Marble on a Table: A Novel

By Eugene Havens

"[A]n enjoyable and immersive reading experience, what with its lively dialogue, vivid cityscape, and impressive emotional range."

- IndieReader

"The chemistry between the two is undeniable....a must-read novel for romance enthusiasts who enjoy a heavy layer of plot."

-

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Writing Thing Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578670492

Eugene Havens

Eugene Havens holds an MFA in fiction writing from The New School and a BA in journalism from the University of Oregon. He has written for media agencies in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, and has taught as an adjunct professor. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.

Book preview

ONE

Love more not less, she had told me. I couldn’t agree more, I had replied. We were talking about different things. I meant us. She meant…

Here was how it happened. I let her down in irreparable ways. In return, she showed me something about this world that I didn’t want to see. It was the problem I couldn’t face, but later she couldn’t either.

In a city of eight million people, we should never have met. I was in the process of moving on in a few ways. She was a reason to remain here, to keep trying. Only, she wanted me to believe her. I wanted her to believe in me. But were either possible?

Where do you go when nothing is really possible anymore? What do you do?

It doesn’t begin with her but with Paul. She and I would have stayed strangers if not for him. No, without the everyday disaster that Paul invited me into, I wouldn’t have found the idea that broke my routine, the last-ditch effort that liberated me, betrayed me, and sent me one late New York winter to the depths and heights.

Paul called me with a little problem. It was a Wednesday morning many years ago, a few years before www and email would connect an unemployed person, sitting in an apartment, to the greater world. In 1995, a ringing telephone I picked up eagerly. I kept my voice calm while agreeing to come down to Paul’s office as soon as possible. I couldn’t believe my luck. I would make money this week.

We had the misfortune, some might say, of filming television commercials for a living. The reply one might give, they were more fun to make than to watch. In this case, the process was, in Paul’s words, a nightmare.

For a TV commercial shooting next week ("early next week, early"), Paul found himself without a critical element, the location. The ad script called for an upscale restaurant. It was gone. His staff forgot to confirm the place, forgot to send a check, some error that was frustratingly preventable. Production work was inherently expensive. Without a new location being found quickly, the project would be postponed at great cost to Paul’s company.

Before Paul could finish explaining, I picked up the desk phone, the primary instrument of a commercial producer. I made calls to city restaurants on an industry locations list, and to others that weren’t. I scouted the finalists in person, hopping every train system in the tristate area.

Soon it was Friday, deadline day. Paul stood in a familiar spot beside the cubicle he had parked me in on Wednesday. We were about to have this conversation again. I shuddered.

You want me to give you good news, I said.

How’d you guess, he said. I didn’t reply. I’m really unhappy about this, he continued.

I found a replacement you seem to like.

That we can’t afford.

I found four total.

What are you doing to make this happen?

About your first choice? Trying to talk him down.

And?

"This restaurant is twenty grand more than the original you lost. Was lost, I added, diplomatically. Paul drummed the cubicle wall with his thumb. Will you view the others?"

Paul took a stack of faxes from my desk. It was 1995. The faxes were images of various interiors sent over by restaurant managers. This one. It’s the best. He waved a grainy page of the expensive replacement, proud of himself for finding it.

It was on-budget, I said. We went to sign. They said the price list was outdated. You and I know it’s not true, but what can I…

You struck out, Paul interrupted. I can’t pay for strikeouts.

Hearing this verdict, I felt myself get up. Do I have some pay coming?

I called the best I know at this: Rasmus Smith. You said you’d deliver.

You have replacements. Problem solved.

He handed me the fax. "We need this one."

You mean Erik? It was his director. Can you explain it fell through?

His shot ideas are based on this location. Paul stared at me, hoping a light would come on, that I’d get it finally.

I dropped the fax on the desk. This is a little overwhelming.

I’m sure it is. But I pay for results.

Paul’s office was hearing it all. This is crazy, I said. A restaurant is a restaurant. You do see that.

I do see, Paul said. You came in here to work a job and take my money. That’s not production, and you know it. We lock down details. It’s what a producer is paid for. We need miracles, not effort.

I think I did a good job.

You let that restaurant manager jack the price. Did you invent other bids that we were considering? Make him nervous?

I cracked the whip, believe me. The manager forgot his place was listed for location use. They don’t care.

I’m in a bind, Paul admitted. His look went from serious to severe.

I took my overcoat while he watched. What.

If I don’t get this restaurant, I lose Erik. The agency that hired us skips. I have to lay people off. A head turned in a nearby cubicle.

I buttoned my coat. I don’t know what to say.

Say you’ll fix it.

Did you have to show that restaurant to Erik? He would’ve picked a different one.

I found this out today. Erik has a better offer and will use this restaurant thing as an excuse to back out of my job.

I snatched up my bag from the desk. I say yes to a small project for rent. Now your company’s on my shoulders?

Paul stood at my cubicle, silent now. His frown was slightly pathetic. The worried girl in the next cubicle looked over again.

I left the building. Despite everything Paul had said, I stood on the sidewalk and exhaled, ready to go home. The city buzzed around me, pedestrians, cars, bikes. The February air bit at my nose and fingers.

Living in Paul’s problem for days, I had forgotten the world existed. Upscale restaurants had been the only important thing.

I couldn’t take it too seriously. Paul had invented a crisis. He was inspiring me to save his company money. It was a New York maneuver. It’s all falling apart because of you. Are you just going to sit there? I knew better. Still, I imagined half of that office fired, computers unplugged, doors locked, sad workers carrying boxes of desk items to the street.

Production was about results, not effort. Welcome back to work. I had taken time off, half of last year. On the other side of my staycation, sabbatical, or whatever it was, I learned. In New York City, a break didn’t rejuvenate you. It only made you rusty.

