I did not know he had a girlfriend. I wonder, not for the first time, why a woman friend is called a girlfriend and not a womanfriend.
Danny says, “Come on in, Lou, while I get my keys.” I do not want to come in, but I do not want to seem unfriendly, either. The clashing colors and patterns make my eyes tired. I step in. Danny says, “Lyn, this is Lou from upstairs—he borrowed my spare yesterday.”
“Hi,” she says, glancing up and then down.
“Hi,” I say. I watch Danny as he walks over to a desk and picks up his keys. The desk is very neat on top, a blotter and a telephone.
We go downstairs and out to the parking lot. I unlock my trunk and Danny swings the spare tire out. He opens his trunk and puts it in, then slams his trunk. It makes a different sound than mine does.
“Thank you for your help,” I say.
“No problemo,” Danny says. “Glad to be of service. And thanks for getting my spare back to me so quickly.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. It does not feel right to say “you’re welcome” when he did more to help me, but I do not know what else to say.
He stands there, looking at me. He does not say anything for a moment; then he says, “Well, be seeing you,” and turns away. Of course he will be seeing me; we live in the same building. I think this means he does not want to walk back inside with me. I do not know why he could not just say that, if that is what he means. I turn to my car and wait until I hear the front door open and close.
If I took the treatment, would I understand this? Is it because of the woman in his apartment? If I had Marjory visiting me, would I not want Danny to walk back inside with me? I do not know. Sometimes it seems obvious why normal people do things and other times I cannot understand it at all.
Finally I go inside and up to my apartment. I put on quieting music, Chopin preludes. I put two cups of water in the small saucepan and open a packet of noodles and vegetables. As the water boils, I watch the bubbles rise. I can see the pattern of the burner below by the location of the first bubbles, but when the water really boils, it forms several cells of fast-bubbling water. I keep thinking there is something important about that, something more than just a rolling boil, but I haven’t figured the whole pattern out yet. I drop the noodles and vegetables in and stir, as the directions say to do. I like to watch the vegetables churn in the boiling water.
And sometimes I am bored by the silly dancing vegetables.
“Why didn’t you park where you’re supposed to?” he asks. He sounds angry.
“Someone slashed my tires,” I say.
“Bummer,” he says. His face sags; his eyes go back to his desk. I think maybe he is disappointed that he has nothing to be angry about.
“What is the shortest way from here to Building Twenty-one?” I ask.
“Through this building, angle right around the end of Fifteen, then past the fountain with the naked woman on a horse. You can see your parking lot from there.” He does not even look up.
I go through Administration, with its ugly green marble floor and its unpleasantly strong lemon smell, and out again into the bright sun. It is already much hotter than it was earlier. Sunlight glares off the walks. Here there are no flower beds; grass comes right up to the pavement.
I am sweating by the time I get to our building and put my ID in the door lock. I can smell myself. It is not a good smell. Inside the building, it is cool and dim and I can relax. The soft color of the walls, the steady glow of old-fashioned lighting, the nonscent of the cool air—all this soothes me. I go directly to my office and turn the AC fan up to high.
My office machine is on, as usual, with a blinking message icon. I turn on one of the whirlies, and my music—Bach, an orchestral version of “Sheep May Safely Graze”—before bringing up the message:
Call as soon as you arrive.
Mr. Crenshaw, Extension 2313
I reach for the office phone, but it buzzes before I can pick it up.
“I told you to call as soon as you got to the office,” Mr. Crenshaw’s voice says.
“I just got here,” I say.
“You checked through the main gate twenty minutes ago,” he says. He sounds very angry. “It shouldn’t take even you twenty minutes to walk that far.”
I should say I am sorry, but I am not sorry. I do not know how long it took me to walk from the gate, and I do not know how fast I could have walked if I had tried to walk faster. It was too hot to hurry. I do not know how much more I could do than what I have done. I feel my neck getting tight and hot.
“I did not stop,” I say.
“And what’s this about a flat tire? Can’t you change a tire? You’re over two hours late.”
“Four tires,” I say. “Someone slashed all four tires.”
“Four! I suppose you reported it to the police,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“You could have waited until after work,” he says. “Or called from work.”
“The policeman was there,” I say.
“There? Someone saw your car being vandalized?”
“No—” Against the impatience and anger in his voice I am struggling to interpret his words; they sound farther and farther away, less like meaningful speech. It is hard to think what the right answer is. “The policeman who lives with—in my apartment house. He saw the flat tires. He called in the other policeman. He told me what to do.”
“He should have told you to go to work,” Crenshaw says. “There was no reason for you to hang around. You’ll have to make the time up, you know.”
“I know.” I wonder if he has to make the time up when something delays him. I wonder if he has ever had a flat tire, or four flat tires, on the way to work.
“Be sure you don’t put it down as overtime,” he says, and clicks off. He did not say he was sorry I had four flat tires. That is the conventional thing to say, “too bad” or “how awful,” but although he is normal, he did not say either of those things. Maybe he is not sorry; maybe he has no sympathy to express. I had to learn to say conventional things even when I did not feel them, because that is part of fitting in and learning to get along. Has anyone ever asked Mr. Crenshaw to fit in, to get along?
It would be my lunch hour, though I am behind, needing to make up time. I feel hollow inside; I start for the office kitchenette and realize that I do not have anything for lunch. I must have left it on the counter when I went back to my apartment to file the insurance claim. There is nothing in the refrigerator box with my initials on it. I had emptied it the day before.
We have no food vending machine in our building. Nobody would eat the food and it spoiled, so they took the machine away. The company has a dining hall across the campus, and there is a vending machine in the next building over. The food in those machines is awful. If it is a sandwich, all the parts of the sandwich are mushed together and slimy with mayonnaise or salad dressing. Green stuff, red stuff, meat chopped up with other flavors. Even if I take one apart and scrape the bread clean of mayonnaise, the smell and taste linger and are on whatever meat it is. The sweet things—the doughnuts and rolls—are sticky, leaving disgusting smears on the plastic containers when you take them out. My stomach twists, imagining this.
I would drive out and buy something, even though we don’t usually leave at lunch, but my car is still at the apartment, forlorn on its flat tires. I do not want to walk across the campus and eat in that big, noisy room with people I do not know, people who think of us as weird and dangerous. I do not know if the food there would be any better.
“Forget your lunch?” Eric asks. I jump. I have not talked to any of the others yet.
“Someone cut the tires on my car,” I say. “I was late. Mr. Crenshaw is angry with me. I left my lunch at home by accident. My car is at home.”
