A Lesson in Brevity by M.C. Alves

"Only school gave Jacques and Pierre these joys. And no doubt what they passionately loved in school was that they were not at home, where want and ignorance made life harder and more bleak, as if closed in on itself; poverty is a fortress without drawbridges."

Albert Camus, "The First Man"

     Men of paper. That it is what they are called in the Old Country, the rich. Men of paper. As he walked slowly down the litter-strewn streets of downtown Brooklyn he fretted once again over his poor command of English. If only he could learn faster, if he could only speak with ease instead of struggling over every other word, fumbling like a buffoon over every sentence, he might be able to become comfortable in this place. And then he, too, could become a Man of Paper. It was quiet, at least, on Sunday morning, that early.

     Back in the Old Country, it was the season of ‘vindimas’. Harvest. If he were home, or ‘back there’ since this was now ‘home’, however alien and inhospitable, he would be driving a tractor, pulling loads of grapes to the refinery. The sun would be warm but not too hot, the fields burnished gold with touches of deep purple where grapes remained yet unpicked, although they would be sparse now, and the mountains would be shrouded by fog until noon when it finally was burned off by the gentle autumn sunlight. In the large cellars of small village houses the cement vats would be filled, the grapes danced upon by the women and children until nothing but the skins and seeds remained, the juice then funneled into great wooden casks. That juice would eventually become wine, or vinegar, and the seeds and skins hauled off to one of the many farms where the heat and fermentation of a still would transform them into ‘bagaco’. Nothing wasted. Ever. There was little surplus of anything in that inclement region and certainly fine grapes should not ever be taken for granted. They made a fine wine and their seeds and skins a fine, fiery whiskey that would keep a man warm even on the coldest morning in the fields. It was not like here. It seemed to his aging eyes that here everything ended up on the streets, all was discarded and wasted, nothing was considered valuable enough to save.

     He stopped for a packet of tobacco. He could no longer afford cigarettes so he had taken to smoking Drum or the darker, thicker Gauloisis. Back in the Old Country when he was a young lad only the old men rolled their own as they sat on wooden benches in front of the village tavern. But now he was almost an old man himself so perhaps it suited him, too. On the dirty wall in between the quiosk and an OTB parlor someone had scrawled “Fuck Use!!” and “Dey bet dey wood kill Joe Lawton. Bot dey cunt! Fuck dem! Dey bet bot dey cunt! Dey never cun kill me!” There was also a large, crude drawing of a penis. He regarded all the hideous scribbling with a mixture of sadness and revulsion as he rolled a clumsy cigarette. When he finshed it looked to him like a snake that had swallowed something it should not have.

     A woman he had not before noticed was behind him, holding a copy of the Sunday Times, waiting to pay. She was smartly dressed and held the leash to a very small dog. She was wearing a plaid coat and the dog was wearing a tartan sweater. The dog barked. It was not so much a true bark but an ill-tempered whine of sorts. He smiled as he thought that the scrawny creature perhaps was trying to sound like a German Shepherd. The woman flashed him a disapproving grimace and said, “You should not smoke, you know!”

     “Why not? It make me cough better and everything!”

     She did not seem to find this amusing. He walked away. He did not find her amusing. And he disliked little dogs in silly sweaters trying to sound larger than they were. It also made him miss Ajax, his own Shepherd of long ago.

     He wore a Timex. He had been wearing it for a very long time. His loyalty to the brand was born while living in a fishing village during his father’s days of glory. His father had been hired by the firm and that provided him the means to obtain treasures not readily available to many others since most were either fishermen or construction workers or professional drunks. A man of deep affections, his father, he was especially fond of the city of Dundee, the Scottish Highlands in general, Besancon in northern France, Bell's Whiskey and Capstan pipe tobacco. He was proud that he could travel and he took great pride also in the prototype watch he had hand-assembled from elements of various models. It was a marvel of a timepiece. His father would toss it up to the ceiling at the Cafe Donald, an avant-gard cafe he as a young student preferred although his father, no doubt, would have rathered a tavern, then submerge it into a mug of ale, and smile a wicked smile as his audience feigned awe at such an indestructible watch. Ever since those days he held an affection for Timex watches. They do, indeed, keep on ticking whatever the licking. His father had taught him that famous phrase and he had never forgotten it. That is what a good man did, too, his father said, he always kept on ticking. The watch he now wore also kept on beeping. It beeped at three minutes past the hour. It would do so on the hour except that he lacked the motivation to decipher the instructions. He was rather fond of the imperfection. Beep-Beep. 3 past. In the dark, lying awake, from underneath a blanket came the chirp and its pointless reminder that it was 3 minutes past whatever hour it might be. It may come to pass, he thought, that he someday found himself sleeping in some barn somewhere and a lovelorn bat might mistake the sound for a mating call but until then it was a gentle reminder of the charm of the slightly imperfect. Nothing in life has any business being perfect, after all.

