The Awl Factory
.
This time it’s a mother sitting on a park bench in the spring sunshine. Always got my satchel with me so might as well make use of it. I sidle up to the young lady, all smiles. I’m washed, groomed, kempt. Attire might be on the rumpled side, but nobody would guess it’s all secondhand.
Afternoon, miss, I say.
She smiles back.
Would your boy like a piece of candy?
The woman studies her son’s pleading face. I guess it’s alright, she says.
I dig in my bag without opening the flap. Safety precaution. I pass the kid a piece of wrapped hard candy. Get them in Chinatown. Straight from Hong Kong.
He doesn’t like butterscotch, she says.
Who does? I say.
The boy unwraps the candy and pops it into his mouth. It takes a minute. In the meantime, I gesture at my bag and say:
Know what this is?
Worry flutters across her face like a moth. She takes a quick glance down at her son, who’s wandering in circles and really sucking on that candy. It’s cherry-flavored—at first, anyway.
I don’t know, she says. A courier bag? Like for a mailman?
You’re in the ballpark, I say.
She probably expects the boring worst, war stories about ZIP codes and mail sorting and near misses with Doberman Pincers.
This here is The Awl Factory, I say.
The what factory?
I unbuckle one strap, then the other, snickering. It’s not so much what the bag is as what it holds.
By now, the kid’s facial contortions tell me he’s getting to the good part. Cherry gives way to dill pickle, then malt vinegar.
Why? she asks, humoring me. What’s inside?
I snicker again. Take a look for yourself.
The lady leans forward and peers into the void. I don’t see anything, she says.
Look again.
She takes a suspicious glance. There’s nothing in there, she says. It’s completely empty.
Then it hits her: a miasma of sulfur and sweaty socks, mildew and burning plastic. She winces and gasps and hacks. Omigawd, she splutters.
What do you think? I say.
The woman looks pale to fainting. Come here, she tells her kid. Now.
When she tries to stand, she almost buckles to the ground. She fights off the first wave of nausea, spitting and moaning, but soon doubles over and pukes in the grass.
Her boy must hit the candy’s liquid center—mayonnaise!—because he starts wailing. Yellow candy spit dribbles down his chin.
The lady wretches again. No wonder. The Awl Factory is still open for business. I give her a moment to relish the eye-watering, nose-burning stench, then close the flap and secure the buckles. She staggers to her boy, who’s still wailing like some cry-baby banshee. They both look pale green in the brilliant spring sunshine.
You’re a sick sonuvabitch, she says.
Pleasure, or its sad substitute, tingles through me from my face to my feet. No need to cast aspersions, I say. Between us, who’s using blue language in front of her kid?
The lady digs out her phone and presses some buttons. I’m calling the police.
I do a little victory dance, then make myself scarce.
***
As I cut through the old neighborhood, head on a swivel, I marvel that I haven’t always led this carefree prankster’s life. Not so long ago—how many years now?—I was just like all the other residents of these huge, high-end homes. Lucrative career in finance. Beautiful wife, cute little kids, vacations on private jets to Europe and the Pacific islands and the Far East. At one point, I even went on an African safari. Can you imagine? By now, it all seems like another life, perhaps somebody else’s.
I scamper over to 24th and cut south. Couple-three blocks later, I head east. I can see the trolley car in the near distance, so I stride toward the station. Right then, a police car rounds the corner. The driver slows and eases toward the sidewalk. I ignore him, plunking my change to purchase a trolley ticket. Next thing I know, he’s crowding my personal space.
Excuse me, sir? I need to speak to you.
What’s that? I say, pretending not to hear.
I said, he says with more volume, I’d like to ask you some questions.
Is that what you said?
He leads me across the sidewalk. We stand outside an ear, nose, and throat specialist’s office.
Where are you coming from?
It’s a beautiful day, wouldn’t you say?
He flips through his little notebook, studying chicken scrawl. Did you happen to be in the vicinity of Grommit Park?
Come again?
He gives me the cross streets.
Doesn’t ring a bell.
The officer scoffs. I had a report that an individual with white hair, white beard, khakis and a blue polo carrying a leather satchel—sound familiar?—assaulted a woman and her son in the park not half an hour ago.
There must be dozens of us in this area who fit my description. We’re not as young as we used to be.
The trolley car clatters to a stop. Passengers trickle out. A few climb aboard, but I make no move to join their ranks, though it’s obvious that’s why I’m standing here. The driver gives us an impassive glance, then rings his bell and pulls away.