“You are hungry?”
“Yes. I do not want to go to the dining hall.”
“Chuy is going to run errands at lunch,” Eric says.
“Chuy does not like anyone to ride with him,” Linda says.
“I can talk to Chuy,” I say.
Chuy agrees to pick up some lunch for me. He is not going to a grocery store, so I will have to eat something he can pick up easily. He comes back with apples and a sausage in a bun. I like apples but not sausage. I do not like the little mixed-up bits in it. It is not as bad as some things, though, and I am hungry, so I eat it and do not think about it much.
It is 4:16 when I remember that I have not called anyone to replace the tires on my car. I call up the local directory listings and print the list of numbers. The on-line listings show the locations, so I begin with the ones closest to my apartment. When I contact them, one after another tells me it is too late to do anything today.
“Quickest thing to do,” one of them says, “is buy four mounted tires and put them on yourself, one at a time.” It would cost a lot of money to buy four tires and wheels, and I do not know how I would get them home. I do not want to ask Chuy for another favor so soon.
It is like those puzzle problems with a man, a hen, a cat, and a bag of feed on one side of a river and a boat that will hold only two, which he must use to transfer them all to the other side, without leaving alone the cat and the hen or the hen and the bag of feed. I have four slashed tires and one spare tire. If I put on the spare tire and roll the tire from that wheel to the tire store, they can put on a new tire and I can roll it back, put it on, then take the next slashed tire. Three of those, and I will have four whole tires on the car and can drive the car, with the last bad tire, to the store.
The nearest tire store is a mile away. I do not know how long it will take me to roll the flat tire—longer than it would one with air in it, I guess. But this is the only thing I can think of. They would not let me on the transit with a tire, even if it went the right direction.
The tire store stays open until nine. If I work my two extra hours tonight and can get home by eight, then surely I can get that tire to the store before they close. Tomorrow if I leave work on time, I might be able to do two more.
I am home by 7:43. I unlock the trunk of my car and wrestle out the spare. I learned to change a tire in my driving class, but I have not changed a tire since. It is simple in theory, but it takes longer than I want. The jack is hard to position, and the car doesn’t go up very fast. The front end sags down onto the wheels; the flat tires make a dull squnch as the tread rubs on itself. I am breathless and sweating a lot when I finally get the wheel off and the spare positioned on it. There is something about the order in which you are supposed to tighten the lug nuts, but I do not remember it exactly. Ms. Melton said it was important to do it right. It is after eight now and dark around the edges of the lights.
“Hey—!”
I jerk upright. I do not recognize the voice at first or the dark bulky figure rushing at me. It slows.
“Oh—it’s you, Lou. I thought maybe it was the vandal, come to do more mischief. What’d you do, buy a new set of wheels?”
It’s Danny. I feel my knees sag with relief. “No. It is the spare. I will put the spare on, then take the tire to the tire store and have them put on another, and then when I come back I can change that for a bad one. Tomorrow I can do another.”
“You—but you could have called someone to come do all four for you. Why are you doing it the hard way?”
“They could not do it until tomorrow or the next day, they said. One place told me to buy a set of tires on rims and change them myself if I wanted it done faster. So I thought about it. I remembered my spare. I thought how to do it myself and save money and time and decided to start when I got home—“
“You just got home?”
“I was late to work this morning. I worked late today to make up for it. Mr. Crenshaw was very angry.”
“Yes, but—it’s still going to take you several days. Anyway, the store closes in less than an hour. Were you going to take a cab or something?”
“I will roll it,” I say. The wheel with its saggy flat tire mocks me; it was hard enough to roll to one side. When we changed a tire in driving class, the tire had air in it.
“On foot?” Danny shakes his head. “You’ll never make it, buddy. Better put it in my car and I’ll run you over. Too bad we can’t take two of them… Or, actually, we can.”
“I do not have two spares,” I say.
“You can use mine,” he says. “We have the same wheel size.” I did not know this. We do not have the same make and model of car, and not all have the same size. How would he know? “You do remember to tighten the ones across from each other—partway—then the others, then tighten the rest of the way in opposites, right? You keep your car so carefully, you may’ve never needed to know that.”
I bend to tighten the lug nuts. With his words, I remember exactly what Ms. Melton said. It is a pattern, an easy pattern. I like patterns with symmetry. By the time I have finished, Danny is back with his spare, glancing at his watch.
“We’re going to have to hurry,” he says. “Do you mind if I do the next one? I’m used to it—”
“I do not mind,” I say. I am not telling the whole truth. If he is right that I can take two tires in tonight, then that is a big help, but he is pushing into my life, rushing me, making me feel slow and stupid. I do mind that. Yet he is acting like a friend, being helpful. It is important to be grateful for help.
At 8:21, both spares are on the back of my car; it looks funny with flat tires in front and full tires behind. Both slashed tires we took off the back of my car are in the trunk of Danny’s car, and I am sitting beside him. Again he turns on the sound system and rattling booms shake my body. I want to jump out of there; it is too much sound and the wrong sound. He talks over the sound, but I cannot understand him; the sound and his voice clash.
When we get to the tire store, I help him lug the flat tires on their wheels into the store. The clerk looks at me with almost no expression. Before I can even explain what I want, he is shaking his head.
“It’s too late,” he says. “We can’t change out tires now.”
“You are open until nine,” I say.
“The desk, yes. But we don’t put tires on this late.” He glances at the door to the shop, where a lanky man in dark-blue pants and a tan shirt with a patch on it is leaning on the frame, wiping his hands on a red rag.
“But I could not get here earlier,” I say. “And you are open until nine.”
“Look, mister,” the clerk says. One side of his mouth has lifted, but it is not a smile or even half a smile. “I told you—you’re too late. Even if we would put tires on now, it’d keep us after nine. I’ll bet you don’t stay late just to finish a job some idiot dumped on you at the last minute.”
I open my mouth to say that I do stay late, I stayed late today, and that is why I’m late here, but Danny has moved forward. The man at the desk suddenly stands taller and looks alarmed. But Danny is looking at the man by the door.
“Hello, Fred,” he says, in a happy voice, as if he had just met a friend. But under that is another voice. “How’s it going these days?”
“Ah… fine, Mr. Bryce. Staying clean.”
He does not look clean. He has black marks on his hands and dirty fingernails. His pants and shirt have black marks, too.
“That’s good, Fred. Look—my friend here had his car vandalized last night. Had to work late because he was late to work this morning. I was really hoping you could help him out.”
