PANDORA

The two middle-aged ladies are having a cocktail at a busy Saturday nite bar. They chat gaily with friends who drop by just to say ‘hello.’ For those who don’t know it, Lisa and Fran , I can assure you are not floozies, not looking to meet men. Both have healthy husbands, teen children and what seems like near perfect marriages. It’s 10:30. They call for the tab. Each hands the bartender a charge card. ‘Split it in half.’ They toodle oo a few friends and go home.

On the back of the bar stool is Fran’s light green cashmere sweater. Somebody is going to steal it. I casually walk over, take it with me. I mean to give it to her the next day. But don’t. I keep it, fold it neatly and put it under my old dress shirts, the ones I should give away some day.

In the morning I go to my garage, check to be sure my tires are inflated ok and open the big wooden crate that’s against the side wall.It doesn’t block my car door at all. There’s plenty of room for both of us. A slightly stale, but wonderful , odor comes out like a snake from a Hindus woven basket. On top is a baby’s blanket. It’s a bit shabby but still smells of talcum powder. I caress it and think of the nanny who didn’t notice the baby drop the blanket on the grass.

The worn high top sneaker makes me laugh. It not only smells of sweat, I can still see the runner bending to pick up his other shoe and poof it was gone. As he hopped around looking for it I told him I saw a bull dog slobbering on it and then walking away with it in his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you get it back for me?’ ‘I don’t like dogs and they don’t like me. That’s why.’ ‘What did he do with it?’ ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ I left him hobbling to his car.

There is little on my agenda for today, or most days, since I lost my job at Home Depot. A new house is under construction close to mine and I have applied for work as a carpenter’s helper. But today ‘a hunting I will go.’

A young lady I have never noticed before zooms past me on a skate board. She’s pretty. Smart too. Wearing an electric blue helmet with lightning over the ears, knee and arm pads, she won’t be in danger. I watch her make a quick turn and disappear. No sense chasing her, she’s too fast for me. But then I hear the roller blades again, see her bump into a green park bench, somersault and land in the grass. A velcro knee pad comes loose and falls 10 feet away from my feet. In a flash, I roll it up and walk away fast. This one is a treasure. It has grass stains and a spot of her blood. I turn, see she is fine and is looking everywhere for her knee pad. She ain’t going to find it. Before I stop at a cart for a dog with kraut, mustard and relish I toss the pad in my car trunk. The vendor doesn ’t notice a quarter laying under his cart. I pick it up. In the morning I start on my new job but first I put the pad in my trove and the quarter in my pocket. My new boss walks around checking inventory, tools, doors, window frames. Saws buzz in my ears, give me goose pimples. Mr. Smart Ass won’t let me use the saws yet. They are dangerous and he will have to spend time with me, time he doesn’t have. I wham in rivets around the automatic garage doors, sweep up tons of saw dust, take it to the big dumpster next to a Johnny on the Spot. In the spring it will all be lovely soft green grass. Twilight descends. I am about to drive home when I notice a small wrench sticking out from under an as yet not installed toilet. Purposely I drop my empty lunch pail close to it, bend to tie my shoe and swoosh the wrench into my pail.

At home I look at it carefully and wonder why I took it. There were three new ones in different sizes on my tool peg board. I paid cash for all of them. Price tags were still visible. Not once did I use any. And last month when my washing machine broke down, I couldn’t fix it and had to call a plumber. He borrowed two of my wrenches and only gave one back. I bet anything, he has a treasure trove someplace too.