     He had been awake since very early in the morning, before dawn, as was his lifelong custom. On this continent he had already noticed that they liked to play with time, turning back the clock and thereby allowing more darkness into a day. It meant winter was approaching. He disliked winter. He loved the early dawn but did not like darkness in the early afternoon. And he disliked the cold very much. He had shivered and chattered through many winter mornings, driven through countless storms in countless vehicles in sundry condition. Back in the Pacific Northwest, where he had been looking for work until only the week before, winter would often paint quite an awe-inspiring portrait when she covered the trees in a chimera of ice and the fields in a thin blanket of white. The mountain ranges adorned with frosted pines; red, ramshackle barns camouflaged in white; stone walls spattered with snow; such were the sights she created. But at 3 minutes past any hour he would prefer to be caressed by a warm breeze than braced by an icy gust.

     Much like his youth, summer had managed to steal by without his noticing its departure. He recalled the sweat on his forearms as he painted someone else’s house, the dust from his endless sanding clinging, permeating, and a few afternoons of soupy discomfort but otherwise he could recall little more of note. He thought he should perhaps focus forward and not backward. We have only so many seasons. Better to keep an eye on them all.

     Time would now tell what the immediate future held in store, what the next turn in the road would need be. He would once again need embrace the sacred geometry of chance.

     A yellow taxi, one of few vehicles on the street during one of the very few times during the course of any given day when cars were sparse in this town, cruised by with the ‘Off Duty’ sign lit. He had learned from a friend who drove a cab that this was an old trick. Since a driver could not refuse to take a passenger wherever he wished to go, or face suspension of his TLC license, they would light up the sign so as to be able to stop and find out where the fare wanted to go before agreeing. If it was worth their while or on a route which promised more fares they would allow the passenger in, but they were under no obligation to do so with their ‘off duty’ sign lit and this gave them the only modicum of control over their choice of service. Too many rules in this town, he thought. Maybe just too many people breaking too many rules. The more rules there were the more were broken leading to the creation of even more rules. He did not like rules because he did not like to break rules. If there were too many rules then a man could not help but to need break some. And some rules did not seem to serve any real purpose. Except to make things harder than they already were naturally.

     In the small, stark logging towns of Washington the sight of a yellow cab would be a strange vision indeed. On those slick streets most vehicles were trucks and jeeps, all usually muddy. In places with names such as ‘Jump Off Joe Lake’, ‘Spanish Prairie Drive’, ‘South Dragoon Township’ he had often spent weeks without a glimpse of sunshine and only the low-hanging fog and pine trees for constant companions. Under the charcoal-gray skies, in places that were once inhabited by only trappers and loggers, surrounded by mountain ranges that were home to cougars and bears, he had followed the path of labor, seeking work wherever it could be found. He had dug trenches and chopped trees, hoisted buckets of mud on construction sites and operated heavy machinery in lumber mills. And he had shot a bear.

     He had not wanted to shoot the animal. During the course of his prolonged stay at a small cattle ranch high in the hills not far from Columbia, British Columbia where he was working as a hired hand, the lone caretaker while the owner vacationed in warmer climbs, a rather large black bear had taken to making frequent, neighborly visits. In search of food, the bear would forage through the camp, at night at first, in a rather shy manner, keeping his distance. But as the days went on the bear became less shy. No longer satisfied with huckleberries or the little remains of the little food to be had, the bear began to stalk the henhouse. When caught red-handed, or red-pawed, the bear could be frightened off by the clanging of pans. For a time there ensued a Mexican standoff. The bear would approach cautiously while the man watched warily, each frightened of the other, both a bit hungry, neither willing to venture too close.

     Then one dawn on his way to feeding the mares, while looking up toward the brightening sky, a wide expanse glistening in glowing, pale orange light, the man was startled by the sight of the slumbering bear splayed quite comfortably atop the outhouse. Snoring. Although he did not particularly object to the bear’s chosen perch it did present certain logistical difficulties given that the cabin he was staying in had no bathroom. He decided to let the sleeping bear lie until such time as it should become crucial for him to scare the peaceful beast off. Given the bear’s new sleeping habits, however, he took to carrying a shotgun when first leaving his cabin in the morning.

     And then he began to find dead chickens. This disturbed him because he knew action would need be taken since he was responsible for all the livestock in his care. And when he next got sight of the bear and tried to shoo him away he could not. The bear stared at him and did not retreat. Then the bear came closer. He growled. The man became frightened. The beast was no longer peaceful.

     The bear began to charge and the man was now the one being frightened off, running frantically back into the cabin. This happened once again and the man discharged the shotgun into the air. The next morning, a dark one, instead of giving the bear a chance to charge at him, as the bear looked up from his prey, directly at the man, he pulled the trigger of the 12-gauge and the magnificent beast was felled. The man gutted the bear, carefully skinned the animal, removed all the fat from the flesh, placed the meat in the freezer. He also gave tribute to the animal’s soul, performing a ritual taught him by a Lanapi Indian. For the remainder of the winter he slept under the bear’s fur.