The man by the door looks at the man behind the desk. Their eyebrows go up and down at each other. The man behind the desk shrugs. “You’ll have to close,” he said. Then to me, “I suppose you know what kind of tire you want?”
I do know. I bought tires here only a few months ago, so I know what to say. He writes down the numbers and type and hands it to the other man—Fred—who nods and comes forward to take the wheels from me.
It is 9:07 when Danny and I leave with the two whole tires. Fred rolls them out to Danny’s car and slings them into the trunk. I am very tired. I do not know why Danny is helping me. I do not like the thought of his spare on my car; it feels wrong, like a lump of fish in a beef stew. When we get back to the apartment house parking lot, he helps me put the two good new tires on the front wheels of my car and the slashed tires from the front into my trunk. It is only then that I realize this means I can drive to work in the morning and at noon I can replace both slashed tires.
“Thank you,” I say. “I can drive now.”
“That you can,” Danny says. He smiles, and it is a real smile. “And I have a suggestion: move your car tonight. Just in case that vandal comes back. Put it over there, toward the back. I’ll put an alarm call on it; if anyone touches it I’ll hear the alarm.”
“That is a good idea,” I say. I am so tired it is very hard to say this.
“For nada,” Danny says. He waves and goes into the building.
I get into my car. It smells a little musty, but the seat feels right. I am shaking. I turn on the engine and then the music—the real music—and slowly back out, turn the wheel, and edge past the other cars to the slot Danny suggested. It is next to his car.
It is hard to go to sleep even though—or maybe because—I am so tired. My back and legs ache. I keep thinking I hear things and jerk awake. I turn on my music, Bach again, and finally drift to sleep on that gentle tide.
Morning comes too soon, but I jump up and take another shower. I hurry downstairs and do not see my car. I feel cold inside until I remember that it is not in the usual place and walk around the side of the building to find it. It looks fine. I go back inside to eat breakfast and fix my lunch and meet Danny on the stairs.
“I will get the tires replaced at noon,” I tell him. “I will return your spare this evening.”
“No hurry,” he says. “I’m not driving today anyway.”
I wonder if he means that. He meant it when he helped me. I will do it anyway, because I do not like his spare; it does not match because it is not mine.
When I get to work, five minutes early, Mr. Crenshaw and Mr. Aldrin are standing in the hall, talking. Mr. Crenshaw looks at me. His eyes look shiny and hard; it does not feel good to look at them, but I try to keep eye contact.
“No flat tires today, Arrendale?”
“No, Mr. Crenshaw,” I say.
“Did the police find that vandal?”
“I don’t know.” I want to get to my office, but he is standing there and I would have to push past him. It is not polite to do that.
“Who’s the investigating officer?” Mr. Crenshaw asks.
“I do not remember his name, but I have his card,” I say, and pull out my wallet.
Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin, “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.
I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin, who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin, following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.
I put this out of my mind when I start again on my project.
At noon, I take the tires to another tire store, near the campus, and leave them to be replaced. I have the size and kind of tire I want written down and hand that to the desk clerk. She is about my age, with short dark hair; she is wearing a tan shirt with a patch embroidered in red that says: Customer Service.
“Thanks,” she says. She smiles at me. “You would not believe how many people come in here with no idea what size tire they need and start waving their hands.”
“It is easy to write it down,” I say.
“Yes, but they don’t think of that. Are you going to wait or come back later?”
“Come back later,” I say. “How late are you open?”
“Until nine. Or you could come tomorrow.”
“I will come before nine,” I say. She runs my bankcard through the machine and marks the order slip “Paid in Advance.”
“Here’s your copy,” she says. “Don’t lose it—though someone smart enough to write down the tire size is probably smart enough not to lose his order slip.”
I walk back out to the car breathing easier. It is easy to fool people into thinking I am like everyone else in encounters like this. If the other person likes to talk, as this woman did, it is easier. All I have to say are a few conventional things and smile and it is done.
Mr. Crenshaw is in our hall again when I get back, three minutes before the end of our official lunchtime. His face twitches when he sees me. I do not know why. He turns around almost at once and walks away. He does not speak to me. Sometimes when people do not speak, they are angry, but I do not know what I have done to make him angry. I have been late twice lately, but neither time was my fault. I did not cause the traffic accident, and I did not cut my own tires.
It is hard to settle down to work.
I am home by 7:00, with my own tires on all four wheels and Danny’s spare in the trunk along with mine. I decide to park next to Danny’s car although I do not know if he is home. It will be easier to move his spare from one car to another if they are close together.
I knock on his door. “Yes?” His voice.
“It is Lou Arrendale,” I say. “I have your spare in my trunk.”
I hear his footsteps coming to the door. “Lou, I told you—you didn’t have to rush. But thanks.” He opens the door. He has the same multi-toned brown/beige/rust carpet on the floor that I have, though I covered mine with something that didn’t make my eyes hurt. He has a large dark-gray video screen; the speakers are blue and do not match as a set. His couch is brown with little dark squares on the brown; the pattern is regular, but it clashes with the carpet. A young woman is sitting on the couch; she has on a yellow, green, and white patterned shirt that clashes with both the carpet and the couch. He glances back at her. “Lyn, I’m going to go move my spare from Lou’s car to mine.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound interested; she looks down at the table. I wonder if she is Danny’s girlfriend. I did not know he had a girlfriend. I wonder, not for the first time, why a woman friend is called a girlfriend and not a womanfriend.
Danny says, “Come on in, Lou, while I get my keys.” I do not want to come in, but I do not want to seem unfriendly, either. The clashing colors and patterns make my eyes tired. I step in. Danny says, “Lyn, this is Lou from upstairs—he borrowed my spare yesterday.”
“Hi,” she says, glancing up and then down.
“Hi,” I say. I watch Danny as he walks over to a desk and picks up his keys. The desk is very neat on top, a blotter and a telephone.
We go downstairs and out to the parking lot. I unlock my trunk and Danny swings the spare tire out. He opens his trunk and puts it in, then slams his trunk. It makes a different sound than mine does.
“Thank you for your help,” I say.
“No problemo,” Danny says. “Glad to be of service. And thanks for getting my spare back to me so quickly.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. It does not feel right to say “you’re welcome” when he did more to help me, but I do not know what else to say.
He stands there, looking at me. He does not say anything for a moment; then he says, “Well, be seeing you,” and turns away. Of course he will be seeing me; we live in the same building. I think this means he does not want to walk back inside with me. I do not know why he could not just say that, if that is what he means. I turn to my car and wait until I hear the front door open and close.
