The Shape of a Ring

The Shape of a Ring The train from the island ran in circles, express to midtown at dawn, then back again after the close. The men it carried barely noticed the winter cold or the summer heat as the world spun through each year. In, then back. Day after day, year after year. The older men, graying at the temples, with wedding bands and wingtips, stared out the window as the world rushed by. The younger men, like me, studied the Journal, trying to decipher some simple black and white secret to wealth and the happiness we were sure it could buy. I was a new hire. Still proud I passed the Series 7. Still hungry for the house and the cars, for the wife and the high life. Still sure that success was as inevitable as dawn and happiness was a birthright. I was certain that if you’re smart, keep your eyes open and your head down, it all falls to you. Wealth and happiness and love were all a law of nature. Like gravity. The owner of the brokerage was balding, overweight, fifties. He had gotten lucky on an oil options trade the year OPEC finally decided to tighten the noose. It was dumb luck. But dumb or smart, the money was the same. He bought the place, then spent most of his time getting. Getting rich, getting married, getting fat. Four houses, three wives and more. More was really all he wanted. After running through the usual wish list, he decided to become an entrepreneur, which is Wall Street for sucker. He partnered with some big fish from Alabama that wanted to export greyhound racing to the North. Yankees, they reasoned, liked to gamble as much as any redneck. The track was near the train lines so the Ozone Park crowd could find the way from Belmont in time to drop the house payment or the kids’ college fund. This guy had a ritual for all the new hires. Each was expected to climb into his limo and drive out there listening to him explain the gospel according to deep pockets and dumb luck. “In this life there are the greyhounds and the rabbits, son.” We waited at a light by the tunnel. “You got the chasers, like us. And you got the chased.” He pointed out the window at a crowded rush hour bus stop. “Like them.” The light changed and we rolled down into the tunnel. The track was modest. The ring was dirt and mud. The grandstand, just bleachers. But there was an owner’s box. As we settled in, the greyhounds were being led toward the line. “See those dogs. A thing of beauty,” he said. “Line ‘em up and they run. Why? Because it’s what they were made for.” The bell rang and the dogs leapt away, desperate and furious, prisoners of their own instinct, chasing a metal rabbit around the ring of the track. The owner turned to me. "Greyhounds, they don’t have a choice. They have to chase like they have to breathe. Same with traders. I can feel it, that greyhound heart. That’s why we took a chance on you. I’m betting on you just like I do on them.” He waved at the dogs coming around the final turn. “My God, look at them. Beautiful creatures. The speed, the grace . . .” He searched for the right word. “The hunger.” He turned to me. “But it’s up to you, how far you go. I can’t do it for you.” The dogs came around the turn and the most hopeful among them, the most desperate, took the tape. They were led off. The victor as forlorn as all the others. Even the winner was just the fastest at losing. Those dogs ran eight races a night, six nights a week and not one of them ever caught that metal rabbit. And even if they did, it would never be the thing they were certain it was. He left me at the limo. “This is where you get off,” he said pointing to the tracks. “There’s the train.” He struggled to fit through the door, then through the window called, “Yessir, greyhound heart.” As the limo rolled away I heard the bell for the next race. It sounded just like the bell at the open. --- I rode the train in with a guy from the south shore. Hennessy was 10 years older, 30’s, trapped by advancing years, slowly toppling into middle age. He had just enough paunch that he could still cling to the memory of a younger man. Hennessy already had the 6000 square foot house and the second wife. She was 27, a refugee from Bensonhurst. Like any city girl, she was a true believer in happiness. Unsure how to find it, but certain it lived somewhere beyond the five boroughs. “The first wife was just my anatomy hollering at me,” he said one day, shaking his head. “How could I have missed her broomstick?” So the next time he made sure it was the real goods. A church girl from the old neighborhood. He said he was sure it was love because she made him feel like he did at twenty-one, before the daily compromise began chipping away at his youth. And she was sure it was love because after so many years without, Life finally felt like enough. Though “Enough!” was what the witch said when she walked out. Careful what you wish for. More has a way of becoming less. And enough . . . enough love and time, enough happiness and money, all have a way of evaporating. Crumbling into not enough. They were in the 7th year already, and now he lingered at the desk or the bar. He took the late train home and watched Bloomberg with the sound off as she texted her friends back in Brooklyn. He told me, “I saw her phone once, texting with her mother about how ‘the cost of loving’ had gone up. When I asked her about it, she said, ‘I meant ‘living.’ Hennessy looked at me, like he was looking down the road, past the curve of the track, “What’s the difference?” --- The summer I met that girl, you know the kind I mean—the kind that knows the way through all the dead ends and trapdoors to the bottom of your heart—I had just gotten my first big bonus. Running hard, greyhound heart. She was smart, but not the brittle let-me-show-you-my-IQ- kind. She was quiet smart, but tender, too. She could feel in ways that I had forgotten existed. Love, at first, is a kind of music. Your heart suddenly beats in time. You can hear how it is all supposed to blend, the hunger, the weight, the feel of your bodies moving effortlessly together. Your blood begins to sing in a way. You listen for it. You start to think that you were a deaf man before, stumbling along while the world played some silent symphony that you now can suddenly hear. That separateness that crowds under every thought begins to evaporate. And the alone part of living, that stands in the shadows like a familiar stranger, finally shrugs and limps away. One night we went dancing. Not to those discos in Chelsea. Some nightclub in a hotel in the East 70s. An old black man in a tux was crooning with a band that played like they understood what hope and love demanded. They played like they knew half the couples listening would never make it past the first turn. The one that demanded sacrifice. The one with a price. The band slowed the tempo and suddenly she was in my arms like that was what they were made for. And something in me seemed to open to her, a door I didn’t know I had. Unlocked by her touch. The music singing now about how hard it is being a man and how hard it is being a woman. About how sharp life is, that it cuts you up in ways no heart can foresee. And the only armor left to any of us is to put all we are into someone’s else hands. The music faded and I tried to hold onto the moment an instant longer before it was swept away. I looked into her face and saw she was crying. Quietly, soundlessly crying. Touched by the nearness of each other and the moment already gone, like it was just another minute on its way to just another day and just another year. I decided right there. When you feel something true you have to hang on, hang on for dear life. Or you’ll lie to yourself forever about how it was nothing, just a moment. I felt the true in her and then in me, answering. Some inescapable glory between a man and a woman. Like a crack had been repaired, and a wound I never knew I carried had finally healed for good. --- On the train I asked Hennessy about it all. He listened quietly as he stared out at the small Long Island towns rushing by. “I’m happy for you, kid. I am. Just make sure she’s the real deal. There’re plenty of lemons out there.” Then he laughed. “The Jews will eat you alive. You should go to the Chinese for a ring. I know a guy. He owes me.” In Manhattan, for a ring, its 47th or Canal Street. It’s the Jews or the Chinese. The Jews understand the language of price, like everything has one. Diamonds, time, and love. It’s just up to you to negotiate how much you’re willing to pay for any of them. But the Chinese understand they aren’t just selling jewelry. They’re selling the long curve of hope. They’re selling a kind of ring that love, bent by the years, always follows. Just like the trains. Just like the greyhounds. We rode the trains that summer and stared at trading screens like crystal balls. We had our hits and misses, took credit for fortunes made and blamed bad luck for fortunes lost. We raced around the track chasing our metal rabbits for a few more months. It wasn’t really a surprise when Hennessy told me his wife was 3 months pregnant. “She needs something,” he said. Then looking away, “Maybe I do, too.” He talked about the baby like it was just another Mercedes, certain it would take him some place better. But I could see he was afraid, too, that he was just driving in circles. Still, I liked Hennessy. He was sharp enough to see through the BS, even his own. And listening to him almost made me believe that you could get in, make a fortune, then get out before you started seeing the price of everything and the value of nothing. --- The jeweler, nearly 80, stoop shouldered with a weathered face, moved with the patient grace of a hyena. Mr. Wu did not stalk his customers as much as wait for them to be drawn in. A master haggler, he had long ago stopped negotiating with time and death. Instead, he smoked Chinese tobacco laced with hashish to hold them both at bay. Hennessy was already there whispering to him in the corner. Each studying the other for opportunity and weakness. “Here he is,” Hennessy said. “He’s not a looker, Wu. Live fish. Cash money and the kid’s just like you want ‘em. Loaded and in love.” Wu nodded and smiled and waved Hennessy away. “Do not listen to my friend. He has seen too many rings to believe in love.” Wu touched my elbow and guided me past the tourist case. The yellow gaudy diamonds. The gold plate. The trade ins, the ones that didn’t make it past 2 years. “I want something that will last,” I said. “Yes, yes, of course,” Wu said. “That lasts. You must have something that . . . endures.” Hennessy looked away. “You know the one, Wu.” Wu glanced at the broker like an old actor asked to rush through his lines. “There is one. Very rare.” He reached behind the counter and brought out an elegant white diamond solitaire set high on a gold setting. “Almost two carats, the stone.” I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her hand in 40 years. “It is very costly,” Wu warned. “Not just money. Money is just a number.” He gazed at me, “You must know the