‘Atta-baby,’ Todd said, sounding the teensiest bit slurry. ‘Go with your bad self.’
Job hunters continued to arrive, their cars nosing up from Marlborough Street through the thickening fog. The line was well past the posts now, and no longer zigzagging. Tom had believed he understood the economic difficulties currently besetting the country – hadn’t he lost a job himself, a very good job? – but as the cars kept coming and the line kept growing (he could no longer see where it ended), he began to get a new and frightening perspective. Maybe difficulties wasn’t the right word. Maybe the right word was calamity.
To his right, in the maze of posts and tape leading to the doors of the darkened auditorium, the baby began to cry. Tom looked around and saw the man with the sleeping bag holding the sides of the papoose carrier so the woman (God, Tom thought, she doesn’t look like she’s out of her teens yet) could pull the kid out.
‘What the fuck’s zat?’ Todd asked, sounding slurrier than ever.
‘A kid,’ Tom said. ‘Woman with a kid. Girl with a kid.’
Todd peered. ‘Christ on a pony,’ he said. ‘I call that pretty irra … irry … you know, not responsible.’
‘Are you drunk?’ Linda disliked Todd, she didn’t see his good side, and right now Tom wasn’t sure he saw it, either.
‘L’il bit. I’ll be fine by the time the doors open. Got some breath mints, too.’
Tom thought of asking the Toddster if he’d also brought some Visine – his eyes were looking mighty red – and decided he didn’t want to have that discussion just now. He turned his attention back to where the woman with the crying baby had been. At first he thought they were gone. Then he looked lower and saw her sliding into the burly man’s sleeping bag with the baby on her chest. The burly man was holding the mouth of the bag open for her. The infant was still bawling his or her head off.
‘Can’t you shut that kid up?’ a man called.
‘Someone ought to call Social Services,’ a woman added.
Tom thought of Tina at that age, imagined her out on this cold and foggy predawn morning, and restrained an urge to tell the man and woman to shut up … or better yet, lend a hand somehow. After all, they were in this together, weren’t they? The whole screwed-up, bad-luck bunch of them.
The crying softened, stopped.
‘She’s probably feeding im,’ Todd said. He squeezed his chest to demonstrate.
‘Yeah.’
‘Tommy?’
‘What?’
‘You know Ellen lost her job, right?’
‘Jesus, no. I didn’t know that.’ Pretending he didn’t see the fear in Todd’s face. Or the glimmering of moisture in his eyes. Possibly from the booze or the cold. Possibly not.
‘They said they’d call her back when things get better, but they said the same thing to me, and I’ve been out of work going on half a year now. I cashed my insurance. That’s gone. And you know what we got left in the bank? Five hundred dollars. You know how long five hundred dollars lasts when a loaf of bread at Kroger’s costs a buck?’
‘Not long.’
‘You’re fucking A it doesn’t. I have to get something here. Have to.’
‘You will. We both will.’
Todd lifted his chin at the burly man, who now appeared to be standing guard over the sleeping bag, so no one would accidentally step on the woman and baby inside. ‘Think they’re married?’
Tom hadn’t considered it. Now he did. ‘Probably.’
‘Then they both must be out of work. Otherwise, one of em would have stayed home with the kid.’
‘Maybe,’ Tom said, ‘they think showing up with the baby will improve their chances.’
Todd brightened. ‘The pity card! Not a bad idea!’ He held out the pint. ‘Want a nip?’
He took a small one, thinking, If I don’t drink it, Todd will.
Tom was awakened from a whiskey-assisted doze by an exuberant shout: ‘Life is discovered on other planets!’ This sally was followed by laughter and applause.
He looked around and saw daylight. Thin and fog-draped, but daylight, just the same. Beyond the bank of auditorium doors, a fellow in gray fatigues – a man with a job, lucky fellow – was pushing a mop-bucket across the lobby.
‘Whuddup?’ Todd asked.
‘Nothing,’ Tom said. ‘Just a janitor.’
Todd peered in the direction of Marlborough Street. ‘Jesus, and still they come.’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said. Thinking, And if I’d listened to Linda, we’d be at the end of a line that stretches halfway to Cleveland. That was a good thought, a little vindication was always good, but he wished he’d said no to Todd’s pint. His mouth tasted like kitty litter. Not that he’d ever actually eaten any, but—
Someone a couple of zigzags over – not far from the sleeping bag – asked, ‘Is that a Benz? It looks like a Benz.’
Tom saw a long shape at the head of the entrance drive leading up from Marlborough, its yellow fog-lamps blazing. It wasn’t moving; it just sat there.