If I took the treatment, would I understand this? Is it because of the woman in his apartment? If I had Marjory visiting me, would I not want Danny to walk back inside with me? I do not know. Sometimes it seems obvious why normal people do things and other times I cannot understand it at all.
Finally I go inside and up to my apartment. I put on quieting music, Chopin preludes. I put two cups of water in the small saucepan and open a packet of noodles and vegetables. As the water boils, I watch the bubbles rise. I can see the pattern of the burner below by the location of the first bubbles, but when the water really boils, it forms several cells of fast-bubbling water. I keep thinking there is something important about that, something more than just a rolling boil, but I haven’t figured the whole pattern out yet. I drop the noodles and vegetables in and stir, as the directions say to do. I like to watch the vegetables churn in the boiling water.
And sometimes I am bored by the silly dancing vegetables.
Chapter Nine
On Fridays I do my laundry, so that I have the weekend free. I have two laundry baskets, one for light and one for dark. I take the sheets off the bed and the pillowcase off the pillow and put them in the light basket. The towels go in the dark basket. My mother used two pale-blue plastic baskets for sorted clothes; she called one dark and one light, and that bothered me. I found a dark-green wicker basket and use it for dark clothes; my basket for light clothes is plain wicker, a sort of honey color. I like the woven pattern of the wicker, and I like the word wicker. The strands go out around the uprights like the wih sound of wicker and then comes the sharp k, like the stick the strands bend around, and the soft er sound as they bend back into the shadow.
I take the exact right change out of my change box, plus one extra coin in case one of them won’t work in the machines. It used to make me angry when a perfectly round coin would not make the machine go. My mother taught me to take an extra coin. She said it is not good to stay angry. Sometimes a coin will work in the soft drink machine when it does not work in the washing machine or dryer, and sometimes one that will not work in the soft drink machine will work in the washing machine. This does not make sense, but it is how the world is.
I put the coins in my pocket, tuck the packet of detergent in the light basket, and set the light basket on top of the dark one. Light should go on top of dark. That balances.
I can just see over them to walk down the hall. I fix the Chopin prelude in my mind and head for the laundry room. As usual on Friday nights, only Miss Kimberly is there. She is old, with fuzzy gray hair, but not as old as Miss Watson. I wonder if she thinks about the life extension treatments or if she is too old. Miss Kimberly is wearing light-green knit slacks and a flowered top. She usually wears this on Fridays when it is warm. I think about what she wears instead of the smell in the laundry room. It is a harsh, sharp smell that I do not like.
“Good evening, Lou,” she says now. She has already done her wash and is putting her things into the left-hand dryer. She always uses the left-hand dryer.
“Good evening, Miss Kimberly,” I say. I do not look at her washing; it is rude to look at women’s washing because it may have underwear in it. Some women do not want men looking at their underwear. Some do and that makes it confusing, but Miss Kimberly is old and I do not think she wants me to see the pink puckery things in among the sheets and towels. I do not want to see them anyway.
“Did you have a good week?” she asks. She always asks this. I do not think she really cares whether I had a good week or not.
“My tires were slashed,” I say.
She stops putting things in the dryer and looks at me. “Someone slashed your tires? Here? Or at work?”
I do not know why that makes a difference. “Here,” I say. “I came out Thursday morning and they were all flat.”
She looks upset. “Right here in this parking lot? I thought it was safe here!”
“It was very inconvenient,” I say. “I was late to work.”
“But… vandals! Here!” Her face makes a shape I have never seen on it before. It is something like fear and something like disgust. Then she looks angry, staring right at me as if I had done something wrong. I look away. “I’ll have to move,” she says.
I do not understand: why does she have to move because my tires were slashed? No one could slash her tires, because she has no tires. She does not have a car.
“Did you see who did it?” she asks. She has left part of her wash hanging over the edge of the machine; it looks very messy and unpleasant, like food hanging over the edge of a plate.
“No,” I say. I take the light things out of the light basket and put them in the right-hand washing machine. I add the detergent, measuring carefully because it is wasteful to use too much and things will not be clean if I do not use enough. I put the coins in the slot, close the door, set the machine for warm wash, cool rinse, regular cycle, and push the Start button. Inside the machine, something goes thunk and water hisses through the valves.
“It’s terrible,” Miss Kimberly says. She is scooping the rest of her wash into the dryer, the movements of her hands jerky. Something puckery and pink falls to the floor; I turn away and lift clothes out of the dark basket. I put them into the middle washer. “It’s all right for people like you,” she says.
“What is all right for people like me?” I ask. She has never talked this way before.
“You’re young,” she says. “And a man. You don’t have to worry.”
I do not understand. I am not young, according to Mr. Crenshaw. I am old enough to know better. I am a man, but I do not see why this means it is all right for my tires to be slashed.
“I did not want my tires slashed,” I say, speaking slowly because I do not know what she will do.
“Well, of course you didn’t,” she says, all in a rush. Usually her skin looks pale and yellowish in the lights of the laundry room, but now peach-colored patches glow on her cheeks. “But you don’t have to worry about people jumping on you. Men.”
I look at Miss Kimberly and cannot imagine anyone jumping on her. Her hair is gray and her pink scalp shows through it on top; her skin is wrinkled and she has brown spots on her arms. I want to ask if she is serious, but I know she is serious. She does not laugh, even at me when I drop something.
“I am sorry you are worried,” I say, shaking detergent into the washer full of dark things. I put the coins into the slot. The dryer door bangs shut; I had forgotten about the dryer, trying to understand Miss Kimberly, and my hand jerks. One of the coins misses the slot and falls into the wash. I will have to take everything out to find it, and the detergent will spill off the clothes onto the washer. I feel a buzzing in my head.
“Thank you, Lou,” Miss Kimberly says. Her voice is calmer, warmer. I am surprised. I did not expect to say the right thing. “What’s wrong?” she asks as I start lifting out the clothes, shaking them so most of the detergent falls back into the washing machine.
“I dropped a coin in,” I say.
She is coming closer. I do not want her to come closer. She wears a strong perfume, very sweet-smelling.
“Just use another. That one’ll be really clean when you take the clothes out,” she says.
I stand still a moment, the clothes in my hand. Can I leave that coin in? I have the spare in my pocket. I drop the clothes and reach for the coin in my pocket. It is the right size. I put it in the slot, close the door, set the machine, and push Start. Again the thunk, the hiss of water. I feel strange inside. I thought I understood Miss Kimberly before, when she was the predictable old lady who washed her clothes on Friday night, as I do. I thought I understood her a few minutes ago, at least to understand that she was upset about something. But she thought of a solution so fast, while I was thinking she was still upset. How did she do that? Is that something normal people can do all the time?
