Fiction by Peggy Shinner

Life is Adequate

Sheep, milk, tv. He’s tried everything,

but she never believes him. She thinks
it’s a joke that he can’t sleep. She thinks
if only he tried harder. If he really want-
ed to he could. All he has to do is close
his eyes. It’s that easy. What does she
know about trying to sleep. She’s young,
she wants to go to sleep, she sleeps. He
used to be like that. Time was he slept
like a baby. He shut his eyes and went to
sleep.

That was a long time ago. Lately, he

can’t buy a good night’s sleep.

Sometimes she thinks he’s lying. Or
at least not telling the truth. He’s fabri-
cating. Exaggerating. He can hear her
telling her friends. Embellishing. She says
embellishing just so she can say a big
word. He knows a big word or two. His
vocabulary isn’t so small.

Peggy Shinner is the recipient of several Illinois
Arts Council Fellowships, an Ausable Press Fel-
lowship, and a Pushcart Prize Special Mention.
Her work has appeared in “Alaska Quarterly
Review,” “Bloom,” “The Chicago Reader,” “Tri-
Quarterly,” “Western Humanities Review,” and
other publications. She also has essays forthcom-
ing in “Fourth Genre” and “The Gettysburg Re-
view.” Currently, she is at work on a book of es-
says about the body.

So she thinks he’s lying. He can tell
by how, when he says he can’t sleep, she
goes on to the next subject. She doesn’t
skip a beat. By the way she says yes and
mm-hmm. She’s humoring him. All those
naps, she’s thinking. Old people always
say they can’t sleep. They want you to
feel sorry for them. But you add it up, an
hour here, an hour there . . . . The morn-
ing always comes, she’s thinking. He can
tell.

The thing was she woke him up. He was

almost sleeping. He was dozing off.

The news was on, Walter Jacobson
talking about a ½re on the South Side.
He’d punched up a couple pillows, and
from underneath him he felt them give
way. His foot twitched. You could see the
smoke for miles, he thought he heard an
onlooker say. He reached out his hand,
blinked his eyes. Faces flickered on the
screen. No one was injured in the ½re. Is
it too late? she said. Did I wake you up?
At ½rst he didn’t know who it was. He
moved the receiver to the other ear. I’m
returning your call, she said. He got the
feeling she was repeating it. I’m returning
your call, like he was some kind of busi-
ness establishment.

He shook his head. The room was
dark, except for the light from the tv.
He pressed the remote a few times to

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Fiction by
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turn down the sound. His call? Oh yeah,
he had to call once a week to remind her
he was her father.

Nah, he said, sitting up on the edge
of the bed. His zipper’d come open, but
he didn’t even bother to give it a tug.
On the floor was a copy of People maga-
zine with Lady Di on the cover. He’d
been reading about the nuptials. In the
mirror above the dresser he caught a
glimpse of himself. He had to look a
couple times. The guy he saw had eyes
looking up from the grave; his face was
gray. You wouldn’t look so good either,
he thought, taking a quick peek around
like he was daring someone to disagree
with him. Boy, he’d been just about to
slip under. Already that felt like a while
ago. He pressed his thumbs over the
bridge of his nose, the phone hunched
between his ear and shoulder. I’m wide
awake, he told her. My eyes are glued to
the tv.

Because if you want to go back to sleep

. . . . Her voice trailed off as if she might
disturb him.

Then she mustered it up again. We can

talk tomorrow.

Is there a ration?
Walter Jacobson mouthed some words

he couldn’t make out, then the picture
switched to Vice President Mondale’s
daughter selling a car. Straining forward,
he thought she said the word deal.

Dad, she said.
He waited for her to dispute him.
Cut it out.
She was starting to sound a little huffy.
She had a tendency in that direction. He
gulped some water from the glass on the
nightstand, swiping the back of his hand
across his lips. Should he tell her what
happened?

After another swallow, he put the glass

back.

I had a little incident. He looked down
at his feet, plastered by the podiatrist, on

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the carpet. Those specimens belonged to
him.

A little incident?
I couldn’t keep it in.
What are you talking about? she said,

and then it must have dawned on her.
In the receiver he heard her draw in a
breath.

A weather map ½lled up the tv screen,
and he saw the ½ve-day forecast. Rain at
the end of the week, but he didn’t look
that far ahead.

