The office is purging itself, up from the guts of the subterranean parkinggarage, with everyone off to their own — it’s almost Xmas, the holiday all the receptionists, secretaries, and paralegals observe…and a Merry Merry to you, too, to you and yours from me and mine and all of us here at Goldenberg, Goldenberg, & Israelien. With the support staff gone all next week, everyone else takes off — if not for their secretaries, what would get done? Cups without coffee. Briefs long blank. File the lack of an alphabet.
He searches his small office refrigerator — as empty as it’d been gifted to him, by friends of the family, after wasting an afternoon fixing a speeding ticket, assault more like an unfortunate misunderstanding for their son, a classmate of Rubina’s. At least it’s plugged in. Amid the silence, the thing cantors low.
It’s not that he’s still hungry or thirsty — after that sandwich too late, and this with Shabbos stuffed in the oven of home — it’s something else, something different: the refrigerator’s new magnet, TGIF it acronyms THANK GOD IT’S…his secretary, Hanna, no, Lorna, no — wait, he’ll find it, he’d scribbled it down once on the back of a businesscard, just in case — her name’s Loreta, yes, Loreta she’s always picking these magnets up wherever she shops, who knows, his wife’s habit, too, just as bad.
Nothing left to do, nothing expected of him until the Monday after this Monday expected, there’s no reason he’s here, no excuse, he should go home, his wife’s pregnant, expecting any breath, any any, but he won’t, if it’s expectations we’re talking, how he doesn’t, he stays, he works late; wraps a rubberband around his fingers as if in the hand of phylacteries, Shadai, holds a paperweight in the rubberband, tugs to tension, lets go, with the rubberband as a sling today’s paperweight’s hurled across desk, floor, office, through the air, misses the trash — a David he’s not. Around the trash are scattered months of paperweights, all the same model, moonily lucent and round — his secretary’s always picking these up for him whenever she goes on vacation wherever she goes, Loreta, he’ll remember it now: this specimen like the others says MIAMI across the top and he hates Miami, that he’ll never forget, that’s where his father lives, where his mother did, too, but his father; my daughters won’t grow up to marry like that, so he says, my daughters’ll never grow up. Holes in the wall where he’d overshot the trash, when the paperweights’d hit plaster, insulation, embedded.
It’s just around that time for Maintenance, the sanitation engineers due to slink in, dragging with them their pails and mops: he always avoids their eyes on his way out, reddened, sloshy, inflamed with powdered soaps, disinfectant sprays, it’s too terrible — how in their blindness, you see how you’re cleansed. A flesh hunched into woman stops at the door, smiles lone tooth, thumbs at his trash. He nods, she lifts it to dump into her trash kept on wheels.
TGIF. MIAMI. M.y I. A.ches M.y I, why these stupid diversions. Paperweights, there are none in his trash.
Wasting in his office, waiting for the Voice — amid the wilderness of petty dispute, for a test, a message garbled with grace, anything pressingly Urgent, requiring Attention whether immediate in action or reflective in referral and thought, anything to keep him in re: here, and so to keep him away from there, preemptive prophecy rescheduling Them. Home. And a goodnight to the window scheduled to his face. Merry Xmas. Nu, to you, too, take it easy…as he orders his work, shuffles paper, clips, throws all to a drawer of the stomach. Soon, his desk’s empty except for the calendrical blotter, his planner, which is showing two months and this month, the months prior and next shown smaller than this, shrunk, the past inked in with slashes. Fingers stained have marked with dark the month foretold at lower right. A moon revolves around the days of his planner, bleeds through boxes of weeks, wax to wane, fulling and renewing itself.
Too many engagements to appointment his keeping; familiar keys amid the wide, soothing hallway fluorescence: he nods to the janitorial shadow darkening the door to his office, which nods in return as it’s sunned, as it’s setting.
I rest my case, my feet and their boils.
A diploma, hung from a reverent nail, slid verticalways, then fell from the wall last week; he’d propped it on a shelf since, against a wall of family photos, which are doubles of those hung in the house. A tarnished metal nameplate upon the obverse of his door. An artifact already, scrape it with a toothbrush for six million years. If any teeth might survive. His name’s embossed on its brass. Though it’s nearly unreadable by now, quartercentury into this work, his name’s still what it was, and is good.
ISRAEL ISRAELIEN. And then a, a comma. And then it says ESQ., as if you had any doubts.
A sign out front, over Reception:
