Working Class Zero
Mike Lee
The Higsons upstairs picked a terrible time to argue over the rent, five a.m. on Wednesday morning.
Eddie stared up from his bed and listened to the thumping and muffled shouts from upstairs, and he could almost imagine Ida Higson going for her frying pan at this point.
The landlord tolerated all the trouble the Higsons caused because, despite all the arguing, they paid their rent on time.
Eddie had only been living here for two months and was a week late with the rent. Because he could not show up on time, hustling tourists had become dangerous, so he lost his job bussing tables at the Grove Park Inn.
Eddie occasionally managed, borrowing money from his grand aunt in Oteen and from the kindness of his sisters Mori and Irene.
They lived in a small house on Montford Avenue on the north side of town, which they inherited when their grandmother died. Mori suffered from the aftereffects of a diabetes-linked stroke when she was eleven and partially paralyzed on her right side.
She had long, flowing blond hair and bright green eyes.
The doctors who had treated Mori over the years didn’t expect her to make it past twenty; now that she’s twenty-seven, they’re talking thirty. Despite all the predictions, she inured with the admirable strength that Eddie wished he had.
Mori had a wheelchair, which she often used, and a walker on the good days, which were few. Sometimes, when she was really weak, she would slump towards her right side, almost to the point of falling out, but not quite.
Irene was a different story. She was the suffering Madonna personified. Although the middle child, she was treated as the runt of the litter. After their parents died, it was up to Irene to take care of her sick sister. She did so dutifully without questioning why.
This aged her in a hurry. She was twenty-five going on forty, and the Marlboro 100s she smoked while sitting at the red kitchen table—while otherwise collecting antiques and dust--didn’t help.
Eddie, being the boy, never the man, was left to his own devices and helped Irene out by not getting in her way.
Eddie grew tired of waiting for Floyd to run upstairs, so he climbed out of bed. He scratched his stomach and went into the bathroom, stepping over mounds of dirty clothing, beer bottles, and other assorted trash. It was time to take out the garbage.
He turned the water on. He stepped in, letting the hot water flow over his body.
Eddie lay down in the tub for close to an hour, daydreaming of hitting the winning home run for the Mets in the Series, scoring touchdowns for the Bears in cold Soldier Field, winning the Pulitzer for Best New Novelist, and becoming a famous poet, playwright, and/or actor. Becoming a screenwriter, talk-show host, and politician, or still, an academic who wrote scholarly works or a firebrand who wrote polemics. Though removed from reality, this seemed to be the outside world Eddie dreamed of. He dreamed for hours until the water turned warm, then lukewarm to practically cold in the Appalachian winter.
Eddie finally got out, satiated in the false hopes. Like all in his category, Eddie’s good feelings faded by the time he exited the bathroom.
There was little for him to do but lay on the bed and go back to sleep. Ida Higson was already at work, and the old man had the TV on, mumbling the Today Show quietly, at a distance almost dreamlike from the reality of Eddie’s room below.
After he awakened, he dressed to finally leave. The jeans came on first. He always wore the same pair for three days, and this was their second, a shirt from the closet and socks. He put on his dad’s battered black Oxfords.
Eddie looked into the mirror. He needed a shave. He picked up the electric razor on the dresser below the mirror and turned it on. The razor whirred slowly, sometimes painfully, whenever Eddie hit a rough spot. After a few minutes, Eddie turned the razor off and rubbed his face. It’ll do, he thought.
He grabbed his coat and opened the door to his room, flipping his lapels and kicked the floor closed.
Eddie walked down the stairwell to the front landing, passing the bent and twisted metal of what had once been a mailbox. He threw the bolt on the front door and stepped into the cold, dry air.
The street was almost without emotion; the trashcans beside the front stoop were open and empty, and rain had collected in their rusted bottoms. An old Ford Torino, which he sold to Floyd to help make rent, remained in its place in front of him, its rear tires flat. Johnny McInnelly’s truck was behind it, parked somewhat over the curb. A Blue Jay was perched on top of it, probably ready to shit on the roof. An old couple was slowly making its way from the A&P. They were dressed in black, carrying theseis weeks’ groceries.