cost. Before. Love can take more than you know.” Hennessy turned away. Two Wall Streeters talking by the door laughed quietly and murmured something out of earshot. Wu held the ring up to the light. “A beautiful stone. But see here? At the very bottom?” I stared hard at the gem, then saw the imperfection buried at its base. “A stone is like a heart. There is always some hidden flaw.” Then Wu glanced past the rings out at the rush hour crowd. “It’s hard to see clearly. But you should know. They all have them.” He gently laid the ring in my palm and traced the contour of the gold. "But it’s not the flaw or even the cost that matters.” he said. “It is the shape . . . the shape of a ring that matters. It surrounds a man. It reminds him that nothing lasts. Not doubt or loss or hope. Not trouble or sweetness. Love passes through its many acts. Only the shape remains. The shape of a ring.” Something about what he said made me think of the greyhounds chasing what they would never catch. “I’ll take it,” I said. The number didn’t matter. I gave him the card. Wu bowed and disappeared then returned with the ring box. Hennessy said, “I’ll get a cab. We might make the train.” I started toward the door, then a wave of something like panic swept down my spine. I stepped out onto the street, but hesitated. Wu stood at the door. He bowed again and called out into the wind, “Remember . . . the shape of a ring.” Hennessy was already in the cab. “Grand Central, the Lexington side,” he called to the driver, then turned to me. “You’re not the only one with the goods.” he said, producing a box. He opened it to expose a large diamond set low on a platinum ring. It was tinged pink. Flashy but cheap. “I needed to pick this up . . . for the wife,” he said. We rode along in silence through the avenues chasing the lights up 3rd, sliding between all the other lives hurtling toward evening and darkness. Hennessy pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket and reached up to give it to the driver. “It’s around the corner on 44th. I need to stop. I’ll make it worth your while.” Then turning to me he said, “I’ll be about twenty minutes.” As we came to a stop, he pointed to a walkup off the avenue. “Can you wait? Just hold it and we’ll take the train together. Back home.” Home. The word hung in the air. I glanced at the steerer in front of the brownstone, whispering prices to lonely businessmen headed for the station, then turned and looked hard at Hennessy. “Don’t look at me like that.” “Like how?” “Like I shot your dog. She’s 8 months,” he said. Then gripping the box, he argued, “I love my wife. I do. It’s a one time thing. I just need to get through this last month.” He opened the box and the ring sparkled once in the light, then seemed to dim. “It’s nothing. She’ll never know. Just twenty minutes. A ring is forever.” He held out the box. “Dammit boy, you don’t know. You don’t know yet. But you will. You’re just like me. Here.” He shoved the box into my hand and opened the car door. “Forever cuts both ways,” I said. I watched as he walked quickly up the stairs and disappeared inside. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” the driver said. I looked at the ring and wondered how many others Hennessy’s wife would eventually have. A box full of rings. A marriage full. Then I took out the ring I’d bought and held it up to the light, looking for the flaw that the old Chinese man said is in at the heart of every stone. And I heard him warning about the shape of things we chase after. Warning how all we are can start in one place and end so far from all we ever wanted. That we can become something else, until we no longer even recognize our own dreams. The meter clicked, the traffic slid past, and the city at dusk revolved around us, descending once more toward darkness. And the world seemed suddenly colder, like it had just remembered that summer always gets left behind and we all stagger away again toward winter. When Hennessy finally opened the door and settled in, he seemed relieved. But around his eyes was something else. Maybe the last remnant of shame. It was quiet, though. Like he had silenced it all except around the edges. He took the box and handed me the slip of paper. “You’ll be needing this,” he said. “Maybe not yet. But soon.” He opened the box and looked hard at the ring he’d bought like he was seeing the flaw in it for the first time. Then he snapped it shut. “There’s a lot you still don’t know. I was the same way. You have to go around a thousand times before you understand. It gets heavy, carrying it all. All the circling that you’re caught up in." “Like a ring?” I asked. He stared at me. Then turning toward the window and the darkening sky, he whispered, “The world used to be so full of possibilities. Now it’s just bad choices.” The train ride back to the island was quiet. Hennessy got off first. “You coming?” he asked. “No,” I said. “There’s something I gotta do.” The train doors whisked shut and for just a moment he looked like a shadow on the platform, alone. He seemed suddenly older. Beaten, the way a man can become by his own choices. By the flaw at the heart of him. Then the train rocked to a start and he slid into the darkness. --- The races were finished by the time I arrived at the track. A solitary old man, crippled with age and dragging a leg, was sweeping up ticket stubs. “We’re about closed. Nothing running no more tonight,” he said. On the track a trainer was walking the greyhounds. Once around then back into the cages to wait for