Worker's Compensation

Russ put his broom up and leaned on it, his face, back, chest all doused with sweat. "They don’t pay us enough for this shit," he said.

"The view is good, we’re getting a tan, a workout," Woody said. Woody was handsome, jaw hard as poured concrete, but spoke with the cretinous lisp of a mad scientist’s hunchbacked assistant.

For a week they had been on top of the Adams Tower, a dormitory that could be seen from miles around alongside its twin, Morris, both 15 stories tall. The wind blew hard up there, but the sun bouncing off the tar was so hot that it pretty much negated any refreshment it might have brought. In high school Russ had been pudgy and pale, but his three summers with Kyber Roofing had pounded and baked his flesh into sturdier shape. He hated the work, and told himself he was going to quit all the time, but after drunkenly charging through a red light at 3 am and subsequently flirting his way to an OMVI and a suspended license, he didn’t have much choice but to keep at it, as Woody, his roommate and bestfriend since they met at 6th grade wrestling camp, could drive him to work.

“Jesus Christ, what time is it?” Russ said.

“It’s almost five.”

The radio played country music in the background. Russ looked out at the city, the football stadium, the campus, the rivers, the freeway, downtown. He could see for miles. He had spent so much time on the roofs that he had almost forgotten the danger of falling. He remembered seeing those pictures from the 20s and 30s of guys in newsboy caps and overalls eating their lunches on thin steel beams, high above the faint grey mist of a city, as casually as if they were sitting on a park bench. He used to think those guys were crazy, and though he’d never worked on a skyscraper, mostly because they didn’t build skyscrapers in Columbus, if they paid him, he probably would’ve. You only fall if you’re a dumbass.

Russ didn’t do much of anything as the last fifteen minutes of his shift dripped away. At five o’clock he and Woody took the regular elevator down, at the chance they might see some co-eds, whereas the other guys took the service elevator. There were no girls on the elevator, and they got in Woody’s pick-up and flipped the air-conditioner to full and it chilled them like a wonderful arctic blast. They lived in one of those apartment complexes where people are filed away into little rooms furnished with beer pong tables and cinder block shelves. To them it was a kind of paradise though. They were living alone for the first time in their lives, making money, with little responsibility to anyone but themselves. The amenities were great; A lake, too muddy and shallow to swim in, belonging to the ducks, with a rather limp fountain gurgling in the center, but good for fishing; a pool with a waterfall and built-in concrete bar stools; a small gym, and what was advertised as a movie theatre but was actually just a a small room with a couch, a few folding chairs and a projection TV with an image of a basketball game burned into the screen. They got home, cracked a couple beers and headed to the pool, where one of their neighbors, a carpenter named Bobby, was sitting at the concrete bar. Bobby had a hunch in his back, and could no longer rotate his neck, but rather turned his whole body to focus on whoever was speaking. He nodded from his chest and seemed to have a different injured-on-the-job story every night.

“I fell down a set of stairs on this site over by Ravenwood, tripped over a bucket of nails, fell 13 concrete steps to the basement floor. Cement. Fucked my spine all up. They had to take 3 vertebrae out of my lumbar, fused a couple together in my neck. They gave me a shitload of oxycotin and vicodin though, so I feel fucking great.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink while you were taking that stuff,” Russ said, commenting on Bobby’s margarita.

“Shit, I don’t know. Half the stuff Doctor’s say you gotta figure is bullshit.” Bobby said. Russ and Woody shared a laugh. “If you want any I’ll sell’em to you, 20 bucks a pop. Tell your friends. I got hundreds of the little beauties.”

“I’ll take some,” Woody said.

“Come on by the place. I’ll hook you up,” Bobby said.

“Hell yeah,” Woody said.

“Cost fifty grand for the surgery, course my medical shit’s all covered so I don’t have to worry about that. I can’t hardly bend anymore, except from the waist, but I get compensation out the ass. I just sit around high as a motherfucker watchin’ Speed channel all day, cashing checks. Beats the shit outta working for a living.”

Russ laughed and shook his head.

***

On the last day of work on the tower, after they’d packed everything into the truck and everyone else had left, Russ asked Woody to take a picture of him with his camera phone on the roof in front of the football stadium. He stood near the three foot wall that rimmed the roof.

“You gotta get closer to the edge,” Woody said, looking at the screen. “I can’t get you and the field from this far back.”

“I’m standing two feet from the edge, dickhead,” Russ said.

“More like two yards,” Woody squinted and maneuvered the camera around different heights and angles, trying to frame Russ. “You’re gonna have to sit on the edge or something.”

“Just hold the camera higher,” Russ said, “Point it down.”

“I’d have to be ten feet tall,” Woody said. He got an empty gray bucket, placed it upside down and stood on it. “Since you’re such a pussy and won’t go near the edge.”

