The Fuck-Up

“Are you a masochist?”

“No.”

“What’s with you? Every time I see you you’ve been wounded.”

“Fate’s a sadist.”

Miguel offered to cover that night’s shift, but I could tell that he was looking forward to having the night off. He had been working every night for the past two weeks, ever since the manager whom I was replacing had quit. I was equally eager to see if I could handle the job. He planted a thankful kiss on my cheek, promised to call, and left.

All I had that day was the watery tea at the NYU student center, so I appropriated some money from the petty cash drawer, and I went out to get some food. I went over to the Korean greengrocer, which had just opened a salad bar, and put together a complex salad. Then I hobbled back to the theater, and slowly ate it down. I began my first inspection of the theater. Toilet paper was stocked in the bathroom. All the fire codes were being observed. Checking the screen, I noticed that all the acts of fellatio and sodomy were correctly in focus and all the grunts and moans were distinctly audible. Along some of the seats, I saw the dark silhouettes of pleased patrons in rhythmical motions. Life was following art in the theater. I was about to dip back into the office when I heard someone address the box office lady, “Is Miguel here?”

“Miguel?” she replied. I turned to see the oily subway kid who was initially recommended the job by Tanya. Before the box office lady could tell him that Miguel wasn’t here, I stepped up and spoke to him.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Miguel?” he asked. Silently I went around to the turnstile and opened the door for him.

“Why?” I said.

“Tanya sent me for the manager’s job.”

“I needed someone a week ago. Where the hell were you?” I replied, and then concluded, “I filled the spot.”

“Shit,” he replied.

“Sorry,” I replied. He vanished back into the night.

Proceeding back into the office, I took out the portable TV to forget the dirty deed. The kid shouldn’t have taken so long. I turned on the TV.

The only time I had ever watched TV in the recent past was when I was depressed. After about five minutes of watching a sitcom, the fu

Finding nothing else to do, I started cleaning the accumulations out of my pockets. Other than soiled tissues, I found a “Be A Cashier In Six Weeks” mail order coupon, which in my former unemployed despair I had pulled from a subway advertisement. The bottom of my pocket was impaled with broken toothpicks and lined with pulverized after-di

“Hi.” I tried to sound at ease. “I hope this isn’t a bad time to call.”

“Who is this please?”

“I’m the guy you took to the hospital the other day, after the hold-up.”

“The would-be poet.”

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That I got a poem published. You didn’t see it in print, did you?”

“No,” she replied. “I mean, I don’t know. I only remember your mentioning Hart Crane. Where did you get a poem published?”

“In the Harrington Quarterly, the upcoming issue.”

“Congratulations, best of luck with…” A clicking sound interrupted. “Oh excuse me, I’ve got call waiting.”

She clicked her phone and talked to some other party for a while, giving me time to locate a target. I decided that I would ask her for lunch the next day.

“I’m sorry for keeping you,” she finally said, “but I’ve got a long distance call on the other line, and I’m going to be a while, so I’ve got to go.”

“One request. Can we go for lunch tomorrow?”

“Look, I’m about ten years your senior.”

“Maybe, but you’re a lot younger than your age and I’m a lot older than mine.”

“Ten years is ten years.”

“All it really means is that you’ll have more to say than me.”

She giggled and told me to give her a call in the mid-afternoon, and that ended the conversation. I toured around the theater a bit and returned to the little office. I tried watching TV again but soon lost reception again. Eventually I buzzed the projectionist booth and a

“Just checking to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Well I would have notified you otherwise, wouldn’t I?” she replied.

“Sorry for bothering you,” I said and turned to leave.

“Hold on there. There is one thing.” She led me into a back room. “Look at this.” She pointed out a large rusty pot filled with stagnant water.

“Why don’t you dump it?” I replied, not knowing what else she might have wanted.

“Because the roof’s leaking, stupid.”

“Okay I’ll make a report of it.” And again I turned to go.

“Hey stupid, how are you going to make a report on something you haven’t seen?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you think you should check the roof? It might just be a leaky pipe or something.”

“It’s not necessary,” I said. I didn’t want to go up to the roof.

“Check the roof!” she insisted. Then she led me to a steel ladder that was bolted into the wall. I climbed up the ladder that led into darkness. In the darkness I realized that a metal hatchcover was tied down with thick hemp ropes. I undid the ropes, shoved up the hatch, and continued up to the roof. Outside it was dark and drizzling. I walked around the roof awhile. It was dirty and littered. I accidentally kicked through a rusty tar can. At the very rear of the roof I noticed a rattly old fire escape. But it was too dark to see any cracks in the tar so I climbed back down the ladder and reknotted the ropes.

“Yep,” I told the projectionist, “there’s definitely a leak.”

“Well, get on the ball and fix it or expect a grievance from the union.”

I hurried downstairs, away from the projectionist and out of her testy domain. It was a flash lesson in the value of warm secure boredom. When I went by the box office, the lady told me that I had two calls: one from Miguel checking to see that all was well, one from Marty. He left a number. When I dialed it, an older male with an accent answered. I introduced myself.

“This is Sergei,” he only gave his given name. “So you are the young man whom Marty recommended.”

“Yes.”

“Well, when can we meet?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Tomorrow at noon then.”

“Perfect.”

“Do you know Caramba?”

“On Broadway.”

“Very good, brunch. It will be my treat.”

“Wonderful.”

“Oh,” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’m looking at my appointment book and I realize that I have a conflict. Damn, damn. And that would have been perfect, too. Let’s see…” I could hear him flipping through small pages. “Damn, I’m overbooked. Meet me at Caramba for a quick meal, and if we haven’t resolved things you’ll just have to accompany me on my next appointment.”

“I don’t mind,” I replied, as if I’d been asked.

“Wonderful,” he replied, and that was that; I still didn’t know this “celebrity director.” No sooner did I put down the phone than I realized the upcoming problems. I had no money, no clothes, and nowhere to spend the night. I had already borrowed what little petty cash could be spared for di

If worse came to worst, I could spend the night in the theater, on the office floor, and scrub my clothes clean in the sink so that I could look half-presentable tomorrow. But I was looking more and more raggedy. The right sleeve of my jacket and the left bottom leg of my pants were cut off.