Monday Night Man Read Free Page B

the track with a phone number on it.
    â€œWhat else did you find?”
    Rupp tossed the paper into the back seat. “Fuck all.” He picked up the Racing Form .
    â€œGimme the paper.”
    Boyle passed him the Racing Form .
    â€œThe newspaper.”
    â€œTold you. Nothing there.”
    â€œJust let me look.”
    â€œI’m doing the crossword.”
    â€œI’ll give it back.” Horst spoke with exaggerated calm. Rupp was hiding something. Horst smelled it. He took the paper and went inside. It took a while, but he found it: long weekend every week! Wanted: Experienced gardener for indoor plant maintenance throughout city. Four days per week. Good wage, great benefits. Reliable car a must.
    Horst looked around at his plants. Rupp knew that of the hundred-some jobs Horst had held, a dozen had been in gardening and nurseries. “The motherfucker. So that’s his game. I let him live in my car and use my bathroom, and this is what the guy pulls!” Horst swung open the door intending to throw him out. Rupp, however, was gone. He’d headed for the track.
    Horst wrote out a résumé and cover letter. He’d kill two birds with one stone: turf Rupp, get a job, plus have his car back on the road again — three birds. Or two birds and one weasel.
    Horst felt sure he had the job in the bag. So he went ahead and told Rupp that was it, he needed the car. Rupp surprised him with his calm.
    â€œNo problem. Leo said I could store my stuff in the basement here.”
    Horst was actually disappointed there wasn’t more drama. Not a word about the job, and no mention of how Rupp had tried hiding the job so Horst wouldn’t get it and pull the car out from under him.
    A week later two things happened. The first was that Horst got turned down for the job. He kept this secret. The second was that Rupp rear-ended a bus. A wrecker left the smashed-in remains of his Bug beside the Pacer. Rupp was in tears.
    â€œHorst! Lemme buy your car. Lemme rent it! I’ll give you two hundred a month, three hundred! I’ll live in the Bug and use yours for work. How about it?”
    Horst’s voice was soaked in sympathy. “But Rupp,” Horst lied, “I’m working now. I need my car.”
    Rupp’s eyes went dead as a clubbed cod. Short, flabby, narrow-shouldered, he slumped to the steps and was having trouble breathing. “Horst, what about that job I showed you? Telephone sales. Maybe I could do that — from your place! You’ll be out all day!” The hopefulness in Rupp’s voice was embarrassing.
    Horst didn’t know what to do. But whatever it was, he wasn’t telling Rupp the truth. Not yet anyway. “I don’t know …”
    â€œI won’t use the toilet or anything! I promise. I’ll even clean the place up!”
    Horst drew a deep breath and gazed up the alley. “Let me think about it.”
    The next day, Sunday, it rained. The world had returned to normal. It might be spring according to the calendar, but in Vancouver that meant nothing. The clouds slid in low and dense and heavy as slabs of clay, and it poured. It was dark and cold and November all over again. Horst felt a kind of relief. The relief of one born in Vancouver, whose earliest memories were of rain. Rain drumming, rain hissing, and rain drizzling. Rain from October to April. It calmed him. It made him feel at home. Horst wandered his place with a coffee, picking at his plants. He liked rainy mornings, especially Sunday mornings when he could hear the church bells up the street.
    He looked out the window and watched Rupp sitting in the smashed-in Bug. The rain battered the metal roof, blurred the windows, and puddled around the wheels. Jesus, thought Horst. What a sight. Fifty years old and living in a car in an alley. Watching Rupp sitting out there like a toad in a hole, Horst decided: Okay. Tomorrow I’ll tell him he can use my car. Nine to five.