Excerpt
1
You ask me how I arrived at such a state — clapped with my back against the bridge’s pylon, wrapped in rags and wearing pissy pants, shuddering for a bit of that blazing garbage bin — you might ask and I might tell you, since you were bubbling about your own misfortune, which I agree is considerable, but run of the mill as far as downslides go. I mean, losing a job and family and home — no money and doing the begging bit, that’s pretty standard here under the bridge. Just ask old Al there or, better still, Joe the Blow. He lost two homes and six jobs, some kind of record, I think, and I’m a thinking man. In fact, my problem isn’t loss. It’s gain. What I picked up along the route has landed me here among the trash and trodden. Excuse me for calling you trash, but you can’t deny it. As sure as the holes in your shoe and the week’s growth on your face, you’re trash like me and add to the aromas that only the Gowanus can yield. So, since you’ve been so forthcoming in your twittering sort of way, I can oblige your question and broker you a reaction. Only, if I become jittery while spilling my guts, it’s because of him. — Not so loud. He might hear . . . Not so loud . . . and I’ll oblige you.
A mahogany desk by a window, I had — big expanse with a nice view of Midtown Manhattan. An office in the corner with a secretary. Two secretaries if you count my assistant. And I wasn’t so high up on the corporate ladder. Lots of room above to spread my wings. And I knew where I was going. Up. Never down. Only up. Now I look up and what do I see? Traffic. Shit, I don’t even see traffic. Only hear it. But never look down, I said. I had worked my way to that corner office, a place to hone my skills — a keyboard attached to a top of the line Zeus Mini, 2120 gigs, 3.5 gigahertz and super-duper Intel Core 17-4770K processor. I see you shaking your head. You don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s okay. Just trust me, you’ve arrived when they’ve Zeus Mini’d you. Really fast shit. But as speedy as my equipment, I was poised to lean back, stretch my legs, cup my hands behind my head and enjoy the view — could see the traffic on the Hudson, I could. I still see it when I close my eyes — nothing like this putrid canal stench. Now I’m not bragging. You lost your job and I’m not trying to make comparisons, but there are degrees in loss and when I . . . well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead.
I was the Director of Human Resources at Dundy & Batcliff, which I know you’ve heard about. Everybody’s heard about Dundy & Batcliff. I was with the company for six years as a junior assistant reporter when, luck would have it, I fucked the boss’s daughter and she took a shine to me. Then it was hellos in the hallway, better assignments, tea in the Hamptons, rolls on the dunes. Now don’t get me wrong. I really liked her — Judy, and she really, really liked me. But I’m not the marrying kind. I like my freedom, but I was never a player. Liked my quiet time also — a good book, a cold beer, soft music and, fortune smiled on my apartment situation. Got it for a song at four grand a month. — Don’t roll your eyes. I’m a Brooklyn kid, like you, and things are less pricey in the outer boroughs. Besides, where’s the soft music now? — Listen. Did you hear that? Sounds like a sixteen wheeler and it needs a new muffler. Yep, the music’s gone and so’s the . . . well, if I still had the digs I wouldn’t be rubbing elbows with the likes of you . . . no offense.
Now I’m not bragging. Just wanted to set the bar for my level of desperation. My fall from the heights. And no, I’m not a cry baby either. Just a haunted man. — Lower your voice. He might be lurking. Oh, I’ll get to him, don’t you worry.
So, Judy’s father, Rimshot (for his height) Batcliff — a real string bean, he surprised me with the Human Resource position, probably expecting that I would be his son-in-law. Now that surprised me as much as the job did, because I’m not dipped in silver. My mom lived in Flatbush and my dad . . . well, that’s another story. — Wow, did you hear that? What’s going on up there? I think the cops pulled someone over. Let’s move under a bit. These NYPD hauls can spill over to the under side. I don’t need to be hustled off to the shelter tonight. Dangerous places, shelters . . . and . . . yes, he could be there.
2
That’s better. Where was I? Yes, my mother. She lived in Flatbush. We never had much. I squeaked through CCNY, so I didn’t regard myself as a society catch. I majored in English and, as I’ve said, I’m a thinking man. Perhaps I think too much. Most of these Moes down here don’t think at all, making it a more bearable existence. But when you’ve rubbed elbows with the classics and a corner office and the boat traffic on the Hudson and tea in the Hamptons, you can’t help but think. I remember I was thinking about how lucky I was when my secretary interrupted my reverie. — What’s a reverie? Just another way of thinking. “Mr. Cassidy,” she said. I don’t know why she insisted on calling me that. I told her a dozen times to call me Vince, but I guess it was the office protocol. I supposed the salutation elevated her too. “Mr. Cassidy,” she said, “Ms. Pascarelli’s here to see you.” Pascarelli — Dawne Pascarelli, was my assistance HR person. She handled most of the job interviews, at least on the front line. I only got involved with interviews on the executive level. My responsibilities were Policy and POF — putting out fires. I told Debbie, my secretary — one of two, as I mentioned — I told her to send Pascarelli in, which she did. That’s where it all began.