The only windows on the street were broken, and it looked like it would rain again today. Eddie stood on the stoop, hands in his pockets, and watched the old couple pass by him, heads down low, creaking by.
They didn’t bother to say hello; oh well.
Eddie felt like screaming to break the silence of the street but thought better of it and decided to get some breakfast.
Dionne’s was in the corner. Scrambled eggs and sausages could be had for less than three dollars--half of Eddie’s current cash flow--and it was always a chance to catch up on good gossip from old friends and maybe get either the usual fiver-and-cigarettes bum from someone or the opportunity to make some quick, though illegal, favor that someone had to offer.
Dionne’s was the typical neighborhood hangout for people who, like Eddie, were either too stupid or too lazy to leave town once they got out of high school. It was where their fathers hung out before them and those before them still.
The diner had the exterior aura of a quaint Northeastern diner nestled in this corner of the South and the emotional interior of a Times Square dive. Outside of the locals, old and young alike, and a few farm boys from nearby who came through on their way to and from the market, no one else came into Dionne’s except for the occasional tourist family stupid enough to venture into this slum. Otherwise, the place seemed to stay unchanged for the last forty years.
The diner was red brick on the outside, with large windows on both sides--nondescript. The interior was basically Formica, with the booths dark green with the seats split open, sometimes taped over with duct tape, sometimes not, and the stuffing showing through like an open mouth.
The interior walls were covered from cheap wood paneling, with photographs of the three generations of Dionne’s regulars celebrating some bogus holiday, and also, a few of the odd man himself, in the uniform of the Brooklyn Dodgers, who he had played for, or as Dionne himself put it, “had a cup of coffee with” back during the Great Depression. How Dionne came down here was a legend, but like all stories, it’s better told elsewhere.
Eddie walked in and looked around for familiar faces. There were only a few inside. Two men wearing gray work clothes sat at the counter talking to the waitress Eddie once dated in junior high, looking rather bored. No one was sitting at the tables.
In his usual stubble-faced dirty-raincoat outfit, only Ben the Drunk was in the booths, his craggy face leaning over a cup of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. After studying the scene, Eddie sat in the booth furthest from the door, a ripped-up monstrosity whose tabletop seemed permanently out of alignment. Even then, it was Eddie’s favorite; it had a certain majesty and a throne-like look, and it was a great place to sit if he felt like he wanted to be alone.
Mary, the waitress, came over, and after exchanging predictable pleasantries Dionne seemed full of, she took his order and left. Eddie sat back and looked out the window and started daydreaming again, this time of being a successful dope dealer, and waited for his eggs and sausage.
The food was colorless, with a yellow egg and brown sausage on the chipped plate. Eddie ate hungrily, scraping the last morsels as the front door opened.
Ah, thought Eddie as he looked up from his empty plate, money. Usually, this is the train of thought that arrives just when he says--
“Hey, Frank!” He remembered his name. How touching.
Frank, the character in question, is sort of an old friend, as Eddie’s friends pass for these days. Unlike most of the group that hang out at Dionne’s, he has an actual paying job and hasn’t been in the army or spent time in jail. He waits tables at an upscale restaurant on the south side of town, goes to the local university, and studies American Literature at night. However, there are two significant drawbacks to Frank’s life. One: he has aspirations to become a writer and believes by so doing, he should hang out with his old buddies like Eddie. Two: he should have realized by now that his old buddies know that fact and resent him for it and eventually will drag him into a back alley late one night and kill him and lift his wallet if he ever publishes anything about them. Strange guy, that Frank.
“Hi, Eddie.” Frank smiles innocently as he shakes his hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while; how ya doing?” Frank is kind of innocent, as mentioned before, although he’d come from the ‘old neighborhood’ and went through the same crummy life that Eddie had. But Frank isn’t that naive.
Despite college, he knew the same trap lay for him. Education is only a delaying action before reality sets in. He thinks he knows Eddie and identifies with him, yet identity is only half the reality; knowledge is only relative to his surroundings.
Frank sat down, ordered a coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and lit a cigarette. He nervously looked around the room and ran his hand through his dark brown, wavy hair.
“So, have you found a job?”
“No, not really. Got a check from Irene yesterday, and I sold my car. . . .”
“The Torino?”
