Baggage

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            Charlie exited the Port Authority, shouldered his knapsack and headed east on 42nd Street. It was a seasonably warm day in June, and the knapsack was lighter this morning because Barbara and he had squeezed in some makeup sex after the alarm clock chimed at 6:30 AM. He usually set the alarm for 7 AM, but he had pushed the time back with the hope that he could rouse, and then arouse, Barbara. The strategy had worked, and they both left the house with lighter loads than on the morning before.

            The quarrel the morning before had been about their credit card debt that continued to grow even after they had agreed to cut it back – Barbara smoking a cigarette in her bathrobe at the kitchen table and Charlie eating a bowl of cereal between gulps of coffee at the sink. He could practically hear the city-bound bus coming up the street as they bickered about what course of action to take: continue paying part of the mortgage with credit cards, negotiate lower interest rates with the credit companies, or sell the house and pay off the debt with the profit. Charlie had suggested this last option as being inevitable the way things were going. In the stunned silence that followed, he had glanced at the wall clock and said, “We’ll figure it out, I gotta run.” He had walked over, kissed her on the forehead (a kiss on the lips would have been a mockery) and rushed out the door.

            Thus, they had both lugged a bag of unresolved issues to their respective offices and, as the day wore on, Charlie’s knapsack had only grown heavier so that by the time he sat down on the outbound bus, it felt like it was full of bricks.

            But that was yesterday, and on a bright, new morning, Charlie had a spring in his step as he walked up 6th Avenue toward his office. The sidewalks were bustling with people and up ahead he spotted a woman, professionally dressed, lugging a duffel bag. He increased his pace, came abreast of her and said, “Good morning.” She turned. She had the look of a devoted but weary mother who was doing her best to deliver for those who depended on her at home and at work.

            “Oh, good morning,” she said, mildly surprised.

            “Lovely day,” Charlie said, gesturing to the sky.

            “Yes, I love spring weather.”

            “I like your necklace,” he said, nodding to the Claddagh pendant resting on the woman’s breastbone.

            “Thank you,” she said. “I inherited it from my mother.” They came to a cross street, and she offered an awkward smile and turned right. “You have a nice day,” he called after her.

            “You, too,” she said over her shoulder. Charlie crossed the street and glanced back. Her duffel bag had transformed into a knapsack, and he could have sworn that she, too, had a spring in her step that was missing only moments before. He continued onward and within a few minutes he turned and pushed through a revolving door into an expansive lobby with a long reception desk directly opposite. Two security guards sat behind the desk, and another security guard stood nearby greeting employees as they swiped their badges and pushed through a line of turnstiles. Charlie walked over to the turnstiles.

            “Good morning, Clarence,” Charlie said to the security guard as he retrieved his employee badge from his pocket. Clarence was a large, middle-aged man with short-cropped white hair and a ready smile and Charlie always enjoyed stopping for a few moments each morning to talk with the man. It was part of Clarence’s job to be cheerful and engaging as he greeted incoming employees and it was clear that the man enjoyed his job, as he was carrying only a hip pack around his waist.

            “Good morning, Mr. Dawson,” Clarence said. “How are you on this lovely spring day?”

            “I’m doing well,” Charlie said. “It was a long winter and today is a reminder that we have a long summer to look forward to.”

            For a moment, the sparkle in Clarence’s eyes went out and his hip pack turned into a handheld suitcase. “It was a long winter,” he said quietly. A middle-aged woman walked up and greeted him. Instantly, Clarence turned and smiled. “Well, good morning, Mrs. Murray,” he said. “How are you today?”

            “Oh, I’m fine, Clarence. And seeing you first thing always brightens my day.”

            “And that goes both ways, Mrs. Murray,” he said with a smile. “You have a wonderful day.”

            “You, too,” Mrs. Murray said, and as she pushed through the turnstile, Charlie saw that the suitcase in Clarence’s hand had turned back into a hip pack.

            “You really enjoy your job, don’t you, Clarence?” Charlie asked.

            “Oh, sure,” Clarence said. “These are my people. I’ll do anything I can to help them start their day on a good note.”

            “On that note, I’m heading upstairs to my desk,” Charlie said as he stepped through a turnstile. “Talk soon.”

            “You have a fine day, Mr. Dawson,” Clarence said, his eyes sparkling again.

            Charlie rounded a corner and joined a small group gathered in front of the three elevator banks. He positioned himself favorably to the left of center and looked around: most in the group had hip sacks, some had knapsacks of various sizes, a few were carrying suitcases. Most of the faces were familiar, but Charlie knew none of them on a first name basis. One older man of pale pallor had a carry-on suitcase on wheels. Charlie studied the man discreetly: the ashen face and stooped posture suggested illness, not just weariness. Charlie was wondering how he could possibly help the sick man when a bell chimed and the elevator to his left opened. It was empty.

            The crowd surged in slow motion toward the opening. Charlie quickly darted ahead and paused on the threshold. He turned, took a half-step back and gestured toward the elevator. It worked - as if by design, people stopped in their tracks and the elderly man moved forward, muffling, “Thank you,” the man said as he got on the elevator.

            “You’re welcome,” Charlie said. Instantly, the spell broke and the crowd moved forward again. Charlie positioned himself in the middle of the packed elevator, facing the closing doors. They began their ascent. He surveyed the occupants with furtive head and eye movements. Elevators tend to have a sedating effect and Charlie observed that the group’s collective baggage was markedly reduced, all concerns temporarily suspended. He closed his eyes.  

