Read Online A Replacement Life by Boris Fishman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Boris Fishman
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River.
Century would add:
He must have thought the light superior there.
If Slava managed to clear through the pile of Union-Tribune s and Plain Dealer s on his desk before quitting time, he launched into the stories he himself was trying to write. There was no time for walks to . . . where? They were in Midtown, a cold needle-forest of skyscrapers, striped shirts, pencil skirts, flats, barrettes, crinkling brown sandwich bags of the sort Slava had used to cover his first American schoolbooks, bodies in perpetual sidestep, instructions barked into a cell phone . . . No, Slava didn’t want to go outside. His life had a shape, hermetically sealed: on one end the office where he spent the daylight hours, on the other the apartment where he slept, between them the long underground rod of the 6 train. No walks.
He studied the treacherous slingshot of Arianna’s clavicle. She knew all about it—in the summer, you could count on one hand the number of times she wore sleeves. Not that Slava counted. Unlike Slava, who remained in the office to work on his writing, Arianna went home at six sharp—“I need to veg” was her announcement, as if she had depleted herself mowing a field. Arianna, a fact-checker, had the eagerness of the red checking pencil anchoring the bun of her hair. He had no time for her, if that’s how it was. Besides, Slava stayed clear of anything that could turn into something. He had precious little free time as it was.
However, sometimes curiosity bested even Slava’s leonine will, and he listened to the noise she made on the other side of the divider. White, blocky teeth eviscerating the leisure end of an old-fashioned pencil. The hollow thump of a bracelet against the Lucite of which their desktops were made. A back cracking in both directions, then the knuckles. The rabbity progress of teeth down the rims of a sunflower seed. Boots jangly with some kind of spur. Hooting laughter, as if there were no one else in the room.
Sometimes, when she wasn’t at her desk, Slava would peek over. Arianna ate almost nothing but salads, occasionally a pair of hard-boiled eggs without mayonnaise. The plastic containers remained on her desk, unfinished and open, until the end of the day, when he heard the day’s purchases hitting the walls of the garbage can: coffee cup, salad container, eggshells. Occasionally, these items missed and landed on the floor, or she left them on her desk altogether. Arianna maintained the American attitude toward help: It was their job. Souvenirs from the day’s salad decorated her tabletop: a triangle of lettuce, a streaky olive, a full anchovy. After she walked out, Slava tidied up on her side.
It was thanks to Arianna that Slava had found himself assigned to observe a new feat by anurban explorer. Beau had appeared before the Junior Staff pen—it really was a pen; the sixteen Juniors sat behind a railing like zoo rhinos—and thrown out an invitation to contribute to Century — an invitation to contribute to Century—as if he was merely adjusting ad count for the upcoming issue.
While everyone was busy being stunned—except for Peter Devicki, naturally; Peter, the only Junior to have published anything in the magazine, had his hand up before he knew what Beau was asking for—Arianna stared incandescently at Slava’s temple. He looked over. Her eyes were fixed on him like headlights. She would have raised his arm for him if she could.
“Listen,” she said now, draping her forearms on the divider. Five copper bracelets rattled against the fiberglass. Her nails were boyishly short and girlishly red. “This is tacky, but sometimes tacky’s just the thing. Imagine yourself winning this afternoon. Do something as if you got it.”
“Like what?” he said. “Champagne bath in Bean’s office?”
“Don’t make fun,” she said. “I said it was corny. What are you going to do? Get on the phone, call your parents, and tell them to buy next week’s issue. Because
Century would add:
He must have thought the light superior there.
If Slava managed to clear through the pile of Union-Tribune s and Plain Dealer s on his desk before quitting time, he launched into the stories he himself was trying to write. There was no time for walks to . . . where? They were in Midtown, a cold needle-forest of skyscrapers, striped shirts, pencil skirts, flats, barrettes, crinkling brown sandwich bags of the sort Slava had used to cover his first American schoolbooks, bodies in perpetual sidestep, instructions barked into a cell phone . . . No, Slava didn’t want to go outside. His life had a shape, hermetically sealed: on one end the office where he spent the daylight hours, on the other the apartment where he slept, between them the long underground rod of the 6 train. No walks.
He studied the treacherous slingshot of Arianna’s clavicle. She knew all about it—in the summer, you could count on one hand the number of times she wore sleeves. Not that Slava counted. Unlike Slava, who remained in the office to work on his writing, Arianna went home at six sharp—“I need to veg” was her announcement, as if she had depleted herself mowing a field. Arianna, a fact-checker, had the eagerness of the red checking pencil anchoring the bun of her hair. He had no time for her, if that’s how it was. Besides, Slava stayed clear of anything that could turn into something. He had precious little free time as it was.
However, sometimes curiosity bested even Slava’s leonine will, and he listened to the noise she made on the other side of the divider. White, blocky teeth eviscerating the leisure end of an old-fashioned pencil. The hollow thump of a bracelet against the Lucite of which their desktops were made. A back cracking in both directions, then the knuckles. The rabbity progress of teeth down the rims of a sunflower seed. Boots jangly with some kind of spur. Hooting laughter, as if there were no one else in the room.
Sometimes, when she wasn’t at her desk, Slava would peek over. Arianna ate almost nothing but salads, occasionally a pair of hard-boiled eggs without mayonnaise. The plastic containers remained on her desk, unfinished and open, until the end of the day, when he heard the day’s purchases hitting the walls of the garbage can: coffee cup, salad container, eggshells. Occasionally, these items missed and landed on the floor, or she left them on her desk altogether. Arianna maintained the American attitude toward help: It was their job. Souvenirs from the day’s salad decorated her tabletop: a triangle of lettuce, a streaky olive, a full anchovy. After she walked out, Slava tidied up on her side.
It was thanks to Arianna that Slava had found himself assigned to observe a new feat by anurban explorer. Beau had appeared before the Junior Staff pen—it really was a pen; the sixteen Juniors sat behind a railing like zoo rhinos—and thrown out an invitation to contribute to Century — an invitation to contribute to Century—as if he was merely adjusting ad count for the upcoming issue.
While everyone was busy being stunned—except for Peter Devicki, naturally; Peter, the only Junior to have published anything in the magazine, had his hand up before he knew what Beau was asking for—Arianna stared incandescently at Slava’s temple. He looked over. Her eyes were fixed on him like headlights. She would have raised his arm for him if she could.
“Listen,” she said now, draping her forearms on the divider. Five copper bracelets rattled against the fiberglass. Her nails were boyishly short and girlishly red. “This is tacky, but sometimes tacky’s just the thing. Imagine yourself winning this afternoon. Do something as if you got it.”
“Like what?” he said. “Champagne bath in Bean’s office?”
“Don’t make fun,” she said. “I said it was corny. What are you going to do? Get on the phone, call your parents, and tell them to buy next week’s issue. Because
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