“Yeah. But I’m getting along just fine. Couldn’t afford to fix the goddamned starter, and since I live so close to Mori and Irene, it really doesn’t matter if I had a car or not.”
“But what about getting a job? At least you can get something to tide you over until you leave Hall Street.”
“Yeah, but what’s the difference? I can always get around. Who’s hiring anyway?”
Frank changed the subject.
Frank and Eddie talked about the weather, old times, getting laid, the Higsons, politics, their favorite imported beers, and other assorted subjects that friends with free time can their hands liked to talk about. After two hours, as the conversation closed and Frank got ready to leave, he finally carefully asked how Eddie’s sisters, particularly Mori, were doing.
“They’re fine,” Eddie replied curtly as Frank exited the booth, upset he was asked.
“See ya.” You jerk.
Eddie looked at the clock. It was 2:30. The place was still empty. Ben the Drunk had left and was probably already panhandling at Pritchard Park or hanging out at the square. The gang was probably either at the job center or getting stoned at Maury Johnson’s house. Maybe a few of them were cruising around town in their muscle cars, up and down Merrimon Avenue, but no, too early for that, more than likely at Maury’s, watching cartoons with the sound turned down and the stereo blasting the usual Neanderthal rock mix. Eddie could just envision it now. Johnny would probably be there. Johnny would have money.
Eddie paid the check, as usual, leaving a sixty-cent tip, which Mary slipped off the table. Her eyes angrily followed Eddie as he walked out the door.
Eddie stepped out into the cool air. The sun still had not come out, and the clouds above were a banal gray. The street was still relatively quiet. The shift change won’t be for another hour. Eddie walked to the corner and waited for the bus.
He picked his nose and dreamed some more, almost lost in his thoughts and nearly missing the bus. Eddie got on and found a seat at the back, across from an old black woman carrying a vast Ivey’s bag.
The bus creaked up the street, passing Eddie’s odd elementary school. The aged red brick structure was surrounded by chain link and topped by barbed wire. The children were somewhat lackadaisical; some tossed a football around, but most gathered in small groups, looking like they were up to no good.
Eddie thought another generation had stepped up to fall down. He stared ahead at the front window and daydreamed.
Mike Lee
The Higsons upstairs picked a terrible time to argue over the rent, five a.m. on Wednesday morning.
Eddie stared up from his bed and listened to the thumping and muffled shouts from upstairs, and he could almost imagine Ida Higson going for her frying pan at this point.
The landlord tolerated all the trouble the Higsons caused because, despite all the arguing, they paid their rent on time.
Eddie had only been living here for two months and was a week late with the rent. Because he could not show up on time, hustling tourists had become dangerous, so he lost his job bussing tables at the Grove Park Inn.
Eddie occasionally managed, borrowing money from his grand aunt in Oteen and from the kindness of his sisters Mori and Irene.
They lived in a small house on Montford Avenue on the north side of town, which they inherited when their grandmother died. Mori suffered from the aftereffects of a diabetes-linked stroke when she was eleven and partially paralyzed on her right side.
She had long, flowing blond hair and bright green eyes.
The doctors who had treated Mori over the years didn’t expect her to make it past twenty; now that she’s twenty-seven, they’re talking thirty. Despite all the predictions, she inured with the admirable strength that Eddie wished he had.
Mori had a wheelchair, which she often used, and a walker on the good days, which were few. Sometimes, when she was really weak, she would slump towards her right side, almost to the point of falling out, but not quite.
Irene was a different story. She was the suffering Madonna personified. Although the middle child, she was treated as the runt of the litter. After their parents died, it was up to Irene to take care of her sick sister. She did so dutifully without questioning why.
This aged her in a hurry. She was twenty-five going on forty, and the Marlboro 100s she smoked while sitting at the red kitchen table—while otherwise collecting antiques and dust--didn’t help.
Eddie, being the boy, never the man, was left to his own devices and helped Irene out by not getting in her way.
Eddie grew tired of waiting for Floyd to run upstairs, so he climbed out of bed. He scratched his stomach and went into the bathroom, stepping over mounds of dirty clothing, beer bottles, and other assorted trash. It was time to take out the garbage.
He turned the water on. He stepped in, letting the hot water flow over his body.
