Description: Chapter 1 As he drove, Jim Fergesson rolled down the window of his Pontiac, and, poking his elbow out, leaned to inhale lungfuls of early-morning summer air. He took in the sight of sunlight on stores and pavement as he went up San Pablo Avenue at a slow pace. All fresh. All new, clean. The night machine, the whirring city brush, had come by, gathering up; the broom their taxes went to. At the curb he parked, turned off the motor, sat for a moment lighting a cigar. A few cars appeared and parked around him. Cars moved along the street. Sounds, the first stirrings of people. In the quiet their movements set up metallic echoes from the buildings and concrete. Nice sky, he thought. But won't last. Haze later on. He looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. Stepping from his car he slammed the door and went down the sidewalk. On his left, merchants rolled down their awnings with elaborate arm motions. A Negro swept trash with a pushbroom across the sidewalk into the gutter. Fergesson stepped through the trash with care. The Negro made no comment . . . early-morning sweeping machine. By the entrance of the Metropolitan Oakland Savings and Loan Company a group of secretaries clustered. Coffee cups, high heels, perfume and earrings and pink sweaters, coats tossed over shoulders. Fergesson inhaled the sweet scent of young women. Laughter, giggles, intimate words passed back and forth, excluding him and the street. The office opened and the women tripped inside with a swirl of nylons and coats . . . he glanced appreciatively back. Good for business, girl behind counter to meet people. A woman adds class, refinement. Bookkeeper? No, must be where customers can see her. Keeps the men from sweÅ keeps them kidding and pleasant. "Morning, Jim." From the barbershop. "Morning," Fergesson said, without stopping; he held his arm behind him, fingers casually trailing. Ahead, his garage. Up the cement incline he went, key in hand. He unlocked and with both arms raised the do it disappeared, a clank and whirr of chains. Critically, he surveyed his old-fashioned possession. The neon sign was off. Debris from the night lay scattered in the entranceway. He kicked a pasteboard milk carton out onto the sidewalk. The carton rolled off, caught by the wind. Fergesson put his key away and walked into the garage. Here it began. He squinted and spat out the first stale breath that hung inside the garage. Bending, he clicked on the main power. The dead things creaked back to life. He fixed the side door open, and a little sunlight came in. He advanced on the night-light and destroyed it with a jerk of his hand. He grabbed a pole and dragged back the skylight. The radio, high up, began to hum and then to blare. He threw the fan into wheezing excitement. He snapped on all lights, equipment, display signs. He illuminated the luxurious Goodrich tire poster. He brought color, shape, awareness to the void. Darkness flew; and after the first moment of activity he subsided and rested, and took his seventh day-a cup of coffee. Coffee came from the health food store next door. As he entered, Betty rose to get the Silex from the back. "Morning, Jim. You're in a good mood this morning." "Morning," he said, seating himself at the counter and getting, from his trouser pocket, a dime. Sure I'm in a good mood, he thought. I've got reason to be. He started to tell Betty, but then changed his mind. No, not her. She'll hear anyhow. It was Al he had to tell. Through the window of the health food store he saw cars parking. People passed. Did some-did one-go into the garage? Hard to see. Last night Al had gone home in an old Plymouth, taken from the lot, green, with a banged-up fender. So he would show up today in that, unless he couldn't get it started. His wife could push him, then; they always had a couple of cars home. He would drive directly onto the lot. "Anything else, Jim?" Betty asked, wiping the counter. "No," he said. "I'm looking for Al. I have to go." He sipped. I got my asking price on the garage, he thought. So that's that. That's how real estate transactions are handled; you set a price, and if someone meets it, that's a contract. Ask the broker. No, he won't make a big scene, he thought. Maybe one of those glances, out of the corner of his glasses. And grin while he puffs on his cigarette. And he won't say anything; I'll have to do all the talking. He'll get me to talk more than I want to. "You heard about me," he said when Betty came past him once more. "Selling the garage," he said. "Because of my health." "I didn't know that," she said. "When did that happen?" Her old wrinkled mouth fell open. "You mean your heart? I thought that was under control. You told me that doctor had it under control." "Sure it's under control," he said, "if I didn't kill myself working on those cars, under there flat on my back lifting up an entire transmission. Those things weigh two hundred pounds. You ever try lifting one while lying flat on your back? Lifting it over your head?" She said, "What are you going to do instead?" "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "I'll get a well-earned rest. I certainly deserve that." "I should say so," she said. "But I think-you could have tried that rice diet, couldn't you? Did you ever try that?" "Rice doesn't help what I've got," he said, angry at her, at the crazy health food store with its vegetables and herbs. "That stuff is for neurotic middle-aged women." She wanted to lecture him on diet. But he picked up his cup of coffee, nodded and murmured something, and went on outside, onto the sidewalk, carrying the cup back to the garage. A lot of sympathy from her, he thought. Advice instead; who wants that from nuts? God, he saw the old green Plymouth parked in the lot, beside the other old cars that Al had patched up to sell. By the little house with its banner. An engine, somewhere on the lot, ran loudly, raced. He's back there, he realized. Working. Holding the cup ahead of him he passed on into the gloomy damp garage. Out of the sunlight. His steps made echoing sounds. There stood Al. "I sold the garage," Jim said. "You did?" Al said. He held a crescent wrench. He still had on his cloth jacket. "That's what I want to talk to you about," Jim said. "I was looking for you. I was amazed that the guy finally met my price; I had it way up there, as I probably told you. I think I said I was asking around thirty thousand for it, when we were discussing it a month or so ago. My broker called me at home last night." Opening and closing the wrench with his thumb, Al stared at him. He did not look as if it meant too much to him, but the old man was not fooled. The black brows remained the same. So did the man's mouth. It did not come up, the feeling. Behind the glasses the eyes shone, kept fixed on him. He seemed to be smiling. "You want me to croak under some car?" Jim said. "No," Al said, after a time. He still played with the wrench. "This doesn't affect your lot," Jim said. "You have a lease. I think that runs until April." He knew it ran until April. Five months. "Why the hell wouldn't he renew? He'll probably renew." Al said, "Maybe he wants it." "When he came by," Jim said, "he showed no interest in it." "He's not going to turn the garage into anything else?" "What can you turn a garage into?" But he did not know; he had not wanted to find out because he did not care to think about anyone else running the garage-it did not matter to him what Epstein did with it: burned it down or paved it with gold or made a drive-in out of it. And then he thought, Maybe he will make a drive-in out of it. He can use the lot for parking. So there goes Al's Motor Sales, as soon as the lease expires. But he can drive his cars somewhere else. Any vacant lot will do, anywhere in Oakland. As long as it's on a business street. Later on he sat in his office, at the desk. Through the dusty window sunlight entered, warming and lighting up the office, the one dry spot in the garage, here with the piles of invoices, repair manuals, the calendars with nude girls advertising Test-High Bearings and Sheet Metal of Emeryville, California. He pretended to consult a chart of lubrication points for a Volkswagen. I've got thirty-five thousand dollars, he thought, and I'm spending my time worrying because some guy who leases a lot that's part of this place is maybe going to suffer through no fault of mine. That's what people can do to you, make you feel bad when you ought to be feeling good. That God damn Al, he thought.

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