“It’s easier than taking the clothes out,” she says. “This way you don’t get stuff on the machine and have to clean it up. I always bring some extra coins just in case.” She laughs, a little dry laugh. “As I get older, my hands shake sometimes.” She pauses, looking at me. I am still wondering how she did that, but I realize she is waiting for something from me. It is always appropriate to say thank you, even when you aren’t sure why.
“Thank you,” I say.
It was the right thing to say again; she smiles.
“You’re a nice man, Lou; I’m sorry about your tires,” she says. She looks at her watch. “I need to go make some phone calls; are you going to be here? To watch the dryer?”
“I will be downstairs,” I say. “Not in this room; it is too noisy.” I have said this before when she has asked me to keep an eye on her clothes. I always think of taking out an eye and putting it on the clothes, but I do not tell her that is what I think. I know what the expression means socially, but it is a silly meaning. She nods and smiles and goes out. I check again that the setting on both washers is correct and then go out into the hall.
The floor in the laundry room is ugly gray concrete, sloping down slightly to a big drain under the washing machines. I know the drain is there because two years ago I brought my washing down and workmen were there. They had moved the machines out and had the cover off the drain. It smelled very bad, sour and sick.
The floor in the hall is tile, each tile streaked with two shades of green on beige. The tiles are twelve-inch squares; the hall is five squares wide and forty-five and a half squares long. The person who laid the tiles laid them so that the streaks are crosswise to each other—each tile is laid so that the streaks are facing ninety degrees to the tile next to it. Most of the tiles are laid in one of two ways, but eight of them are laid upside down to the other tiles in the same orientation.
I like to look at this hall and think about those eight tiles. What pattern could be completed by having those eight tiles laid in reverse? So far I have come up with three possible patterns. I tried to tell Tom about it once, but he was not able to see the patterns in his head the way I can. I drew them all out on a sheet of paper, but soon I could tell that he was bored. It is not polite to bore people. I never tried to talk to him about it again.
But I find it endlessly interesting. When I get tired of the floor—but I never do get tired of the floor—I can look at the walls. All the walls in the hall are painted, but on one wall there was tile-patterned wallboard before. Those pretend tiles were four inches on a side, but unlike the floor tiles, the pretend wall tiles had a space for pretend grout. So the real pattern size is four and a half inches. If it were four inches, then three wall tiles would make one floor tile.
I look for the places where the line between the tiles can go up the wall and over the ceiling and back around without stopping. There is one place in this hall where the line almost makes it, but not quite. I used to think if the hall were twice as long there would be two places, but that’s not how it works. When I really look at it, I can tell that the hall would have to be five and a third times as long for all the lines to match exactly twice.
Hearing one washing machine whine down from spin, I go back into the laundry room. I know that it takes me exactly that long to arrive at the machine just as the drum stops turning. It is a kind of game, to take that last step when the machine takes its last turn. The left-hand dryer is still mumbling and bumbling; I take my wet clothes and put them in the empty right-hand dryer. By the time I have them all in and have checked to be sure nothing is left in the washer, the second washer comes spinning down. Once last year I worked out the relationship between the frictional force slowing the rotation and the frequency of the sound it makes. I did it by myself, without a computer, which made it more fun.
I take my clothes from the second machine, and there at the bottom is the missing coin, shiny and clean and smooth in my fingers. I put it in my pocket, put the clothes into the dryer, insert the coins, and start it up. Long ago, I used to watch the tumbling clothes and try to figure out what the pattern was—why this time the arm of a red sweatshirt was in front of the blue robe, falling down and around, and next time the same red arm was between the yellow sweatpants and the pillowcase instead. My mother didn’t like it when I mumbled while watching the clothes rise and fall, so I learned to do it all in my head.
Miss Kimberly comes back just as the dryer with her clothes in it stops. She smiles at me. She has a plate with some cookies on it. “Thanks, Lou,” she says. She holds out the plate. “Have a cookie. I know boys—I mean young men—like cookies.”
She brings cookies almost every week. I do not always like the kind of cookie she brings, but it is not polite to say so. This week it is lemon crisps. I like them a lot. I take three. She puts the plate on the folding table and takes her things out of the dryer. She puts them in her basket; she does not fold her clothes down here. “Just bring the plate up when you’re done, Lou,” she says. This is the same as last week.
“Thank you, Miss Kimberly,” I say.
“You’re quite welcome,” she says, as she always does.
I finish the cookies, dust the crumbs into the trash basket, and fold my laundry before going upstairs. I hand her the plate and go on to my apartment.
On Saturday mornings, I go to the center. One of the counselors is available from 8:30 to 12:00, and once a month there’s a special program. Today there is no program, but Maxine, one of the counselors, is walking toward the conference room when I arrive. Bailey did not say if she was the counselor they talked to last week. Maxine wears orange lipstick and purple eye shadow; I never ask her anything. I think about asking her anyway, but someone else goes in before I make up my mind.
The counselors know how to find us legal assistance or an apartment, but I do not know if they will understand the problem we face now. They always encourage us to do everything to become more normal. I think they will say we should want this treatment even if they think it is too dangerous to try while it is still experimental. Eventually I will have to talk to someone here, but I am glad someone is ahead of me. I do not have to do it right now.
I am looking at the bulletin board with its notices of AA meetings and other support group meetings (single parents, parents of teens, job seekers) and interest group meetings (funkdance, bowling, technology assistance) when Emmy comes up to me. “Well, how’s your girlfriend?”
“I do not have a girlfriend,” I say.
“I saw her,” Emmy says. “You know I did. Don’t lie about it.”
“You saw my friend,” I say. “Not my girlfriend. A girlfriend is someone who agrees to be your girlfriend and she has not agreed.” I am not being honest and that is wrong, but I still do not want to talk to Emmy, or listen to Emmy, about Marjory.
“You asked her?” Emmy says.
“I do not want to talk to you about her,” I say, and turn away.
“Because you know I’m right,” Emmy says. She moves around me quickly, standing in front of me again. “She is one of those—call themselves normal—using us like lab rats. You’re always hanging around with that kind, Lou, and it’s not right.”
“I do not know what you mean,” I say. I see Marjory only once a week—twice the week of the grocery store—so how can that be “hanging around” with her? If I come to the Center every week and Emmy is there, does this mean I am hanging around with Emmy? I do not like that thought.
