By Ben Greenman
from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled
Jay Towson, a local resident who has lived in four of the world’s five largest cities and made untold millions as an international financier, but was born here and has told several reporters that he “will die here, God willing,” took the stage to thunderous applause that betokened a successful future as a mayoral candidate. Towson gripped the podium commandingly and greeted the crowd. His first order of business was economic. He hoped that the resolution would be passed, remarking that he wished that some of the huge profits recorded by the factory in this past half-decade had found their way not just to consumers, in the form of more affordable products, but to employees. Towson said that he had always thought that management would look out for labor but that wages and benefits were clearly not a chief concern, failing to come up to the level of what was expected, let alone what was fair. Then his remarks diverged somewhat. “I came here determined to discuss the danger of running employees ragged,” he said, “and I expected to beat that drum for a good while longer. But then I looked up and saw that it is a rainy day, and that the drops are streaking high window at the rear of the hall, and that the sky behind it is slate-gray, and that put me in mind of a day about forty years ago when I was walking down Dillard Street and saw a young boy coming the other way. He was struggling with a knapsack that was too large for him, wobbling under its weight, and as he came to Langtree Avenue, which was a bit before we would have passed each other, a young woman came down a flight of stairs to greet him. She put her arms around him. I was almost to them, and I could hear her speaking to him. ‘Jim, don’t worry,’ she said, and then, ‘Don’t worry, Jim.’ It was like an exhalation and an inhalation of the same solacing: Jim, don't worry, don't worry, Jim. Her face was blocked by the immense knapsack but then the boy shifted to set it down and I saw her fully, all at once. It was a round face framed by red hair that flowed down in ringlets. It is not an exaggeration to say that she was the most beautiful human I had ever seen. I had not seen her for more than five seconds before I knew that I had to take whatever measures were within my power to meet her, to talk to her, to make the case that she should spend an afternoon with me, maybe sitting and taking coffee, maybe walking, and there, I knew, I would make my case. I stepped toward them. I cleared my throat. She looked up and our eyes met. Something in my expression, maybe the ardor I was feeling, must have registered with her as an unregulated passion, and she put her arm around her brother and hurried him back up the stairs. I could have stood there until they came back out. I could have gone up the stairs and pressed on the doorbell. I could have left a note. I did none of those things. I fled. I fled the street and then I fled the town. Why do you think I have lived all across the globe? To drive the image of that face from my mind. It both lights my heart and hurts my heart, both attests to the presence of a beauty so powerful that it can change a man in a moment and to the presence of a cowardice so stubborn that it cannot step aside even in the presence of grace. Every dollar that I made, from the first to the millionth and beyond, was a form of repentance, of sorrow and regret, and still I feel no closer to absolution. As I have prepared to run for mayor, I have given speeches ten, twenty, thirty times, and each time I have fantasized that a woman would stand up from the audience, and that it would be that woman. It has not happened through hope, so now I make my request explicit. If that woman is here, if you are that woman, please stand. Please heal me.” No one stood. Towson’s voice was shaking, and the podium with it.
Jay Towson, a local resident who has lived in four of the world’s five largest cities and made untold millions as an international financier, but was born here and has told several reporters that he “will die here, God willing,” took the stage to thunderous applause that betokened a successful future as a mayoral candidate. Towson gripped the podium commandingly and greeted the crowd. His first order of business was economic. He hoped that the resolution would be passed, remarking that he wished that some of the huge profits recorded by the factory in this past half-decade had found their way not just to consumers, in the form of more affordable products, but to employees. Towson said that he had always thought that management would look out for labor but that wages and benefits were clearly not a chief concern, failing to come up to the level of what was expected, let alone what was fair. Then his remarks diverged somewhat. “I came here determined to discuss the danger of running employees ragged,” he said, “and I expected to beat that drum for a good while longer. But then I looked up and saw that it is a rainy day, and that the drops are streaking high window at the rear of the hall, and that the sky behind it is slate-gray, and that put me in mind of a day about forty years ago when I was walking down Dillard Street and saw a young boy coming the other way. He was struggling with a knapsack that was too large for him, wobbling under its weight, and as he came to Langtree Avenue, which was a bit before we would have passed each other, a young woman came down a flight of stairs to greet him. She put her arms around him. I was almost to them, and I could hear her speaking to him. ‘Jim, don’t worry,’ she said, and then, ‘Don’t worry, Jim.’ It was like an exhalation and an inhalation of the same solacing: Jim, don't worry, don't worry, Jim. Her face was blocked by the immense knapsack but then the boy shifted to set it down and I saw her fully, all at once. It was a round face framed by red hair that flowed down in ringlets. It is not an exaggeration to say that she was the most beautiful human I had ever seen. I had not seen her for more than five seconds before I knew that I had to take whatever measures were within my power to meet her, to talk to her, to make the case that she should spend an afternoon with me, maybe sitting and taking coffee, maybe walking, and there, I knew, I would make my case. I stepped toward them. I cleared my throat. She looked up and our eyes met. Something in my expression, maybe the ardor I was feeling, must have registered with her as an unregulated passion, and she put her arm around her brother and hurried him back up the stairs. I could have stood there until they came back out. I could have gone up the stairs and pressed on the doorbell. I could have left a note. I did none of those things. I fled. I fled the street and then I fled the town. Why do you think I have lived all across the globe? To drive the image of that face from my mind. It both lights my heart and hurts my heart, both attests to the presence of a beauty so powerful that it can change a man in a moment and to the presence of a cowardice so stubborn that it cannot step aside even in the presence of grace. Every dollar that I made, from the first to the millionth and beyond, was a form of repentance, of sorrow and regret, and still I feel no closer to absolution. As I have prepared to run for mayor, I have given speeches ten, twenty, thirty times, and each time I have fantasized that a woman would stand up from the audience, and that it would be that woman. It has not happened through hope, so now I make my request explicit. If that woman is here, if you are that woman, please stand. Please heal me.” No one stood. Towson’s voice was shaking, and the podium with it.
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