Joe paused at the door to the lobby grill, and thought: nope. Nope, no sir, not today. No to the grilled cheese and no to the same waitress and no to the little bowl of mints by the cash register. No to the raised edge on the counter that collected salt and crusty ketchup. No to the soggy chips and no forevermore, Jack, to the fuggin’ pickle. There had to be someplace else to eat.

Not that he was hungry. He had got up at six with a headache and the feeling that his stomach was full of bubbling tar. I need to eat more if I’m going to drink that much, he thought, and smiled grimly at the notion: gee, a health kick..

He had put the letters out of his head. They came from a nut, nothing more. Some schitzo got his name out of a trade directory and was amusing himself; he probably sent letters to the paper made up of cut-out letters with horns drawn on the lingerie ads. He’d worry when the letters came to his house with his matches enclosed. Until then forget it. Get some lunch, deliver the prototypes to the drugstore, and head home. Nothing to do back at the office anyway; the boss left at noon, and Frank had vanished for another month.

And if he didn’t see the afternoon mail arrive he wouldn’t have to think about it, now would he?

He wandered downtown for a while. No hurry. Funny how you never really looked at anything when you were in a hurry; you saw what you were used to seeing, nothing more. Slow it down a little, and you noticed things. The names of the old companies painted on the windows two, three stories up. The black spots of old gum on the sidewalk, indissoluble. The newspapers stuffed in around a fan stuck in a transom. The peeling paint on a traffic light, revealing another coat of the same color below. The way no one looked like her.

He found himself at the old arcade, and wandered in; hadn’t been here in years. He used to come downtown with his Mom on Saturdays. She’d shop at Halle’s for clothes, take him to the boys department to try on some thing stiff and scratchy. They’d always have ice cream here – long spoons and tulip glasses, water served in paper cups nestled in silver cups. He didn’t remember anything else – no, once he spun around on his stool until he got sick to his stomach; he remembered that. But not what his mother looked like then or what she said or what they talked about. The brain was like one of those crazy old ladies they find in a house full of unread newspapers; it saved the oddest things and put the treasures out on the curb.

He sat at the counter and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and some coffee. He sent the first cup back; lipstick on the rim. The waitress took it without comment, slightly annoyed: it ain’t gonna kill you, he could hear her think. The second cup had a chip in the rim. He let it go.

It was really quite ridiculous to expect he’d ever see her again, wasn’t it. Hmm: she eats lunch, so if I go somewhere people eat lunch, she might be there. Right, pal. Sure. Elementary my dear Watson. He had the sudden belief she was back at the lobby grill, reading a fashion magazine. He would have settled for knowing she thought about him for a second when she sat down. Then again, she had his matches. She would have thought about him a dozen times at least.

Oh, sure she would.

The grilled cheese arrived. The pickle was enormous. The chips were thin greasy bottom-of-the-baggers. But the toothpicks were individually wrapped. You had to hand that to them.

Joe paid and left and walked back to the office, where he sat in his chair until the mail came.

Nothing for him. He breathed deep. He shut all the lights off and locked the door. He watched the hand over the doors tick off every floor, pause, then move to the next. The elevator stopped on every floor before it arrived.

“Earning your keep, Seamus,” he said as he stepped inside. “Lots of traffic.”

“Friday,” Seamus said.

“God bless Friday.”

Seamus shrugged and looked straight ahead.

“More so Sunday, I think,” he said. “If He’s doin’ the chosing.”
The Cleveland Arcade. Halle's Department store (Ms. Berry was named after it, you know.)
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home