A Plastic Brick Kind of Life
HEATH WASN’T A LADY’S man and he wasn’t necessarily a man’s man. He was an easy-going man, one that preferred sitting with his feet on the coffee table rather than keeping his elbows off the dinner table. He enjoyed lunches on the couch by the television, sipping coffee at his desk late at night, fishing trips on weekends, and teaching his son, Patrick, to ride his bicycle.
He disliked sleeveless shirts, tomatoes, and raw fish.
Sarah Amber Dawson fell in love with Heath Josef Woods during the summer of 1997. She used to tell her friends that Heath was the most charming man she had ever met, that he gave her daises and took her out for long romantic drives down the coast of Virginia.
She always loved those beautiful flowers and twisting road trips on the ocean’s edge.
Friends of Heath say he was spellbound with Sarah since the moment they locked eyes. While his stories of relentless love swarmed past conversations, they are landlocked on the outskirts of imagination now.
In 2003, Heath accepted a job in Philadelphia. He packed his bags and his wife packed hers. Sarah grinned with a smile at the new city and its opportunities. Heath couldn’t withhold his excitement for the future. At the entryway to their new apartment in Rittenhouse Square, Heath lifted Sarah and carried her into their spacious living room (without hitting her legs or head on the doorframe).
Currently, Sarah makes eggs and bacon for two. She sits in the dining room with her son, Patrick, and they start their day. Patrick’s godfather, Brian, hasn’t heard from Heath in years. Sarah says she doesn’t care anymore.
But deep down, she really does.
Where is Heath? How is Heath?
He’s divorced, but still enjoys his hobby of fishing. To a certain extent, that is.
*
Heath stood knee-deep in trash with one arm in the air and one fist searching the insides of grime, stench, and misery. His eyes (which matched the color of an aged, discarded Sunday newspaper) glared at a half-eaten steak, fixated the flesh.
He hadn’t eaten in days, and in front of him was a solid meal. Saliva hung from his dried lips.
As he surged forward, Heath gripped the steak between his greasy palms. A muffled shout of victory escaped his untrimmed beard. He examined the food. It was premium quality- yet to be infested with flies and at the top of the pile. He laughed to himself, astounded at the luck of finding a prized catch. It reminded him of dinners at the Giovanni Bistro. He’d always order steak with his ex-wife, Sarah. Of course, this included a side of garlic mashed potatoes and perfectly cooked green beans. The steak was quite good then.
He sniffed the meat and devoured it in two bites.
It was quite good now.
Heath leapt over the side of the dumpster with the agility of a drunken teenager. He grabbed his backpack from the asphalt and meandered down the alleyway toward Chestnut. The reflective glass window of a nightclub caught his eye and he paused to part his brown hair- frowning at incoming gray and silver strands. He ruffled several wrinkles from a worn black dress shirt, grimacing slightly at a bright red stain near his left bicep. His appearance dissatisfied him. There wasn’t a thrill anymore, no buzzing sense of adrenaline inside of him. His adventure had become a mocking excuse for life. He breathed in and his skinny, tattered frame released a long sigh.
In the lobby of their apartment complex Sarah solemnly crossed her arms. “What, so you’re just throwing away your life because of this? You’re putting this all on me?”
“It’s what you want, isn’t it? Everything to yourself?”
“Of course not, Heath. We weren’t happy. That’s why this is happening. It wasn’t right, it had to end. But there’s no reason for you to disappear-” She paused to glance at a torn, yellow notepad paper. “No, I can’t accept that, don’t even.”
“If you don’t, someone will. Take if for Patrick- and if you don’t want it, put all the money into a charity.” Heath held out the parchment. A series of numbers were written on it. He faked a smile. “I’ll be alright. I need time to think. I can’t be here right now.”
Sarah took it from his fingers. “Fine.”
Heath straightened his backpack and left the marbled entryway.
A tap on Heath’s shoulder forced him to turn around. Another man, most likely homeless as well, was staring into his eyes. A needle was in his hand, empty, but still dripping poison. He was fat, gruesomely so, and wore a red-checkered plaid flannel. Heath couldn’t tell if the red was from wine or the dye within the fabric. He looked down, and noticed that the man’s right hand was extended.
“Please to meet you.” The needle-guy said. “I’m Moonshine.”
Heath responded with his trained, traditional, lawyer handshake. He felt like he was about to crush Moonshine beneath his palm. “My name’s Heath.”
