Horses Dream of Money: Stories

Eyre

WORK

THE SOUND OF THE MACHINERY IS TERRIBLE TO ME. It meets my life with a life of its own, which in its unreality has a reality more real than mine, one that I am more willing to believe in because it never breaks down and never doubts itself. But it also consoles me in its own way, carries me through the day, even though I am grown and old enough to console myself.

I sit on a high-backed stool when I am tired, but usually I stand while I do the work that must be done, and done well. There is an air of quiet conviviality in the place, and I mostly enjoy the jocular hiccups that erupt all around me while I work fastidiously and with an unrelenting devotion to my work. The foreman can see this in me, can see that I work hard and with great zeal, and although I have not been rewarded for this work, he lets me know in his way, by never looking at me and never saying anything to me, that I am the best and also his favorite.

Sometimes I look out the window and see a bird and cry out to anyone who will listen, although inwardly, and usually these people are dead or living far away or imagined. Sometimes I place my hand on the shoulder of the person to the side of me, in my mind only, and leave it there for several minutes.

It is terrible to think of all of this actually happening, my filthy shoes, my shirt full of holes, plugging fake diamonds into the plastic monkeys that pass before my eyes. There is a whistle in the air, and I am whistling it. Another monkey. Now and again I am struck by the quiet dignity of these animals. When there is only one person in the world whom you care for, and that person is a monkey, and he is fake, that is a great pity.

Now I will turn my attention away from these monkeys. I am building in my mind a great ship. At the sight of this ship I become calm. A great sense of well-being fills my entire body, and it is terrible to not understand what is happening when this is happening to me. I return again and again to this ship of my own making and wonder if it is real or not. Now I will take myself down to the harbor and labor there while I am laboring here.

The sailors here look like friendly monkeys, like the ones I am making at work, but here they are real and work for me. These sailors are like my children, like bodies of children emptied of childhood and filled with a sea that does not age. Sometimes I watch them from above while they work and am filled with the mystery of their ship-making.

The sole contact I crave is moving all around me in these men, in the ships they are building, and in the sea. Now and then my family passes by, and my youngest brother allows his balloon to float up to the sky where it hovers for several minutes before floating out to sea. I am often moved by my own visions and do not question the reality of what I see before me. My own mother emerges from the cabin of the ship to tell me about the dream of this ship, but I know it is only a story.

Now many kinds of birds and animals gather at the base of the ship. They bite my mother, and she bleeds, but I will not help her. All of these things look more pleasant than they are in reality. I allow them to occupy themselves with whatever it is that they are doing, the sailors and also the birds and my brother and also my mother, until, all at once, I can see that they can see that I am looking at them. We all look away. We all return to our work.

THE BALLOON-MEN

SORRY, I COULDN’T HEAR YOU.

Were you asleep?

No, not asleep. I was just thinking about something.

Tell me about it.

I’ve already told you so many times.

This time might be different.

It won’t be different. It’s always the same.

Remember what we talked about?

How nothing is ever the same?

And nothing is ever nothing.

It was the silence that woke me up. It startled me actually. It was a Wednesday, but it sounded like a Sunday. Even quieter than that. I went to the window. No cars. I looked down into the street. I saw a pair of legs flopped on the sidewalk, the head and torso in the shadows. That didn’t alarm me because bums always sleep there. They stay up all night drinking and sleep during the day. What scared me were the birds, the rock doves that usually hang out on the streetlights. Three of them scattered in the street, dead, their multi-colored breasts, purple and green, still vibrant.

I took a shower after that. Habits, I guess. The drops of water on the enamel seemed loud compared to the silence in the street. When I came out of the shower I looked into the office. My husband was up late doing work and slept on the office couch the night before. He wasn’t there. I wanted to ask him about the birds in the street and the silence but he was already gone. I didn’t hear him leave. He just left quickly, that’s all. He didn’t make coffee. That’s why I didn’t hear the grinder. He didn’t want to wake me up. And he was cutting back on caffeine. He drank green tea and stayed in his socks until the second before he left; then he slipped into his shoes. And closed the door so quietly that I didn’t hear it. He didn’t lock up. That’s how thorough he was. He didn’t want the sound of the lock to wake me up. I checked the front door. It wasn’t locked. This confirmed my hypothesis. I hadn’t been sleeping well. He didn’t want to interrupt my sleep. That was plausible, a plausible tale.

I dressed. I put on something nice, grey pants and a blazer. I wore a thin, red scarf. It was the end of winter, almost spring. I normally would wear heels with that outfit, but I didn’t that day. Not very practical. For walking or running. Running from something. I might have to get away. I put on boots instead. They looked OK—not great, but good enough.