            The bell sounded, the doors opened, and several people squeezed out. When the doors closed, Charlie and the other passengers made the necessary micro adjustments to equalize personal space. The next time the doors opened three passengers exited. One was the sickly man. He carefully wheeled the same suitcase out of the elevator. Poor fella, Charlie thought. The doors closed. At the next stop, Charlie got off, pushed through a pair of glass doors and entered a room that was akin to a football field of cubicles. He walked to his low-wall cube. Carmela, the thirty-something brunette who worked on the Banking team, was in the next cubicle, typing rapidly, eyes fixed on a computer monitor.

            “Good morning, Carmela,” Charlie said.

            “Hey, Charlie,” Carmela said without looking up. Charlie noticed that she was only carrying a hip sack – all business, as usual. He logged on to his computer and scanned his emails. He got up, used the bathroom, got a cup of coffee in the pantry and went back to his desk. Carmela had taught him through example to leave all excess baggage in the lobby and switch to work mode upon stepping on the elevator. He had adopted this approach with mixed success: yesterday, he had been unable to shake the weight of his domestic problems; today, he was off to a good start, and he completed a project status document before 10 AM.  

            Then Sylvia entered the room.

            Sylvia was in trouble – that was clear to Charlie. She had joined the firm about six months earlier, a middle-aged woman assuming a mid-level role in the Banking department, and she had been received with the usual enthusiasm and high expectations granted to all new employees. But as the weeks turned to months, she had started to fall from favor, subtly at first, in small slip-ups that gradually suggested a pattern of incompetence until it became clear to anyone who was paying attention that she simply wasn’t able to deliver on what was expected of her role. Charlie had been aware of a large shoulder bag that seemed fixed to her arm for the last few days. It hadn’t changed size, but it often slipped, and she was constantly lifting it back up with a sigh of exasperation.

            And now, here was Sylvia walking to her desk – body language a mess – with a backpack over her shoulders. It looked like the type of pack that one would lug to base camp in preparation for an ascent of Mount Everest, with large pockets stuffed with who-knows-what and the top of the pack several inches over her head. As she passed by, Charlie was astonished to see that she was wearing flip-flops. Carmela paused her typing as Sylvia walked past, shook her head, and promptly returned to task.  

            Robert, another member of the Banking team, stood up in his cubicle and watched her approach. “I just got a bad start this morning,” Charlie heard her say.

            Robert quickly said, “Ok, just put your stuff down and let’s get over there.  The meeting started ten minutes ago.”

            “I need my coffee first,” she said.

            “We’ll get you coffee on the way,” Robert said. He gathered some documents from his desk and stood, waiting. She quickly changed into a pair of flats that were under her desk and together they hurried past Charlie and Carmela and disappeared around the corner. Charlie looked at Carmela: she was busy typing. All business.

            By this time, most of the cubicles in the room were occupied, the occupants’ heads protruding above the beige-colored walls like so many busts, each one facing a computer monitor. A row of offices ran along one wall of the room, and through the glass wall of one office Charlie saw his boss, Michael, at his desk, staring intently at his computer. Charlie opened an email and wrote:

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            Mike,

           Attached is the presentation for today’s status meeting on the new fixed income analytics project. Please let me know if you think I missed anything.

            Regards,

            Charlie

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            He attached the presentation, hit the Send button and went down to the cafeteria for a snack. About a dozen people were there getting coffee and breakfast. They were all traveling light. This was not surprising - the anticipation of food and coffee always had a temporary narcotic effect on one’s mood. He lingered for a few minutes, got himself a coffee and a bagel and headed to the elevators.

            Back at his desk, there was a note on his chair. It read: Stop by - Mike. Charlie looked over and saw that Mike was right where he had been earlier, as though he had never moved. Charlie stood and walked over to the glass. Mike looked up and waved him in. Charlie entered the office.

            “Hey, Charlie,” Mike said, leaning back in his chair.

            “Morning, Mike,” Charlie replied.

            “I got your email,” Mike continued. “The presentation looks good. I advise that you just be ready to elaborate on all the points you’re making here.” Mike gestured toward the screen.

            “Yeah, thanks, I’ve got it covered,” Charlie said.

            Mike nodded. “Good stuff. I have back-to-back meetings, so I’ll see you there.” Something passed between them, an emotional connection based on mutual trust and respect.

            “Thanks,” Charlie said. As he left Mike's office, he was pleased to feel his knapsack transform into a hip pack. Back at his desk, he printed six copies of the presentation on the color printer. Carmela was not in her cubicle. After he picked up the documents from the printer, he spent a few minutes browsing the headlines on the internet. He checked the weather page: the forecast was for sunny skies and temperatures in the mid-70s for the next three days. Good, he thought - the nice weather will help lighten the load for many people.

            At 10:50 AM, he saved and closed the flowchart, put the copies of the presentation and a notepad into a manila folder, grabbed a pen, and walked over to the elevators. He dropped down to the first floor, cut through another expanse of cubicles, and came to a metal door with a small square window in its center. He steeled himself, swiped his badge over the security panel affixed to the wall on the right and pushed through the door. Before him there were rows of trade desks, fifty feet wide by fifteen rows deep, and beyond the last row a block of high-walled cubicles, each one housing a young, urban professional.

            The trade desks were populated, elbow to elbow, by traders of equities and fixed income, plus the various derivatives that mutate from these two plain vanilla investment vehicles. The room emanated a low, steady hum, and if this hum were separated into its contributing elements those elements would be: 1) chatter 2) keyboards clacking 3) phones ringing 4) papers shuffling and 5) laughter. Charlie found the room intimidating – all these intense businesspeople packed together, experts in matters of which he had only vague notions - but it was part of his life, so he strode forward past the trade desks with forced confidence and entered a long, glass-paneled conference room.

