The Fuck Up by Arthur Nersesian

Author:Arthur Nersesian [Nersesian, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781439184554
Google: kp81NRMix6wC
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2009-11-24T22:42:09+00:00

NINE

As I dashed out of the front door, I figured that I had a thirty-minute run ahead of me. Turning back before the front door swung shut, I raced downstairs to the garage on the ground floor. The Mercedes started right up. I zoomed out and down Court Street zipping through lights and cutting off other cars until I screeched to a stop at Helmsleys front door on President Street. I dashed up his steps and banged on the door. I heard some rustling inside, and then the peephole was filled with an eye, “Can I help you?”

“I’m a friend of Helmsley, please open up.”

The door opened and a decrepit old lady appeared, her face was all droopy and crinkled, “Poor boy, mixing with trash.”

“They killed him?”

“Well, I certainly believe so.”

“How…what happened?”

“A Brody, he done. Right off the bridge. That’s what they say, anyhow.”

“When? Did they find who threw his body off the bridge?”

“I only know it was the Brooklyn Bridge,” she mumbled as she disappeared into Helmsley’s bedroom.

Looking about, I couldn’t believe it. His books were thrown in stacks around the house. I arbitrarily picked up a cloth book yanked from its spine; Das Kapital, one of the earliest editions, in a three-volume set; it had been invaluable. I let it drop back to the floor. I remember him showing me one book that was singed brown. It was printed in Cyrillic. He explained that it had survived the 1812 torching of Moscow. So many of his books that had survived brutal tests of ages and centuries had finally met their end here. When I finally composed myself, I asked, “Did the police see this? Do they know who killed him?”

“Police?” squawked the old lady.

“’Course,” I replied. “They should see this.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “That’s plain crazy talk.”

“What do you mean crazy talk?” And then pointing to the floor I screamed, “Look at what those fucking wops did!”

“Wops!” she replied. “Who are you calling wops? His family’s Polish.”

“What?”

She explained that when the gang of relatives heard of Helmsley’s demise, they came quickly to life. They descended upon his meager belongings. Their beaks tore into his body. As this pinhead standing before me, an old and straggling member of the herd, described the occurrence, I fought an urge to bang her over the head with a shovel. I walked from room to room, staring at the floor.

Greed has no patience, and there are no claims from beyond the grave. Apparently the landlord was eager to repossess Helmsley’s rent-controlled hovel and had generously given entrance to anybody claiming relations to the deceased.

But I had the last laugh, these mindless insects were more attuned to consumption than taste; they thoughtlessly loaded up their shopping bags with shiny trinkets and tinsels. To them books were things to prop up air conditioners and hold open doors. They didn’t know that the closest thing that Brooklyn could ever compare to a privately owned library of Alexandria was what they had been walking on.

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