I made coffee, put half of it in a thermos for later, and ate my usual breakfast: two eggs and a piece of toast with butter and jam. By then it was six o’clock, and I had to hurry to catch the bus. Luckily I packed a lunch the night before. I put that and the thermos in a leather bag with my other work things and left.

The bus stop was close to my apartment. I could get there in less than five minutes. I would try to get there early because the bus at that hour always came early. At first I thought I had missed it. There was no one at the stop. Normally I caught the bus with two other regulars: a black man dressed in a chef’s uniform and a nurse. Actually I don’t know if she was a nurse. She just looked like one, the kind of woman you could imagine taking your blood pressure. Kind in a way, but also indifferent to suffering, because she saw it every day. She had that kind of face. Maybe she wasn’t a nurse. Maybe she answered phones or sat in front of a computer all day. It’s possible those jobs produce the same kind of face. Then I realized the bus couldn’t have come already. I knew because it left tracks. It disturbed the gravel next to the curb, left a high ridge of pebbles. This clue never failed me. So I waited.

I waited for a long time. The chef didn’t come, the nurse didn’t come, the bus didn’t come. There were no cars actually, no birds, no people, just silence, and me dressed for work, holding my bag upright with my feet, and the strap in between my hands, like I always did on every other day.

There used to be an Arby’s across the street, but it closed two years ago, and no one else bought it. I went to look at myself in the window. I wanted to see another person. I wanted to reassure myself. Everything looked normal. I was dressed for work. I laughed because my face looked so serious, almost grim. There were sharp lines in between my eyebrows, and my mouth was pulled into a straight line. Relax, I said aloud, imitating my husband’s voice. There’s got to be an explanation for this. Then I turned and ran back to the bus stop. Anyone could have stolen my bag, I thought. There are so many desperate people in this town. And desperate people will do anything.

I decided to walk. It was only a mile downtown. I was glad I wore the boots instead of the heels. I looked for movement in the houses, in the apartments. It’s still early, I thought. People are sleeping. And in the spring there are marathons and parades. That’s why they close this street. It happens all the time—I just didn’t notice before. And it’s nice in a way, the peace and quiet. Normally that street was loud: motorcycles and bums smashing bottles. I tried to enjoy it for once.

By the time I reached the office my feet hurt. Even the boots weren’t very practical. No shoes were really when you considered the realities of survival. I wished I had worn my tennis shoes or hiking boots. I pulled at the outer door but it was locked. Usually the janitorial staff left it open for me. They must have forgotten. I walked to the side entrance. On that side was a courtyard with three benches, empty of course. They always were at that hour. The side entrance was also locked. I rummaged through my bag looking for my keycard. I never used it because, as I said, the janitors usually left one of the doors open for me.

I heard something move behind me. I didn’t look but I could hear a rustling sound, like a flag flapping in the wind, but softly, barely a ripple. I looked furiously for my keycard. Did I even bring it? I was so distracted in the morning.

I saw a shadow move over the surface of the glass, from left to right, and growing in size as it moved. Still the rustling sound, like razor-thin metal crumpling in someone’s hand. The shadow was in the shape of a man.

I felt the plastic keycard in my palm. It was my third sweep through the bag. How it evaded my grasp the first two times I do not know. Maybe it felt my panic and wanted to tease me. I felt the edge of the laminate peeled away at the corner. With shaking fingers I waved it in front of the keypad. The door unbolted. I felt something brush against the back of my head. The shadow crossed my face.

Inside I could look. I was safe enough to look. It wasn’t a man, not exactly. It was a giant man-shaped helium balloon floating in the courtyard, left over from someone’s extravagant birthday party or bar mitzvah. It drifted along the side of the building, tapping the glass as it went.

I was in the large glass atrium with square concrete planters filled with palm trees and an elevator at one end. I almost never came in that way. No one came in that way, except for clients. So I wasn’t alarmed when I found it empty. I took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and went to my office. I sat in my office for a long time with my head on the desk. I was tired from the walk and my feet hurt. My boss usually didn’t come in until nine. I could take a nap. I half-slept and half-thought about my boss asking me to fill in a big hole with sand. He handed me a shovel. At first I couldn’t find any sand. Then when I found some it was too far way. Somehow I brought the hole closer. I can’t remember how this was accomplished. But then the blade of the shovel broke in two.

I heard a tapping at the window. My blinds were drawn. They were dusty. I sneezed. I tried to ignore the tapping, but it grew louder. I pulled the blinds up, but slowly, because I didn’t want to see. I had already seen enough. I was tired of seeing.

It was the giant man-shaped helium balloon. His wide face was inches away from my own. He had floated up twelve stories and was outside my window. Naturally, because that’s what balloons do. They don’t have any agency. They float because their insides are lighter than air. There’s nothing strange about this. It’s a matter of