The Good American

Published here http://kenagain.freeservers.com/PROSE.HTML

The crowded elevator rode up in silence. For the third time that day Robert went through his elevator routine, checking his messages and schedule on his mobile phone, then turning to straighten his tie in the mirror. His hair was a fraction overgrown, he observed once again. He would have to visit the hairdresser for a trim. There was a break in his schedule on Friday.

Between the sixth and seventh floors the elevator shook and trembled, then abruptly ground to a halt. All eyes turned to the display panel, as if those digital numbers could tell them anything. The time had not come for speaking, however. Momentary glitches such as this occurred now and then and one would appear foolish to break the silence. Save that for a real emergency, which likely would never come.

Indeed, the car was soon on its way again and Robert was safely deposited on the tenth floor. He nodded to the usual faces, having greeted them once already that day, got coffee from the machine and went through to his cubicle. There were a few e-mails in need of reply before the afternoon's meeting.

The objective of the meeting was to agree on a retail outlet for the new product. Consensus favored the Rosakis chain, which dealt exclusively with top-of-the-range merchandise. Robert had known this would be the outcome.

He sat back and listened to the others making their points. Steinmeyer was running the show anyway, as always. He was an ass-hole but he was just the kind of ass-hole who was good for this business. Like Henderson and Fritz, he wore a shirt of the glacier blue shade then much in vogue, cuffs unbuttoned and folded back twice in the prevalent fashion - the 'JFK movie' look. Robert decided he would have to get himself a shirt in that color, and a burgundy tie like Steinmeyer's. They went well together.

Jennifer fell in beside him as he made his way back to the office after the meeting. "Heard the latest on Fernando?"

"That subway business? Sure. He chased a kid who'd snatched a handbag, got into a scuffle with him and came away with a broken hand. Old hat."

"That's not the end of it," said Jennifer triumphantly. "The kid's parents have pressed charges. Fernando's up for assault on an eighteen-year-old."

Robert blew the air out of his cheeks. "Wow! Poor guy. Tries to help out and winds up with a busted metacarpal - and a felony rap."

"Said he was fool enough to give chase while everyone else just stood back and watched. Things get complicated very quickly."

"They do," Robert agreed. "Best to keep your head low and stay out a these things, like a good American."

"Amen to that!" said Jennifer.

They came to the elevator and waited for the car. A fellow from the accounts department joined them and they were obliged to avert their eyes. The silly dope had left his fly undone.

At six o'clock Robert closed his computer down and left the office. He picked up a Danish on the way to the bus stop. Not for the first time, he observed that the filling was almost non-existent. They used to sell good pastries at that place but it had gone downhill lately. He would buy them elsewhere, if only there were another outlet between his office and the bus stop.

The six-fifteen arrived and Robert took a seat behind the driver, facing the aisle. The front page of his newspaper told of more violence in the Middle East. He went straight to the financial pages, as was his custom.

"The emperor has no clothes!"

Robert glanced up from his newspaper in surprise. It was an old black man who had spoken. He was on the seat opposite, leaning forward and gazing at the newspaper with slightly bloodshot eyes. Robert flushed uncomfortably as he realized the comment had been directed at him. What was he to say to something like that? The fellow was obviously crazy.

"It's a good adaptation. I saw it last week."

Flipping his newspaper around, Robert saw that the old man was referring to a play running at the O'Neill Theater that month. He looked back at him and smiled in polite acknowledgement. As he did so his eye fell on a small tear in the fellow's jacket.

The other passengers were peering curiously at them. Robert felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead and hoped that no one would notice. He cleared his throat and buried himself in the Market Data section once more.

Mercifully the old-timer got off a few stops later and Robert was able to relax. The incident had quite unsettled him. It was not the done thing, to speak to people you didn't know. He had not been sure how to react.

He stared out the window at the traffic flowing by in its orderly rows; green buses, yellow cabs, white, silver, blue and grey sedans. Pedestrians marched along in their summer clothes; women in their airy blouses and skirts or straight jeans; men in their shirtsleeves and slacks. The bus was making good time, he noted. He ought to be home by seven.

Three blocks from his home, however, the bus came to an abrupt halt, sending passengers hurtling forward in their seats. Looking beyond the driver, Robert saw through the windscreen the bizarre spectacle of a motorcyclist spinning along the road ahead of them, his bike careering away to the left and ricocheting off a car in the next lane.

