Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 16
4
According to a survey by Gorgon Stare, for about 7 blocks – Boston looks like New York City, but then the comparison runs dry. Actually – what happens to why the comparison runs wet is never mentioned. But in those blocks, the is a bit of resembling the City. It was there, in the City, on weekend trips - that I knew where I wanted to be, some of the time. It was a sprawl, a slurry, a straggle - of unmatched, unrivaled, and above a sort of neat mess bound by the grid. It was collusion, completion, and contraction with a boundary connected by 2 rivers, to the twin islands of Long and Staten.
That is why this island of urbanity in Boston did not paint my eyes with any real sort of attention. And it was to the 'Pregnant Building' which was where my course set me. No one knows where the term pregnant building comes from. It was cold because the bottom 3rd bulged out, and this gave it the name which it monocle since then. In actuality, it was 100 Federal St., and it was near the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston. That is it was at the southern tip of the island, and you could see Chinatown quite clearly. The building was brown with 3 square windows per floor at the top, And 5 on its pregnant sides. There was little traffic, except a few times a day - another difference between this and the City. The owner had quickly changed jobs, he had it planned just in case something untoward happened - my mother told me.
Through the double doors, and up to the security desk, which itself was a kind of lobby to take in customers. Which were seldom, except when they swarmed in large numbers. There was a chubby man who was the pointperson - the one who was fronting anyone coming in without credentials - which was me. But the drill was the same, ended in a few minutes of waiting for the elevator to my floor - it was close to the top.
It seemed surreal - I did not imagine him to be any sort of city person, because his old job was out on the loop of 128, or if you prefer I-95, which avoided the city entirely. I-93 came into the city, and was presently below ground, just a few tens of yards away from up here. I did not know if this was his element - or merely a device to get away from the woman with whom he had shared a bed, but it was clear there was no love between. Busy were the people, most of whom were practicing their pitch or their introduction - you could tell which it was by the fear of those practicing their pitch.
The elevator was wider than usual, which was the point of a commercial conveyance. It not so subliminally said: “You are a worm.” The gods were the people who controlled the space, and they rented it to the heroes of commerce. This meant that everyone on the elevator was a dog, whether she was compliant, or not is another story. Unlike TV, there was no banter – secrets were precious: everything was undisturbed. Watch the numbers go to and fro while missing 13 because it was unlucky.
Stopped – and I crisply trod onto my caretaker floor – beheld with purpose, and covered with fright - this would be the 1st time that we had conversed as we truly were, and the clandestine conversation was the objective. For him, and me. Or at least I hoped it was. There were pictures of awards being one for nonsensical reasons as if to cement the reason for this floor’s nonexistence: awards for things that no one cared about. But there were Pictures of families. I rapidly found a picture of my father and my mother. And no one else. Point noted. Exactament.
Once outside of his door, the act of knocking proved to be a challenge: the wrapping of the fingers never quite struck the wood, until finally a middle-aged woman, with mascara in abundance, asked: “Hello, I help you with something?”
“Is this Mr. Lefevre's office?” taking a complete guess from the picture that she had never heard of offspring of Mr. Lefevre.
“Yes, but he is away. May take a message?” She noticed that I was young, perhaps an intern in her mind. What else could I be?
“I'm his daughter...” She looked surprised.
“That is different, he was expecting a relative to come someday this week. I suppose that must be you. I will get him for you.” And scuttled to fetch him. Amidst all the beige, were people of beige aspect and beige outlook to inhabit them. Then it occurred to me that I was practicing my introduction, as had passersby been doing. In a sense, it was a part of the club, and while I was not a member - of touch of it had masqueraded. In the distance, the layer of business could be my role in life. But God forbid. Next thing you know I will be talking about how touchy my father was. What a concept.
Then the middle-aged woman and my once-upon-a-time father came plodding in my direction. The 1st thing I saw was the look on his face - it was not exactly annoyed, but it was on the same page on the thesaurus, but slightly more refined - as crude is too rustic - shade of yellow, but not the same shade of yellow.
He was also more formal in his business attire - but being downtown in what could be passed off as a city would do that to you. He motioned me in – in that casual way nodded to the woman who said “Hold my calls, this will take time.”
Once inside the just off-white office - with a view towards the harbor - he sat down adjusting his jacket, and folded his hands in front of him. “I expected to see you eventually, I knew that your mother could not help herself and reveal some aspects of our - arrangement. So what do you want to know, and what order would you like to consume it in?”
this was foreign to me from my once-upon-a-time father, normally he was gruff and a bit of putting. But then I suppose, being free of his obligations had unobstructed his mind.
“She did not say anything, she just gave me your new address, gave me some papers, and sent me on my way.”
“That is normal for her.”
Pulling out the papers, and dumping them on his maple desk. The papers were a whirlwind of colors plus the Xeroxes of older things. “I want to know more about the narrative, and you seem to be the next link on the chain. Whose voice is yours?”
At that point he pawed his way - turning the papers around and scanning through them, gently smiling at certain things that he remembered. I was the writer, the primary voice is mine.” he waited for the sense of shock to fill my face - and he was not disappointed. “That shock is almost worth the meeting with you, you are not as wise as you might think. I do not think you know what I did for my income.”
“No, but I am certain it was illegal.”
“Very, would you like to know what it is? It was a vast land accident the US government tried to quiet.”
“Not particularly, because then I would have to say that I did know. And that is not particularly a position that I wish to be in.”
“Fair enough. What else do you want to know?”
“Why this narrative?” A hesitation, “Why 3?”
“I met your mother, and she had an idea. But she had no concept of how to deliver this to an audience. I have no ideas of my own, in a fictional narrative sense - so I tried to impress her with my verve, and panache, as well as the balance which I bought I could give to the narrative framework. But I found out that I needed help to do this, and so conveyed to a friend of mine what it was that I wanted to do, and he helped me.”
“So his were the comments.”
“And suggestions. But there was a problem, he decided he wanted your mother for himself. And took her.”
“Why did you leave? What is this to me?”
“There were problems. So we came to the arrangement. “
“Is he far?”
“Quite the contrary - he is not so far away he is in the Boston area. Sitting in a small professor’s office, in a minor league college.” He slapped his slate trousers reflexively, as if in thought.
“And why do I want to converse with him?”
“Because he is your ‘father,’ in point of fact. And I think that there is enough curiosity in you to find out what your father is truly like. Your mother and I had an arrangement, where I would pretend to be your father.”
“Why would she do something like that? Why not go to my real father?”
“There were certain complications, and I think I will let him explain those. But she kept the papers to keep me in line. Because even then I had a taste for the quasi-legal and outright illegal, forms of making money. It is just that the Internet exploded the ways for me to do so. So she had a backup plan, just to keep me in line. Which is why I made money illegally while taking a job that was somewhat less than my capabilities. It made it possible to clean the money.”
He made dirty money and she cleaned it and span. There was a silence, on both of our parts. Then I asked a question:
“So I need to ask my real father?” I realized that my language was pitiful, and not lucid in any way.
“That is my condition.”
“And where am I to find him?”
He to hold out a slip of paper as if this could not be set in any form of communication. I realized also, that this was the way that things were kept secret.
“I hope never to see you again.” he smiled with that off-chance sort of grimace. “ because when you get to college there may be some implications for me that I would rather not have happened.” And then I thought I saw a look of a man thinking of money, and how he could get his share. I closed the door gracefully and immediately thought of what I would ask.
Sauve and secure would be my objective, but in my heart, slovenly and slipshod would be more the mode. A reached for the stars, and came up with a dry dust forgiveness with a slathering of symphonic surprise.