Adrift on a Wide Sea
We got lost delivering wood to the city. Tony had the wheel. Where is this goddamn place? he kept saying.
He stopped at a movie theater. This can’t be the street, he said.
This can’t be the street, I said.
Where’s the map? he said.
I slapped the map on my thigh. This map’s no good, I said.
Give me the map.
Take the goddamn map.
He studied the map. This map’s no good, he said.
We were downtown in a pickup with a load of firewood. Some sight.
Ask her, Tony said, pointing to a woman walking past the theater.
She was all done up as if it were eight at night. Hair. Face. Some neckline. We were impressed with the neckline. And spiked heels. Wearing spiked heels as if spiked heels were integral to her existence.
I rolled down the window and said, Excuse me do you know where Maple Street is?
She stopped and looked at us like she had a sudden toothache. No, she said.
If it were January with a wind coming off the lake it couldn’t have frozen tree leaves faster than her no.
Okay, I said. Thanks.
I closed the window and Tony said, How can she not know where Maple Street is?
We drove on, stopped at a music store, and they told us how to find Maple Street.
The delivery was to a black guy named Russo. We’d never delivered firewood to a black guy before. After we handed the firewood, stick by stick, through the basement window and stacked it against the concrete wall, we gave him a ride to South Street.