            The conference room was empty. Where to sit? He looked at the conference table. There was something striking about its design: measuring approximately thirty feet in length, it was wide enough at the far end to fit two chairs, but at mid-length the table began to taper, to the point where there was only room for one chair at the near end. Charlie realized that the moment a person sat in the chair at the tapered end, that person was in charge, and everyone else at the table would instinctively turn that way without detecting the subtle influence of the table’s design. Well, he thought, he would be the one presenting, but he would not be the most important person in the meeting. He placed the folder on the conference table in front of a chair closest to the chair at the tapered end. That will do.

            He walked over to the glass wall and looked out: directly across sat a blonde woman in a cubicle, her back facing Charlie, her long hair partially covering a knapsack. Sensing she was being watched, the woman furtively turned her head and glanced back at Charlie. Embarrassed, Charlie switched his gaze to the trading desks – and saw Mike approaching. With him were two of their in-house clients, Jim and Carrie. Jim was head of the trade group, Carrie was second-in-command. All three had hip packs secured tightly around their waists. Charlie quickly sat down and pretended to review his presentation. A few moments later, they entered the room.

            Charlie stood. “Hi Carrie,” he said. “Hi Jim.” Jim and Carrie returned greetings, and the requisite hands were shaken.  Everyone took a seat – Jim at the tapered end of the table. “Okay, Charlie, what have you got for us?” Jim asked.

Charlie began the presentation. Everything went smoothly, as he knew it would. He had prepared thoroughly and considered with care every question and concern that would be expressed. He made a point of devoting most eye contact to Jim, with slightly less attention paid to Carrie.

            Midway through the presentation, Charlie saw Carrie glancing down at her cell phone on the table. The next time he looked over, she was frowning. Charlie wrapped up the presentation, and they spent a few minutes discussing the project and other lighthearted topics. As they stood and left the room, Carrie was wearing a knapsack and appeared 

distracted. Jim turned to her. “Carrie, can you stop by my office in a few minutes to prep for this conference call we have this afternoon with the Zurich team?”

            Carrie straightened. “Sure, Jim,” she said. Her knapsack instantly turned back into a hip pack. All business, Charlie thought.

            Lunch. Charlie joined a group of male colleagues in the cafeteria. It was a typical half-hour spent talking about sports, other colleagues, women, anything but work. Most of his lunch mates were married, but that didn’t stop them from eyeing the women who walked past and rating them on a scale of one to ten. Afterwards, they stepped outside to get some air and rate the women who walked past on a scale of one to ten.  

          Charlie decided to go for a solitary walk. He headed up 6th Avenue past the clusters of mostly young urban professionals sitting in the plazas having lunch and soaking up the sun like so many reptiles emerging from hibernation. On a whim, he ducked into a café and came out five minutes later with an iced coffee and an oatmeal cookie. As he stepped into the shade of a tree and took a sip of coffee, something across the busy avenue caught his eye: a young woman was walking toward the entrance of a glass-paneled office tower. Charlie stared, incredulous. She was an attractive woman in a white blouse and pink knee-length skirt, but there was no shortage of attractive women in the city. What drew Charlie’s attention was that the woman carried only a fashionable purse on her shoulder. Nothing else.  

           “She has no baggage,” Charlie said. A moment later, she pushed through the revolving door and was gone. “No baggage at all,” he said. “My God.” He walked slowly back to his office, went to his cubicle, and did his best to focus on work for the next four hours. When it was time to head home, he was mildly surprised to discover that he was carrying only a hip pack; gone was the typical day-end knapsack borne of a long day at the office. He was ensconced in a bubble of bewildered wonder and driven by a need to know the woman’s secret.   

           That night at the dinner table, while spooning pureed strawberries and plums into their one-year-old daughter’s mouth, Charlie told Barbara about the mysterious woman. “What do you mean, she had no baggage?” she asked.

           “None,” Charlie said. “She was completely unburdened, and she practically floated across the pavement.”

           Barbara poured herself a second glass of wine. “Maybe she was just happy about the nice weather,” she said.

           “Everyone was enjoying the weather,” Charlie said, “but that’s just a temporary relief - tomorrow most of them will be lugging the same worries to work as they did the day before. This woman was different. I got the sense that even if she were caught in a rainstorm, she wouldn’t have a care in the world.”

           “It’s a mystery alright,” Barbara said. She abruptly stood, carried their plates to the sink and started doing the dishes. Charlie sighed and looked at their daughter, Amy. “I think I upset Mommy,” he said. Amy looked at him and released a burst of gibberish.  

           “Exactly,” Charlie said. He stood and walked up behind Barbara. Rubbing her shoulders, he said, “She’s probably a drug addict who just had a fix.”

           “You’re obsessed with her, admit it,” she said, putting a plate in the dish rack.

           “I’m obsessed with people,” he said. “But none more than you.”

           “Yeah?” she said, turning her head.

           “Yeah,” he said.

           “Well, maybe you’ll get the chance to prove that later.”

           “Really? Twice in one day? You must love me.” They kissed. At the table, Amy started to cry.

           Barbara sighed. “How about I take her up for a bath and you finish the dishes?”

           “Works for me,” Charlie said. Barbara picked Amy up in her arms and brought her upstairs. Charlie started washing dishes, but his mind drifted back to the mysterious woman who floated into office towers.

 

           The weather the following day was a carbon copy – sunny with a hint of summer. At noon, Charlie quickly ate lunch at his desk and headed back up 6th Avenue. He stood again under the same tree across the street from the glass office tower and waited. After twenty minutes, he sighed and walked back to the office, wondering if he would ever see her again.

