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excerpt from a short story
MARGARET WILKINSON
THE STOMACH
I got a situation at work. A kid comes into the business. He wants to learn the ropes. Hey. I been around. I know what's going on. This kid, whose connected through his uncle, is waiting for me to retire. Then he's going to take over. I'm sixty-six. That ain't so old.
I built up this business. I'm the boss. I ain't ready to go quietlv. Not yet. Forget the fact this kid's uncle is financing me. One hundred and fiftv bia ones.
When I get in the office. the kid's sitting on my desk talking on the phone. My stomach starts churning Bits of breakfast come swirling back. Since this kid joined the operation I qot ulcers. I got a bad stomach.
The office. let's face it. is a dump. A gut-turner
already. We're over a diner. Frvincr sounds come un
through the floor. Cockroaches vou wouldn't believe.
Waterbuas the size of a baby's foot crawlina on the lino.
Wood ticks. Horntails. Silverfish.
Two men follow me in. They're my overcoats. They go
where I go. One of the coats carries my briefcase. He
used to be a floorman in Havana. He never lets that case
out of his sight. The other coat's a weiaht-lifter. He
duets my chair.
They dan't like this kid either. But what can they
do? He's connected. They loak at me. Mv hands are tied. I
don't want to sten on big feet. I'm not savinq nothing. I
try to move towards my desk energetically. I hold mv head
tiqht to keep from dodderinq.
When the kid sees us, he hanas un real quick. The
coats close the blinds. Touch the liqht switch.
'Hiya Moe,' he goes.
'It's Mister Goldfarb to vou.'
How's this kid got into my office? Obviously his
uncle had a key made. A dupe.
'Get off my desk. That's fawn marble.'
'Sure thing.'
He's holding my collection book. I glare at him. My
desk and tool-made chair are expensive. It's a crap room
otherwise. A sink with a brown nozzel in one corner.
Folding stools. TV tables. Old food. But the door's
plated. Take a locksmith to open it. Leaded windows. Wall
safe. Storage bins, number coded. Only I know the system.
I squint around. Blurred furniture. I got oldster
eyeglasses I won't wear. I skate to the desk. In my
dreams.
The kid wears a black jacket, zipped up. In this
weather? Maybe he's got a narcotics habit. Breathing
heavily, I sit down without taking my eyes off him. But
he won't leave it alone. 'Man,' he unzips, putting a lot
into it. 'Who's the landlord? Somebody oughta red-cloth
him. Don't you get no air? Where's the fans? New York
summers, eh?'
'What do you want, a building inspector up here?'
The kid's not too bright. When he laughs, I see his
mean little teeth. Soon he's going to start talking about
Florida. His uncle wants to retire me and my wife
Gertrude to Miami Beach. Something relaxing for my golden
years. What about my girlfriend Rose? Her son Wayne? I
got committments in New York. I take out a bottle of
Pepto Bismol. Unscrew the lid. Chug it down. Florida, if
I go quiet. Otherwise, it's Jersey. In New Jersey I'll be
looking up a lampost.
'My uncle thinks maybe you need a rest,' he says.
Takes off his jacket at last. Underneath he's wearing a
shiny girl's shirt that hangs outside his pants. No
expression. Very cool. His face is skinnv as a skull. His
eyes look crazy. His hands are limp.
'Take a holiday why don't you.' He makes his voice
climb. The coats yuck. But I hear something wormy,
threatening in the kid's voice. My gut burns. Wobbles.
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