When did this happen? she ½nally

said.

What does it matter when it hap-
pened. It happened. I had a little drip.

Did you call Dr. Lowenstein?
What, he’s going to turn off the

spigot?

Dad. She said it again.
So now you know. He braced the heel

of his palm on the bed.

Know what?
All she did was repeat what he said.
I want you to have the whole picture.
Why are you talking as if I know what

you’re talking about? Just tell me. Her
voice reached another pitch.

The light from the tv went black for
a second before it lit the walls again. I’m
not going to live forever, he said, with
his mouth right next to the receiver.

Now he can’t sleep a wink. She’s at

home sleeping, her head on a nice big
fluffy pillow, and he’s watching the
shadows for entertainment. The street-
light flickers in the tree. The shade slaps
against the screen. Two sixteen, and the
clock radio makes no effort to candy-
coat it. Time was she cried at night. She
woke up crying. Muriel staggered out
of bed, to the crib, jiggling her back to
sleep. He’d drift in and out of sleep. He’d
hear the floor creaking, Muriel traipsing
up and down the hallway. That was the
apartment on Independence Boulevard,

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a one bedroom, the crib crammed
against the wall in the dining room. She
asleep? he’d say when Muriel came back
to bed, but most nights he’d be asleep
before she answered.

He throws back the covers. Lie here
all night, or lie here till morning. Those
are his choices. Or take a stroll through
the premises. He drags his plastered feet
to the window. Exercise is good for you,
she likes to tell him. Window, crapper,
refrigerator, bed. All the exercise he can
get. Pulling up on his boxers, he leans
against the ledge. In the dark he looks
at his real estate. A swatch of grass, a
plot of dirt for his tomato plants, the
tree his son grew from a pit. On either
side a chain-link fence. Is this what it
all amounts to? In spite of the rumor
about stars, he doesn’t spot any. They’ve
closed their eyes; they’re taking a nap.
Ha-ha, but the joke’s on him. Outside
the crickets join in. The shadows shift.
Something rustles in the bushes by the
alley. Just because he doesn’t believe
in ghosts doesn’t mean they’re not out
there. He flattens his forehead to the
screen. A line of perspiration creases
his chin. There are twenty-four hours
in a day, but most of them, he concludes,
searching the darkness for anything that
might jump out at him, occur after mid-
night.

In the morning he goes to the cleaners

because he can’t keep anything clean.
Eat, make a mess, put his money in es-
crow with the Chinaman, that’s his rou-
tine. Last night, after Cheryl called, it
was sauerkraut, but he doesn’t discrimi-
nate, ha-ha. Ketchup, coffee, sour cream
–he gives everything an opportunity to
land on his pants.

After Cheryl called, Jack reminds him-
self, backing the car out of the garage,
he couldn’t get to sleep. Johnny Carson,
then a western, a movie called Shane.

Shane, the boy cried to the man who
might have been his father. Come back.
Shane. With his arm draped around the
passenger’s side, he drums his ½ngers
on the seat. Last night’s shadows dart
across the windshield. He almost slams
on the brakes.

The cleaners opens at seven, and he
waits for the Chinaman to unlock the
door. Over the radio Wally Phillips
drones on about the Variety Club char-
ity cruise. Sail with the stars, and for a good
cause, too. He switches the station. Every-
body’s got an angle, but who’s going to
help him?

Can you answer that?
A guy in a ½ve hundred dollar suit
whisks by, on the way to a breakfast
powwow with other LaSalle Street min-
ions who look just like him. But the rise
is a little short, Jack decides, sizing up
the pants.

Finally the laundryman’s face appears

at the door.

Jack lifts himself out of the car.
Sam, he says, dropping the bundle
on the counter. He stops for a second
to catch his breath. If you opened earli-
er maybe you’d do more business. He
doesn’t know the Chinaman’s name but
½gures Sam is a good guess.

Business is adequate, Mr. Kamin.
He gives the Chinaman, already sort-
ing through the pile of clothes, a closer
look, and unwads last week’s ticket out
of his pocket. The guy’s a big shot.

Five and a quarter he owes, pushing
four ones and the rest in change across
the counter.