Moonshine giggled.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeaath. Rolls right off the tongue. Heh. Heh. Heeeeeeeeeeeaath.”
Spit. More spit. And more spit.
Heath mentally noted never to stand next to a druggy upon an introduction. He scowled as he walked away, wounded in pride (whatever of his remained), and from countless drool-missles that landed on his black button-up during Moonshine’s enthusiastic reiteration. As he wiped off the saliva, he sighed again. The rustling of the SEPTA trolley beneath the grating in the concrete soothed him. The green street sign, CHESTNUT, greeted him with apathetic honor.
Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Moonshine argue with himself in the middle of the alley. The insides of his stomach turned. He was sick of this life. He was tired of his cowardice.
Patrick stood smiling, bright green eyes staring up at Heath’s tall frame. “Daddy! Can we go to the park? Right now?”
“Did you finish your chores?”
“Yes! My room is clean and Mommy and I put away the dishes.”
“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Heath rustled Patrick’s hair as they stepped out the door of their apartment.
“I know.” Patrick grinned, and sprinted to the elevator.
Heath progressed to City Hall from Chestnut; shoulders slumped like a nomadic ghoul. He paused outside of Macy’s and stared at the porcelain flesh of the manikins. A scent begged for his attention. He succumbed and turned to look inside the window of Starbuck’s. The aroma of fresh, ground beans drifting from steaming mugs. He imagined the steaming coffee entering his bloodstream, roasting his tongue as it warmed his throat, lungs, and stomach. The atmosphere of society. Fuel for the soul and body.
He failed to realize that he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Several people drifted by, skirting at odd angles to avoid touching him. An elderly man gave him a very disapproving look. He was a tall, aging, smelly, and distraught creature in their way.
An empty cup caught his attention. He stumbled forward, urging to remove its lid and press his nose against the rim, to inhale the wonderful perfume of coffee.
“I don’t normally do this,” The gentle voice of a woman interrupted his action. “Give money to the homeless, I mean.”
Heath rotated to face her. She wore a business suit with pant legs and jacket. Professional. A leather purse wrapped around her shoulder. She was reaching in it, searching for a five, maybe several ones. Brown hair guarded olive eyes and a cautious expression.
“By the way you’re looking at that empty cup of coffee, I figure you could use a cup of coffee.”
She zipped up her bag and looked directly at Heath. His heartbeat increased and his body felt heavy. A five was in her hand, tightly clenched. “You would like a cup, wouldn’t you?”
Heath ordered a tall, black coffee. He rested his backpack on the floor next to a comfortable armchair and let his body sink into a leather embrace. He absorbed the stench of coffee and the dim-lighting of the store.
The business woman sat on the other side of a small, wooden table. She stared at him with curiosity in her eyes.
A clerk dropped their drinks off on the table. Heath picked it up, paused, and drank.
“How’s the coffee?”
“Great.” Heath recoiled from the heat and set his cup down.
“You burnt your tongue, didn’t you?” She laughed slightly, and crossed her legs. “My name is Jennifer. What do you go by?”
“My name’s Heath.”
“Alright. Nice to meet you then, Heath.” She took a long sip, after hesitating at a pile of whipped cream near the rim. “I’ll be straight with you. I’m a lawyer from a firm down 18th Street. I’m given an hour during my workday to search the streets for people that need help. I’ve worked with the homeless a lot- but I look for those that have a sense of cognition intact.” She set down her drink, and stared Heath in the eyes. “So, what’s your story?”
“How often does this work for you, being honest upfront?”
“About sixty-percent give or take.” She was cocky, but there was something about her that was comforting. Not the wiry eyes or glossy hair. Her persona rushed forward, mentally supporting him.
“OK. I’ve been on the streets for two years, ever since my wife divorced me. I decided to throw away everything I had. I gave my wife access to my bank accounts, all except a small burner debit card I buried in Rittenhouse Square.” Heath saw Jennifer glancing at his tattered backpack.
“I’ve collected a few things through the years. Mementos, I guess.” He breathed into his coffee, cooling it. The business woman remarked at the bags beneath his eyes, and asked why he shut down.
“I wanted to run free and wild. Not to be a kid again, but to experience something completely knew. I’ve realized now that I’m a coward, though. I left my kid behind. He’s been raised without a father.”
