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“Luckies,” said Joe.
“Luckies,” said the little man. He slid the pack across the counter and slapped down a dime. “Matches?”
“Yeah.” The little man pointed to the box by the cash register.
Self-serv, I guess, Joe thought, and he picked up a book. The clerk gave him a look.
“Bad one?” He pointed to his chin.
“Nah. Just wouldn’t stop. You know how it is.”
“They’re the worst. Okay, thanks. Yes ma’am?”
Joe walked over to the elevator, wondering if the whole world noticed. Well, of course they did. He got in the elevator, and noticed how people slid away a few inches. The car emptied out by the time he got to his floor. Seamus gave him the same look as the clerk: a mixture of pity and bemusement.
“I always get it here.” He pointed to his upper lip, right on the line.
“That’s a tricky spot,” Joe said. “If it’s going to bite you, that’s where it does it.”
Seamus nodded. They rode in silence and nodded farewells when the cage clattered open.
Joe spent the morning sketching out a design for a men’s store. New account, probably someone the boss knew from Elks. New store from the look of it. High class. Leather gloves, good shoes. Spat’s was the name of the place. Probably sold anything but. Who wore spats? Went out with walking sticks. He was glad he could just mail the designs to the client; he hated going to these new stores. The first few weeks the owner was all cheer and glee, a dream come true, all that jazz; give him a month or two and he got that hard and haggard look of someone who has the bank on his neck. He looks around the empty store and wonders what the hell he was thinking. He kicks himself for getting the best wood on the displays, curses the day he agreed to those fancy hangers. Who’d have noticed if he’d used the cheaper wood? The few customers who drift in sense the taint of failure; they linger, smile, and make for the door as soon as they can before anyone gets their hopes up. The one guy he hired to run the floor files his nails and checks his boutinier and looks out the window at the traffic, humming. Rocking on his heels, humming. Stop humming. It’s no grief to him if the place goes belly up; he can move over to Higbee without missing a beat.
The mood in those places was always dark. The guy who came by with the custom matches was just one more hand hanging out for money. Nothing coming in and too much going out. Gloves! What the hell was I thinking! I’m selling Italian gloves in Cleveland. And I open in May. Jesus.
No, he’d mail this one.
Before he went down for lunch he went to the washroom to splash his face. The tissue came off in his hands, and he realized he’d opened up the cut again. Aw, fer chrissakes. He ripped off an inch of brown paper from the roll hanging on the wall and pressed it into the cut. That morning he’d wondered if the cut would ever stop bleeding. Damn dull blade. He’d looked around for a fresh one, but there were none; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought new blades. Probably before the bender. He hadn’t exactly spent that month stocking up and laying in provisions.
The blood soaked right through the paper. Joe ripped off another hunk of paper and held it up to his jaw. He couldn’t go down to the lobby diner like this. Well, he’d call down and have it sent up, then. Fine. He had work to do.
Joe went back to his desk, phoned the café. For a moment he had a thought, a stupid stabbing doubt, the sudden belief that this would be the day she showed up again, and he wouldn’t be –
“Ah – it’s, ah, Joe up at MMN. The usual with a black coffee. Thanks.”
He lit a cigarette. Looked at the matchbooks. Smiled. Ten for nineteen cents. You get a penny back. Don’t spend it all in one place. Sure, you could spend 20 cents for your razors, if you’re a Rockefeller. Penny saved, penny earned. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Que sera and so forth.
He looked at the paper: bright red. Hadn’t healed yet.
He got the designs in the mail by five. Walked down the block to the drug store: a warm night, by God. Spring again. I’m so tired of the cold, his mother had said the other day at lunch. She showed him the pictures of Florida. But it’s warm now; doesn’t that count? Eh. The older you get, the more work it takes to shake the cold from your bones. Or so he’d heard.
The drugstore smelled of mothballs; they all did. Where did they keep them? Wasn’t like you saw big pyramids of mothball boxes anywhere. He found the aisles with the razors, and picked up two boxes of Goldblatt’s, thinking: matchbooks are your best advertising value. Hell, worked for me.
He put them on the counter. The clerk was a young pimply kid with horse teeth and a crop of whiteheads on his forehead. He flicked a look up at Joe, then looked twice; he spotted the wad of paper on Joe’s chin, looked down at the pack of Goldblatt’s, looked back at Joe’s wound. And Joe knew that kid never buy that brand in his life.
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