You been here long, Sam? he says.
Pardon me, Mr. Kamin.
U.S.A. America. When did you come
over? He lays his hands on the counter.
The Chinaman doesn’t even raise his

head. He’s too wrapped up adding his
money to the till before he scurries to
the back to look for the cleaning.

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Jack eyes the box. How much can the
guy bring in? Not much, for sure; you
can’t eat bonbons laundering other peo-
ple’s clothes. He shakes his head, agree-
ing with himself, and looks around. The
Chinaman’s got geranium plants in the
window, to spruce things up. Well, he
lived in a place like this, a three-room
apartment behind the store. tailor, the
sign said. His father, after forty years of
hemming up suit coats, had the smell of
mothballs in his hands.

A hanger clangs to the floor.
What’s going on back there? Maybe
Sam can’t ½nd his cleaning. His ½ngers
tap the counter. He doesn’t have all day
although his only plans are to count
sheep and take a nap. He smirks at his
own joke. Maybe he’ll go to the David
Noyes brokerage ½rm and watch the
stock returns.

A fly buzzes past. He takes a swipe
at it but misses, and while his hand is
out there–is that all? that simple?–
he reaches over and quickly counts the
money in the box.

Fifty and change, he adds it up. A
twenty, two ½ns, a stack of singles with
George staring up at him, lips sealed in
collusion. Butch Cassidy and the Sun-
dance Kid. Ha-ha. Limp, dirty, torn,
taped, how many hands have these passed
through?

I haven’t got all day, but, for all he
knows, Sam’s skipped out and he’s
alone in the place, him and the dry
cleaning. Should he go up to a bag and
start talking? Yak about the ghosts on
the graveyard shift? You can hear the
steam hissing the joint is so dead. He
checks the white-faced clock on the
wall with the second hand skittering
around like something’s wrong with it.
Seven ½fteen, and only if he stretches
it. He shakes his wrist to see if his watch
jumps ahead. A quarter after, seven ½f-
teen–any way you read it, the day’s just
begun.

Bang, bang. Gotcha.
He jerks his head.
Loaded up with the cleaning, there’s
the Chinaman, pushing aside the cur-
tain, and a scrawny kid slipping by, with
a gun in his hand.

Sure it’s a toy, but at ½rst Jack can’t

help it, he takes a step back.

David, the Chinaman says, pointing

to the curtain, go back in there, but
the boy acts like he can’t hear. The laun-
dryman raises his eyebrows, as if to say
kids.

You’re dead, the boy says, shooting

again.

The cap gun pops, and a string of

smoke curls in the air.

Jack considers what the smart aleck

Not to make a disturbance, he eyeballs

said.

the coins.

You’d think he was a thief.
Yeah, you’d think so, but to prove he’s
not he puts his empty paws back where
they belong on the counter. The only
thing that glints on them is his wedding
band.

14K gold, that’s what it is.
Thirty-three years, and now she’s been

gone almost another.

Not even a chisel could remove it.
Sam, he shouts, rearranging his stance.
The skin’s puckered around his knuck-

les like it’s about to fall off.

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You’re dead.
Why not, he shrugs, he’ll pretend,
and in slow motion he leans forward,
grips the edge of the counter, and sinks
his head in the pile of dirty laundry,
the clothes that ten minutes earlier he
brought in.

On the phone Cheryl asks him to din-

ner, and he can’t think of a reason to re-
fuse her.

Where do you want to go? she says an

hour later, pulling up to the curb in the
car he helped ½nance. The title, at his

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insistence, is in both her name and his.
Chinese? Pekin House?

He wants to give her a dirty look but

why waste it.

They decide to go for Italian.
After a few half-hearted attempts at
the seat belt he lets it slip. How often
do you get the car washed? he asks, set-
tling back. The floor mats, he’s noticed,
could stand to be vacuumed. He scans
the dashboard. He’d wanted her to get a
Chrysler, but she bought a foreign model
instead.

Apparently not often enough, is her
answer. Stopping at the corner, she casts
him a glance.

The trade-in value will be higher, he
continues, if you keep up the mainte-
nance.

I just bought the car, she says with a
tone in her voice, I’m not thinking of
trading it in.

She puts on her blinker to make a

left.

That’s the problem, he says, fum-
bling to adjust the seat for more leg-
room. You can’t always think about the
present. You have to think about the
future. You have to look ahead. Finally
he gets the lever to slip into place, and
the seat slides back.

