Harry looked sheepishly around the car to see if any of the dozen-or-so other passengers had been watching this little bit of morning rush hour slap-stick. They all seemed to be looking off in different directions. Now he was sure they had. An uncharacteristic anger started to build within him. He muttered several curse words, almost audible to the other riders, slammed his briefcase around a bit as he made his way from the very front of the first car to the rear door in time for the City Hall stop. He would now have to walk several extra blocks, including the entire length of the train, to get to his office.
Kresge decided that this must be some kind of omen. It either meant that he was embarking on what would be a very bad day, or that he was being taken out of his way so that some unbelievably good luck would befall him. He decided to look for signs along his detour. He mustn't miss the signs.
Before he had descended into the subway in Queens, it seemed as if the day had been photographed in technicolor. Now, as he climbed the stairs to the street in Manhattan, he noticed that the sky was an abstract of threatening clouds, all sketched in charcoal. Was this a sign? If it was, then his first inclination, that this would be a bad day, was surely the correct one.
As he started up Lafayette Street past the Federal Building, Harry noticed that they were erecting some kind of sculpture in the park across the street, in front of the famous courthouse where they had filmed Somebody Up There Likes Me and numerous other movies. There was a crane lifting a big piece into place. A man, the sculptor, perhaps, was waiving his arms, directing the movement like an orchestra conductor. "What can this mean?" Harry wondered. Surely he had been routed past this scene for a reason.
Kresge was settling in behind his desk when the phone rang. It was a woman who claimed to be an old client. Harry didn't recognize her right away. After a few questions, he remembered that many years before he had gotten her son off on a gun charge in the Bronx. It was a dead case, but the jury had acquitted him anyway. They didn't like the cops. They never like the cops in the Bronx.
The son was a huge good-natured man, whom Harry had trusted enough to let the case go to trial with him still owing him a grand in attorney's fees. When the jury rendered its verdict, the man turned and hugged Harry and told him, "Don't worry about your money, I'll give it to you as soon as I get my tax refund." That was twenty years ago. About nineteen years ago, Kresge tired of chasing his money and wrote it off. Maybe this was payoff time. Maybe that's what all this omen stuff was about. Harry reminded the woman that her son still owed him the money.
She replied, "Oh Shawn...? He don't pay none of his bills. Why, he been in jail a few times since you was his lawyer. He even done four years in state prison. I ain't calling about him, I'm calling about my grandson. He just got arrested for drugs and then a parole violation was dropped on him. You think you can help me?"
"Come down to my office with five hundred cash as soon as you can," Harry told her, hopefully.
"Okay. How about tomorrow? You open on Saturday?" she asked.
"Tell me what time you're coming, I'll be here," Harry responded. He had two bucks in his pocket. He had been wondering how he was going to get through the weekend. He set it up for 1:30 the next afternoon. It was all set. He was giving her directions.
"You know what..., I'm changing my mind," she said. "The weekend is just too much for me. I'll come down to your office on Monday, after work."
There was nothing he could do. He had to maintain some pretense of dignity. "Okay, Monday, 4:00 p.m. Tell Shawn to give me a call! Maybe he'd like to get that old debt off his mind," Harry suggested without any real hope.
Kresge was alone in the office. The rent was two months past due. Nothing would settle. His clients were dropping like flies or else they were in the wind. Even a wisp of a promise of money ended up getting postponed.
He started working on a will for a client who was in the hospital with cancer. He wasn't expected to make it through the weekend. Harry had been trying to settle the guy's car accident case, had actually gotten pretty close, when he got this bad news late the night before. If he died, the case would be worth a lot less and it would end up mired down in the Surrogate Court even after it was finally settled.
The phone rang. It was Donald, calling in on Harry's 800 number from Bellevue. "Harry, did you ever call that guy I asked you to call?" came the manic voice.
"No, I didn't. In fact, I've never called anyone you've ever asked me to call. Haven't you noticed?"
"Hmmm... I guess you're right. Why's that, Harry?"
"I never call anyone. I never even call my clients."
"What about your friends? Don't you ever call your friends."
"I don't have any friends. Well, except for you... You're my only friend, and I can't call you at the bug house. You have to call me - on my 800 number."
Donald laughed, "Why don't you have any friends?"
"Because I never call anyone," he said. Then the obvious occurred to Harry. "I should give this number to more people."
Donald laughed again. "I better let you go, Harry. I'm running up your phone bill."
Harry put his feet up on his desk and began to dream. In the dream he had fallen asleep on the subway. He awoke to the sound of the subway doors opening. He was about to miss his stop. Startled awake, Harry jumped up. He wasn't sure where he was. The dream had seemed so real, he could almost feel the breeze from the doors slamming shut in his face.
(6/9/2000)
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