Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh
4 April, 1994 . . . 15:31
For the fourth
or fifth time this winter
Inside, he's typing on his laptop. The only
laptop in
The still-young-at-37 typist sits in the corner deciding, weighing, pondering. What should he do? What can he do? How should he live the rest of his life?
He's been scrambling, scraping to get by, but not as much or as well as he should. He hasn't been as successful as he needs to be.
A man with a cigar in his mouth comes in to the bagelry. It's not lit . . . yet. The laptop typist watches the man. He hates smoke, and smokers disgust him. He hangs out in this bagel eatery, partially-even principally-because of the big NO SMOKING symbols eye-level on the front doors.
The man doesn't light. He just keeps the medium-sized plastic-tipped cigar in his mouth and hands. He sucks on it every minute or two like it's the pacifier that it is.
The typist relaxes. He stops glaring at the man and downgrades his alert status, glancing at the man every minute or two to make sure none of the noxious fumes are kindled.
The typist sits. Sometimes he's paralyzed with indecision. Can he practice law? Does he have the stomach for it?
Earlier today, another lawyer called to find out if he still represented a young couple who'd broken their lease last Christmas. The landlord wants $1400.00, even though the couple gave the landlord a month's rent and 60 days notice when they left. They've just had a baby and can't afford to pay.
This lawyer, and this landlord, made the typist mad. Why can't they just leave the young couple alone? The landlord's already gotten more than he deserves. The couple won't be able to afford the typist's help, and he won't be able to help them without pay. He tells the lawyer to send everything through him. He wants to protect the young couple. His adrenaline goes off.
When he hung up he knew that it's the little cases that really hurt. If the Heinz Company or AT&T lose a case its no real matter. Children don't go hungry, cars don't forego repairs, tuition still gets paid. It's the little cases that make him mad, raise his blood pressure, and will shorten his life if he lets them. And it's the little cases that don't pay his bills.
The cigar man lights up. The typist smells it. Some kind of cherry Tiparillo. The typist looks over, sees the plume of smoke rising from the overweight middle-aged fool's lips and nostrils. The typist springs up.
"You can't smoke in here" he says, pointing to the door, with its big THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING lettering.
The puffer is doe-eyed. His expression is equal-part embarrassment and chagrin. He doesn't speak but rushes his fuming weed out the door. Twenty seconds later he's back inside, sans tobacco, but now his expression denotes annoyance. He stares briefly at the typist, whose saccharine thanks he ignores.
The typist goes back to his thoughts. It's the little cases that really get to him.
The snow accumulates. The white flakes, heavier and wetter now, blanket the gradually stilling streets.
Text © 1994 Bill Frick (All Rights Reserved)
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