In the silence that follows, he realizes

something has gotten into him.

Put on your seat belt.
Without protest he does what she

says.

The belt cuts across the shoulder of
one of the shirts he got back from the
cleaners. Now his daughter’s the one
telling him.

On the right they pass Pedian Car-
pet, shag on sale, $9.50 a yard, installed.
On the left the Mercury Bowl, where
he used to belong to a league. He shifts
in his seat. The alley stretches out be-
fore him; he can hear the pins crash.
Welcome Back Bowlers, the sign says.

Didn’t you bowl there? her voice
comes up at him. A strand of hair falls
in her face; she pushes it back.

His hands sit in his lap. A sixteen-
pound ball is what he used to throw.
Once he got a turkey, three strikes in
a row. In the closet there’s a shirt with
his name. Jack.

I liked the cokes, she says. They had a
fountain. Cokes on draft, and she gives a
little laugh.

When he looks, he’s rubbing the place
on his thumb where the ball gave him a
callus.

They pull into the lot at Malnati’s.
The place is jammed. Over there, he
points to the space vacated by the Lin-
coln. Coming from the opposite direc-
tion, a guy gives his horn a blast. She
inches forward. Can they ½t? Yeah,
she’d beg him for quarters, and after
he emptied his pockets, she’d pick the
silver out of his hand. Keep the change,
he’d tell her as she ran back to the foun-
tain, the pins crashing again.

The rib eye’s good tonight, the lanky
redhead outside the window is saying
as she sidles into her car with a doggy
bag.

Are you hungry? he turns to Cheryl.

As for him, he has a taste for the spa-
ghetti with Italian meatballs. Get what-
ever you want, he adds.

Thanks, she says, as if, before he of-
fered, it hadn’t been her intention. May-
be I’ll have an antipasto salad. She runs
her ½ngers through her hair.

Is that all? Aren’t you hungry? Or-
der whatever you want, he urges again.
The seat belt snaps. Before she opens
her door, he licks his thumb and reaches
over to rub the spot he’s just noticed on
her slacks.

The audience laughs but Jack hardly

catches Carson’s monologue. Slipping
out the belt from his pants, he lies in bed

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and prepares to think about what hap-
pened instead. He puts his hands behind
his head. Change from his pocket falls
on the spread. Next door, the Solomons’
porch light goes on, the back door creaks
open an inch. Go on, go on, he hears
Louie Solomon say in a growl. Jack can
picture him nudging the little mongrel,
prodding it with his toe. What would
you want with an animal like that? Into
the night the dog yaps.

The spaghetti was good; it always is.
He’d carefully cut up the meatballs, the
way he did. Cheryl’d gone ahead and or-
dered the salad, but he insisted she get
garlic bread. Lasagna? How about lasa-
gna? You like lasagna, he’d tried again.
Eggplant parmesan? Because he knew
she liked vegetables, but when she de-
clined he couldn’t blame her. Eggplant
wasn’t for him. Really, the salad is ½ne,
she said, but to make her old man feel
better she ate a piece of the bread.

When the waitress came around for
coffee, he said yes. Yeah, yeah, I know,
he admitted, trying to head his daughter
off; but he had a desire for something
strong. You’re always complaining you
can’t sleep, Cheryl leaned across the
table, going after him like a dog. Don’t
be so smart, he advised her, but topped it
off with a grin. Then he laid up his palms
as if to say hey?

Herbal tea, she ordered, when the

waitress got around to her.

He lets his eyes slide back to the tv.
The monologue’s just about over, Carson
lifts his trademark golf swing. We have a
great show tonight, the comedian prom-
ises, and Jack ½nds himself repeating it.
A great show. Next door the porch light
goes off.

Down the hall, across the olive green

shag, faded he’s recently noticed, he
makes his way to the kitchen. A heel of
salami hangs from a hook; a few straggly
plants still try to make it on the window

ledge. At the sink he ½lls up a glass. No,
no, it’s not a glass he wants, it’s a cup, a
coffee cup, like the one at Lou Malnati’s.

At Malnati’s it was a cup.
His tongue rolls across his lips. Again

he turns on the tap.

He follows the water down the drain.

