If I Should Fall: The Second Book of Geshichte Falls

THREE

THESE SIMPLE ECTASIES

1

BRAD LONG WAS, so Marissa estimated, a little over six feet standing, and she hoped he was as young as he looked; applying for a shelving job at the public library and all. He was narrow—the word thin did no justice—and wore old jeans and a weathered white tee shirt that refused to be tucked in. As Marissa sat on the other side of the table reading his application, he sat back, legs wide apart, twiddling the thumbs of his big hands. He was unshaven, had a goatee and short black hair, that contrasted with his almost ghostly skin. It was that particular paleness of people from Mediterranean climes who had been long out out of the sun, and his green eyes, ringed about by dark circles, would have been looking straight into her if she wasn’t concentrating on his application.

“You’re thirty-one?”

“Just turned it this summer.”

“And you were top of your graduate school class?”

“Um hum.”

“I mean, Burton isn’t a joke school... and you have a degree in English and philosophy... a Masters in both?”

Marissa looked across the table, back to Brad Long who now had a long finger jammed into his ear and was digging furiously into it with raised eyebrows.

“You started off teaching at Burton, then quit?”

“It’s not the teaching I disagreed with, it was the whole philosophy of the faculty. They didn’t prize education. You know?”

“Then you were at Soubirous… down the road?”

“Not my style.” He dismissed it with a vehement shake of the head, pushing the style away with his hand.

“And a book of poems out.”

“That no one reads.”

“Then why did you put it on your resume?”

“Because it was true.”

Marissa blinked at this.

Clearing his throat, Brad Long clarified, “And it was only one of those college press things?”

His voice lifted to make the sentence a question. “I plan on finishing another one. Starting’s not the problem. It’s completion.”

“And you tutor now?”

“Um hum.”

“Who?”

“Whomever—whoever wants it.”

“And then you were working in a furniture store?”

“Right.”

“And a Wendy’s?”

“Yes.”

“And other fast food places and the like.”

“Dime stores.”

Then Brad added, “And the like.

“But there were no kids there, not enough time to really talk to people either. I love people. Just to be one on one with them you know?”

Marissa Gregg only answered by saying, “And now you want to make five dollars an hour as a shelver?”

Brad looked back at her with raised eyebrows and wide eyes as if he’d been the one asking the question.

“I mean....” she looked down at the application, “Mr. Long, aren’t you a little old and a little overqualified to be applying for this job?”

He shrugged indifferently, and with equal indifference asked, “Aren’t you a little sexy to be a librarian?”

Marissa Long bristled.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she told him.

Brad Long looked completely unapologetic, not even mischievous. But he did say. “You’re probably right.”

“Mr. Long, I don’t really see a reason for you doing this when you could be teaching at a college level, writing works of scholarship, giving seminars, putting your talents to a much better use—”

“Have you ever shelved a book?” he asked in a mild voice.

“Well, yes.”

“I bet you shelve them every day, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“And work with kids?”

“It’s part of my job description,” she pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“And it’s menial to you? I mean, do you really think it means nothing, what you do?”

“It’s—” Marissa began, and then she said, “Mr. Long, do you have any other questions?”       

“What time’s your lunch break?”

She looked straight at him, completely bewildered.

“Librarians don’t go to lunch?” he looked incredulous.

“It’s one.”

“That’s forty-five minutes off.”

He stood up now and stretched a little.

 “Where’d’ya wanna go?”

“I’m afraid…” she began, “Mr. Long, that’s not acceptable.”

“Well, do I at least get the job?”

Marissa did the specified amount of hemming and hawwing before saying, “Mr. Long, you’ll have to call me tomorrow. But I’ll be honest-” (which was not completely honest at all) “there are four other applicants for this job, so your chances are iffy.”

Brad nodded, said, “Thank you,” offered his hand bravely, and after Marissa had taken it, strode out of the tiny office into the third floor lobby.

 

Several mornings later, Lakreasha, adorned in beaten gold bangles, hoop earrings, and swirls of micro braids, walked into Marissa’s office.

“It’s a man here to see you,” she told Marissa. “Here for an interview. He asked me about it, but I said he’d better check with you.”

“Alright, Lakreasha,” Marissa’s voice was tired. For some time she’d felt sapped of strength. “Send him in.”

Out went Lakreasha. In came Brad Long, a trifle ridiculous looking with his hair combed and polished, a dark blue dress shirt and black slacks too baggy for him.

“I called and called, but there was no answer. Or they said you were busy.”

All these words tumbled from Brad’s mouth in rapid succession.

“Mr...” Marissa made as if she had forgotten his last name.

“Long.”