“You haven’t come to any of the special events in months,” she says. “You’re spending time with your normal friends.” She makes normal into a curse word by her tone.
I have not come to the special events because they do not interest me. A lecture on parenting skills? I have no children. A dance? The music they were going to have is not the kind I like. A pottery demo and class? I do not want to make things out of clay. Thinking about it, I realize that very little in the Center now interests me. It is an easy way to run into other autistics, but they are not all like me and I can find more people who share my interests on-line or at the office. Cameron, Bailey, Eric, Linda… we all go to the Center to meet one another before going somewhere else, but it is just a habit. We do not really need the Center, except maybe to talk to the counselors now and then.
“If you’re going to look for girlfriends, you should start with your own kind,” Emmy says.
I look at her face, with the physical signs of anger all over it—the flushed skin, the bright eyes between tense lids, the square-shaped mouth, the teeth almost together. I do not know why she is angry with me this time. I do not know why it matters to her how much time I spend at the Center. I do not think she is my kind anyway. Emmy is not autistic. I do not know her diagnosis; I do not care about her diagnosis.
“I am not looking for girlfriends,” I say.
“So, she came looking for you?”
“I said I do not want to talk about this to you,” I say. I look around. I do not see anyone else I know. I thought Bailey might be in this morning, but maybe he has figured out what I just realized. Maybe he isn’t coming because he knows he does not need the Center. I do not want to stand here and wait for Maxine to be free.
I turn to go, aware of Emmy behind me, radiating dark feelings faster than I can get away. Linda and Eric come in. Before I can say anything, Emmy blurts out, “Lou’s been seeing that girl again, that researcher.”
Linda looks down and away; she does not want to hear. She does not like to get involved in arguments anyway. Eric’s gaze brushes across my face and finds the pattern on the floor tiles. He is listening but not asking.
“I told him she was a researcher, just out to use him, but he won’t listen,” Emmy says. “I saw her myself and she’s not even pretty.”
I feel my neck getting hot. It is not fair of Emmy to say that about Marjory. She does not even know Marjory. I think Marjory is prettier than Emmy, but pretty is not the reason I like her.
“Is she trying to get you to take the treatment, Lou?” Eric asks.
“No,” I say. “We do not talk about that.”
“I do not know her,” Eric says, and turns away. Linda is already out of sight.
“You don’t want to know her,” Emmy says.
Eric turns back. “If she is Lou’s friend, you should not say bad things about her,” he says. Then he walks on, after Linda.
I think about following them, but I do not want to stay here. Emmy might follow me. She might talk more. She would talk more. It would upset Linda and Eric.
I turn to leave, and Emmy does say more. “Where are you going?” she asks. “You just got here. Don’t think you can run away from your problems, Lou!”
I can run away from her, I think. I cannot run away from work or Dr. Fornum, but I can run from Emmy. I smile, thinking that, and she turns even redder.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I am thinking about music,” I say. That is always safe. I do not want to look at her; her face is red and shiny and angry. She circles me, trying to make me face her. I look at the floor instead. “I think about music when people are angry with me,” I say. That is sometimes true.
“Oh, you’re impossible!” she says, and storms off down the hall. I wonder if she has any friends at all. I never see her with other people. That is sad, but it is not something I can fix.
Outside it feels much quieter, even though the Center is on a busy street. I do not have plans now. If I am not spending Saturday morning at the Center, I am not sure what to do. I did my laundry. My apartment is clean. The books say that we do not cope well with uncertainty or changes in schedule. Usually it does not bother me, but this morning I feel shaky inside. I do not want to think of Marjory being what Emmy says she is. What if Emmy is right? What if Marjory is lying to me? It does not feel right, but my feelings can be wrong.
I wish I could see Marjory now. I wish we were going to do something together, something where I could look at her. Just look and listen to her talk to someone else. Would I know if she liked me? I think she does like me. I do not know if she likes me a lot or a little, though. I do not know if she likes me the way she likes other men or as a grownup likes a child. I do not know how to tell. If I were normal I would know. Normal people must know, or they could not ever get married.
I take the exact right change out of my change box, plus one extra coin in case one of them won’t work in the machines. It used to make me angry when a perfectly round coin would not make the machine go. My mother taught me to take an extra coin. She said it is not good to stay angry. Sometimes a coin will work in the soft drink machine when it does not work in the washing machine or dryer, and sometimes one that will not work in the soft drink machine will work in the washing machine. This does not make sense, but it is how the world is.
I put the coins in my pocket, tuck the packet of detergent in the light basket, and set the light basket on top of the dark one. Light should go on top of dark. That balances.
I can just see over them to walk down the hall. I fix the Chopin prelude in my mind and head for the laundry room. As usual on Friday nights, only Miss Kimberly is there. She is old, with fuzzy gray hair, but not as old as Miss Watson. I wonder if she thinks about the life extension treatments or if she is too old. Miss Kimberly is wearing light-green knit slacks and a flowered top. She usually wears this on Fridays when it is warm. I think about what she wears instead of the smell in the laundry room. It is a harsh, sharp smell that I do not like.
“Good evening, Lou,” she says now. She has already done her wash and is putting her things into the left-hand dryer. She always uses the left-hand dryer.
“Good evening, Miss Kimberly,” I say. I do not look at her washing; it is rude to look at women’s washing because it may have underwear in it. Some women do not want men looking at their underwear. Some do and that makes it confusing, but Miss Kimberly is old and I do not think she wants me to see the pink puckery things in among the sheets and towels. I do not want to see them anyway.
“Did you have a good week?” she asks. She always asks this. I do not think she really cares whether I had a good week or not.
“My tires were slashed,” I say.
She stops putting things in the dryer and looks at me. “Someone slashed your tires? Here? Or at work?”
I do not know why that makes a difference. “Here,” I say. “I came out Thursday morning and they were all flat.”
She looks upset. “Right here in this parking lot? I thought it was safe here!”
“It was very inconvenient,” I say. “I was late to work.”
“But… vandals! Here!” Her face makes a shape I have never seen on it before. It is something like fear and something like disgust. Then she looks angry, staring right at me as if I had done something wrong. I look away. “I’ll have to move,” she says.
I do not understand: why does she have to move because my tires were slashed? No one could slash her tires, because she has no tires. She does not have a car.
“Did you see who did it?” she asks. She has left part of her wash hanging over the edge of the machine; it looks very messy and unpleasant, like food hanging over the edge of a plate.
