Northwoods Journal, Fall 1979

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

All Kinds of People

Chad stuck his head around the corner of Owen's divider, took in his lowered head, his preoccupation. "Leaving soon?" Without lifting his head Owen waved his hand in dismissal; he'd stay until he finished the job. That was the trouble with Chad, with Ted, with all of them; no sense of integrity.

A stream of personnel left the adjoining cubicles and the stenographic pool. Finally the switchboard girls left. But for the drone of the canned music everything was still.

Finally he stretched and patted a sheaf of papers into a neat pile. Looked his desk over. Pencils sharpened to the vanishing point in a cup. He reached over to rip a calendar page off - start the morning in a new month. Owen swivelled and rose, walked around the partition to the nearby windows and looked down on Bank Street.

Snow fell on the typical rush-hour arras. Below, people swarmed, running for buses, striding to their destination; deserting commerce.

Owen stood there, his thoughts a scramble of bitterness at his age, lost opportunities, the static figure. Staying late was an occasional treat that he indulged in, having the whole floor to himself when he dreamed himself in control. But not tonight. Things had come to a head.

How was she, he thought, qualified for the position? A degree in business management? Didn't working on the job for twenty years more than make up for an interrupted education? He was a victim of the diploma mystique. Of tokenism to feminism - not to mention influential friends. "Own!" He turned slowly. Again, "Ow-en!" Who the hell...? "Ow-en!" He realized that the voice was floating at him from the office. Blurred, husky, but he recognized it.

Moving in line with the door he saw the edge of the mahogany desk, but no one standing there. Again, his name was called. He walked toward the office.

There she sat, a tall brunette, heavy, with mismatched eyes. Out all afternoon. Lunch, liquid style, by the look of her. No wonder everything kept getting stalled. He wasn't the only one beginning to notice the back-up.

"Hi there Own!", slurred past her lips, a grin spreading pacific intent. Her eyes appeared unfocused. The oval one remained fixed on him, the round one seemed to have a life of its own, serving from side to side, as though trying to hide from him. She waved him closer, her motion uncertain.

"Yes?"
"Own - why're you always so ... standoffish?" She giggled.
"Is there something you would like? I was just about to leave."
"What's the matter, Own? Don't like women?"
"Ms. Petersen, I am not accustomed to bothering with women who cannot control themselves. If there is nothing I can do for you as a civilized human being, I would like to leave."

His stiffness, his obvious censure seemed to sober her. She brought her teeth down on her upper lip and sighed. Her right eye stopping its erratic flight.

"Sorry", she mumbled. "You intimidate me."
"If that's all ... can I call a cab for you?"
"Yes, please. But wait ... I want to talk with you ..."
"I'm sure it can wait."
"No ... please! Look, I know you don't like me. Maybe in your place I'd feel the same way. But I know the department depends on you. You're practically irreplaceable." She smiled, trying to placate him.

And you, he thought grimly, are quite expendable. He felt nauseated by the wave of anger he felt, his antipathy to her. He turned to leave.

"No, wait ... let me continue", she said softly. "I...I'll be leaving for a .. leave-of-absence. About two months. Owen ... can I count on you? I mean, would you consider coming back as acting head for that time? Not for me, you understand ... for the department."

Bail her out? Look after things while she took a break? She had the prestige of the position and the salary. He had this acrid acknowledgement. He shook his shoulders diffidently. "I may consider it."

"I'll see you receive an acting head's salary for the time involved", she offered.
"I'll consider it."

When he got off the elevator at street level he nodded at the security guard, walked through the marble lobby and pushed open a set of oak doors. Cold air swept past him, eager to invade the lobby he had quit. He paused on the top steps to withdraw a scarf from his briefcase, wound it around his neck, then adjusted the collar of his coat around the scarf.

The wind whipped his pant legs as he plodded forward kicking clods of already melting snow before him.

He was the third person to arrive at the bus stop. As he'd expected the buses were running slow and before long a dozen people stood beside the stop, stamping their booted feet, drawing scarves around their heads. Several women sought shelter back from the stop, in the entrance of a travel bureau the window of which boasted a sun-tanned beauty under a southern sun.