“I don’t care about the edge. The edge doesn’t bother me, it’s just that you don’t know how to take a fucking picture,” Russ laughed.

“Bullshit, I took Photography all four years in high school,” Woody clicked a few pictures. “Who are you, Johnny fuckin’ Kodak?”

“Johnny Kodak? Who the fuck is Johnny Kodak?”

“Shut up. I couldn’t think of anybody famous who takes pictures.”

“I took some pretty famous pictures with your mom.”

Woody lost his balance and the bucket teetered a bit.

“Don’t fall there buddy,” Russ said.

“I’m not gonna fall,” Woody hopped down from the bucket and held the phone so they could both look through the pictures. The sun was too bright so Russ took the phone and shielded the screen with his hand.

“Dude, your fucking thumb is blocking out half the picture.”

Woody laughed and looked at the phone. “Sorry dude.”

Russ held the camera at arm’s length and took a picture of himself. “Now I’m gonna look all emo taking my own picture.”

“Cause you are emo. You’re a pussy who wouldn’t go near the edge.”

Russ faked like he was going to punch Woody and Woody flinched and laughed. “I’ll bet you 500 bucks right now I’ll hang down over the side,” Russ said off-handedly as he cycled through the pictures.

“Deal.”

“Bullshit,” Russ pulled a can of chewing tobacco from his pocket and stuffed a load into his mouth.

“500 bucks. Right now. Do it.”

“You got 500 bucks on you?”

“I’ll go to the ATM.”

Russ stroked his chin, considering the bet. He spit a thread of juice. “I don’t know. I want to see the money first.”

“Dude, it’s me. I live with you. What am I gonna do, not pay you?”

Russ wasn’t afraid. He trusted his own strength. He was smiling, tantalized by the idea.

“I’ll tell you what, you climb over the edge, hang there for 30 seconds, I’ll pay your share of the rent this month,” Woody said. “And the utilities. That’s more than 500 bucks.”

Russ examined the roof, figuring the logistical aspects: what he’d grasp onto, how he’d pull himself up, where he’d put his feet. “I feel like we should get a video camera or something.”

“I’ve got one on my phone.”

“What if Ronnie comes back up and finds my ass hanging over the roof.”

“Ronnie’s not gonna bring his fatass back up here. We already took everything down. He’s probably in the drive-through at McDonald’s by now. If he comes up, we’ll just say you tripped.”

Russ chewed his tobacco slowly. “Would you do it?”

“Fuck yeah I’d do it. Piece of cake. Easiest 500 bucks you’ll ever make.”

“You gonna pull me up if I start to slip?”

“Fuck no dude. You’re on your own,” Woody said. “Of course I got you. I won’t pay you the full 500, but I got you.”

“How much if you pull me up?”

Woody considered it. "None."

"None?"

"It's an all or nothing deal, bro."

Russ hocked his wad of chewing tobacco over the side. He watched it twist and fall, its path bending until it hit the ground in the gravel near a bank of air-conditioners with blades whirling. “30 seconds?”

“I’ll count.”

“All right,” Russ said. He clapped his hands together, breaking from the stillness of his consideration.

“All right?” Woody said, surprised at the answer.

“Let’s do it,” Russ said. “Shake on it.” They shook hands. Woody snapped his phone open and clicked the camera on. Russ stepped one foot over the wall, clasping it between his ankles. He knelt down, hugged the wall and gently let his legs down, one at a time. He was hanging from the edge.

“Count Motherfucker,” he said.

Woody began to count, “One-one thousand, two-one thousand...”

Russ’ face, normally a tomato-red, grew to the purple of an eggplant as the numbers got higher. He could feel the breeze against his legs. His steel-toed workboots dragged at his feet, but he didn’t have to strain to keep himself up. He felt the sweat on his forearms slide from the rim like butter on a hot pan, his grip slipping. He clamped his fingers harder against the gritty stucco wall.

“...Twenty-one thousand, twenty-one-one thousand...”

Russ scraped his boots against the side of the tower, pushing himself back up, as if he were getting out of a pool.

“Twenty-nine-one thousand, Thirty-one thousand.”

Russ threw a leg over the wall and rolled onto the tacky black roof.

“You motherfucker,” Woody said.

Russ laughed and huffed in great breaths of air, rolling back and forth in ecstacy. He stood up and pumped his fist, held his arms over his head victoriously.

“I can’t believe you did that. You’re crazy, dude.”

“You said you’d do it!”

“No fuckin’ way! You fall you’re a dead man.”

“Did you get the video?”

“Yeah dude,” Russ sidled around to look at the screen and they watched the video, “Holy-shit”ing” and “Dude”-ing and spinning around as if they’d just won the Super Bowl.