“No,” I say. I take the light things out of the light basket and put them in the right-hand washing machine. I add the detergent, measuring carefully because it is wasteful to use too much and things will not be clean if I do not use enough. I put the coins in the slot, close the door, set the machine for warm wash, cool rinse, regular cycle, and push the Start button. Inside the machine, something goes thunk and water hisses through the valves.
“It’s terrible,” Miss Kimberly says. She is scooping the rest of her wash into the dryer, the movements of her hands jerky. Something puckery and pink falls to the floor; I turn away and lift clothes out of the dark basket. I put them into the middle washer. “It’s all right for people like you,” she says.
“What is all right for people like me?” I ask. She has never talked this way before.
“You’re young,” she says. “And a man. You don’t have to worry.”
I do not understand. I am not young, according to Mr. Crenshaw. I am old enough to know better. I am a man, but I do not see why this means it is all right for my tires to be slashed.
“I did not want my tires slashed,” I say, speaking slowly because I do not know what she will do.
“Well, of course you didn’t,” she says, all in a rush. Usually her skin looks pale and yellowish in the lights of the laundry room, but now peach-colored patches glow on her cheeks. “But you don’t have to worry about people jumping on you. Men.”
I look at Miss Kimberly and cannot imagine anyone jumping on her. Her hair is gray and her pink scalp shows through it on top; her skin is wrinkled and she has brown spots on her arms. I want to ask if she is serious, but I know she is serious. She does not laugh, even at me when I drop something.
“I am sorry you are worried,” I say, shaking detergent into the washer full of dark things. I put the coins into the slot. The dryer door bangs shut; I had forgotten about the dryer, trying to understand Miss Kimberly, and my hand jerks. One of the coins misses the slot and falls into the wash. I will have to take everything out to find it, and the detergent will spill off the clothes onto the washer. I feel a buzzing in my head.
“Thank you, Lou,” Miss Kimberly says. Her voice is calmer, warmer. I am surprised. I did not expect to say the right thing. “What’s wrong?” she asks as I start lifting out the clothes, shaking them so most of the detergent falls back into the washing machine.
“I dropped a coin in,” I say.
She is coming closer. I do not want her to come closer. She wears a strong perfume, very sweet-smelling.
“Just use another. That one’ll be really clean when you take the clothes out,” she says.
I stand still a moment, the clothes in my hand. Can I leave that coin in? I have the spare in my pocket. I drop the clothes and reach for the coin in my pocket. It is the right size. I put it in the slot, close the door, set the machine, and push Start. Again the thunk, the hiss of water. I feel strange inside. I thought I understood Miss Kimberly before, when she was the predictable old lady who washed her clothes on Friday night, as I do. I thought I understood her a few minutes ago, at least to understand that she was upset about something. But she thought of a solution so fast, while I was thinking she was still upset. How did she do that? Is that something normal people can do all the time?
“It’s easier than taking the clothes out,” she says. “This way you don’t get stuff on the machine and have to clean it up. I always bring some extra coins just in case.” She laughs, a little dry laugh. “As I get older, my hands shake sometimes.” She pauses, looking at me. I am still wondering how she did that, but I realize she is waiting for something from me. It is always appropriate to say thank you, even when you aren’t sure why.
“Thank you,” I say.
It was the right thing to say again; she smiles.
“You’re a nice man, Lou; I’m sorry about your tires,” she says. She looks at her watch. “I need to go make some phone calls; are you going to be here? To watch the dryer?”
“I will be downstairs,” I say. “Not in this room; it is too noisy.” I have said this before when she has asked me to keep an eye on her clothes. I always think of taking out an eye and putting it on the clothes, but I do not tell her that is what I think. I know what the expression means socially, but it is a silly meaning. She nods and smiles and goes out. I check again that the setting on both washers is correct and then go out into the hall.
The floor in the laundry room is ugly gray concrete, sloping down slightly to a big drain under the washing machines. I know the drain is there because two years ago I brought my washing down and workmen were there. They had moved the machines out and had the cover off the drain. It smelled very bad, sour and sick.
The floor in the hall is tile, each tile streaked with two shades of green on beige. The tiles are twelve-inch squares; the hall is five squares wide and forty-five and a half squares long. The person who laid the tiles laid them so that the streaks are crosswise to each other—each tile is laid so that the streaks are facing ninety degrees to the tile next to it. Most of the tiles are laid in one of two ways, but eight of them are laid upside down to the other tiles in the same orientation.
I like to look at this hall and think about those eight tiles. What pattern could be completed by having those eight tiles laid in reverse? So far I have come up with three possible patterns. I tried to tell Tom about it once, but he was not able to see the patterns in his head the way I can. I drew them all out on a sheet of paper, but soon I could tell that he was bored. It is not polite to bore people. I never tried to talk to him about it again.
But I find it endlessly interesting. When I get tired of the floor—but I never do get tired of the floor—I can look at the walls. All the walls in the hall are painted, but on one wall there was tile-patterned wallboard before. Those pretend tiles were four inches on a side, but unlike the floor tiles, the pretend wall tiles had a space for pretend grout. So the real pattern size is four and a half inches. If it were four inches, then three wall tiles would make one floor tile.
I look for the places where the line between the tiles can go up the wall and over the ceiling and back around without stopping. There is one place in this hall where the line almost makes it, but not quite. I used to think if the hall were twice as long there would be two places, but that’s not how it works. When I really look at it, I can tell that the hall would have to be five and a third times as long for all the lines to match exactly twice.
Hearing one washing machine whine down from spin, I go back into the laundry room. I know that it takes me exactly that long to arrive at the machine just as the drum stops turning. It is a kind of game, to take that last step when the machine takes its last turn. The left-hand dryer is still mumbling and bumbling; I take my wet clothes and put them in the empty right-hand dryer. By the time I have them all in and have checked to be sure nothing is left in the washer, the second washer comes spinning down. Once last year I worked out the relationship between the frictional force slowing the rotation and the frequency of the sound it makes. I did it by myself, without a computer, which made it more fun.
I take my clothes from the second machine, and there at the bottom is the missing coin, shiny and clean and smooth in my fingers. I put it in my pocket, put the clothes into the dryer, insert the coins, and start it up. Long ago, I used to watch the tumbling clothes and try to figure out what the pattern was—why this time the arm of a red sweatshirt was in front of the blue robe, falling down and around, and next time the same red arm was between the yellow sweatpants and the pillowcase instead. My mother didn’t like it when I mumbled while watching the clothes rise and fall, so I learned to do it all in my head.
Miss Kimberly comes back just as the dryer with her clothes in it stops. She smiles at me. She has a plate with some cookies on it. “Thanks, Lou,” she says. She holds out the plate. “Have a cookie. I know boys—I mean young men—like cookies.”