Owen liked the weather. The cold cleared his head and the snow appeared beautiful swirling in the light of the street lamps. It was generally still light when he left the office - now it was quite dark and the traffic was visibly snarled and backing up.

Finally the bus arrived, number 85, and he embused. But not before the three women who'd been sheltered had pushed their way on before him.

The ride was slow and halting; traffic responding hysterically to a snowstorm. Owen found himself becoming overheated, looked with annoyance at the bus driver, sitting comfortably in his shirt sleeves. He loosened his scarf, took off his gloves and laid them on his briefcase He glanced across the aisle and recognized one of the counterwomen from the Woolworth's across from his building, and looked away.

A few stops away from where he regularly disembarked the bus stopped and couldn't continue. He decided not to wait.

He took to a side street, following a route he often took in good weather when he might spontaneously get off the bus before his stop. The wind had picked up again. Glancing up, he saw the naked branches of an elm frantically combing the sky, leaning with the wind.

Ahead of him he heard a commotion, saw people running out of nearby buildings. then he saw flames licking from the window of a building. He quickened his steps and walked across the street, stopping on the sidewalk in front of the building. Orange licks stretched out of windows, lifting with the wind. An acrid odour wafted on the air and sharp cracks broke as the fire gained momentum.

People ran back and forth. Someone shouted that the fire department had been called. Other people ran from the entrance of the building, some without outerwear, some carrying children, yelling about their possessions.

From above where Owen stood, a voice shouted, "Help!" Owen raised his head and looked, fascinated, at the face of a man, his mouth stretched impossibly. "Help me!" the man screamed. In his arms he held a child and beside him appeared the form of a woman. There seemed to ensue a hurried consultation. The man tried to push the child at the woman. Then the man turned his attention back down to the street. "Please!" the man shouted.

Owen glanced around him. Three women stood nearby, looking helpless and frightened. "Help us!" the man implored, "if you could form a ring ... "

Smoke rose languorously from the building, the wind picking it up and dissipating it. As quickly, new columns formed. The cracks, the roaring sound of the fire increased perceptibly. Now it seemed that all the windows were leaping flames on the second floor and some of the windows on the third floor, the top. The man appealed to them from the third floor. Owen heard himself shout to the man.

As he turned the street onto his own sidewalk, about three blocks from the fire, Owen heard the urgency of fire engines, sirens ululating. Snowflakes fell in clusters; they had turned him into a ghostly apparition.

He saw the living room drapes of his house move slightly; new Evelyn had been watching for him at the window. The stamped his shoes on the porch, slapped the burden of snow from his shoulders with his gloves and smiled at his wife's face as she opened the door.

"What a storm, Owen! I thought you might be late. Poor dear, you must be chilled. and hungry." She helped him out of his coat, watched as he bent and pushed off his shoes.

The warmth of his house, the redolence of his evening meal, his wife's solicitude, enveloped him.

After dinner Owen sat in the living room, smoking his pipe. The radio was on in the kitchen and the sound of the news interfered with the record he was listening to. Owen left the strains of The Blue Danube, intending to shut off the radio.

In the kitchen he saw Evelyn leaning against the kitchen counter, absorbed in an interview that was part of the eight o'clock news.

""...I was holding the baby ... I wanted Tanya to jump first with Kenny ... she was afraid. I yelled down to the street, people there, for help. I wanted to have them form a net." The man's voice broke. "Someone down there shouted at me, "Stop whining - you're going to die'!" It became obvious that the man was incapable of continuing. The news commentator took over smoothly, his voice a groomed monotone as he described the fire, the casualties.

Evelyn turned to Owen, her face drained of colour. "Why would they interview the poor man? Why put him through another ordeal?"

"You know newspeople are ghouls", Owen said soothingly. "They exploit situations. Want to satisfy the public's curiosity."

"Owen! Did you hear what some man shouted at him?" Evelyn looked close to tears, her lips trembled. Owen felt a surge of emotion for her, wanted to protect her.

"It's all right dear." He encircled her with his arms, drew her out of the kitchen. "Don't feel so badly. After all, it's just another instance of what I've always told you. There are all kinds of people."

c. 1979 Rita Rosenfeld
Published in Northwoods Journal, Vol.VIII, No.3