“Two years.” She shuffled her drink in her hands. “That’s a long time without a dad. How old is the kid?”
“He’s turning six in about a month- May 3rd is his birthday.” Heath felt his eyes drooping. The caffeine wasn’t doing its job- his body was screaming for a rest. Jennifer finished her drink. She looked at him as if about to ask something, but saw his head nodding and decided against it. She pulled something out of her bag as she picked it up off the floor. Heath’s vision was foggy. He was drifting in and out of sleep.
“It’s been nice talking, Heath. I’m leaving you my business card in case you ever need help, or just someone to talk with.”
Heath tried to listen, but didn’t hear much. Instead, the world faded and disappeared.
Heath opened the door to his office and fell into his leather chair. He absorbed the world around him in a new light as he rested his feet on his posh, mahogany desk. A bottle of champagne was bathing in ice nearby. Heath fiddled with the notecard attached to its side, and read it aloud. “Congratulations on closing your first case, Heath!”
A smile brushed across his clean-shaven face. His life felt like a classic fairy-tale. When he took the offer from Gregor and Melvich to work in Philadelphia, he never imagined he would become so successful so quickly. The firm said they knew he had a place in the city, that they were confident in his success. They taught him the tricks; he spent the hours learning them. And the firm was right- he had a place in the city- he was rising to become a great lawyer.
Placing the note onto his desk, he noticed a manila envelope beneath a stack of legal papers. He examined it. In the middle was his name, “Heath Woods.” In the upper-right corner of the envelope was the insignia of another law firm- Hendrickson- which worked primarily with divorces. Heath ignored the alcohol on the corner of his desk and proceeded to open the envelope. He shouldn’t have ignored the alcohol. He didn’t ignore it. After reading the letter inside the envelope, he opened the champagne and downed it all, with his office door wide open.
Heath woke up slumped in his chair at Starbuck’s. One of the clerks, agitated, was prodding his shoulder, telling him he had to leave. His coffee was in his hand, although cold, and a business card was on his lap. He read it as he grabbed his bag and went outside.
Jennifer Swanson, Attorney, Gregor and Melvich
Phone: (215) 421-6670
Fax: (215) 271-0900
The card was crisp and high-quality. G and M, the logo for the law office was displayed in its lower right hand corner. Heath placed the card in his pocket.
*
For sixty-eight seconds, Heath stood in the elevator of the Rittenhouse Hotel. Before that, he spent three-hundred and twenty-seven seconds passing through Rittenhouse Square. Looking at the trees. Remembering the grass and how Patrick loved to look for squirrels in the bushes. Two-hundred and sixty seconds were spent traveling from the subway at 19th street to the fringes of Rittenhouse Square. The smell of Qdoba and the restaurants lining Chestnut made his stomach urge for a meal. Four-hundred and eighty-three seconds passed on SEPTA, as Heath moved from City Hall to 19th street. The driver of the trolley did not appreciate Heath’s conglomeration of quarters and nickels.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open. Heath brushed a hand through his hair and walked to the end of the hallway where he could look out a tall glass window. He pushed a flowery curtain to the side and pulled a chair close. His beaten Nikes left a track of mud on the diamond patterned carpet. He scratched his beard with his right hand and cringed at the length of his fingernails.
Every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday, Heath would sit in this chair. He would move the curtain out of the way and watch from the window. He enjoyed it. He was able to relax.
He was able to see his son.
Across from the window was Heath’s old apartment. Whenever the blinds were open, he could look straight into his son’s room. Patrick was there today. He was sitting on beige carpet, surrounded by handfuls of Legos. He was constructing a multi-colored castle.
Heath watched for fifteen minutes while Patrick built the surrounding walls, placed the roof on top, and imagined a battle of crossbows and trebuchets.
It was getting late.
Sarah entered to turn off the light. Blonde hair with highlights shaped her fine-featured appearance. Patrick’s room was a little more barren then usual, and Heath watched him push the Legos aside and climb into bed. The spaceship comforter he and Sarah bought him on his fourth birthday was still there. Heath smiled at his son. Sarah flicked the light switch, and Patrick disappeared.
A black-haired worker from the hotel came out of a nearby room dressed in a blue blazer and dark pants. He approached Heath, grinning, and shook his hand. It was Adam, a collected man in his mid-twenties with a secure handshake. He was an old friend of Heath’s and had supported him with a place to sleep, whenever he needed to escape the streets.