           The next day, Friday, he was surprisingly busy and had to work through lunch. By five o’clock, he was wiped out, and he was summoning the energy to begin the homeward commute when he thought about her, and the possibility that he would see her this time. He gathered his things and headed for the elevators. Outside, the streets were filled with people rushing headlong into the weekend. It was another lovely evening, seasonably warm, and the weekend forecast called for more of the same. He walked up to his familiar post under the tree and waited, occasionally pretending to consult his cellphone so as not to draw attention. At one point, he stared idly up the avenue at an ambulance weaving through traffic. When the ambulance turned onto a side street, he turned back to the glass tower and, to his astonishment, she appeared - coming out through the revolving door and heading south on 6th Avenue. The same purse was slung over her shoulder, and she walked with a buoyant grace that bespoke absolute freedom of care. He studied her more closely: she was tall with auburn hair that cascaded across her shoulders. She wore a white cotton sweater over a cadet-blue blouse and black slacks, and her movements suggested an athletic body. For a few moments, Charlie simply stared. She was moving fast. He stuffed the cellphone into his pocket and began pacing her from across 6th Avenue. When they both stopped at the next corner to wait for the light to change, he darted across and walked up next to her.

        He forced himself to appear nonchalant, but inside he was quivering in her presence. To his dismay, the light changed before he could gather his wits and she began crossing the street with the rest of the pedestrians. He quickly caught up and, midstride, surprised himself by saying, “Hi.”

        She glanced at him as they walked. “Hello,” she said, amused, her eyes trying to gauge his intent.

        “I don’t mean to be too forward,” he said, “but you...” He hesitated. She frowned. “I just couldn’t help noticing,” he continued, “that you have absolutely no baggage.” She smiled self-consciously. Emboldened, he asked, “You don’t have a care in the world, do you?”

        “What a funny thing to say,” she said. “I have cares. Everybody does.” Charlie wasn’t sure if she was being sincere or downplaying her extraordinary gift. They stopped at another cross street, surrounded by a small group waiting for the green light. Charlie glanced around. Everyone was carrying some form of luggage: there were duffel bags, tote bags, knapsacks, and suitcases. Charlie adjusted his knapsack and asked, “What’s your secret?”

        She laughed. “I don’t have a secret,” she said. Charlie knew that she was being sincere, but he also sensed that she lived on a plane that few even knew existed.

        “How far are you walking?” he asked.

        “To Bryant Park.”

        “I’m going past that. Do you mind if I walk with you?” 

        “Not at all,” she said. “I’m Heather, by the way.” She extended her hand.

        “Charlie,” he said. Her hand was soft and cool to the touch. They shared a smile. The light changed and they continued walking. “What do you do?” he asked. She told him a little about her work as a pharmaceutical salesperson. She had started a new job in the glass tower a year earlier and lived in Soho, so her commute was a breeze. Charlie listened closely, searching for clues that would explain her complete state of bliss. He told her about his work, purposefully glossing over his commute. She listened intently. She really cares, he thought. 

        And then they were at Bryant Park. “Well, Charlie, it’s been a pleasure chatting.” Again, the silky hand was extended.  

        “Nice to meet you, Heather,” Charlie said. As he released her hand, he feared that he might never see her again and he admonished himself for offering such a conventional farewell.

        She hesitated, cocked her head, and asked, “Hey, do you want to join my boyfriend and me for a cocktail?”

        “Love to,” Charlie said. Maybe her boyfriend is the secret, he thought. She led him into a bustling bar-restaurant. A man sitting at the end of the bar looked over. Charlie saw that the man’s soft leather briefcase was slung over his barstool but that he, too, was free of baggage.  For a few moments, the man and Heather simply looked at each other. Then, she gave a little wave, and he waved back. That’s it! Charlie thought. They love each other.   

        “Come on,” Heather said. She took Charlie’s arm and they walked over. Charlie wasn’t sure how the man would react to this stranger approaching, arm-in-arm, with his girl, but the man seemed pleased. “Hi, dear,” Heather said.

        “Hello Heather,” the man said. They kissed. 

        “I’d like you to meet my new friend,” she said. She turned. “Charlie, this is David.”

        David extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Charlie.”

        “Likewise,” Charlie said. They shook hands, and Charlie felt an instant bond of trust with the man. David looked at Heather and gestured to an empty bar stool. “Thank you,” Heather said. She sat on the stool and smoothed her pants.

        “What can I get you?” David asked, looking at Charlie.

        “Oh, I don’t know. What are you two having?”

        “Martinis,” Heather and David said as one. They looked at each other and laughed. Heather touched Charlie’s shoulder.    "I must warn you that David and I are devout martini drinkers.”

        “Well then, so am I,” Charlie said.

        David turned. “Three martinis, up,” he said to the bartender. Promptly, the martinis arrived, chilled with no ice. “To new friends,” David said, raising his glass and looking from Heather to Charlie.

        “To friends,” Heather said. She looked at Charlie.

        “To friends,” Charlie said. The three glasses clinked together as one. To true love and basking in its presence, Charlie thought. He sipped his martini. It was strong but clean, and he instantly felt livelier. As Heather mentioned something to David about a co-worker at the office, Charlie stepped aside and texted Barbara that he was having a drink with colleagues and would be home later than usual. He rejoined Heather and David and as they talked he felt the fatigue that had weighed so heavily on him only an hour before lift like morning fog, and he noticed that although both Heather and David focused their attention almost entirely on him, they silently communicated with each other on another level that was sensed more than observed. For the first time in months, Charlie released all concerns and lived entirely in the moment. He was carrying a hip pack, but it was so light that he felt almost completely free of baggage. Soon, his glass was empty. He knew David would offer another round, but he also knew that another drink would break the spell. Better to let them take that next step without him.

