This Past Year or So

The Hetman, as I call him, landed himself a pink-collar job. The cadre of the company thought he’d be their hurricane lamp. Maroon the Hetman like that, I thought it’s bound to be like living with a percussion instrument; trying to get a rock to win a trotting race.
If there’s one thing I thought the Hetman could never do, it would be selling cosmetics. That’s why he got that particular job, I’m sure. But when I visit him at work; when I finally discover that the huge granite high rise I’m looking at is the address I’m looking for; when I ride to the 30th floor in a clean elevator next to the operator who doesn’t smoke; I realize that the Hetman might have struck the nail on the head. This time.
“Marketing strategist,” he says, “I told you so.”
I guess I never believed it. Never thought he could be anything more than I was; down to the track with a two-day beard, hangover, and come-up-nothing ticket. When we passed out together or puked on each other and when in the morning he’d say, “I have to pull myself out of this,” I’d always think, “The Hetman’s gone a little mushy.”
And I suddenly feel very dirty. Very smelly. Very scruffy. I know I have boozy eyes and matted greasy hair. I have half a pint in my inner pocket. I look at him and I’m suddenly amazed that the crazy doorman even let me in the building. It must have been the fact that I knew the Hetman’s name.

* * * * *

“Philip Johnson,” this guy says. He sticks out his hand. I shake it, but he’s pretty clean to me. I’m wondering just what he wants. He’s in a pretty casual get-up, but he doesn’t look comfortable in it. Seems like he’s missing a Rolex.
“Ben,” I say. It’s my name.
“Buy you a drink, Ben?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
I figure, honesty never hurts a person.
A bottle later and I have to take him somewhere. We end up at the Jesus Saves. Tell you one thing right now; Jesus watches out for me. Nobody else ever gave me life the way the Lord does.
Philip Johnson takes life right up to the minute. Sometimes gets a bit rattled and starts telling me about his old lost job, his old lost marriage. Says, one time, he used to drive a Jaguar.
I get him on at the canning factory, sweeping up with me after the night shift quits.
When we go to the race track the first time he tells me and some of the boys that he’s descended from Polish cavalry officers. He comes up with the word Hetman, somewhere in the describing of it. I got to thinking I believe it was possible; after all, didn’t a lot of Poles come over to America? What for, I can’t tell you. So we started to calling him the Hetman. Two months later nobody but me could remember his real name. The only reason I got it down so good is because I saw it on all those paychecks from the canning factory.
After a long while the Hetman fit in. One night he decided to go downtown, see the fountains by the symphony. I told him it was probably a bad idea, unless we cleaned ourselves up first. Well, we used the canning factory canteen and washed out our clothes, bathed, and shaved with somebody’s razor. We held our best clothes up to the hand-dryer for what seemed like way too long to make clothes dry. The Hetman looked pretty good all cleaned up; almost like the first time I saw him.
“I hardly recognize you Ben,” he said.
The fountain was real pretty. They had the spotlights on it. The Hetman picked up a what-you-call it; a schedule of the songs they play.
“Oh,” he said, “Look at this, Shumann. They played Dichterliebe.”
They call it a program.
This guy came up, apparently knew the Hetman. Called him ‘Phil’. Asked where he’d been, said nobody’d seen him for months and months. Of course that wasn’t true—I’d seen him almost every day.
The Hetman hemmed and hawed around for a while.
Finally the guy said, “You know you could always come down and work for us, Phil. It’s not the best, but it’s something.”
Later on the Hetman got all quiet.
“What up?” I said.
“I’ve been thinking of Shumann. His music, his piano, is so spontaneous. And yet melancholy. I never could finally understand that music. That is, until now.”
“He’s famous, eh?”
“Oh. Yes. Not too much, though. Certainly not a Mozart, where fame is concerned.”
“What was that guy, Het?”
“He was Nordell. I worked with him a few years back. We were good friends. Like you and me. You know, Ben, I suppose I should really get my feet back under me.”
“Course, Hetman. Everybody’s got to do that now and again.”
“What about you, Ben? What is it that you need to do?”
“Uh, all I need is to believe the Lord is my savior,” I said.
“Of course. But what is it that you want to make with your life? What is it that you want to leave behind?”
“Everything,” I said, “I have nothing I’d want to take with me. I just want to go peaceful, like.”
“But every person wants to do something grand in their life. Every person wants to make some accomplishment, to be a hero. To be like Amelia Earhart, or Stanislaw Kania. What is it that you want to do?”
“Hetman, I just want to get through it without anyone stepping on me too hard, and without stepping on anybody. I don’t need to fly around the world to do that. And I’ve never even heard of that other guy.”
The Hetman looked at me for a long time, but it didn’t make me uneasy. I just looked back at him. Seemed like he was thinking pretty hard on something.
“OK, Ben,” he finally said, “I can accept that.”
Wasn’t too much longer until he quit drinking, mostly, and got a full-time day job at the canning factory.
Then he said, “I got this good job, Ben. Give me a month or two and then come visit me and I’ll put you to work in a clean place.” Then he handed me a card.

