L.L. Bean guy looked around the room, then walked over and took a stool next to Vera. She did stand out, and I guess he decided there was nothing to lose by trying. The relationship didn’t last long. He only said a few words before he gulped down the rest of his soda and left the bar.
Vera wasn’t at ease. She shifted on her stool and looked around, as though she was waiting for someone. Her eyes fell on me. I wondered if she recognized me from the office. I tipped my glass toward her as a silent toast and went back to concentrating on the paper. One story caught my eye. Something about how many kittens are abandoned in countries around the world, abandoned to wander hopelessly and alone, mewing pathetically in the back alleys of a dying slum. The story was illustrated with a picture of a very sad kitten. I wondered how much KittyLuv had slipped the reporter to get this story into the paper. In the corner of my eye I saw Vera slide off her stool and start in my direction. I turned the page and studiously concentrated on the paper.
“Mind if I join you?” Vera was standing over me.
“Please be my guest.” I looked up and motioned to an empty chair.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked.
“Sounds like a pick-up line to me.”
Vera looked at the paper. “You’re reading the personals?” She said pointing toward the open page. “You’re alone in a bar. You must be looking for company?”
“Just checking for old friends.”
“Well,” Vera looked me in the eye. “I did see you at the office with that cat—makes me feel that I can trust you. I have a proposition for you.”
”I accept.” I smiled.
“No. Not what you think. It’s just that I, I mean, I was wondering if you could walk me home.”
I sat up a bit straighter. “Afraid of the dark?”
“Well, yes. Sort of. I’d feel better if there was someone with me.”
“Where’s home?”
“Just a few blocks from here. You can leave that.” She pointed to the half-finished beer. “I’ll fix you a real drink if we get there.”
It sounded like an offer I couldn’t refuse, even if the “if we get there” was a bit unnerving. I stood, dropped a ten on the table, and followed the lovely motion of Vera’s hips out the door.
The fresh outdoor air was a welcome contrast with the smoky bar. The sun had set, and a clouded sky had hastened the onset of the dark of the evening. Vera started to walk along Lincoln Avenue, by the parking lot. “I really should introduce myself. My name’s Vera.”
“I’m Blue,” I answered. “I mean I’m called Blue. Glad to meet you.”
“It’s down that road over there.” Vera pointed to an intersection ahead. “I’m about a quarter of a mile down there.” She took my arm, letting her breast nudge me in the direction of the road ahead.
I could barely read the sign on the corner, Corncob Road, an old tarred road that wound past a few factories that bordered the rail yards. I knew the road; it curved by the rail yard for about a half-mile to a dead end, a favorite parking spot for teenagers in love. The factories along the side were the dark shapes I could see from my fire escape, old and abandoned. The trains had cut back freight service years ago, and the factories died or moved out of town, where they relied on trucks and highways to carry their freight.
Unused freight cars stood idly about the rail yard. I remember standing by the tracks and watching the boxcars slowly rolling by. I once counted a hundred cars pulled by two tandem steam engines. I was jealous of the history carried in the names on the boxcars: the Erie Lackawanna, Chesapeake and Ohio, Southern Pacific. Perhaps that is why I live in the Arms, on the hill overlooking the tracks. I could watch the trains come and go, leaving for another world and then returning with stories to tell. Now, from my window I watch a locomotive push a few coal cars around, but essentially the freight service is dead, the tracks unused and rusting away. The shiny new electric passenger trains that clicked in and out of South Station live elsewhere.
8
We turned the corner and started down Corncob Road. The asphalt was broken into pieces, rain had left deep ruts, and the last street light was on the corner we’d left behind. The silhouettes of abandoned factories loomed ahead. I couldn’t see anything that resembled a house, and I was skeptical that anyone actually lived on Corncob Road.
Vera anticipated my question. “I know. It doesn’t look like anyone could live here. But when it’s late, sometimes I don’t want to go all the way to the city so I stay in an old factory.”
“Is that the Bishop Pipe Factory?” I remembered the name.
“Yes. My father owned it. He was an old-time factory guy. Worked his way up until he eventually owned the place, but it’s deserted now. We’re almost there—it’s just around the bend.”
We walked on, without talking. I began thinking of the scene I’d somehow let myself be caught in. Perhaps this was an elaborate ruse. I would walk along the deserted road. A car would pass by slowly, and stop a few yards ahead. The doors would open and bright lights shine in my eyes. The back seat of a long Cadillac beckoned. It was pitch black inside. “Get in!” a deep voice ordered. I got in. A woman snuggled in beside me. She didn’t appear to wearing much. We drove until we reached an abandoned warehouse. The man’s voice gave the orders. “This is the place, get him out.” I smelled perfume and heard a woman’s speak. “He looks okay. Are the girls ready?” I was pushed toward the door of the warehouse. Bright spotlights blinded me. “Did you check the size of his dick?” she asked. Deep voice answered, “I’m told it’s good—should look okay on film. Get the cameras ready. Quiet on the set. Action . . .” I was wondering what they’d call the film when Vera interrupted my starring role.
“Home is where the sewer pipes are. We’re here.” She pointed to a large open gate. We stood before an imposing hulk, a factory built of glacial stones. Pipes were piled in front, some stacked neatly, most just thrown around. Rusted, piled, scattered, broken pipes. Massive sewer pipes three feet in diameter, water lines twenty feet long, smaller one-inch gas lines and electrical conduit. The only working machine in the lot was a compact, two-door, white Ford Focus parked in front. We stood inside the gate gazing at the impressive pipe sculptures and the huge shadow of the stone structure overlooking them.
“Wow!” was all I could come up with. “Why did it close?”
“Technology changed, demand collapsed. Dad went broke, and so did his heart. I think it killed him.”
“It’s yours now?” I asked.
“Yes. I have a loft on the second floor. Come on.” We followed a path through the pipes to a side door. Vera took a ring of keys from her bag and opened the padlock. She slid the bolt aside and pushed the door. It opened reluctantly with a deep groan. We were facing a large cavernous space. She switched on a single overhead bulb. The abandoned factory space stretched out before us. The dim light didn’t reach the back walls. A graveyard of iron dinosaurs loomed before us in a ghostly glow. A series of machines formed a line along the center of the space, disappearing into the darkness at the far end. Pipes lay on the assembly line that stretched away from us, as if the operation were shut down with no notice given. Wide leather belts criss-crossed the ceiling and ran over pulleys to descend vertically to bring power to the devices below. A soot-covered furnace rose to the ceiling. It used to blaze with a fearsome heat and exhume molten metal, but today it stood cold and still. A giant press stood to one side, its threatening jaws permanently rusted open. Parallel with the central row of machines was a thirty-foot long lathe that cradled a pipe nearly a foot in diameter. Benches against the wall were littered with bits of metal, hammers, files, and wrenches. The scraps of metal that were scattered about the floor were covered with a thick coal dust. A single work glove lay, palm up, at my feet. The silent motionless machines