        He glanced at his cellphone and said, “Whup, I gotta go.”

        “You sure you don’t have time for another?” asked David.

        “Yes, don’t leave on our account,” Heather said, touching Charlie’s shoulder.

        “Thanks,” Charlie said, “but I gotta get home to the family.”

        “Do you have children?” Heather asked.

        “A daughter,” Charlie said. He pulled out his wallet and showed them a picture of Amy in her highchair, a birthday cake with a candle in front of her. “This is Amy,” he said.

        “Oh, oh,” Heather said. “She’s adorable.” Heather took David’s hand. David chuckled. “You are blessed, Charlie.” Heather gave Charlie a look of warm appraisal. Charlie wished the moment would last forever, but instead he put his wallet back in his pocket and thanked David for the drink.

        “Here - take my card,” Heather said, reaching into her purse. She pressed a beige business card with black lettering into Charlie’s hand. “It’s got my email and phone number,” she added. He glanced at the card - saw the name “Heather Hennessy” – and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Drop me a line sometime and we’ll get together again,” she said.

        “Yes, I’d love to,” Charlie said. He shook David’s hand, thanked them for the drink, turned and weaved his way back through the chattering crowd. At the door, he snuck a glance back over his shoulder and saw them facing each other, talking quietly as two fresh martinis waited on the bar.

​

        The subway had a fresh appeal that Friday evening. Charlie looked around at the sad, weary faces and wished that they knew what he knew: that true love exists, and simply knowing was enough. It was a marvel to behold. On the bus ride, too, he looked out on the familiar urban landscape as though for the first time as the other passengers nodded out, stared at their cellphones, or gazed vacantly at the same landscape unwinding through the window. When he stepped off the bus, the sun was setting, songbirds were singing above, and a soft breeze was stirring the tree branches. He looked up at the sky and thought of Heather and David walking home hand in hand under the same robin egg blue. As he walked up the front steps of the house he heard Amy crying. When he opened the front door, the crying grew louder. He entered the kitchen and saw Amy having a fit on the floor while Barbara stood by the stove shaping ground beef into patties, a duffel bag over one shoulder, her face a mask of steely will.

       “Whoa, what have we here?” Charlie said. The magical feeling instantly dissipated, and his hip pack transformed into a knapsack.

       “She wouldn’t let me put her down,” Barbara said, wiping her eyes with her shirt sleeve. “I told her I just needed a minute, but she wouldn’t let me, she just wouldn’t let me…” She broke off, her eyes welling up. 

       “Hey, it’s okay,” Charlie said. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. Then he knelt and lifted Amy into the crook of his elbow. There was a baby bottle half full of formula on the table. He gave it to her, and she stuck it in her mouth. “There, that’s better,” he said. He carried her over to Barbara. “You’ve gotta let mommy do her work, little girl.” Amy looked at Barbara and back at Charlie. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” Charlie said. “Group hug,” he said, pressing Amy against Barbara’s shoulder. Barbara turned and kissed Amy on the forehead. “Okay, all better,” Charlie said. 

       When Amy finished her bottle, Charlie put her back down on the floor with some toys. “Want me to get the grill going?” He asked.

       “Yes, please,” Barbara said.

       “Want me to get a couple drinks going?” he asked.

       “Yes, again,” she said with a nod.

       Charlie lit the grill on the back deck, went inside and made two vodka and tonics. He stepped back outside and handed one to Barbara, who had settled in a chair with a cigarette and an entertainment magazine. She took a sip and sighed. “Thank you,” she said. She reached out and squeezed his hand. Charlie noted that the duffel bag she was carrying when he walked in was now a knapsack. He went into the kitchen for the burgers. As he tended to the grill, he started to whistle.

       Later that night, when Barbara brought Amy up to bed, he stepped out on the deck and looked up at the night sky. A crescent moon was poised over the western tree line, and straight overhead he could see the faint points of the Big Dipper. He considered that in the entire universe, its boundaries incomprehensible, one planet was spinning in the gravitational embrace of a life-giving star, and on that planet two lives were entwined in a bond so precious that every living thing was its servant.

“I am your servant,” he said, staring up at the stars.

 

       The following Monday, Charlie awoke at sunrise and caught the early bus into the city. Once at his desk, he drafted a spreadsheet entitled Empathy. The left-hand column was entitled Who, and he populated each row in the column with a descriptive alias of an individual whom he considered in need of emotional support. The old man in the elevator was Mr. Old Man. For Clarence, he typed Mr. Security Guard and for Sylvia, Ms. Struggling Colleague. The cleaning lady who showed up after hours was Ms. Maid and Barbara was Mrs. Wife.

       The next column was entitled Current Status. In this column, next to Mr. Old Man, he wrote: Heavy suitcase on wheels; wan pallor. Next to Mr. Security Guard: Suitcase; haunted look in eyes, and for Struggling Colleague: Backpack; overwhelm. He thought for a moment and next to Mrs. Wife he typed: Knapsack; vague sadness, hard to trace its source; weary.

       He labeled the third column Action. The action for Mr. Old Man was to simply ask him how he was doing and compliment him on his suit. Charlie would engage Mr. Security Guard about the weather and mention his gift for inspiring people as they begin their workday. Ms. Maid would be asked what country she was from, and he would engage her in a conversation about her homeland. And Charlie would make a point of giving Barbara a hug each night and asking how her day went.

       He was thinking of what he could do for Ms. Struggling Colleague when Carmela walked past, stepped into her cubicle and plopped her purse onto her desk. Charlie looked up. “Good morning,” he said.

       “Good morning,” she said. “Or so they say.” 