Adam offered him the usual spot- a mangled twin mattress in the hotel’s laundry room. Heath accepted.
He followed Adam. After a short elevator ride to the basement they arrived. The barren white walls of the laundry room made it appear infinite, a gaping universe of bland sheets and pillow cases. The small twin bed was at the side of a line of washing machines. Although he was used to the area, Heath stood awkwardly at the edge of the mattress.
“Something on your mind, Heath?”
“I’m failing my kid. I’ve vanished from his life. The best I can do is watch him from a window across the street.”
“It’s not the best you can do. You know that.” Adam took a seat on the mattress. “You can do much, much better.”
“I need to hear that.”
“It’s tough, I know. But Heath, I can’t keep letting you sleep here. You have to move on. Step up. Do something. You can’t sit back and do nothing the rest of your life.”
Heath sat down.
It took Adam seven seconds to sit up and leave the room. It took Heath seven-thousand five-hundred and twenty-one seconds to fall asleep.
*
The blue, red, and white debit card entered the slot and Heath withdrew it quickly. The ATM screen flashed. He recovered the card earlier that morning from a shallow grave in the park. His balance read just under four-hundred dollars. He was surprised it worked after so long.
Heath walked to Macys. He quickly found his favorite pair of slacks and a fresh white button-up. He grabbed a belt, a pair of underwear, an undershirt, making sure it had sleeves. He didn’t forget deodorant.
At the counter, the clerk looked at him, then back at the clothes. Heath thought that she’d never seen a homeless man get cleaned up before.
He went to the bathroom. He washed his face with water from the sink and changed his clothes. He generously applied the deodorant. He felt fresh. He felt strong. He tossed his old clothes in the trash and left the building.
Heath swiftly moved through the marble entryway of a tall glass building. In the elevator, he pressed ‘33’, and his body lurched as it leapt from the ground floor. He was determined. Confident. Ready.
The doors opened and Heath moved toward the receptionist. She was new, he didn’t recognize her from before. Unsoiled shoes pressed against rich green carpet. The comfort of chilled air-conditioning surged against his skin. He placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. The receptionist eyed him, raising a pair of thick, black eyebrows.
“May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Jennifer Swanson.”
The receptionist glanced at her computer screen. “Swanson? Let me see if she’s in. What’s your name?”
“Heath.”
He paused, nervously tapping to the rhythm of the music in the waiting room. The receptionist walked into the hallway behind her desk and opened the third door on the left. She waited for a moment and then the business woman, Jennifer, followed her out.
“Wow. You’ve cleaned up a bit.”
“I needed a change.”
“Come on, follow me into my office.”
Heath sat down in a leather chair similar to the one at Starbuck’s. The soft leather reminded him of his own chair, several years ago. The fresh smell of mahogany and pages of textbooks brought back the lingering taste of long work hours and court cases.
Jennifer reclined behind her desk opposite and clasped her hands together, preparing herself as if he were a client.
“How can I help you, Heath?
“Does Steven Parks still work here by any chance?”
“Yes. He’s one of the top partners. What do you need from Mr. Parks?”
“I used to work here. I wanted to speak with him about getting my job back.”
Jennifer Swanson hesitated, then reached for her phone. She dialed the number of an extension.
“This is Jennifer Swanson, Mr. Parks. I have a man here, his name is Heath,” She held the phone against her chest, and whispered. “What’s your last name?”
“Woods.”
She placed the phone back against her ear. “His name is Heath Woods, he says he used to work here.”
The gruff voice on the other side of the phone responded. “Woods? Send him into my office. I don’t have any clients lined up for the next thirty minutes. Ms. Swanson.”
Jennifer returned the phone to its holder. She nodded at Heath, and lead him into Steven Parks office, which resided at the end of the hall. Heath entered in, tentatively. Jennifer returned to her desk.
Steven Parks sat in a high-backed, brown leather chair, at the end of an elongated room. Behind him, a large glass window displayed an expanded view of the city, which appeared as a series of decorated blocks from thirty-three floors up. Parks motioned for Heath to sit down.
“I’m glad to see your doing alright, Heath.”
“I’m pulling everything together now, Mr. Parks. I’m working on getting my life back.”
“People take stress differently- some can absorb it like nothing, and for others, it destroys them.”
“It overwhelmed me. I admit, I couldn’t handle anything. I fell apart and tried my best to leave my life behind.”
