Page 77 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

he sounded. He could see puzzlement creep through guard’s face, then amusement. But Seymour contin- ued anyway. “He was wearing a dark gray suit and a light gray shirt, no tie.”
The guard regarded him with pity. “We have people in here all day like that.”
“No, no, you don’t. He was tall.” Seymour suddenly realized that there was nothing particular he could remember about the young man, not his hair color or whether he was wearing a wedding ring or carrying anything with him. “He looked kind of beat up, like he had just lost something.”
“Like a watch?” The guard’s eyebrows raised. He pointed at one of the gray plastic bins. “Did he lose a watch? We had one of those today.”
“No, no,” said Seymour. “No, it was something big.”
The guard’s eyebrows raised even more. “Like a car? Was his car stolen?”
Seymour was struggling not to sound absurd but the words that came out of his mouth made no sense. “You don’t know who I’m talking about?”
The corners of the guard’s mouth turned up. “Listen, we’ve got guys coming in and out of here all day,” he said in a deep, rich sarcastic baritone, the type of voice Seymour wished he had.
There was no point in continuing this interrogation and Seymour felt stupid and childish for attempt- ing it in the first place. All he could envision were faceless people putting their belongings in the tray, walking through the metal detector, collecting the items back up, and then exiting through the door a few hours later, and one might never know where they go afterwards, what happens to them. It was tragic how anonymous people were. One might never know the damage one person inflicts upon another, even by accident.
He made one last attempt with the guard even though he knew it was futile. “The guy was in trouble. I know he was in trouble.”
The guard was grinning now. “This place is full of trouble. It’s a courthouse.”
“You’re no help at all!” Seymour dismissed the guard with a wave and he curled his fingers into little fists no one could see. He wanted to add, “You’re no better than any of those lawyers here,” but he left the build- ing without saying anything more.
Back on the street, he shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun. People streamed past him, every which way. The businesses near the courthouse
were also getting out for the day. Trucks shifted.
Cars stopped, then accelerated. Motorcycles revved. Someone in an old Honda drove by with the windows down, playing rap music. Blasting was more like it. Sound was cutting into his brain, threatening to slice it into tiny jagged pieces. It was like he was in a hol- low tin drum. Seymour put his hands over his ears. Where had all this noise come from? Was this New York City suddenly? He needed to get to his truck. He needed to get away.
He’d parked in a garage a few blocks over, one that he’d never have to park at again now that he’d quit his job. He waved at Sam, a frizzled man with an eyepatch who rose the gate for him. His old Ford F150 with 100,000 miles on it was still dependable at least. It had a personalized license plate reading “BACK OFF”. He thought it was funny when he first ordered the plate, after he started working for the insurance company, but now it didn’t seem funny anymore. He drove north, away from downtown, the air conditioning on high so he wouldn’t be so aware of the noise all around. He thought of turning on his radio, but music seemed out of place now, and in the end it would just become more noise. More assault to his brain. He just needed to get home.
Seymour pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. No other cars were in the lot. His apart- ment was on the top floor. There were three stories. The exterior walls of his building were beige and vinyl sided. The building had been built in 1975. Not expensive or deluxe. Enough of a home for him.
He climbed the three flights and opened the door to his apartment. It was dark and quiet, just the way he had left it this morning. He went over to his refrigera- tor and pulled out a beer. Hunger gnawed the bottom of his stomach. When he’d left the office, he hadn’t bothered to stop for food. When he was at the wine bar, he wanted liquor. He opened his cupboard and pulled out a bag of potato chips but they were overly yellow and unappealing. He put a chip in his mouth anyhow, and chewed. Salty, used-up staleness invad- ed his mouth.
It was then that he noticed how yellow the paint in his kitchen was. Really yellow. It seemed fine to him when he moved in years ago, and even fine this morning, but now there was something jaundiced about it.
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