Eddie lay down in the tub for close to an hour, daydreaming of hitting the winning home run for the Mets in the Series, scoring touchdowns for the Bears in cold Soldier Field, winning the Pulitzer for Best New Novelist, and becoming a famous poet, playwright, and/or actor. Becoming a screenwriter, talk-show host, and politician, or still, an academic who wrote scholarly works or a firebrand who wrote polemics. Though removed from reality, this seemed to be the outside world Eddie dreamed of. He dreamed for hours until the water turned warm, then lukewarm to practically cold in the Appalachian winter.
Eddie finally got out, satiated in the false hopes. Like all in his category, Eddie’s good feelings faded by the time he exited the bathroom.
There was little for him to do but lay on the bed and go back to sleep. Ida Higson was already at work, and the old man had the TV on, mumbling the Today Show quietly, at a distance almost dreamlike from the reality of Eddie’s room below.
After he awakened, he dressed to finally leave. The jeans came on first. He always wore the same pair for three days, and this was their second, a shirt from the closet and socks. He put on his dad’s battered black Oxfords.
Eddie looked into the mirror. He needed a shave. He picked up the electric razor on the dresser below the mirror and turned it on. The razor whirred slowly, sometimes painfully, whenever Eddie hit a rough spot. After a few minutes, Eddie turned the razor off and rubbed his face. It’ll do, he thought.
He grabbed his coat and opened the door to his room, flipping his lapels and kicked the floor closed.
Eddie walked down the stairwell to the front landing, passing the bent and twisted metal of what had once been a mailbox. He threw the bolt on the front door and stepped into the cold, dry air.
The street was almost without emotion; the trashcans beside the front stoop were open and empty, and rain had collected in their rusted bottoms. An old Ford Torino, which he sold to Floyd to help make rent, remained in its place in front of him, its rear tires flat. Johnny McInnelly’s truck was behind it, parked somewhat over the curb. A Blue Jay was perched on top of it, probably ready to shit on the roof. An old couple was slowly making its way from the A&P. They were dressed in black, carrying theseis weeks’ groceries.
The only windows on the street were broken, and it looked like it would rain again today. Eddie stood on the stoop, hands in his pockets, and watched the old couple pass by him, heads down low, creaking by.
They didn’t bother to say hello; oh well.
Eddie felt like screaming to break the silence of the street but thought better of it and decided to get some breakfast.
Dionne’s was in the corner. Scrambled eggs and sausages could be had for less than three dollars--half of Eddie’s current cash flow--and it was always a chance to catch up on good gossip from old friends and maybe get either the usual fiver-and-cigarettes bum from someone or the opportunity to make some quick, though illegal, favor that someone had to offer.
Dionne’s was the typical neighborhood hangout for people who, like Eddie, were either too stupid or too lazy to leave town once they got out of high school. It was where their fathers hung out before them and those before them still.
The diner had the exterior aura of a quaint Northeastern diner nestled in this corner of the South and the emotional interior of a Times Square dive. Outside of the locals, old and young alike, and a few farm boys from nearby who came through on their way to and from the market, no one else came into Dionne’s except for the occasional tourist family stupid enough to venture into this slum. Otherwise, the place seemed to stay unchanged for the last forty years.
The diner was red brick on the outside, with large windows on both sides--nondescript. The interior was basically Formica, with the booths dark green with the seats split open, sometimes taped over with duct tape, sometimes not, and the stuffing showing through like an open mouth.
The interior walls were covered from cheap wood paneling, with photographs of the three generations of Dionne’s regulars celebrating some bogus holiday, and also, a few of the odd man himself, in the uniform of the Brooklyn Dodgers, who he had played for, or as Dionne himself put it, “had a cup of coffee with” back during the Great Depression. How Dionne came down here was a legend, but like all stories, it’s better told elsewhere.
Eddie walked in and looked around for familiar faces. There were only a few inside. Two men wearing gray work clothes sat at the counter talking to the waitress Eddie once dated in junior high, looking rather bored. No one was sitting at the tables.
In his usual stubble-faced dirty-raincoat outfit, only Ben the Drunk was in the booths, his craggy face leaning over a cup of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. After studying the scene, Eddie sat in the booth furthest from the door, a ripped-up monstrosity whose tabletop seemed permanently out of alignment. Even then, it was Eddie’s favorite; it had a certain majesty and a throne-like look, and it was a great place to sit if he felt like he wanted to be alone.