“But you knew you couldn’t, didn’t you?” Parks shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, and placed them to the side of his computer.
“Yes. That’s why I’m back. I’m here to ask you for a second chance.”
“What for? You’re not even validated as a lawyer anymore. The last time I saw you, you were in a drunken fit inside your office. Security had to escort you out. Why would I give you a second chance?”
“When they hired me, the firm said I had a place in this city. Well, I’ve lived on the streets and in a plush apartment- and I know Philadelphia more than the normal citizen. This is my home now. You and I? We both started at Gregor and Melvich together. I was fresh, you moved into a new company. We’ve worked together on cases, and you know my work ethic.”
“I knew your capabilities. But I don’t know you now, Heath- it’s been too long, times have changed.” Heath fidgeted in his seat and wiped the sweat from his hands on the top of his pants.
“Times have changed things, yes. But if I’m different now, I’m only stronger. Back then, I couldn’t handle adversity. Now, I’ve struggled through the sewers and gutters and slept in the muck next to the subway at City Hall. I can damned near survive anything, and I’ll work impossibly hard to be my best. I’ve changed, Steven. I accept my responsibilities- I’ve got a kid I miss more than you can imagine, and I’ll do anything to see him.”
“You have to understand, Heath, I can’t take your word for this.” Heath eyed Mr. Parks, who was leaning back in his chair. “But, I’ll give you a shot. As a friend of the past, I’ll give you that. But you’re not getting your old job back.”
“That’s fine- that’s great- I don’t need to start up where I began. I can handle a downgrade.” Mr. Parks grinned, but maintained composure.
“I know a friend in the courts. He recently told me about the janitor there, how he tended to put our more trash than he cleaned. The guy got fired a couple days ago, and they’re looking to fill the position.”
“A janitor?”
“You have to work your way up from the floor, Heath. I’ll make a deal with you. Show me you can work this job for a year. I’ll let you take out books from our library here at the firm, and if you pass the bar next January, I’ll think about giving you your old position back. Heath, I have to see if what you’re telling me is true.”
“Alright, that’s fair. When do I start?”
“I’ll tell my friend at the courts I found him a janitor, and to meet you at the court entryway at 6am tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Steven. I needed this.”
“I know, Heath. Good luck, and I hope to see you when you’ve completed the bar.”
Heath stood up and left the offices of Gregor and Melvich.
*
Heath returned to Rittenhouse Square. He had a stable job, albeit as a janitor, but he was excited about the opportunity to move up. He was getting his life back.
He was done hiding behind the front that his homelessness was a search for adventure. He knew it was an attempt to escape the loss of the woman he loved. It was time to come to terms with his sad display of emotions.
The gray apartment building stood in front of him. Heath wavered. Did he want to go in? Could he handle seeing his son?
Could he handle seeing Sarah?
Yes. Yes he could.
He walked inside and missed the elevator. He took the stairs instead, sprinting all seven flights.
When he reached room 712, he knocked on the door and smiled at the memories that vibrated through his body. Heath had enjoyed how the sevens in the complex looked like twos, how he and Sarah always called their floor the second floor, not the seventh floor. They had gone so far as to draw, with permanent marker, the sliver at the bottom of the seven to make it into an actual two.
He laughed out loud.
No one answered the door.
He tried the handle. It opened.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Sarah? I’m coming inside; I’ve come to see Patrick.”
Nothing.
The living room was empty. Where it once was spacious, it was now a deserted. Indents in the carpet from the couches and the coffee table were fresh. The kitchen was clean. No pots in the sink, no cups in the cupboard. The oven light was off. Heath felt like he was a wraith in an unfamiliar home.
He floated into Patrick’s room. The spaceship blanket was gone and a couple of empty moving boxes leaned against the opposite wall. A Lego man, with a crossbow, was left behind on the carpet. A casualty of war.
Heath squeezed it in his hand. It stared at him with its simple yellow smile. Its dotted eyes.
At first, he felt hopeless. Standing there in the barren room, missing his son and his past life. He pictured the furniture as he remembered it, the times he danced with Sarah in the living room. Making meals in the kitchen, cooking for his wife and son. He remembered the good times, and not a single bad memory came to mind. A smile crossed his face, briefly, and happiness began to run through him. His life wasn’t hopeless- he was gaining ground.
No longer would he give up. He would find his son, and become the father he once was.
END