     The fur proved too heavy and bulky to bring along with him to the East. To the best of his knowledge it hung still on the western wall of the cabin overlooking a logging mill not far from the Canadian border.

     He had once told his story of the bear to his only friend in New York, the cab driver, a good man, originally from Missoula, Montana, who at one time had driven large trucks across the entire country. He still felt pangs of remorse at having shot the bear but his friend did not share his feelings. He had said that he did not like cats or dogs or much of any animal. What he liked were vehicles, trucks especially, things he could polish, and he spoke of the time when he had first begun driving a taxi in New York. One night as he was stopped at a red light on 54th and Park his elderly passenger began muttering somewhat incoherently. The strangest muttering, “Well, it may be big and pink but at least it’s clean!” was followed shortly after by a massive heart attack. The man was quite dead upon arrival at Bellevue. Things he could polish, he had said, things he could polish.

     The first snow shower of the season was just beginning to fall as he arrived at his destination. The American Auto School. In search of work he had decided, despite his friend’s melancholy remembrance, to drive a taxi. But although he had first driven a vehicle back in the Old Country when he was a lad of twelve, a Peugeot 402, he did not have a license in this state and, in fact, had never had one at all. Fulfilling all the prerequisites was an expensive proposition to a man of his limited means but he would find a way. He always had. But he would need to start from the proverbial scratch. The first, and most annoying, step was to take a driving course as mandated by the local authorities. Although, granted, he had never been a man taken to great affection toward authorities anywhere it seemed to him, who had driven tractors, trucks, motorcycles, proudly confidant of his ability to steer just about any vehicle on wheels, however many, that to be forced to take lessons at his rather ripe age, and mileage, was one of those unnecessary rules. Not to mention a waste of precious time which, given his dwindling funds, he could ill afford. But it was a rule. Without the certificate of completion he could not proceed any further. So here he was.

     On the second floor of 387 Jay Street there was a classroom. Along its faded gray walls hung old road safety posters advising caution in turning, alertness, sobriety, patience, vigilance, awareness and other virtues of the good driver. The classroom was filled with empty desks bringing to mind elementary school years and he half wished that he had been chewing gum to be able to stick a wad underneath one so as to fully recreate the fond scene, a time honored practice of the young in any country. At the front of the class was a desk upon which was mounted a steering wheel from, it appeared, a 50’s Ford with its’ half-moon horn and a 3-gear shift on the column. The room was dark and very quiet and felt as if it had been for a very long time. He could only smile. Welcome to the American.

     “Can I help you?”

     The soft voice he had heard came from behind him and when he turned he saw that a door which had been closed in the far end of the room was now open. Standing in the doorway was a slender black man dressed modestly but yet quite dapper. Perhaps it was more his manner than his clothes. He was not a young man as evidenced by his graying hair, cut quite short, and his well-trimmed silver beard. He had a gentle countenance but he did not smile. There was no doubt that it was here he belonged, he was the Master in this classroom, and one could believe no one else had ever been. He held a cane in his left hand and a ballpoint pen in his right.

     “I come for class. I need license now to drive here. I want to work in taxi”

     “Well then you have found the right place, sir. May I ask if you have driven before?”

     “All my life since young boy. But I come here to work and drive and need license.”

     “Did you have a license before?”

     “No. I just drive.”

     “Alright, sir, then. How long have been driving for?”

     “’Bout twenty-eight years.”

     “You realize that the class we offer is only for basic instruction? To be used only as preparation for your initial learner permit test? A taxi license requires a different course.”

     “Yes. They told me. I know. This is first. Or else.”

     “Alright, sir. My name is Charles. I am your instructor. Please choose a desk and sit down. The class will begin in five minutes.”

     About three minutes later he was called into the instructor’s office. The instructor told him, in the same gentle manner and soft tone, to print his name and address on a certificate and then he asked him for payment of the sum of forty dollars. He then gave him a receipt which he had signed.

     “This certificate is what you need, sir. You may take it to the Motor Vehicle Department and this number in the upper left-hand corner confirms completion of the required course. Please, however, if you happen across my boss on the way down the stairs do not mention the shortness of this class. He tends to be a rather moody sort. The class is over. You have passed. You are free to go, sir, if you wish. Good luck.”

     Quite pleased at his good fortune, he walked down Flatbush Avenue with hope in his heart, leaving behind the instructor, a kind man who had for forty years been a saxophone soloist. The Master’s days are spent in the old classroom, often recalling the sleek elegance of the DeSoto, as if he were in a Grand Ballroom of a Grand Hotel which has been forever closed, and his nights playing a gentle but complex rendition of ‘Blackbird’ on his golden horn in the dark.