Uh-huh, says the cop. Are you lost?
Just out for a stroll.
And you didn’t try to poison a little kid and incapacitate his mother?
I chuckle. Do I look like some common criminal to you?
He gives me a suspicious once over. To be honest, not really. But I’m just doing my job.
Isn’t that what we’re all doing?
The policeman gives me a skeptical look. What’s your occupation, Mr.—?
A bus growls down 23rd. I puzzle about what to tell him. In the end, it doesn’t matter since I’m not about to flash my fake ID.
Please, I say, Rich. Business tycoon currently enjoying the splendors of retirement.
Okay, Mr. Rich. Now we’re getting somewhere. The officer scribbles in his tiny notebook. You got any ID?
I nod, then make a show of feeling around for my wallet, first one back pocket, then the other, followed by both front pockets. I just remembered, I say.
He stops writing and gives me a puzzled look.
My billfold’s inside my satchel.
You don’t have any weapons in there, do you? Guns, knives, blunt instruments?
Not to my knowledge.
Alright, he says, flicking his wrist. But slowly, got it?
Another streetcar arrives, disgorges passengers, and clatters away. Blue jays flit from branch to branch. A crow hops along after a piece of tinfoil buffeted by the breeze. I unfasten one buckle, followed by the other. The officer hawk-eyes me, hand on the butt of his pistol.
My apologies, I say, flexing my hands. Arthritis. You want my advice? Don’t get old.
He grunts.
Now a bumblebee buzzes over my shoulder and heads straight for the policeman.
Oh, hell, no, he yells, swatting as if it’s a swarm of angry hornets.
But it buzzes past his right ear, then boomerangs back around and bumbles near his left cheek.
Come on now. I got an allergy.
I watch him swat and spin and flail, a spastic shadow boxer.
Turns out, I left my wallet at home, I say.
Help me, would you?
But here’s my calling card, I say, crowding in and opening my satchel wide.
The officer covers his face with his sleeve, but it’s too late. He buckles to the sidewalk, then slumps over in a heap. The bee buzzes away. Onlookers gasp and hack and create a safe buffer between us.
The trolley stops two blocks away. People point and dig their phones out. A bus slows, but the driver’s too savvy to make her regular stop.
I spot a twenty-something renting an electric scooter and hustle her direction. Excuse me, miss, I say before she climbs on. Then I give her a blast from my satchel that knocks her out cold. Goes down head-first into a bed of trillium.
I hop onto the scooter and disappear into traffic.
***
When it comes to the satchel, I’m at a loss. I was just living my life, raking in money hand-over-fist. I sported custom-tailored suits and luxury watches and handmade loafers. All part of the job. Same for the cars. We might not have needed new Beemers every couple years, but they were necessary to project the right image. Made my wife Linda happy, too.
Now it’s possible the yacht, a custom-built Jeanneau 64, was an extravagance. Named her Sweet Smell of Success. I didn’t even know how to sail. But we moored her at the marina and held cocktail parties there once in a while. I hired a crew when I really wanted to impress clients. The yacht doubled as a love nest for Anna, this young model I’d fallen for, and me when I couldn’t bear to go home.
I’d never carried a satchel. Then one morning, a courier showed up out of the blue with a special delivery. No return address. Inside, I found an exquisite, handcrafted leather shoulder bag, The Awl Factory stamped in tasteful cursive onto the flap. I had no idea what that might mean. The bag had cost someone a small fortune.
Back then, the satchel smelled of nothing but rich, high-end leather, and I used it every day. Clients complemented me on it, asking me where I’d had it made. Colleagues expressed careful befuddlement. Linda told me I looked silly and pretentious, like a literature grad student or junior attorney. It was true that, despite the satchel’s hand-tooled perfection, it didn’t exactly go with my tailored style, but I liked to think it gave me an eccentric air.
***
After ditching the electric scooter, I scuttle three blocks south to the library and climb up to the second-floor reading room. They provide print newspapers on those long sticks, so I grab a local and a national and settle in at an empty table. The trick is to blend in. I need to be mistaken for another down-and-out gray-hair whiling away the afternoon. Shouldn’t be difficult. Men not unlike myself, rumpled and long in the tooth, pepper the room. I don the reading glasses somebody left behind, then lose myself in yesterday’s news.
I’m halfway through the national paper when a librarian leads a pair of uniformed policemen to the top of the stairs. My heart catches in my throat. I take a slow, deep breath, followed by another. There are plenty of ne’er-do-wells lurking among the stacks, so the cops might not be here for me. Of course, there’s always that possibility.