       Charlie noticed that she was lugging a knapsack. “Bad start?” he asked.

       “Oh, I won’t bore you with the details. Give me a few minutes, I’ll be normal again.” Charlie grunted and glanced at his watch: 8.48 AM. He opened his calendar – there was a team meeting in twelve minutes. He saved the Empathy spreadsheet and went to the bathroom. On the way back, he stopped in the pantry for a cup of coffee, swung by his desk for a pad and pen and headed for the corner conference room. The team was composed of six men and two women. Several members of the team - Eric, Ken, Laura - were already there and engaged in small talk when Charlie stepped in. He sat down and joined them. The rest of the group slowly streamed in and then Mike appeared and took his spot at the head of the table.

       “How’re we doing?” Mike asked. “Everyone glad it’s Monday?”  

       “Oh, yeah,” said Ken.

       “No doubt,” said Ken.

       Mike chuckled. “Well, at least it’s not raining,” he said. “Okay, let’s get started.” He opened his notebook and, working clockwise, asked each team member for project statuses. When he finished, he made a few general announcements. Then he sat back. “One more thing,” he said. “In case you didn’t hear, Sylvia Vinson of the Banking group was let go last week.”

       There was a brief silence. “You mean fired?” Laura asked.

       “Yeah,” Mike said.

       “No surprise, I guess,” Eric said. “I mean, you would have had a tough time assassinating her, given how erratic her hours were.”

       “Didn’t she show up one morning in flip-flops?” Ken asked. This comment caused a stir of laughter among the guys.                 “That’s right,” Eric said, clapping his hands and throwing his head back.

       “You know, a little pity wouldn’t hurt here,” Charlie said. It came out too forcefully, and the group instantly fell silent. He was as stunned as they were by his outburst. “I just mean,” he added, “it’s gonna be hell for her to find another job in this industry.” He looked out through the bank of windows. “I’m sorry, but the cards are stacked against her.”

       “It’s a tough situation,” Mike said. He gave Charlie a sincere look. “They tried to help her. It’s just a shame, really.”

       “Yeah, and you’re right, Charlie,” Ken said. “We shouldn’t joke about it.”

       “Hey, I know you meant no offense,” Charlie said.

       Mike leaned forward. “Guys, I’m sorry but I gotta run to another meeting.” He stood. The others followed suit, and Charlie saw that they were all wearing hip packs. “Let’s get at it,” Mike said.

       Back at his desk, Charlie opened the Empathy spreadsheet and changed Ms. Struggling Colleague to Ms. Fired Colleague. In the Action column, he typed: Probably needs a friend, find out where she lives. He closed the spreadsheet and got to work with a renewed sense of purpose.

 

       The following morning, he awoke to the hum of steady rain outside the window. A flood warning had been issued the night before and he knew the commute into the city would be a slog. He stretched his arms to the ceiling and sat up. Barbara was lying on her side, her back to him, one arm stretched out straight in front of her. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She did not stir. Within forty minutes, he was dressed and pouring coffee into a travel mug in the kitchen. He grabbed an energy bar and an umbrella and headed to the corner to catch the bus.

       The wind-driven rain intensified and when the bus finally arrived, water had soaked through to his socks. He gathered himself as he showed the bus driver his monthly pass and glanced down the aisle at the sullen faces. He took a seat next to a dark-haired, heavy-set woman staring vacantly out the window. She had a bulky rucksack over her shoulders.

       My first challenge, Charlie thought. “Good morning,” he said.

       She turned. “Good morning,” she said with a quizzical smile and a shift of her rucksack. She had dreamy eyes set in a round face of rosy complexion. After one long awkward moment, she slowly turned back to the window.

       “Kind of nice in its own way,” he said. She turned again. “The rain, I mean,” he added, nodding toward the window.

She murmured, “Hmm,” but Charlie knew she was just being nice; she didn’t really see any upside to a rainy day in the city. He knew that he would have to act fast or he would lose her to her gloomy day reverie. He took a chance: “On nights when it’s raining, I like to go up to the attic and sit under the eaves and just listen to the hum of water on the roof.”

       She gave him a curious look. He had hit a chord. “What do you do?” he asked.

       “I’m a mortgage broker,” she said.

       Charlie rolled the dice: “What do you want to do?” he asked. She gave him a wary look. I don’t mean to intrude,” he said, “but I sense that reporting to a mortgage office five days a week is not meant to be your life’s work.” She stared. “As much as I admire helping people finance their home purchases,” he quickly added.

       She turned partway back to the window. “Granted, it’s not my dream job,” she said.

       “What do you want to do more than anything else in the world?” he asked. She glanced at him and pressed her hands together. “No, really,” he said. “I’m genuinely curious.”

       “Okay,” she said, “I want to teach history. I want to be a history teacher.”

       “That’s wonderful,” Charlie said. He saw her body relax.

       “It’s not an earth-shattering dream,” she said, “but I just know I would enjoy teaching history to people who want to learn it as much as I did in school.” She looked directly at him. “You must enjoy history,” she said.

       “I do,” Charlie said.

       “Yes, your comment about listening to rain on the attic roof was a giveaway. It wasn’t that many generations ago when almost everyone in this country had no choice but to listen to the pitter-patter of rain on the cabin roof.”

       “That’s right,” Charlie said.

       “Nowadays, people listen to the drone of the T.V. at night, rain on the roof be damned.”

       “Yes,” Charlie said, “we’ve lost touch with our roots, with who we really are.” She nodded and they shared a smile. “Charlie,” he said, extending his hand.

       “I’m Janet,” she replied. They shook hands. Her skin was cool and soft. He suspected she used hand lotion regularly. Emboldened, he asked, “So, what happened? Why didn’t you pursue a career as a history teacher?”