Did you ever think, he asks whoever’s
listening, that you’d end up here? And
shakes his head in disbelief. Here, and
he’s insulted by his reflection in the
window over the sink, with your stom-
ach hanging over the lip of the counter,
your hairy shoulders slumping out of
the dago t-shirt you still insist on wear-
ing. He slings a dish towel around his
neck. Johnny Carson chortles from the
other room, or so he imagines. Over the
water Doc Severinsen and the Tonight
Show band plays. Buddy Rich is the spe-
cial guest.

He stares at the cup.
Fill it up.
For insurance he tightens his grip.
The refrigerator buzzes. From the
basement the furnace revs up. The
whole house is getting in on it. Even
Louie Solomon’s runt, across the pas-
sageway, adds his two cents. Jack, Jack,
it yaps.

Fill it up.
Just to see if it happens again.
Instead, he ducks under the faucet and

lets the water pour over his head. He
stays under as long as he can.

When he comes up, dripping wet,
there’s a guy in the window with a dish-
towel over his head. It doesn’t take much
to know who he is.

At ½rst he sipped his coffee; it was

hot. A splash of cream, two sugars, then
a third, the works. He’d watched the
cream sit on the top. The market’s down
today, he told her. Silver’s up. She looked
at him with what she hoped passed for
interest; he knew that trumped-up look.

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Soon there wasn’t much left in the cup.
A beat came at him from the jukebox;
under the table she moved her foot.
How’s Solitron doing? she asked, going
back to the market. She must’ve remem-
bered he owned some stock. I got out,
he said, lifting the cup to his lips, just be-
fore it went under.

She raised hers too, a swig of herb tea

as a toast, ha-ha, to getting out before
you get under.

It’s nothing, he said even though no

one asked.

But right away he knew it was another

mechanical failure.

He waved the waitress, who was show-
ering him with napkins, away, and made
a pass at the nonchalant. Your old man
needs to be towed, he said to his daugh-
ter.

She said the only thing she knew how.

Dad? she said.

Then she drilled him a look over the

Didn’t she have a bigger vocabulary

top.

than that?

But he didn’t tell her how much he’d

lost. A couple grand was his original
guess but that was a lowball estimate.

I switched to municipal bonds, he hur-

ried on, and the towns, in dollar signs,
marched out in front of him. Chicago
Heights, Milwaukee, some swamp in
Florida on a tip from his broker. They’re
tax-free and low risk, he was about to
add, a sucker for his own P.R., when
his hand, like a remark cut off in the
middle, went numb and he dropped
the cup.

It thudded across the carpet. Dad, a
boy at the next table whispered loudly,
that man made a boner.
Someone laughed.
Chicago Heights, Milwaukee, Pasco

County . . .

Kevin, the boy’s father said.
The waitress came running up.
Dad, Cheryl chided, shaking her head

at his pants.

But his forehead was clammy. He

heard his breath.

She looked at him again. With one
hand he pulled the other back and put
it in his lap.

I’ll get it, the waitress said, bending
over for the cup. There, the boy pointed.
The checks on the tablecloth were
changing places. He rubbed his eyes
to see if he could get them to clear up.
From the jukebox the bass thumped.

At this rate he’ll miss all of Carson.

He’ll miss the world-class drummer,
Buddy Rich.

A low rumble comes from the bed-
room. Carpeted with the dishtowel, he
lifts his head. He spots the green plants,
trailing along the ledge. They don’t
stand a chance. The world, he knows,
is a jungle. It’s a jungle out there, he
says, brushing past the table, and his
lips come together as if to underline
what he’s said.

In the bathroom he empties his blad-
der. He’s had to go for a while, but now
he can’t hold it in. The rumble sounds
again. Be right there, he thinks, just a
minute. Buddy Rich, calling him.

He watches the drummer knock some-

thing out on the screen. Working hard,
Rich sweats. Sticks fly, cymbals tip. With
the dish towel Jack mops his head.
He’s more than tired; he’s dead.
What’s that tune called? Carson asks

when it’s over.

Moment’s Notice, Rich says.
Jack flicks off the light and shuts his

eyes just as Carson pumps the drum-
mer’s hand.