When the officers follow the librarian to the other end of the floor, I remove my borrowed spectacles and rub my eyes. Then I fold the newspapers on their sticks and return them to their slots along the wall. Rather than scurry down the stairs and beeline for the exit, I duck into the men’s room and lock myself in a stall. The air reeks of bleach and abrasive cleaners, but I’ve smelled worse. I dawdle, breathing into my handkerchief. All’s quiet. I wash my hands, then totter toward the elevator, forcing myself not to look for the policemen. I ride down to the first floor, then make my way outside.
***
Although I took The Awl Factory on usual nights out with Linda, she refused to let me bring it to the gala fundraiser for one of her charitable causes. I was wearing a tux. It would look ridiculous.
We stepped out of the limousine and approached the concierge. He found us on his list. Welcome, Mr. Oliver, he said, reaching beneath the desk. This arrived for you by courier.
I took the plastic delivery bag he held out. Inside: the satchel.
I swear, Richard. This is too much.
Don’t blame me.
Linda faked a smile, waving at her do-gooder friends. Then who, pray tell, sent it to you?
I chuckled. That’s just the thing. I have no idea.
I asked the concierge to hold it for me.
I’m sorry, sir, he said. The courier gave specific instructions.
Who delivered it?
Didn’t leave a name, I’m afraid.
Uniform?
Black leather.
You must’ve seen his face?
He wore a motorcycle helmet with a mirrored visor.
I traipsed over to coat check, gave the girl my satchel, and took my ticket.
We weren’t halfway through dinner when the satchel was returned to me. No one brought it, not that I noticed. The Awl Factory simply sat next to my chair, the shoulder strap looped around my knee. Linda scowled when she finally noticed. I didn’t know what to think. I concocted some excuse about feeling queasy, then fled to the marina and spent the night with Anna on Sweet Smell.
***
Not two blocks away, I find a thrift store and ease through the door. Seems like a good idea to get off the street. I could use a new look, too. I search the racks and find bellbottoms and tight graphic t-shirts, parachute pants and oversized jeans, pleated khakis and denim shirts. A young woman with a nose ring ignores me. A guy pushing fifty avoids eye contact. Employees flit from one end of the store to the other, arranging new arrivals and blathering nonstop. I love your satchel, says one as she flutters through the men’s section. That’s quality craftsmanship. Can I make you an offer?
I give my bag a couple pats. Not today, thanks.
Truth is, there was a time, not long after the stink began, when I tried everything to get rid of it. I ditched it in restaurants and pitched it into dumpsters. I even set it alight in the backyard firepit and flung it overboard from the deck of Sweet Smell. Nothing worked. The harder I tried to get rid of it, the more quickly it came back to me.
As I move from one rack to the next, I keep a close eye on the door. Hipsters come and go. The occasional down-and-outer wanders past the windows, wailing. Yet I don’t spot a single law-enforcement officer.
I consider going for a chino-henley-denim jacket look. Ultimately, though, I settle on a classic two-piece suit, charcoal gray, with a blue button-up shirt and black Chelsea boots. Once everything’s tucked in and adjusted, I wear it up to the counter. I’ve folded my old clothes and stacked them in a neat pile.
I’d like to donate these, I say.
Doubt I can sell them, says the clerk without so much as a glance. Now she sizes up my outfit. Looking sharp, she says.
I don some mirrored aviator sunglasses I lift from the rack. And the shades, I say.
She tallies it all up. I could lift one corner of my satchel flap and take it all free-gratis, but I’m no thief. Anyway, the whole outfit only costs fifty bucks. In my heyday, I might’ve spent ten grand just on the jacket. I unfold my wallet and pull out three grubby twenties. The girl tenders my change, eyeing my satchel.
If you ever wanna sell that bag, you know where to find us.
Thanks, I say. I’ll keep that in mind.
***
There’s a reason I know my way around a thrift store. They’ve been my lifeline since my world imploded. Linda caught me with Anna on the Sweet Smell, and that was that. I kept the house, but it wasn’t the same. Everything was too quiet and cavernous. After I got rid of it, I lived on the yacht. I sold off most of my wine collection and plowed through the remaining bottles on wet winter nights. At least my consulting business was still going gangbusters. Then one day, the market crashed. The economy cratered. My run of good fortune was well and truly over. Next thing I knew, the yacht had to go. After that, I moved from one residential hotel to the next, though I stuck around longest at the St. Francis. It was downtown, not far from the park and the library, and full of broken men like me.