       “Oh, that’s a long story,” she said. “There was this guy…” she trailed off.

       “I understand,” Charlie said. Silence followed, and Janet’s eyes drifted back to the window. Charlie berated himself: I pushed her too hard. He heard two short buzzes, and then Janet took her cellphone from her purse, looked at the screen, grunted, and put the phone back. To his surprise, she turned and, without making eye contact, started talking: “Okay, I majored in History in college and planned to go on to grad school to get my Masters, but I got pregnant instead.” She looked at him. He nodded. She shifted the rucksack. “My boyfriend didn’t want to have the baby, but I insisted. He gave in and we got married that summer.” She shook her head. “We were foolish. I gave birth to a baby girl and of course we were overjoyed. But it was just too much. The reality of caring for a kid when we were just kids ourselves…the long and short of it is we split up before our daughter’s first birthday. So, there I was, a single mother, and the father drifting through jobs and unreliable as far as alimony went.” She glanced out the window and turned back. “What was I to do? I couldn’t take on more debt and the idea of going to grad school had become absurd.”

       Charlie nodded sympathetically. “I see your point,” he said. In the silence that followed, he looked at her and asked, “But what about now?”

       “I’ve thought about it,” she said. “But now I’m older, and my daughter’s a teenager so she needs attention. A different kind of attention, but attention nonetheless.”

       “You know what I think?” Charlie asked.

       “What?”

       “I think you’re stuck in a loop, and you just need the desire to break out of it.”

       She pursed her lips. “You don’t understand,” she said. She turned to the window. Charlie looked down at his lap. Again, he had gone too far. The bus entered the Lincoln Tunnel and Janet released a sigh. “I would have to go to night school,” she said.

       “That’s right,” Charlie said.

       “And I’d have to take out a loan.”

       “No question.”

       “It would take years.”

       “A few years go by like that,” Charlie said with a snap of his fingers.

       “My daughter would have to help. She’d have to fend for herself and pitch in with chores and such.”

       “Would she do that?”

       Janet nodded. “Yeah, I suppose she would.”

       A long silence followed. The bus emerged from the tunnel and the rain again swept against the window. Charlie knew that sometimes silence was more powerful than talking. A seed had been planted, he concluded. It was up to Janet whether the seed would receive water. The bus labored up the Port Authority ramp and passengers began to stir. Janet quickly checked her text messages. The bus halted. She turned. “Well, Charles, this has been an interesting ride,” she said.

       “Yes, it has,” Charlie said.

       “And thank you,” she said.

       “For what?” he asked.

       “Just…thank you.” Before he could respond, she flashed her dreamy eyes and they stood and filed out of the bus. She went ahead on the downward escalator and Charlie was sure that her rucksack looked lighter.

       When he stepped outside, he was relieved to see that the rain had stopped. As he walked along the wet pavement, he felt a warm inner glow radiating outward, and he made a point of smiling and saying hello to every pair of eyes he met, no matter how indifferent or dejected those eyes were. When he entered his office tower, he saw Clarence across the lobby at his post next to the turnstiles. There was no one to greet and Clarence was clutching the telltale suitcase.

       “Good morning, Clarence,” Charlie said effusively as he approached the turnstiles.

       Clarence flashed a grin and the suitcase turned into a knapsack. “Good morning to you, Mr. Dawson, and how are you this fine morning?”

       “You call this a fine morning?” Charlie asked with a laugh.

       “Sure,” said Clarence. “Rain makes the flowers bloom.”

       Charlie admired Clarence’s upbeat manner, but he knew the man was putting on a face. “You’re an inspiration, Clarence,” Charlie said. He leaned closer. “But if there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m here.” For a moment, Clarence dropped his guard and gave Charlie the same wary look that Janet had given on the bus. Then another employee walked up and greeted Clarence. Instantly, Clarence turned and smiled.

       “Well, good morning, Mr. Anderson.” he said. “How are you today?”

       “Have a nice day, Clarence,” Charlie said as he slipped through the turnstile. He heard Clarence call after him, “Okay, you too, Charlie.”

       Charlie went up to his cubicle and opened the Empathy spreadsheet. Where the Mr. Security Guard row met the Action column, he wrote: Reached out to Clarence today – not sure if it did any good. He then entered a new name in the Who column: Ms. History Professor. In the Current Status column, he wrote: Rucksack; needs a new challenge in life, stuck in the yearly routine. If she doesn’t follow her dream now, she likely never will. In the Action column he wrote: I did the best I could, it’s up to her now.  

       Carmen walked past and entered her cubicle. Charlie closed the spreadsheet. “Good morning,” he said.

       She smiled. “Good morning, Charlie.” She had a serene air about her that Charlie had not seen before, and she was only carrying the telltale hip pack. He sensed that she was in her own private world and that she was enjoying it. When she sat down and started working on her computer, he heard her humming. And that's when it hit him: she had makeup sex this morning. He peeked over the cubicle wall. She was reading something on her computer screen with a little smile on her face and her chin propped up on an elbow. Her complexion was slightly flush. Good for you, Charlie thought as he turned back to his computer.

       It was a surprisingly busy morning. When things slowed down, he realized that he had worked right through the lunch hour. He went downstairs to the cafeteria, got some food and sat by the windows in the dining room. The lunch crowd was long gone and only a few tables were occupied. He settled in with a newspaper and started eating. After a few minutes, he became aware of someone standing over him and looked up to see Clarence, suitcase in hand. He was smiling, but it was an uneasy smile, not the one that he flashed when greeting employees each morning.  

       “Hi Charlie,” he said.

