The Artful Trade

The Numbers Game An old friend, a bond salesman, called me that morning from the 68th floor of a high-rise a few blocks away. I had been to church trying as I sometimes do, to pry myself away from my coyote instincts, hoping that someday something in me could be culled into something true.  He described the second jet, low and fast. His voice shook. I told him to get down on the street and head east up to Delancey and over whatever bridge he could into the refuge of Brooklyn. They had turned off the main elevators so he found the freight lift, stumbled in his blue suit down to the street then up through Chinatown, over the bridge and off the island. He walked the 9 miles to Queens and the train. Catching his reflection in a mirror, he saw that blue suit was entirely white, his face chalky, covered with a mist of dry wall and asbestos.  He said he looked like his own ghost. Back then, I often could not sleep. I didn’t count sheep. I'm Irish. I counted heartaches. For years I wa...

Stolen Away When I was a boy I tried to steal forgiveness from the record store in my small town.  It was a single—they called them 45s then. The Hollies. He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother . . . but it wasn’t about the record.  It was about regret.  The owner saw me slip out the door and run away. At ten, I was fast and light and he was slow and heavy and couldn’t catch me. I went back a couple weeks later figuring he would have forgotten such a small thing. He hadn’t. He grabbed me by the arm and called the cops. They came, looked annoyed and then called my father. Together they decided on my punishment. Each day after school I had to sweep Main Street in front of the record store.  But every night the wind would blow and dust would churn. And dirt once more would cover the road way I had tried so hard to clean. Broom in hand, day after day, trying to sweep away my guilt, I slowly began to understand.  Forgiveness cannot be stolen. You have to pay. It always has a...