Sol

I

Amy paints her mouth with a worn designer lipstick. She wears a fake leather jacket with zippers in it and a stretch fabric mini skirt. Her legs are bare. She takes a deep breath, straightens her outfit and adjusts her posture. Hand on hip. Lips pouting.

A taxi pulls up. She walks to the driver’s door. He’s masturbating furiously. He mumbles something obscene, and grins. Amy’s foot connects angrily with the car as it screeches away.

Fuckhead!

The peal of rubber on road recedes and she walks back to her spot on the footpath. She lights a cigarette. Her fingers are nicotine stained and dirty.

 

II

A late model Town Car pulls slowly into the street. Amy walks hurriedly across the pavement and sits on the stoop of a walk up.

The car pulls up beside her. When she sees the passengers aren’t cops, she walks over.

The back window of the sedan glides smoothly down, revealing a small frail old man wearing a zip up grey cardigan. Sol smiles at Amy.

It’s a hundred bucks for me to come with you.

What’s your name?

Amy.

He extends his hand.

Hi Amy. Pleased to meet you. I’m Sol.

They shake hands. Sol opens the car door and Amy slides in beside him, scanning the interior. Sol motions for her to do up her seat-belt.

Sol smiles at Amy. He tries to take her hand but she pulls it away and avoids his gaze.

Do you like ice-cream Amy?

Amy rolls her eyes then glances at the clock on the dashboard in the front of the car. She looks at Sol.

Sure, who doesn’t?

They drive down the street and pull up at a deli. The driver gets out and stops at Sol’s door. The window is lowered and he leans in.

What flavour do you like?

Any flavour you want to get is fine.

He waits.

Chocolate.

 

III

Sol’s apartment building is 1950s government. Cold noisy light from fluorescent tubes defines the texture of the glossy grey-green walls. There are two elevator doors. The up arrow beside one lights up, accompanied by a low toned ding.

The elevator door slides open. Sol and Amy follow the driver. He turns a key in a solid green apartment door and holds it open. Sol takes his wallet out, peels off a fifty dollar bill and hands it to the driver.

See you tomorrow Tom.

Yes Sol, see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.

 

IV

Amy stands uncomfortably in the hallway while Sol locks the door.

Would you like some tea?

Have you got beer?

Sol turns to face her, holds her arms for a moment and smiles.

I don’t have any beer Amy. I can go and get some if you like.

She looks at his face.

It’s ok. I’ll have tea.

Sol walks into the kitchen, puts the ice-cream in the freezer, fills the kettle with water from the tap and turns it on. Amy watches him from the doorway. She notices a jar on the fridge, with notes of all denomination coiled in the bottom.

Use your bathroom Sol?

It’s down the hall. Milk and sugar?

Three. Thanks.

 

V

Sol’s lounge room hasn’t been decorated since the 1970s and it’s clear he doesn’t ever disturb more than the space it takes to sit in his chair and watch TV. He offers Amy a mug of tea. He motions for her to sit and she does.

So do you often drive around picking up working girls?

Tom and I go for a drive every day. We meet all kinds of people.

That’s kind of weird isn’t it?

What’s weird about meeting new people?

Amy looks like she is going to challenge Sol but changes her mind. Instead she puts down her mug, gets up and walks to the wall unit which is laden with photographs. Sol turns to look at her. Amy picks up a framed print of Sol receiving some kind of award.

That’s at J Walter Thompson. I was the mail boy for 43 years.

Amy examines the photograph.

Never missed a day in 41 of ‘em.

What happened in year 42?

I had these terrible pains. I collapsed right there on the floor. Couldn’t get up, couldn’t reach the phone. My work record saved my life, they sent someone over when I didn’t show up.

She puts the framed photo back on the shelf and notices a faded black and white wedding photograph.

You married?

I was. My wife died five years ago.

D’you miss her?

I miss breakfast together most.

Sorry I brought it up.

It’s okay Amy. We had a great life. We used to go to Atlantic City. I won some money playing systems.

Amy walks to the window and looks across the East River and the sprawl of Brooklyn.

You have a beautiful view. Have you lived here long?

Thirty one years.

I don’t know anyone who’s lived anywhere more than six months.

Sol smiles at Amy.

Come and sit down.

Amy walks across the dimly lit room and sits opposite Sol.

D’you have children?

I have a daughter.

Do you see her much?

She has her own life now. She lives in Chicago.

He smiles at Amy.

Do you have kids?

Amy stands up and walks across the room to stand behind Sol’s chair. She rubs Sol’s shoulders.

How about we start that massage Sol?

Soon. There’s no hurry.

Sol sips his tea. Amy, nervous, reaches up to turn on the standard lamp then sits back in the chair.

How much money did you win?

Sol smiles and chuckles.

Enough not to have to work again, and to be able to go for a drive every day. And what about you Amy?

Amy looks at the clock on the wall.

Are you ready for that massage now Sol?

Sol puts his mug down on the coffee table between them.

Alright. Let’s go to Sweden.

Amy stands up and holds out her hand for Sol. He takes her hand and stands. She leads him down the hall.

It’s my room in here.

Sol points to a doorway. Amy manoeuvres her way into the room, still leading Sol. It is a small room with a big window overlooking the scene Amy admired from the lounge room. There is a single bed with a crocheted granny square rug on top, an old radio plugged in on the bedside table and last night’s glass of water is illuminated by street light. Amy releases Sol’s hand and takes her jacket off. He turns to face her.

Don’t take any more off.

Amy looks puzzled.

Do you need medicine?

Sol sits on the bed and looks at Amy. His question interrupts her impatience. She knows he’s asking her about heroin.

No, I’m okay. What do you want me to do Sol.

I want you to hold my hand.

Sol pats the bed beside him. Amy sits down beside Sol. She begins to unzip his cardigan.

You don’t need to take that off.

Sol leans towards Amy and gives her a peck on the lips. He pinches her cheek. He lays down and makes room for Amy to join him. They lay side by side holding hands, looking at the ceiling.

Have you ever been to Sweden?

Sol I haven’t been north of 14th Street.

 

VI

Sol and Amy are lying under the crocheted patchwork blanket. She opens her eyes, disoriented for a moment, then suddenly aware of Sol and of her withdrawals. She carefully removes her hand from his and turns back the blanket. She climbs out of bed and tiptoes into the hall. Sol doesn’t move.

Amy tiptoes into the kitchen wearing her socks and carrying her shoes. She balances herself, leaning on the kitchen bench as she pulls them on. On top of the fridge is the jar with cash in it. Amy opens it.

 

VII

Light streams through the bedroom window. A door closes somewhere in the apartment. Sol opens his eyes and looks at the empty space where last night Amy lay beside him.

Sol walks out of the toilet and up the hall. He has a dressing gown over the clothes he fell asleep in. He enters the kitchen. Amy is cooking at the stove. She looks nervously at him.

I thought I’d make us breakfast.

 

(c) Kelly Chapman 2020