Vital Signs by Jen Michalski

 

Arthur rented out his two-bedroom townhouse near the university and moved a somewhat-decrepit bungalow on the other side of town where at nights the young toughs listened to rap music and worked on their cars in the driveway, communicating in a form of English that Arthur abhorred and mercilessly corrected in his students when they attempted discussion in his classes. In the mornings he called advertisements in the paper looking for landscaping help; not many were inclined to hire someone of Arthur’s age and unproven physical stamina. They were less likely to hire him when they discovered he had been an English professor.

The only contractor willing to give Arthur a trial was a beaten-down man named Hank who made Arthur look Olympian in comparison. Hank walked on two knees that had been surgically repaired several times over the years and could not lift his right arm fully over his head.

“What, ya get fired? Cheating? Women? Booze?” Hank lit a cigarette from across his kitchen table, which doubled as the offices of Northern Landscaping.

“Wanted a change of scenery, so to speak,” Arthur answered, politely brushing away a matted, smelly dog eager to smell his crouch.

“A comedian. Just what the world needs.” Hank coughed malignantly. “Can I tell you something, Arthur? You’re stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re stupid. Sure, you got the book smarts I’m sure, but no common sense. You’re how old? Fifty? And you want to get into manual labor? I want to get out of manual labor, Arthur. I’ve got arthritis so bad I’d ride Buster here around the house like a pony if he weren’t an old shit too. Go back to teaching, Arthur. You get a good pension and maybe a paper cut if you’re unlucky.”

“Why not give me a chance, Hank? I’m not young, but I want to work.”

“You want to wake up in pain is what you want. First full day on the job and you’re gonna be crying to your wife, that’s for sure.”

“One day won’t kill you, right? If you’ve made the wrong decision, it’ll only be one day.”

“All right, Arthur; we’ll do this. Then you can go whine back at your ivory tower when you get a blister. I pay nine dollars an hour. I don’t have health insurance. You be here at eight o’clock.”

Arthur met Hank at eight o’clock sharp outfitted in a new pair of Dickies and a denim shirt he had purchased the week before at Sears. At this time he would be breaking into a lecture on Yeats to his eight class, fondling a dog-eared text and probing the young, supple faces of his young undergraduate students to see who had done the reading.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” Hank laughed and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Prepared to get dirty, Arthur. There’s nothing more honest in the world than dirty old men.”

Arthur climbed in the ancient red Ford that housed a riding mower, pruning tools, some concrete blocks, and bags of fertilizer, in addition to Buster, who licked at his paws in the passenger seat. Arthur timidly pushed him into the middle and sat down.

“Want some coffee, Arthur?” Hank nodded at a styrofoam cup in Arthur’s drink holder. “Don’t say I never got you anything.”

“Thanks, Hank.” Arthur took a sip. He had already loaded up on antacids and ibuprofen at the house, hoping to stave off first-day aches and any fast-food lunches. “So did your last partner move on to something else?”

“They’re all lazy bums, young guys who think they can get paid for just showing up. If they show up. I don’t think you’ll have a problem showing up, Arthur. I just hope your body doesn’t piss out on you while you’re working.”

“I’ll surprise you, Hank.”

“Everybody’s full of surprises. So, would I know any of the stuff you were teaching over at the university?”
“The romantic poets?”
“I thought they was all romantic.” Hank shrugged. “Got a brick patio to lay today, Arthur. Ever laid brick?”

“Can’t say I have, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Looking forward to it,” Hank repeated, chuckling. “You’re a trip, Arthur. You’re something else.”

Arthur spent most of the morning hunched over, sliding bricks together on flattened dirt that was to become a patio. The house was in a neighborhood in which he and Julia used to live, years ago, before the divorce. He imagined himself attending a gathering at this very place, listening to tales of boating trips or politics or the new Polynesian place. He had spent many years nodding and chuckling mindlessly at such drivel, not really caring much about the intricate workings of his social circle or the school activities of his son or Julia’s interior decorating ideas. He cared mostly, largely, about his work, a limited inner world to which he was privy to every minute detail: which papers were ready to be sent to which journals, which conferences to which he had been invited, kudos in the college magazine. He supposed all those academics and socialites he had convened with over the yeas all were similarly absorbed in some way or another, fireflies drawn together by the light of success.

He imagined encountering one of his colleagues or social climbers on this porch, while he was laying brick; he supposed it could happen sooner or later. How would the conversation turn? Awkward snippets, hinging mostly on the whereabouts of wives and children, although the puzzler would not be broached: Arthur, what on earth are you doing on your hands and knees on my patio? An elaborate rumor would be invented: Arthur’s papers were plagiarized, he had a nervous breakdown, he had inoperable cancer and a huge sense of guilt. Anything would be more acceptable than the fact that he had an epiphany, the kind his cherished authors had throughout the ages. An epiphany of what? That he had not lived life as it had been presented to him, only selected snippets of which he had chosen?

But what was wrong with that, specifically? Was there anything wrong with Arthur’s life? He could surely have as vague a sense of dissatisfaction here, on this patio, stubbing his fingers, as he had grading papers. But it was no matter now; he had crossed the line, those little tire shredders that are flat in one direction and sharp metal spikes if one tries to back up to change one’s mind. It was best to keep moving and enjoy the view, even if it wound taking him over the cliff.

“That looks pretty good, Arthur.” Hank stood over him, smoking a cigarette. “Well, color me impressed. Where do you want to go to lunch? Hardees or Pollack Johnny’s?”

Arthur ended his first day in the tub, a six pack of cheap beer, bought right from the refrigerator case, beside the tub. He stared at his scuffed knuckles and blackened fingernails, felt a odd pain behind his knee he hadn’t experienced since he quit tennis a few years back. A mangy cat who seemed to live here at some point with previous owners had bullied his way into the house when Arthur unlocked the door and now stared at him from the toilet. He now had a friend.

Well, two friends. Hank had candidly unloaded the details of his life throughout the day, which Arthur had taken as a good sign. Why waste the energy on a man he was going to let go at the end of the day? But Hank had told him about his ex-wife, Eunice, his no-good son, Tommy, his heartburn, and promised to fill him in on the rest the following day. Arthur was actually looking forward to it. And when the scrawny cat, which Arthur had named Blake, knocked over his beer can and began to drink, he just opened another.