the next night’s race. I wasn’t even sure why I was there. The old man’s hands, already trembling, started to shake. Muttering, he set the broom aside and retrieved a pint from his coat pocket. He silently offered it to me. I shook my head. He shrugged and took a swallow. “Keeps the ache down. Got the best of me sometime ago.” Embarrassed he set the bottle aside. “You a gambler?" he asked. “I suppose,” I answered. “That can get in your blood. Trying to pick winners.” Another trainer was walking a new greyhound around the track. The old man waved at them. “It’s the young ones that’ll break your heart. They come in here not much more than pups and do what they was born to do.” “You mean running?” He shook his head. “Chasing. Chasing something can’t get caught.” He began to cough, bent over in pain, then finally righted himself. “I guess they don’t know that. Those dogs all believe they’re fast enough.” I felt for the ring in my pocket and wondered if what I was chasing was just something that can’t get caught. “You gotta believe in something, don’t you?” “Well, mister, there’s believing and there’s getting. Them dogs are just doing what they was meant to. Believing and chasing in circles. But for them it ain’t about the getting. It’s just about the getting through. And the getting through needs believing.” “You talking about dogs or men?” He stepped closer. "Them dogs ain’t so different from us. Every mother’s son I ever knowed was chasing something. Money or love . . . always a step faster and never enough. And then there’s the fastest something of ‘em all. That old metal rabbit, happiness.” He picked up the broom and started sweeping up loser’s bets. On the track the dog pulled at the leash and the trainer yanked hard once and forced his head down to follow the curve. “Don’t pay me no mind mister. I’m just an old drunk talking at hisself.” I cleared my voice, “So what's all this running for then if all it comes to is not getting?” I asked. He turned to face me. “Living’s mostly chasing. All them metal rabbits is just an excuse to do what we was all born for.” He looked hard at me. “You don’t mind me saying, mister. You look like you been doing some chasing your own self.” “I guess I have,” I said. And I thought about chasing the prices up and then down. About chasing money and love and happiness. About the shape of the rings the old Chinese man sold to all comers, like maps of every future that ever was. The trainer had the dog jogging now. Following the curve. Making sure it understood what it chased was forever up around the bend. He stumbled, then losing his footing, let go of the leash as he fell. The greyhound followed the track for a few seconds more, then surprised at its own freedom, turned and galloped off in a straight line toward the woods. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the old man whistled. “Never seen that before.” He paused and reached for the bottle. “So if it’s all a lost cause, old timer, what’s a man with a greyhound heart supposed to do?” I asked. He took another swallow. “No such thing as lost cause. That old chase, there’s a glory to it. The only kind of glory there is. That reaching for something you ain’t never gonna get. And maybe you’ll never catch up to your metal rabbit but you tried, dammit. Cause a man is something that believes. Something that tries.” The old man bowed his head and looked like he was about to pray. “Maybe I’m just an old fool. But I’ll tell you what boy. You find something to love and keep drawing a straight line to it. And when you finally feel your heart begin to race, run like there’s no finish line. That’s what being a man is. Knowing what you’re for and chasing it down no matter if its faster than you’ll ever be.” He looked up, his voice thickening. “Cause when you and that old greyhound heart stop, stop believing, stop chasing, they call that dying. I been doing it for years now.” The old man pushed the broom once then stopped, “Got to lock it up now, son, or they’ll have my ass.” He bent down and picked at the pile of debris at his feet. “Look at that. Train ticket…only good for one way.” He stretched his hand out toward me offering it. “I ain’t going nowhere. Maybe you could use it.” I thought of Wu warning about the shape of the tracks we all follow. Maybe one way was the only kind of ticket that could get me where I needed to be. --- I stood on the platform waiting in the dark as the train lumbered around a bend and howled once. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out two slips of paper. The train slowed, then stopped. The doors opened. The conductor looked at me and said, “Ticket, sir?” I heard Hennessy’s voice, “You’re just like me.” I stared at the address he had given me and shivered as a sudden wind circled around me. It caught the slip of paper. I let the gust carry it from my hand, across the platform, down onto the tracks, where it disappeared. I handed the conductor the stub the old man had given me. He studied it. “This is one way, you know, sir. No coming back on this.” “Yes,” I nodded “One way.” And I thought of the greyhounds chasing the rabbits they would never catch, and of Hennessy, circling unreachable love and wealth and happiness around the curve of Time. And I thought of Wu, surrounded by an orbit of flawed stones and hearts. All of it. All of it in the shape of a ring. I stepped from the dark platform into the light and dialed her number. When I heard her voice I said, “I’m heading straight there. There’s something I want to ask you." WLM