The Spiked Heel

He had awakened again with the memory of the factory sharp in his mind. For the hundredth time, he went over the hosing, and then tried to understand the attitude of the workers; and for the hundredth time he was left with a vague sense of uneasiness and despair. He tried to tell himself that he was, after all, not responsible for the attitude of anyone in the factory. He had a fairly important job, and he did that job better — probably — than anyone else in the factory could have done it, but he did not kid himself into thinking he was indispensable. He was simply a cog in a vast machine — perhaps a unique cog in that he recognized his own cogginess and at the same time was endowed with a sense of responsibility toward the rest of the machine — but nonetheless a cog. So why did he feel upset about the way things were going? He could not answer the question.

It started raining at noon. It was a cold dreary rain accompanied by a sharp wind that flung enraged needles of icy water against the windowpanes. He listened to the rain, and the rain increased his gloominess, seemed to entrap him within the four walls of his apartment and the gray walls of his thoughts. He tried to read but soon put the book aside. He paced the apartment for a while, asking himself, What the hell is wrong with me, why doesn’t it stop raining? and then he threw himself onto his bed, seeking the solace of sleep, annoyed when sleep would not come. He got up finally and went out for a newspaper, but all the papers at his local stand were soaked through. He bought a copy of The Saturday Evening Post instead, but when he got back to his apartment he no longer felt like reading it. He looked at the Norman Rockwell cover, and then he thumbed through the magazine looking at all the illustrations and the cartoons, and then put it aside, convinced that eight o’clock was at least four million years away.

He began looking forward to his date with Cara. In his mind, he wove a sort of dream fantasy around the date. Seeing her would set the rest of the day right, he told himself. They would have one hell of a good time, and all the rain and all the doubt would be washed away. He began to wage a silent battle with his wrist watch, playing tricks with time. The next time I look, ten minutes will have passed. I’ll count to three hundred slowly, and five minutes will have passed. It will now be four o’clock. It will now be five twenty-seven.

At a quarter to six, he went down for supper. He was not very hungry, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he would be drinking later on, and not wanting to fall flat on his face. The pork chops were greasy, and the french fries were soggy and tasteless. Even the coffee tasted like muddy rainwater. He went back to his apartment, convinced now that nothing would go right until he was with Cara.

He dressed carefully, putting on a white shirt and a blue suit. He tied a Windsor knot and then buttoned down his collar. He examined himself in the mirror and was somewhat pleased with the result, even though he’d nicked his chin while shaving. He remembered then that he’d forgotten to polish his black shoes, and he set to the task disgustedly, taking off his jacket and getting a smear of polish on the sleeve of his shirt. He debated changing the shirt, convinced himself it would not show under the jacket, and then went to wash the black goo from his hands. He had always enjoyed polishing shoes. Tonight, he had not.

He left the apartment at seven-fifteen and drove through a blinding rain uptown to the Bronx. All I need is a flat, he thought, and then he looked skyward quickly and said aloud, “I didn’t mean that, Boss.” He could not find a parking space on the Grand Concourse. He almost collided with a bus while he was making a U-turn, but he finally found a narrow space near the courthouse.