Mary, the waitress, came over, and after exchanging predictable pleasantries Dionne seemed full of, she took his order and left. Eddie sat back and looked out the window and started daydreaming again, this time of being a successful dope dealer, and waited for his eggs and sausage.
The food was colorless, with a yellow egg and brown sausage on the chipped plate. Eddie ate hungrily, scraping the last morsels as the front door opened.
Ah, thought Eddie as he looked up from his empty plate, money. Usually, this is the train of thought that arrives just when he says--
“Hey, Frank!” He remembered his name. How touching.
Frank, the character in question, is sort of an old friend, as Eddie’s friends pass for these days. Unlike most of the group that hang out at Dionne’s, he has an actual paying job and hasn’t been in the army or spent time in jail. He waits tables at an upscale restaurant on the south side of town, goes to the local university, and studies American Literature at night. However, there are two significant drawbacks to Frank’s life. One: he has aspirations to become a writer and believes by so doing, he should hang out with his old buddies like Eddie. Two: he should have realized by now that his old buddies know that fact and resent him for it and eventually will drag him into a back alley late one night and kill him and lift his wallet if he ever publishes anything about them. Strange guy, that Frank.
“Hi, Eddie.” Frank smiles innocently as he shakes his hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while; how ya doing?” Frank is kind of innocent, as mentioned before, although he’d come from the ‘old neighborhood’ and went through the same crummy life that Eddie had. But Frank isn’t that naive.
Despite college, he knew the same trap lay for him. Education is only a delaying action before reality sets in. He thinks he knows Eddie and identifies with him, yet identity is only half the reality; knowledge is only relative to his surroundings.
Frank sat down, ordered a coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and lit a cigarette. He nervously looked around the room and ran his hand through his dark brown, wavy hair.
“So, have you found a job?”
“No, not really. Got a check from Irene yesterday, and I sold my car. . . .”
“The Torino?”
“Yeah. But I’m getting along just fine. Couldn’t afford to fix the goddamned starter, and since I live so close to Mori and Irene, it really doesn’t matter if I had a car or not.”
“But what about getting a job? At least you can get something to tide you over until you leave Hall Street.”
“Yeah, but what’s the difference? I can always get around. Who’s hiring anyway?”
Frank changed the subject.
Frank and Eddie talked about the weather, old times, getting laid, the Higsons, politics, their favorite imported beers, and other assorted subjects that friends with free time can their hands liked to talk about. After two hours, as the conversation closed and Frank got ready to leave, he finally carefully asked how Eddie’s sisters, particularly Mori, were doing.
“They’re fine,” Eddie replied curtly as Frank exited the booth, upset he was asked.
“See ya.” You jerk.
Eddie looked at the clock. It was 2:30. The place was still empty. Ben the Drunk had left and was probably already panhandling at Pritchard Park or hanging out at the square. The gang was probably either at the job center or getting stoned at Maury Johnson’s house. Maybe a few of them were cruising around town in their muscle cars, up and down Merrimon Avenue, but no, too early for that, more than likely at Maury’s, watching cartoons with the sound turned down and the stereo blasting the usual Neanderthal rock mix. Eddie could just envision it now. Johnny would probably be there. Johnny would have money.
Eddie paid the check, as usual, leaving a sixty-cent tip, which Mary slipped off the table. Her eyes angrily followed Eddie as he walked out the door.
Eddie stepped out into the cool air. The sun still had not come out, and the clouds above were a banal gray. The street was still relatively quiet. The shift change won’t be for another hour. Eddie walked to the corner and waited for the bus.
He picked his nose and dreamed some more, almost lost in his thoughts and nearly missing the bus. Eddie got on and found a seat at the back, across from an old black woman carrying a vast Ivey’s bag.
The bus creaked up the street, passing Eddie’s odd elementary school. The aged red brick structure was surrounded by chain link and topped by barbed wire. The children were somewhat lackadaisical; some tossed a football around, but most gathered in small groups, looking like they were up to no good.
Eddie thought another generation had stepped up to fall down. He stared ahead at the front window and daydreamed.
