Sandwich
for
a
Joke
Weijia Quarterly
by Norman Feliks
Coming from the Jersey side, Oscar was nearly done walking the twoand-a-half mile span of the Holland Tunnel. By then he was taking small steps and with many of them his toes tapped the backs of his ankles. The tunnel’s ventilation system had stopped working and its lamps were also malfunctioning. He dragged his fingertips along the tiles of the wall to keep sense of a straight line. From behind came the slow headlights of two cars. They were close together and seemed like a single vehicle, and the trailing one had to honk at a drifting cyclist. Oscar’s skinny body jolted so rigidly that someone laughed at him. Occasionally a cop would shine a flashlight in someone’s face. Otherwise the respirator and utility vest-wearing police looked like yellow x-shapes, faint, then very bright, then very faint. Most of the travelers were on bicycles and when a car was coming up from behind, their reflectors reminded Oscar of fireflies. From the day the right lane had been clogged by pedestrians and cyclists there grew a pile of shopping carts and other abandoned things shoved and kicked tight to the wall. The authorities had since cleared all of this away; once in a while there was a foul wet spot on the asphalt and cement that smelled stronger than the thickening exhaust. At the appearance of light at the end of the tunnel, Oscar stopped walking to squint and make sure it was real. Someone bumped into him and mumbled an apology. After this person had passed far enough ahead, the spot of light returned. When he staggered out into the fresh air, everything was intensely clear under the quarter moon. On the other side of the fence were bright piles of the squeezed and mangled shopping carts, tires, empty suitcases and whatever else had been cleared from the tunnel and thrown over. There were more police and many loiterers. Most were silent, but a loud minority were talking and gesticulating. Where the ramp sloped up to it, a row of people were seated on a concrete ledge, their breath just visible in the moonlight. “Jesus, fellas, in the old days you’d only see that sort of firepower in high schools,” Oscar said, passing between the submachine gun-equipped bouncers. He weaved his way between tables and chairs through the narrow club until he reached the men’s room. Inside, finding himself alone, he looked in the mirror. He needed glasses but didn’t have any. He leaned in closer. “Fuck,” he whispered.
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He wet his oily skin and thin hair. He closed the tap, made a wad of towels, and ran it over his head, clearing grit from the creases of his brow. Just twenty-five, any youth left in his face showed only when he was alone, by an uncertainness in his eyes. Throwing his brown corduroy suit jacket over the door of the stall, he went in and closed it behind him. From the pocket of the hanging jacket he fished a compact of his girlfriend’s blush. He opened it, peered into the little round mirror, and started powdering health onto his cheeks. Shortly Oscar was leaning against the bar, surveying the room. About half the seats were filled. It was a good crowd size and would probably not grow any more. They were even better dressed than usual. Two men in one of the booths were even wearing tuxedos. When people clapped, metal shone and stones twinkled on their raised hands. The ladies’ dresses were in many beautiful colors and for a second or two Oscar stared into a deep cobalt blue. When no one was looking he picked up what was left of a beer that had been cleared from one of the tables and finished it. His lips were wet and his eyes were tired. The club’s recorded welcoming came over its PA system. The host, Karen O’Donnell, went up to the mic and introduced herself to the crowd. After warming them up, she introduced Oscar. He went to the stage and uneasily up its stairs. His knees were bent and quivering as he approached the microphone. “Karen O’Donnell, everyone! Isn’t she great? No, seriously, be honest. I wasn’t listening to her.” The host popped her head back through the exit and gave Oscar the finger. The laughing crowd followed his gaze to her; but when their eyes returned to the stage, he was falling over. His palm came down on the high keys of the piano. Still holding the mic stand with one hand, he pushed his left foot as far as it would go and did a sweep of the keys, high to low, like a jazz pianist. He then righted himself, turned to face the crowd, and bowed to them. They laughed and applauded. O’Donnell remained, watching. “So I came in tonight from New Jersey,” Oscar began. By rote, the audience laughed. “Really? We still laugh at Jersey? The way I see it, all that went down is that the rest of the country became like New Jersey. People in Trenton who don’t watch the news have no idea anything happened. Actually, I think really the last to catch on were thieves – because they’re the ones who pay the least attention to how much things cost. Like, once in a while a looter probably notices the price tag on a loaf of bread and is like, ‘Holy shit, I just committed grand larceny at a corner store!’” Oscar’s eyes drifted up to an arbitrary point on the ceiling. He spoke in a folksy, conversational tone that clashed with the eerily surprised expression
Issue no. 2
A
21