* * * * *

The Hetman’s in a tie and coat. He’s got a beard, still, but it’s trimmed nice and neat. He’s got cufflinks, spectacles. He looks real professional.
“Yeah,” I say, “You sure did tell me.”
“It’s not much,” he says, “But it’s a start.”
He doesn’t have a corner. I hear they’re supposed to be good. But he does have a window, and it looks out onto a street, way below, and another building across the street. Could get boring, but it brings in the sun. A bookcase with all sorts of hardback books on it; Marketing Miracles, Marketing Techniques that Work, stuff like that. A paperweight on his desk.
“All this stuff,” I say.
“I told you I had it stored,” he says.
“You did,” I say.
“Well, Ben, I can get you a job, now, here. You finish high school?”
“No.”
“Then I can still get you a job. What do you want to do?”
“I’m happy at the canning factory, uh,” I say.
I don’t know what to call him. ‘Hetman’ was always so funny. Now it seems stupid.
“Look at that,” he says.
He points to the wall behind me. I stand up, turn around. It’s a picture of a bunch of men in uniform, on horses. A painting.
“The Polish cavalry,” he says.
I sit down again.
“You could sweep here,” he says, “Better pay. We have a shower, too. You know, just, uh.”
“So,” I say, “I gonna see you around more?”
“Sure,” he says, “Sure you will. I’ll be around. Just because I’m up here doesn’t mean I change.”
“I know,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, “This is the Hetman you’re talking about.”
I leave. I feel stiff and scraggly walking out of his office. There are real plants, carpet, brass doorknobs. In the hall while I’m waiting for the elevator, some people come walking towards me. I go into the restroom, to hide. I look at myself in the mirror. Lines in my face. So deep they’ll never come out, no matter how much happiness I could ever find sweeping up in a company like this. Those whiskers on my face—black with a few red ones here and there—they belong. I don’t see too good; I might see better with glasses. But I never drive a car. I don’t see movies or TV. So I don’t need glasses. I sweep, and I can still see the floor alright. I don’t really understand why a place like this would even have anything to sweep up.
I go into the hall, get into an elevator.
“Which floor, sir?” the operator says.
“Out, I want to get outside.”
The lobby is spacious, three stories high. Air-conditioned.
Outside the air hits me again, fills me right up. I walk on down the block, stepping on bottle caps, gum, split sidewalks. In three blocks I’m not too far away from my kind of place. The Lord is my Shepherd.

* * * * *

It’s been months. I haven’t seen the Hetman. Not that I expect to. One of the boys ran into him down to 7th street. The Hetman slipped him a fifty dollar bill, and told him to buy rounds for everyone. Here I am with the shot of whiskey in my hand: the Hetman’s gift to me.
Everybody else’s is already gone.
“He done alright for hisself,” someone says.
“Sure did,” someone says.
But this whiskey is what he sent to me. And he didn’t want it himself.
I don’t know why I’m talking about the Hetman so much. I figure I’m the one talking to you, so this is my story, isn’t it? Let’s talk about me. I need your help; what should I do? Leave this whiskey sitting? Or down it like the blood of Christ?