***
The streetcar clangs its bell as I step out into the bright afternoon. I almost feel like my old self again, dapper and confident. Only a better version, without all the greed and egotism and kill-or-be-killed mentality. I don’t feel clever or cunning for evading the police. If anything, I feel sorry for them and remorse for all the pain I’ve caused—to Linda and the kids, to Anna, to any number of innocent passers-by. Mostly, though, I’m grateful for the day and my life and the kindness of strangers. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea what’s come over me, but something’s definitely different.
I stroll across the street to Abstract Aroma and take my place in line. While I wait, I notice several appreciative glances from other customers. One woman even catches my eye and smiles.
I step to the counter and place my order. A police officer ambles up the block. A place with windows for walls might not have been the best choice. Although it’s the last thing I want, I may need to reopen The Awl Factory, unleashing a hideous stench that will send laptop poets and coffee klatchers running. I’ll slip out the backdoor. Yet by the time I’ve paid and collected my mug of dark roast, the cops are gone.
I find a table at the back with a view onto the park. After placing my mug on the table, I ease into the chair, setting my satchel on the floor between my leg and the wall. The place buzzes with conversation. Jazz pours through hidden speakers. Tiny spoons clatter against saucers.
My head empties of everything: ignominious past, shameful present, uncertain future. I feel this sense of peace wash over me. Everything seems exactly how it was always supposed to be. Doesn’t make much sense, considering the course my life has taken, but I don’t analyze it. A cool breeze wafts in through the open windows. I sip my dark roast and listen to the music.
Not five minutes after I sit down, a woman approaches my table. Richard? she says.
I glance up at her. Blonde, stylish, pushing forty.
I can’t believe it, she says. It’s so good to see you. How long has it been?
It’s the woman who smiled at me.
A laugh wells in her throat, but she swallows it. I spotted you immediately. You reminded me of someone I used to know. Then I realized it was you.
We sustain eye contact for a long moment.
May I? she asks, then slides into the chair across the table.
Actually, I—
What are you doing here? she says. What happened to you?
I chew on her questions for a moment. I’m very flattered, I say, but—
Don’t you recognize me?
I study her face, skin drawn tight around her eyes and cheekbones, lips puffy with treatment.
It’s Anna, she says.
I fiddle with my cup and saucer. Anna?
Quit toying with me, Richard. Anna Puzza. Remember?
I’m not who you—
That’s enough, Richard. I know it’s you. Older, yes, less hale perhaps, but you all the same.
I stammer for a moment.
When you disappeared all those years ago, I didn’t know what had happened. I thought you might be dead.
I’m sorry, I say, standing, buttoning my jacket and shrugging on my satchel.
Anna blocks my path. You have that same beautiful bag, too. Still looks brand new.
I unfasten one buckle, then another. What choice do I have? But when I pull back the flap and stretch open the leather, Anna doesn’t blanche and pass out. Customers don’t turn green and vomit milk foam or fall out of their chairs unconscious. Nobody runs screaming for the exit.
Anna’s eyes light up. She takes a deep breath, then another. You smell amazing, Richard. I always liked your scent, but that’s something else.
I let the satchel hang at my side, flap wide open.
She sniffs and sniffs some more. It’s like evergreens at the coast after a rain shower, only cooler somehow. Richer. Deeper. I’ve never smelled anything like it.
What happened to the stench of rotten eggs, moldy cheese, and sweaty socks?
Anna mulls for a moment. We should bottle it, she says.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
Remember back when we were together, I was doing some modeling for Laurent Laurent? Lucky for me I’m more than a pretty face. You can’t stay twenty forever.
Tempus fugit.
These days, I run the fragrance innovation lab.
That’s something.
And we’re going to bottle your scent.
Well, I mutter.
Good thing you ran into me, right?
Anna takes my arm. I smile down at her. I can’t see how this is a good idea, even if it feels right. We stroll across the café, spring sunlight slanting through the windows. Before we round the counter, two beat cops in uniforms and utility belts strut through the door. I hesitate when I see them, stopping at the water station. I fill a cup and guzzle it, then wipe my mouth with a paper napkin.
You okay? asks Anna.
I nod.
Great, she says. Ready?
She takes my arm, and we stroll past the baristas and patrons and policemen ordering skinny cappuccinos and pear scones, out the door and down the block, into the afternoon’s fragrant promise.
J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times. He directs the Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies program at Oregon State University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.
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