A Matter of Love in da Bronx by Paul Argentini Read Free Book Online Page A

fully in place, he moved the piece down off the workhorses, slid it to a place closeby the front door, set in the eight pillows, sat down on each of the three on the deck, got up, and carefully inspected all of his work. He checked the line of it, the pattern on every piece, the height of the skirt, snipped several threads, checked the cushions, finally passing his hands upwards before his chest, thumbs up, his explanation to the powers that watch over such things that he cared about his work and had done the very best job he possibly could. Quickly, he pulled a plastic cover over it.
    He set short sawhorses before the cutting table, then bear-hug lifted an easy chair onto them. The chair covered in muslin, just as it came from the factory. It was easy, lucrative work, this type. He rolled out all the yardage of the material to upholster it, inspecting it for the second time for imperfections. He went to work on it, cutting material for the welting. Quota? Finish the damnthing before he left for the night. Damn well better finish it today or pop a circuit breaker with all the thinking, thinking, thinking. Constipated brain. No one to talk to, that was good, that was bad. If he had a friend to whom he could unburden himself, he'd soon lose him--or her--as a friend. Wouldn't the listener think his tale too pathetic? Of course. Who else treats themselves as rotten as Sam Scopia treats Sam Scopia? It's not as if he denied himself nothing, and regretted everything. Switcharound. But, he could take it because there was a great deal of love in his heart he couldn't use otherwise. The Freudians, however, would insist he say, No! That he takes a chance, and sees what happens. If he took a chance, and lost out, would he regret it? He honestly didn't know because he was unable to stand in that position objectively. Sillyass. If you could, you wouldn't be where you are. So, he made himself work. He concentrated so hard on the task before him, no matter how minute, that he generated a power field around him that could be measured by a galvanometer. There were times when Sol, mysteriously to Sam, would approach him, put a hand to his shoulder to admonish him, "Sam! Relax! Not is life or death! S'only piece furniture!" But that was the intensity he needed to blot out past, present and future; he hated what he knew of himself; disliked even more what he was not doing for himself; and developed violentheadaches at his inability to change his future. It gave rise to a negative wish, "If I was only an imbecile, how little it would all matter." The peaceful, beautiful world of the mentally handicapped. If you really meant that, Mr. Smartass, go sniff some hot carbon tetrachloride, that'll fry what brain you have working, if it doesn't outright kill you. He gave less and less space to such thoughts as they became more and more inviting. It was too ironical to switch places, and become a burden to them, his parents. The material was a blue-on-blue damask with a comfortable, important feel. To be sure it remained unsoiled he'd wash his hands again. While he was in there... From a box by the supplies, he retrieved a partly used roll of toilet paper, went to the john, and coaxed the bulb to a glow. He always remarked to himself that this truly uncivilized procedure was needed to remind man of how civilized he wasn't. Holding his trousers out of the way, adjusting lateral digressions as a Superfort from a Norden sight, stomach muscles and diaphragm strained to titillate the urge. It was necessary that this be necessary, a red-faced, breath-gasp and all. Reward came with complete relaxation knowing even the smallest success was the biggest relief. He looked between his legs, and grinned at the ironic thought that the crummypot was known as a sanitary convenience. Even the warm engulfment roseated the cubicle. He was filled with disgust to use the facilities, but was obstinate in his decree that he would never clean it up. Not that Sol didn't approach