It’s colder tonight than last night, don’t you think? Were you around last night or did you go to the shelter? Shame that shelter. They ought to do something better for us, but I guess we should be on our own anyway, no matter how awful the situation. I’ve learned to live alone and apart. I prefer it, that’s why I generally find my own fortress. You’re lucky tonight. I’m in a talkative mood. I hope you’re a good listener, because I pulled through your tale to the end. Yes, I have a story to tell you, if you’d stop interrupting. I lose my train of thought readily. I worry about that. At thirty-two I should have a greater attention span, but . . . well, we’re off again, aren’t we? I’ll get back on track.
She was pale and upset. — Dawne Pascarelli, that’s who. Her glasses slid down her nose and she peered at me strangely. Gave me the creeps. I knew something was up and it couldn’t be good.
“Are you ill, Dawne?”
She shrugged as if I had hit on the mark, but she hesitated — sighs and throat clearing and a lot of that sort of thing. I know women and when they do a lot of that sort of thing, it can’t be good.
“No,” she said. “I’m just shocked. Taken aback.”
She was taken aback, as taken aback as anyone I had ever seen. I came around my desk and clasped her shoulders — friendly clasp. Can’t be too careful in this day and age.
“Vincent,” she said. “I need you to see something.”
“Something?”
“Well, not something, but somebody.”
“A candidate?”
“A viable candidate.”
“For what position?”
“Check sorter.”
“In the mail room?”
Now I was taken aback. I was reserved for a higher grade interviews. Mail room hires were done almost out of hand — the usual background check after we were assured they were breathing and had two arms and two legs. Of course, even that imposition is considered discriminatory. Still, this was not the sort of thing I could be expected to settle.
“Not an interview,” Dawne added quickly. “Just — I want you to see him.”
What was I to do? I supposed the individual had a frightening appearance — lizard skin or something of that sort. Still, whatever the ailment, if it weren’t drugs or Ebola fever, the mail room was the mail room. Still, I was a boss and needed to comply with Dawne’s request. So I strutted beside her, trying to look as officious as I could — the role you know. I might have been a boss’s-daughter executive, but I still needed to carry myself with all the force of a full business degree from one of the prestigious schools. You name one — if you can? No offense. I mean, look at us. No school, real or fictional, would pick up our option now.
When I reached Dawne’s office, she halted me. Apparently I was not to enter. So I gazed through her glass window between the Venetian blinds and got a glimpse of the back of lizard boy’s head. Then he turned around and I nearly hit the floor.
Sitting in Ms. Pascarelli’s office was . . . was me. Not a fleeting resemblance, which I suppose all people have, but an exact replica. Same eyes, brows, hair (right down to the part). His mouth bowed into my sheepish smile. His chin was cleft precisely as mine, and he had a little birth mark — a mole at the right edge of his lip. See it here? Quite distinguishing. The only difference was — he wasn’t me, because he was inside the office wearing a cheap Van Heusen shirt, collar open, and Dockers, while I stood outside the office in an eight hundred dollar Armani suit. Ms. Pascarelli caught my eye as best she could, and then came out again.
“Creepy, isn’t it,” she whispered.
“It certainly is uncanny,” I lied. I was about to shit my pants. I was an only child. I didn’t even have cousins as far as I knew, and if I did, I’m sure they wouldn’t be my rubber stamp. “Who is he?”
“His name’s Vincent Trueheart.”
Another Vincent — holy shit.
“He’s from the Bronx, high school drop out and he’s . . . he’s thirty-two.”
“My age.”
“Almost to the day.” Dawne shook her head. “Do you have a twin you don’t know about — separated at birth?”
“No.”
I was in a panic, but couldn’t tell why. Surely there could be a duplicate for every person on the planet. They’re called doppelgangers. Now there’s a word for you. But they’re not related as far as I know. This was my doppelganger and, luck would have it, he wound up applying for a job at Dundy & Batcliff.
“You can’t hire him,” I snapped. “I’m not walking around knowing that my look alike is working in the mail room.”
“But he’s qualified.”
“Hell, a bum who wipes car windows is qualified. Find some excuse.”
I remembered turning and heading for the Men’s Room — the Associate Men’s Room, the Executive Lounge being two floors up, but in a pinch . . . I splashed my face with cold water and saw another version of me, this time in the mirror, beauty mark and all. It was a fluke, that’s all. The thought of contacting my mother and grilling her about having . . . naw, it was out of the question. But I felt vulnerable.
You know, we’re suppose to be unique, whether we’re the President of the United States or . . . well, look at me — the sage under the highway overpass. But at that moment I was unnerved. I remember thinking it through — getting my bearings. I mean, the guy looked like me right down to the part in his hair. But inside he wasn’t me. I mean, a Van Heusen shirt. And even though I held my post because I was stupping the boss’s daughter, I at least graduated from Brooklyn College. This wannabee was a High School drop-out. Then, as I regained my composure, drinking in my image over the sink, the door opened and in walked — you guessed it — Mr. Vincent Trueheart.