       “Hi Clarence,” Charlie said. “You want to join me for a late lunch?”

       “Oh, I already had my lunch.” He paused. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

       “Not at all,” Charlie said. Clarence sat down and stared out through the window. Charlie sensed the man’s uneasiness.             “Hey,” Charlie said, “it’s okay.”

       Clarence looked at Charlie and said, “I’m cheating on my wife. Now, you tell me what’s okay about that.”

       Charlie took a deep breath, as though inhaling the news. “For how long?” he asked.

       “Four months,” Clarence said, turning back to the window.

       “Does she suspect you?”

       “I don’t know. I’m finding it hard to look her in the eye, and I think she senses that.” Clarence delivered each word with flat precision.

       “Why, Clarence?” Charlie asked.

       Clarence sighed. The directness of the question made him fidget with his hands. “I’m lonely,” he said. “My wife, she’s a good woman. But we just live together. There’s no…” Clarence grimaced.

       “No intimacy?” Charlie asked.

       “Yeah, that’s it. We ain’t intimate. And this other woman, she makes me feel alive. But we both know it just ain’t right.”

Charlie was almost as surprised by Clarence’s use of the word, ain’t, as he was by the man’s confession. He sensed that Clarence lived an entirely different life away from the office tower entrance. “Clarence, you do know that it can’t be sustained, right?”

       Clarence nodded. “That’s why I came to you.” He looked at Charlie with searching eyes.

       “I don’t know if I can help you.” Charlie said. Clarence sat back and grunted. “Okay,” Charlie said, “you have two choices: you either leave your wife, or you stop seeing this woman. I think you know that.” Clarence nodded. Charlie continued: “As long as you keep doing this, it will burden you. It will drag you down. I can’t help you with your decision, but I do think you need to make one.”

       Clarence turned back to the window. “I want to be a good man,” he said.

       “You are a good man,” Charlie said. “You want to do the right thing. If you didn’t care about the difference between right and wrong, you wouldn’t be here.” Clarence nodded but continued to stare through the window. Charlie reached over and grasped his arm. “Clarence, don’t let this shallow world make you think differently. You are a good man who slipped. Plenty of good men have done worse…much worse.”  

       Clarence placed his hand on top of Charlie’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. Then he stood and walked away, shouldering a knapsack on his way out.  

       Back at his desk, Charlie opened the Empathy spreadsheet and wrote in the Action column across from Clarence’s name: I can humbly say that I believe I helped someone today.

       The next morning dawned sunny and warm. When Charlie stepped outside, he felt the heaviness in the air and knew it was going to be a stinker in the city. Stepping onto the bus, he looked down the aisle and was delighted to see Janet’s beaming face looking back at him from a window seat.

       “Good morning,” Charlie said as he stepped up to her. “Is anyone sitting here?” He gestured to the empty aisle seat.

       “Yes, a very special person.”

       “Oh, okay, then I’ll sit in the back,” Charlie said.

       “You will sit right here,” Janet said, grabbing his arm. Charlie sat down. Janet shifted to face him. She was wearing black slacks, a white blouse and floral scarf.

       “You’re in a good mood,” he said.  She beamed. He observed that she had a miniature backpack in her lap.

       “I’m gonna do it,” she said.

       “Yeah?” Charlie said, careful not to assume what she meant.

       “Yup, last night, I told my daughter that I want to go back to school to get my master's in history, and that I would need her help. She said she’d help any way she can.”

       “That’s wonderful,” Charlie said.

       “Honestly, I was surprised at how well she took it,” Janet said. “It just goes to show, you never know until you ask.”

       “So, what’s your plan?” Charlie asked.

       “Well, I looked into the application process. It’s pretty straightforward and I still have time to enroll for the fall semester. I’ll have to take out some loans for tuition, but I can pay for half of it from an inheritance I got when my mom died, and by cashing in some stock options.” She stopped and looked at Charlie for approval. He reached out and squeezed her hand.  “You’re on your way,” he said.

       She beamed. “You were right,” she said. “I was in a rut. You helped me take the first step and now I have momentum.” She sighed. “I feel like everything is brand new.” Charlie simply smiled. She studied him for a moment. “What about you?” she asked. “All we’ve done is talk about me. What are your aspirations?”

       “I’m living them,” Charlie said. “I like to help others any way I can. I used to be preoccupied with myself, mulling over my problems, but then I realized that I have more than I could have asked for. I have a good wife, a happy, healthy baby daughter and a decent job. I simply want to help others.”

       “You are a special man,” Janet said.

       “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m just lucky to know how special life can be, and I do my best to pass that on.” She nodded affirmatively. The image of Heather and David flashed through his mind. He started to say something but hesitated.

       “What?” she asked.

       “Janet,” he said, “do you believe in true love?”

       Janet jerked her head back, slightly stunned. “Whoa, that’s out of left field.” Before Charlie could explain, she said, “But okay, sure, I believe it exists. I think it’s rare.” She looked down at her lap.

       Charlie sensed she was holding something back. “What is it?” he asked.

       She winced slightly and said, “I’ve been in love, but I’ve never had that love returned, so I’m probably not the one to speak on that topic.”

       “I’m sorry,” he said. She smiled faintly and turned to the window. “I’m not the one to speak on the topic, either,” he added, “but I believe in true love, even though I suspect I will never experience it.”

       Instantly, he realized he had said too much. She looked at him and asked, “Do you not love your wife?”

       “I do,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve come to realize that there are different planes of love, and I just don’t think we ever attained that rarefied plane.” He frowned. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “we have a special bond, and we love our daughter. I just don’t know if...”

She squeezed his leg. “It’s okay, I understand."