Intentionally or unintentionally, Brad, leaning over Marissa’s desk, made an L with his right hand, like a child’s gun sign. He helped himself to a seat.

“Do I get the job? I even came dressed respectably to show how respectable I can be—”

“Mr. Long—”

“And I’d be good with kids, I mean, shelving in the children’s area, good with old people, shelving in the large print, and good with homeless people because…. Well, the library.”

Once again she was reminding herself to turn from those green eyes, stop looking curiously at that black hair.

Brad sat back and spread out his hands.

“You know what, Mrs. Gregg?”

“It’s Miss. I have never been Mrs.”

“You know what, Miss Gregg, you can’t think I’m not able to do this job.”

“I think it is beneath you. I think this, all of this, is not enough for someone like you.”

“If that’s how you feel,” Brad said, sitting up, “get out. If you feel like writing works of scholarship is what would do it for you, or being a college professor, or performing surgery or dancing topless or standing on your head or whatever is better than this, well then go for it. And get out of here. I know all the grand stuff didn’t work for me is all.”

“And you think this will, Mr. Long?”

“Call me Brad. We’ve got to be the same age.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

He shook his head, and leaning a little nearer to his edge of the table, placed his chin in his cupped hands and frowned.

She was offended. She was offended by him calling her sexy the other day, by frankly walking into her office, asking for a job and acting like he wanted to fuck her.

She stared at him, waiting for this weird man to pull a gun out or scream or spit pea soup. Or anything.

“Thirty-five is too old—”  Brad began.

“I beg your pardon—”

 “Too old to be stuck in something you don’t like...”

With his pale skin, round, ringed eyes and short black hair he looked like something from a Byzantine mosaic. There was nothing attractive about Brad Long in the common way, but Marissa Gregg was attracted to him. She’d known immediately she couldn’t offer him the job, told him of the poor reasoning involved in him trying to shelve books and read stories to five year olds, and yet had on some level hoped he would convince her otherwise.

 

 

“I don’t know why it’s so important to him,” Nehru said from where he lay, sprawled out on the sofa in Chayne’s house, flipping through an old magazine. He looked up at them.

“Does anyone know what the hell a V-spot is?”

Chayne looked sharply at his young cousin, and then back to Brad.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No, Chayne,” Brad waved the question away with one of his large hands.

“I mean,” Nehru tried to be understanding of his friend this time, “do you need the money? It’s only five dollars an hour. You could probably get something even part time at Soubirous—”

Brad shot Nehru a look, and Nehru blinked, putting down the magazine. Sitting up a little straighter, he said, “Bradley. It’s not the money is it? Brad, what is it?”

Brad’s brows knit, and Rob, from where he sat sorting through Chayne’s mail, thought the man looked rather profound and woebegone.

“I don’t know,” Brad said. “I don’t... Chayne?”

“Yes?”

“I was about to ask about people from your generation—”

“Until you realized that you’re closer to my age than Nehru’s?”

Brad smiled sadly and said, “Yeah. But I don’t think of it that way. I don’t really think of you as any age. And I’m actually closer in age to Russell’s parents than Russell, aren’t I?”

Because the answer would have been depressing, Chayne said nothing.

“I just… thought I’d have it figured out by now,” he said.

“No one—” Chayne started out, but Brad waved it away.

“I know, no one has it figured out, but some people my age have it figured out to the tune of a wife and kids, a two car garage and a house in the Breckinridge or Keyworthy. I wish I could have it as not figured out as they do. And...they don’t even know they don’t have it figured out. I wish I didn’t know. I keep thinking there’s always something around the corner.”

Brad flopped down on the sofa, his long legs stretching out before him, and he turned with a grimace to Nehru as if to say, “How do you feel about that, buddy?

“Every time I find something it’s not it,” Brad said. “So now here I am looking at a shelving job like it’s the thing that’s around the corner. That’s fucked up.”

“Well,” Chayne hit save on the computer. “Life is fucked up.”

“Should I make grilled cheese,” Rob said incongruously.

Everyone but Chayne looked at him as he put down the mail and explained, “Everything’s better with grilled cheese.”

“Well, now that is true,” Nehru agreed.

Rob went to the kitchen and Chayne, following the gentle movement of his protégé turned assistant turned boyfriend’s ass in denim, wondered how, even in jeans and a tee shirt, Rob seemed put together.

“I used to feel just like Brad,” Rob said calmly, opening the refrigerator door.

“I didn’t even know who I was and I was never happy.”

“And now?” Chayne took the cheese from him.

Rob kissed him hard and quick and Chayne cupped Rob’s ass in his satisfied hands.

“Now?” Rob said, as Chayne squeezed him. “Now, I’m happy a whole lot more.”