The Mayor’s Jackets

The premier parade float had passed and so had the evisceration of twelve million bucks. Conducted and calculated by the state of New York to cause a stir of comradery whose volume of sound was matched only in deepest space, soon found itself the performers only to the remaining rodents loitering the sidewalks scavenging for deconstructed trolley food.

While an assortment of barely conscious, coffee deprived, opinion makers conversed and shuffled their way to the cafes in the high rises like the workmen on their way to the docks, I instead found by the clocktower standing visa-vee and leaning by the door frame with a nonchalant attitude none other than a stout, porky and genuine friend of mine from college: Mark Goldstein.

Goldstein, whom I remembered from our years frequenting the underground bars of the cultural quarters, could fix a windmill on an old Dutch painting and sell a beaten-up television set back to the guys at Sears and make them give him a stereo set in compensation. Goldstein was dressed in leather Doc Martins boots with navy jeans and a shirt the colour of whipped cream tucked into a black leather belt. His hair was slick and combed in one smooth motion from one side of his head to the other.

“Did you read the New York Times article on the Mayor’s jackets?” He asked, flicking a Marlboro cigarette to the ground and shaking my hand.

“I thought the Mayor was depicted smartly dressed in his jackets. We’re talking about the same guy, ain’t we?” I replied clutching his steak like hand and shaking it in a way that subsided any formal introduction.

“It’s not to do with the jackets themselves, it's about the abundance of them.” Mark added.

“Can you be arrested on charges of shopping too much?”

“Sure you can, it’s all about where the money came from or some shit like that,” Goldstein said.

While I had been emerging as a struggling playwright in the cafes of Broadway, Goldstein had taken up an apprenticeship with a clock company on 46th Street. Made quite a nice sum for himself fixing timepieces, though he never did wear one. “Could buy yourself a new suit with that dough,” I said, poking Mark in the shoulder. 

The clock tower on 346 Broadway chimed its time ordering Mark to complete his work. Nothing short of the Hindenburg flying overhead could stop me from up Goldstein's offer to see the top. I looked up: nothing. 

Mark called the old service elevator by using a turn winch on the wall that made a loud clunking and clicking sound.

“Was this elevator here when the building was made?” I asked while the grating came shut and we jolted into play. 

“Before then I believe. They build these buildings around them.” He answered.

It must have been an almighty queer sight I thought. A building site with nothing but an old service elevator inside of it. Or maybe it was a new service elevator at the time: a thought for another day.

The city swooped further from us and flashed like an old camera through the windows. I had managed to time my blinking with the shutter so as to deter from rupturing my cornea on the sunset. 

“Where is it the Mayor lives?” I blurted out over the rumbling of chains and shaking of the wire death box.

“I believe he stays in the Mayor’s office,” Goldstein replied sarcastically. “But specifically, I don’t know.” He adjusted his tool belt and protruded from his pants pocket a packet of Marlboro cigarettes to which he gave a jolt and suspended one from his lips. 

“No smoking.” I sighed, tapping a sign. 

“I’m not smoking, I’m merely holding it for future use in my lips. Not lit yet. I believe the Mayor uses some of these; loopholes, I mean.” The cafe from which I had written my latest catastrophic failure of a story passed by through one of the snapshot windows

We eventually halted at the top, being swept up by at first the smell of old grease then adjusting our eyes to match the dim orange glow inside the faces of New York’s wristwatches. Goldstein retreated to a workbench by the east face and slumped down finally lighting his cigarette. 

He waved out the match and asked: “whatcha think?” through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s not the Ritz. Is that a pickle sandwich?” I asked, pointing at his toolbag. 

“Take it, my hour’s over,” Goldstein replied, throwing the delicatessen delight my way with a few of the pickles falling out. We each eviscerated our meals with great force and with quite quick timing from myself as I was sitting by the largest of the four bells. 

“This whole place is mine for the day.” Goldstein railed like the king of his castle.

“Lucky you. I have to buy a cup of Joe for an hour’s stay in my seat. You get yours paid for you.” I said deconstructing the mysterious meat from the pickle. 

“Not quite, twenty-five cents in a machine downstairs.” The mechanic added getting his tools out and continuing some mysterious ritual.

“Try a dollar twenty-five and a waitress who would throw it in your face if her job didn't depend on it,” I said. “Where’d you get this shlock from?” The sandwich crumpled and seeped into the floorboards below.

“Um, a trolley run by a lady called Dolly. I only remember that because it rhymed.” Mark said taking off parts of metal and placing some back while I ate what little of the suicidal sandwich was still in my hands before he added “Maybe that could be a story for you?” 

“What,” I questioned.

“A trolley seller called Dolly. Could be like A Streetcar Named Desire kind of crap.” 

“How much did you pay for one of Dolly’s sandwiches?” I asked.

“I gave her a ten, she gave back four ones, so six.” 

“Jeez-o. I could have bought one of the mayor’s jackets for that. And have change for a coffee.” 

Producing a clipping of paper from my pants pocket and a pencil from behind my tortoiseshell glasses, I wrote down the events Goldstein prepared for me. It was crap but somewhat credible crap. I scurried over to the north face jerking open a latch by the initials VII while gently swinging open the glass pane and chacking the face against my watch: slow by one minute.

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