Working it Out, Ava-Rose Beech

Working it Out

It began to rain— a midsummer New York storm— as a tall, lanky, forlorn figure walked out of an industrial building. Robert Johnson had just been turned down for another job opportunity, the third one this week. This would have been a well paying elite office job. But of course he didn’t get it, in retrospective it was almost foolish of Johnson have tried. He thought of Mr. Smith, his would-have-been boss staring at him with disgust, “I can’t give you this job, that’s the end of it…” He had said He pulled his thin coat around his body; it didn’t offer much protection. Office workers in well-cut suits gave him dirty looks as he walked down the busy street. Johnson quickened his pace and headed for the subway to catch the A train and go home. He grabbed a damp discarded newspaper off the station floor from that morning. At 125th street he got off the train and walked slowly for a couple blocks. He came up to a dark, depressing apartment building. Inside that building his family was waiting in apprehension, hoping he would come home with good news: a new job that paid reasonable money. They would have heating, food and new clothes. Johnson stopped for a minute, staring with an expressionless face at the front of the rundown building, and then walked on. He reached the local park, sat down and sighed. A tear rolled down his handsome but careworn features as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap bottle of bourbon. The liquid burnt his throat, it was like drinking fire. He closed his eyes, leaning against the plastic bench as the rain persisted to pour down. Robert glanced down at a sodden piece of paper in a puddle on the ground. He picked it up; Dr.Martin Luther King speaking at the Antioch Baptist Church 125th street: Sunday August 16th, 1967. A large picture of Dr. King’s inspirational and familiar face was blown up in black and white. Johnson felt a surge of joy in his heart. A man walked by, his young daughter tugging on his pant leg. The stranger scooped the child up into his arms,

40 Pillars of Salt

tickling her under the chin. Johnson sharply looked away, a few more tears stinging his eyes. He composed himself, got up and wandered back along the street to his apartment. He slowly climbed the steps to the third floor, Apartment D. Inside, Linda Johnson was nursing a small baby girl while the couple’s ten year-old twin sons, Stephen and Jerome, wrestled each other. Johnson smiling shakily. “Hello!” he exclaimed in a falsely cheery voice. “Daddy! Daddy!” High-pitched voices yelled and the two boys came bounding over, shaking the rickety floorboards. Stephen jumped up and hugged his father, holding him tight, Jerome held back. “What’s up son?” “Nothin’ Pa,” the small, skinny child answered. “What’s wrong with your face, let me see that,” Robert looked over to his wife, lifting his son’s chin, and then examined a swollen lip. “Some boys on the bus were givin’ him trouble,” she answered quietly, “He says he won’t take the bus tomorrow.” “Your gonna have to, sorry boy, you’ll be all right,” his father reassured him softly. Linda looked over at her husband. A flash of worry crossed her face, the happy façade she maintained for the children momentarily broken. The young boys demanded their father’s attention. Linda looked away, her face unreadable now. Johnson sighed. “Time for bed, boys,” he smiled. “No, no Daddy no!” They scrambled around the room. “Yes now,” said their father, sternly. Later in the privacy of the couple’s darkened bedroom, Johnson began to peel off his clothes, ridding himself of the wearisome day he had experienced

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yet again. He sat on the narrow bed, staring at the blank yellow-stained wall, desperately wondering what to tell his wife. Linda walked in, tears welling up in her huge dark eyes. Johnson turned his body to face her, slowly shaking his head. “Okay, okay it’s okay,” Linda repeated again and again, as though she was reassuring herself more than him. “I. I’m…” Johnson mumbled “Shhh.” Linda walked over and kissed her husband on the forehead. She opened the closet and took out his only suit shirt, dress pants and jacket, wrinkled from the day. She went to the sink and washed the shirt, then carefully ironed the jacket and pants. Johnson took a bottle of polish from the closet and rubbed his shoes intensely until they were shining. Diligently, he shaved the dark stubble off his chin. He took the morning’s paper and turned to the situations wanted section, circling possible options half-heartedly. Doorman age 25-45, married, neat in appearance and at least 5’11. Full time position, salary: $125 a week. Driver (truck) for trash routes needed. Must have excellent driving record. Salesman, salary: $150 a week. For ambitious reliable male. Robert folded the paper neatly, turned the light off, shut his eyes and lay down on the bed next to his wife, starting over.

Ava-Rose Beech ’16

42 Pillars of Salt