She brings cookies almost every week. I do not always like the kind of cookie she brings, but it is not polite to say so. This week it is lemon crisps. I like them a lot. I take three. She puts the plate on the folding table and takes her things out of the dryer. She puts them in her basket; she does not fold her clothes down here. “Just bring the plate up when you’re done, Lou,” she says. This is the same as last week.
“Thank you, Miss Kimberly,” I say.
“You’re quite welcome,” she says, as she always does.
I finish the cookies, dust the crumbs into the trash basket, and fold my laundry before going upstairs. I hand her the plate and go on to my apartment.
On Saturday mornings, I go to the center. One of the counselors is available from 8:30 to 12:00, and once a month there’s a special program. Today there is no program, but Maxine, one of the counselors, is walking toward the conference room when I arrive. Bailey did not say if she was the counselor they talked to last week. Maxine wears orange lipstick and purple eye shadow; I never ask her anything. I think about asking her anyway, but someone else goes in before I make up my mind.
The counselors know how to find us legal assistance or an apartment, but I do not know if they will understand the problem we face now. They always encourage us to do everything to become more normal. I think they will say we should want this treatment even if they think it is too dangerous to try while it is still experimental. Eventually I will have to talk to someone here, but I am glad someone is ahead of me. I do not have to do it right now.
I am looking at the bulletin board with its notices of AA meetings and other support group meetings (single parents, parents of teens, job seekers) and interest group meetings (funkdance, bowling, technology assistance) when Emmy comes up to me. “Well, how’s your girlfriend?”
“I do not have a girlfriend,” I say.
“I saw her,” Emmy says. “You know I did. Don’t lie about it.”
“You saw my friend,” I say. “Not my girlfriend. A girlfriend is someone who agrees to be your girlfriend and she has not agreed.” I am not being honest and that is wrong, but I still do not want to talk to Emmy, or listen to Emmy, about Marjory.
“You asked her?” Emmy says.
“I do not want to talk to you about her,” I say, and turn away.
“Because you know I’m right,” Emmy says. She moves around me quickly, standing in front of me again. “She is one of those—call themselves normal—using us like lab rats. You’re always hanging around with that kind, Lou, and it’s not right.”
“I do not know what you mean,” I say. I see Marjory only once a week—twice the week of the grocery store—so how can that be “hanging around” with her? If I come to the Center every week and Emmy is there, does this mean I am hanging around with Emmy? I do not like that thought.
“You haven’t come to any of the special events in months,” she says. “You’re spending time with your normal friends.” She makes normal into a curse word by her tone.
I have not come to the special events because they do not interest me. A lecture on parenting skills? I have no children. A dance? The music they were going to have is not the kind I like. A pottery demo and class? I do not want to make things out of clay. Thinking about it, I realize that very little in the Center now interests me. It is an easy way to run into other autistics, but they are not all like me and I can find more people who share my interests on-line or at the office. Cameron, Bailey, Eric, Linda… we all go to the Center to meet one another before going somewhere else, but it is just a habit. We do not really need the Center, except maybe to talk to the counselors now and then.
“If you’re going to look for girlfriends, you should start with your own kind,” Emmy says.
I look at her face, with the physical signs of anger all over it—the flushed skin, the bright eyes between tense lids, the square-shaped mouth, the teeth almost together. I do not know why she is angry with me this time. I do not know why it matters to her how much time I spend at the Center. I do not think she is my kind anyway. Emmy is not autistic. I do not know her diagnosis; I do not care about her diagnosis.
“I am not looking for girlfriends,” I say.
“So, she came looking for you?”
“I said I do not want to talk about this to you,” I say. I look around. I do not see anyone else I know. I thought Bailey might be in this morning, but maybe he has figured out what I just realized. Maybe he isn’t coming because he knows he does not need the Center. I do not want to stand here and wait for Maxine to be free.
I turn to go, aware of Emmy behind me, radiating dark feelings faster than I can get away. Linda and Eric come in. Before I can say anything, Emmy blurts out, “Lou’s been seeing that girl again, that researcher.”
Linda looks down and away; she does not want to hear. She does not like to get involved in arguments anyway. Eric’s gaze brushes across my face and finds the pattern on the floor tiles. He is listening but not asking.
“I told him she was a researcher, just out to use him, but he won’t listen,” Emmy says. “I saw her myself and she’s not even pretty.”
I feel my neck getting hot. It is not fair of Emmy to say that about Marjory. She does not even know Marjory. I think Marjory is prettier than Emmy, but pretty is not the reason I like her.
“Is she trying to get you to take the treatment, Lou?” Eric asks.
“No,” I say. “We do not talk about that.”
“I do not know her,” Eric says, and turns away. Linda is already out of sight.
“You don’t want to know her,” Emmy says.
Eric turns back. “If she is Lou’s friend, you should not say bad things about her,” he says. Then he walks on, after Linda.
I think about following them, but I do not want to stay here. Emmy might follow me. She might talk more. She would talk more. It would upset Linda and Eric.
I turn to leave, and Emmy does say more. “Where are you going?” she asks. “You just got here. Don’t think you can run away from your problems, Lou!”
I can run away from her, I think. I cannot run away from work or Dr. Fornum, but I can run from Emmy. I smile, thinking that, and she turns even redder.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I am thinking about music,” I say. That is always safe. I do not want to look at her; her face is red and shiny and angry. She circles me, trying to make me face her. I look at the floor instead. “I think about music when people are angry with me,” I say. That is sometimes true.
“Oh, you’re impossible!” she says, and storms off down the hall. I wonder if she has any friends at all. I never see her with other people. That is sad, but it is not something I can fix.
Outside it feels much quieter, even though the Center is on a busy street. I do not have plans now. If I am not spending Saturday morning at the Center, I am not sure what to do. I did my laundry. My apartment is clean. The books say that we do not cope well with uncertainty or changes in schedule. Usually it does not bother me, but this morning I feel shaky inside. I do not want to think of Marjory being what Emmy says she is. What if Emmy is right? What if Marjory is lying to me? It does not feel right, but my feelings can be wrong.
I wish I could see Marjory now. I wish we were going to do something together, something where I could look at her. Just look and listen to her talk to someone else. Would I know if she liked me? I think she does like me. I do not know if she likes me a lot or a little, though. I do not know if she likes me the way she likes other men or as a grownup likes a child. I do not know how to tell. If I were normal I would know. Normal people must know, or they could not ever get married.