For some moments nobody moved. The cars and buses had all stopped. The pedestrians nearby either paused to gawk or merely continued on their way. Robert experienced the prickle of sweat on his forehead again. A man was lying out there in the street, evidently injured, perhaps gravely, and he did not know how to react. Should he get out and try to help? But what could he do? To move a guy like that might prove dangerous. Robert was not trained in first aid after-all. No, better to leave it to those who knew what they were doing. Things could get complicated very quickly.

It was a surreal space of time. Two or three people came forward to help the fallen rider. Then a police officer appeared and began to divert the traffic around him. Robert looked down as the bus went by but could obtain no glimpse of the victim's features nor discern anything of his condition. A little further along the blare of a siren reached his ears. It was a sound he heard almost daily, only on this occasion it bore some significance in his life.

Robert could have walked those last three blocks more quickly than the bus carried him. The accident had proved no minor disruption. Nonetheless, it was only a little after seven when he reached his apartment. Again the text message-schedule routine as he rode the elevator up. The succulent aroma of grilling steaks welcomed him when he entered his home. Of course. It was Tuesday.

He poked his head into his son's room. Colin was at his computer playing war games. Robert had to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to remove the earphones so he could say hi. The boy revolved his chubby features around: "Hey, Pa." Then he was back at his game, shooting wildly, whooping with delight at every hit.

Further down the hall Robert knocked on Toni's door, invariably closed. "Come in." He did so and found her seated cross-legged on her bed, watching 'Sex' on DVD. Robert was not too certain he wanted his teen-aged daughter watching a show like that. But Marianne assured him the Schulers allowed their kids to watch it, and they were regular church-goers, so probably there was no harm. Besides, Toni was given to quite fearsome tantrums these days, when she couldn't get her way, and he had no desire to go through all that.

"You've dyed your hair again," he observed as they exchanged a brief hug.

"Oh, Pa, it's only henna. It's like all the rage at school."

"No, no. It looks fine," he said, though privately he thought it made her look like a Flinstone.

He left her to her sitcom and made his way to the kitchen. Marianne greeted him with a peck on the cheek. Her hands were all grimy from the cooking.

"Go and put your feet up, dear. It'll be ready in fifteen minutes."

This he did. The news was on television and provided a visual account of the story he had seen on the front page of the newspaper. Scores killed that day, three US soldiers among them, prompting renewed calls for the withdrawal of American troops from the region. The images of bloodshed were not confined to the Middle East either. It seemed the whole world was in turmoil. Thank god they were safe in America! The economic news followed and brought more cheerful tidings.

Robert popped open a bottle of Californian red wine to go with the meal. His steak was well-done, just the way he liked it. He proposed a toast to his wife. She knew how to look after him.

"Forrest Travel Agency called today," she informed him. "Everything's been confirmed: flight times, airport transfer, hotel reservations, sightseeing trips, even your game of golf!"

"Excellent." He smiled back at her. "So all we gotta do is show up."

"That's why we always deal with Forrest, dear. They have the best package tours going."

Robert chewed his steak a while. He was unable to get the image of the motorcyclist out of his mind. Perhaps it would help to share it with Marianne.

"Oh, I'm sure he was alright," she said dismissively. "So long as he had his helmet it on."

It was a response that Robert found vaguely annoying. She hadn't seen the man, spinning along the road like a flimsy rag doll. He sometimes felt his wife was out of touch with reality. Better to change the subject.

"Well, Fernando's up on an assault charge, you know. The handbag-snatcher's folks are takin' him to court."

"He should never have got involved," Marianne replied, and stood up to clear the dishes.

After dinner they went through to the living room to watch television. There was a movie on that night about the Vietnam War. Robert was a big fan of war movies. There was the adventure, danger, heroism and tragedy that he would never experience in his own life. Nor would he want to, of course. He had a wife and two children to take care of. The screen of the television was as close as he ever wanted to get to that kind of action.

Shortly before they retired for bed, they heard the banging and shouting again. The first few times they had not been sure if it was actually real or just something one of their neighbors was watching on television. But the banging now carried a muffled vibration with it. The man's voice was rough and monotonous; the woman's an outraged shriek that descended to a mournful wail as the drama progressed. Once or twice they thought they heard a child cry out.

Marianne looked across from her armchair. "Don't you think we ought a call the police or something, dear? This is really quite a disturbance."

"Let someone else do it," he advised her. "We don't wanna get caught up in this. Things can get complicated very quickly."

"I supposed you're right. We might end up having to go downtown and sign statements, or even appear in court or whatever."

Robert nodded in accord. "Best to keep our heads low and our noses clean, like good Americans," he said.

Later that night they were startled from their dreams by what sounded like a gunshot. A short while later the blare of a siren pierced the silence.

end