In the dark, Moment’s Notice rolls
through him. We’ll be right back, Car-
son says. Jack turns from side to side,
his feet pushing the covers. The wind
buckles the screen. Someone’s laying

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Fiction by
Peggy
Shinner

on the horn, a whistle of air escapes his
lips, and his eyelids lift themselves open.
He doesn’t know a thing. Out the win-
dow the light–or is it the moon?–wa-
vers behind the trees. Sam’s sallow face
rises before him; oh, the man in the
moon, now he’s Chinese. Life is ade-
quate, Mr. Kamin; is that what he said?
The face hovers in the breeze. Eleven
twenty, and Carson’s still guffawing on
tv. Behind the shop, does Sam get a lit-
tle sleep? Does his adequate life give
him rest?

Jack pushes up from the pillow and

sits, leaning on his hands.

Maybe he’ll go outside and howl at the
moon. He juts out his head at the mirror
as he staggers past.

When he gets to the yard, he scours

the sky, but the moon’s ducked out, leav-
ing behind a few stars to taunt him with
their cut-rate light.

Even nature’s trying to conserve.
Jack, is that you? What are you doing

out there . . . taking a leak?

Jack swivels around. Caught like a rob-

ber in his own backyard. Next door, the
screen door’s swung open and Louie Sol-
omon’s poked out his egg-shaped head.
One of his Havana cigars hangs from his
mouth.

Just like that mutt of yours, Jack says,

trying to recover. He pictures himself
lifting one leg to go along with the joke
even though it’s not very funny. Woof,
woof, he might bark, like a dog pleased
with itself, trotting away when he’s ½n-
ished.

I’m having a chat with nature. What’s
your excuse, Louie? Protecting my prop-
erty? Making sure nobody steals those
plums? He points to the tree his son
planted from a pit. Go back to sleep.

Louie bites off the end of his cigar and
spits it onto the sidewalk. Don’t stay out
here too long. You might see a ghost, he
snorts, closing the door.

Jack shrugs him off, but to play it safe,
gives the yard a quick once-over. For the
moment anyway, the wind’s at a stand-
still. Does Louie know something he
doesn’t?

Then he heads over to the plum tree
and leans against the trunk, the closest
thing out here for support. Every year
the tree makes a few puckery plums,
and every year he’s reminded how much
he dislikes them. It’s hardly worth the
effort, he wants to tell it, but like a dumb
dog the tree keeps on trying. He cranks
his neck to the sky; the moon’s trying
to make a comeback. A pair of squinty
eyes blinks down at him. He opens his
mouth, but instead of howling, he
yawns. That’s it. That’s the best he can
do. He could lay down right here. He
could take some leaves and make a pile
under his head. All he has to do is close
his eyes, Cheryl said. He reaches up and
rips a few off the tree, plums and all, and
shoves the fruit in his mouth. His hands,
on their own, go after more. What’s he
doing? The Chinaman won’t stop dog-
ging him. Now he’s rustling in the bush-
es by the alley. Mr. Kamin, he jeers. Jack
almost expects him to leap out, bang,
bang, you’re dead. And as he raises his
arm to fend off a storm–a horde of
bugs, out to irritate him–something
does barrel out, breaking branches, tear-
ing off leaves, smashing down every
limb.

He gags.
Staring across at him is a deer stopped

in his passageway.

Its legs are shaking, just like his

hands. He swipes at the pulp and spittle
smeared on his chin, then, to stop the
shaking, thrusts his hands in his pants.
He coughs again.

What’s a wild animal doing in his

backyard?

The deer steps back.
Don’t move, he cautions, but doesn’t

know if he means himself or the deer.

150

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The rough bark of the tree snares his t-
shirt. The deer’s eyes meet his. What am
I doing here? they seem to ask.

Please, he whispers, unaccustomed to
begging, and a flush of confusion creeps
up his neck. The moon, not skimping at
all now, makes the animal’s coat shine
like cement. A quiver, like a single note
from a song, ripples through its body.

There’s a deer, he wants to tell some-

body, in my backyard, but Louie Sol-
omon’s shade, for the ½rst time in a dec-
ade, is pulled down without a crack. His
thumb circles the wedding band embed-
ded in his ½nger.

Stepping out from the tree, he opens
his mouth, wide this time, and with a
howl of laughter tells all of Bernard
Street. Can you believe this? His voice
pelts the sky. The stars shine back with
their fleeting light, and the deer, huge
and glistening, bounds down the pas-
sageway, back to where it came from.

Life is
Adequate

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