“You gotta put that on facebook,” Russ said. “You better pay up.”

“Of course I’m gonna pay.”

“Beer’s on me tonight.”

“Damn right beer’s on you.”

They walked towards the door to the stairs, the sun still flaming in the sky.

“Shit,” Russ said, “I’da done it for free if you’da asked me.”

These Songs

These songs have potholes
in their cheeks. These songs do not
wear capri pants. These songs
say what they can in
Japanese. These songs do not
bend like the horizon. These songs
are half-starved and delirious,
imagining cake, stomachs
bloating like the universe.
These songs are the amalgamated
pieces of every invisible
sound you’ve ever caught
with your ears, butterflies
in a net, legions fluttering
in formation.
They are not even songs.
They are the combination
to a safe holding
your own heart.

Perfume

He found a blond wisp of hair near his pillow, unmistakably her length and twine, slightly curled, like a line of cursive. He pulled it taut and smelled it, but the lonely strand no longer carried the fragrance. He had been thinking of her often recently, how she used to lay her head on his shoulder and he’d put his nose in her hair like a bouquet, but he couldn't quite remember what she smelled like. Shampoo, certainly, but what kind? Summer storm? Tangerine Dream? Lilac Wine?

On an August day he was riding his bike near her house and a warm wind was blowing and all at once the scent floated down like music. The flowers in the trees smelled exactly of her hair. He stopped pedaling and put his nose up and drew in deep, rapid breaths, one on top of another, trying to possess the smell. He rode in circles beneath the trees, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing, but it eluded him, and soon drifted away like a current of warm water in a cold lake. He pedaled off.

Skin

A skinhead handed Henry a beer. When you’re alone, other loners find you, and they are often alone because they’re fucking weird and the Lower East Side of New York City has the most professional weirdoes on the planet.

“Mickey Skin,” he said. He ran his hand over his scalp, then held his fist in Henry’s face, knuckles tattooed “SKIN.”

Henry nodded, feigning appreciation. “Henry,” he said. They shook.

“Hank,” Skin said, “This is a cool joint, but there’s too many fags.”

Henry usually smiled and nodded with most of the sentiments offered in a conversation, whether he agreed with them or not, simply out of convenience, but he did not smile or nod at this. He stalled, wanting neither to concur, nor to rile up the short, muscular skinhead. Henry figured his Doc Martin’s had probably kicked their share of shit.

“This music’s gay,” Skin said. The bar was called Mix-Tape and the jukebox was loaded with garage rock and new wave. Hip, but not excessively so for the Lower East Side.

“I like it,” Henry shrugged, quietly rebelling against Skin’s prejudice. He wanted to escape but figured since the guy had bought him a beer he owed him a few minutes of conversation. He didn’t really have anyone else to talk to either, and part of the reason for being in New York was to experience new things. Conversing with a skinhead was certainly new to Henry.

“I’m going to this party in BK,” Skin said, “Wanna come?”

“BK? Brooklyn? I’m supposed to meet some friends here in a bit,” Henry said. A lie. He had no friends in this place.

Skin rolled his eyes. He was wearing a yellow backpack with a cell phone slung between the straps. He whipped the phone open and held it away from his face like a tape recorder. “Yo, where you at?” There was no reply. “”Fuckin’ thing.”

“Why don’t you text them?” Henry said, pressing mime buttons with his thumb.

“I don’t know how to do that shit,” Skin holstered the phone.

The two men stood there, out of things to talk about. Henry sipped his beer to camouflage the silence. Two black girls passed and stood at the bar.

Skin nudged Henry and mumbled. “Why don’t you get on that?” Shyness and desire hid behind his mask of aggression.

Henry was surprised at his choice of women. “Me? I never know what to say.”

“Yeah, me neither man. That’s always my problem,” Skin said. The conversation sprung into momentum.

“You just gotta go talk to them. The more you stand around thinking about it, the more nervous you’re gonna get. You just gotta turn off your brain and go.”

“So do it.”

“I'm not the one who likes them," Henry said.

"That's why you should go. Set me up."

Henry sipped his beer. A guy with dark hair splayed on his scalp like a banana peel started talking to Skin.

Henry was suddenly struck with paranoia that Skin had put something in his drink; some kind of drug or poison. He pretended to sip it while he looked around the bar, then he slipped into the bathroom and dumped it down the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror while he peed, his face lazy with drink. He went back into the bar and saw Skin pretending to punch the banana-haired man in slow motion. Henry thought he should try to find an exit out the back so he wouldn’t have to walk past Skin on his way out. He sifted through the pages of the jukebox, stalling for time, and decided, finally, that the bouncer, a large black man, would probably take his side if Skin attacked him, so he headed out the front door. He checked over his shoulder a couple of times as he went down the street, but Mickey Skin wasn’t following him.