The production code Paul had recited came back. I hadn’t taken the problem personally. I had worked for the paycheck.

Coin-operated public telephones dotted the landscape of New York. Some were even in working order. I reached for a corner pay phone and dug change out of my pocket. It’s Rasmus, I said.

Where are you? Paul asked.

I walked out, I reminded. You watched me go.

You weren’t getting lunch?

Nope.

So what then.

I realized, I didn’t hand over my notes…

Notes.

… I took while on the phone with the guy.

The note that says you’re leaving the job unfinished? Paul was animated now.

The number’s on my desk if you want to call.

I’m the owner. If they hear from me, their price will go higher. We have to act like we have options.

I left you with zero options.

Is this why you called? Because I’m looking for someone here who sounds like you to continue negotiations.

He won’t. That’s the problem.

It’s too bad, Paul said. Because the employee you’re making me let go…

Making?

Is seven months pregnant, he continued. Her husband’s out of work. She’s holding the family together, but what can I do? She’s on paid maternity leave soon.

Won’t laying her off cause a lawsuit?

These things happen all the time.

Can you pay the extra twenty thousand with overage money?

To win the job, he didn’t build in an overage like he was supposed to. If I didn’t help him, this pregnant employee would be…

I cut in. Is your plan to dump all this on me? Do I seem this naïve to you?

Hearing me sufficiently pissed, Paul sounded calmer. I’m just glad cutting this salary will cover the restaurant at that price. Erik will have to shoot the script. I’m not joking. If I lose this director, half the staff’s gone. My wife, kids, and I go broke.

Maybe that’s what should happen. Thankfully, I wasn’t so rusty. I earned my money, Paul. Pay me, and we can talk.

I’m sorry buddy. You want rent? Get back their old price.

How do I motivate this guy? Threaten his family?

Think of Heather’s family. Maybe it’ll come to you.

Who’s Heather?

Bring me good news.

Paul was not known to be an artful liar. I believed him because all worker bees in New York knew how it was. We were expendable.

I headed for home. I couldn’t help the situation for free, which essentially Paul was asking for. No one who lived in New York for seven years gave their services away. If I called that restaurant manager again, he would swear and hang up. Afterward, Paul wouldn’t pay me. Free was for interns.

Absolutely, I couldn’t. Besides, my feet were letting me out of this. I was halfway to my apartment. You’d be a good person for trying, I thought.

It wasn’t my thought. It was Paul. He was doing a number on me. The way to discourage his tactics was to stand pat, do nothing. Paul had created this mess.

Back in my neighborhood now, I was free of it. The thought came again. You know, Paul will take the easy way out. You know, Heather and her family will be out of work for her delivery. You know, COBRA health insurance for a hospital birth will cost a fortune. You know too much.

I stopped. People around me on the sidewalk, what would they do? Nothing. Also, they would criticize you for doing nothing. Fine. Let’s throw out our standards. Let’s toss twenty dollar bills from a cab window because we’re a good person. I would fail miserably one last time, so Paul could see what a terrible person he was. I would spare no detail. I went to a street pay phone. Mr. Black, please?

Just a sec.

I hoped this guy said his four-letter words, hoped he rained them down. Yeah? a familiar voice said.

Mr. Black? This is Mr. Smith.

Who?

Using your restaurant for a TV commercial?

I can barely hear you.

I suppose you don’t want to sign a contract today, I said.

He heard me. The terms.

We film in your restaurant next week. Wrap before dinner.

Financial terms.

About that. We’re twenty thousand apart. A couple of us are getting canned over this. I threw myself in.

As heartbreaking as that is, there are hard costs to shut down over lunch.

Is there a good reason the price went up?

The price you had was wrong.

It came from you.

Prices change.

This TV commercial will run nationally. That’s good exposure for your place. Might attract tourists.

No.

We’re showing your sign at the beginning, probably.

For how long?

An establishing shot is usually one-and-a-half—

No.

Two, maybe two and a—

Five. Show our sign in this commercial for five seconds. That’s the deal. That’s it.

That’s bull—

I can barely hear you, Mr. Black jumped in.

I told him, I wasn’t authorized to make this deal. He wasn’t there. How much did five seconds of a national TV commercial cost? A lot more than twenty thousand dollars. I had solved Paul’s problem and made it ten times worse. My wheeling and dealing had spun things out of control.

I called Mr. Black again. We should return to negotiating money, not airtime, I said. Money wasn’t an option now, he replied. I had convinced him, exposure was the better deal.

Isn’t money always an option? I asked.

Double then. Bring the contract by, he said.

Sure thing.

I had called him to save Heather’s job. Now, Paul would fire her and another employee to cover this new overage figure. Forty grand? As bad as it was, paying a cash ransom was the only option left. Having suggested an opening shot to the manager, I unwittingly directed the first part of Erik’s commercial. If a temperamental director needed an excuse to beg off…

Paul wasn’t expecting me back at his office. Only now, I had to face the music. My reputation as a freelancer would be worthless if I mucked up this job without a warning. I returned to my temporary desk. A head popped over the cubicle wall. Do you know anything more about layoffs?

It was the employee from earlier. She had heard Paul air his worries. I don’t know. I looked at my desk for something to do.

I think you know a lot about it.

I removed my coat and draped it on the chair, except I didn’t intend to stay. Why had I come back? To see Paul erupt. To hear Heather’s fate was sealed.

Who are you anyway? she asked.

I had tried to chat with my neighbor for three days. I had her full attention. Just a freelancer, I replied.

You gonna get that? She saw me ignoring the desk phone.

Paul wants to see you, the receptionist said when I answered. In his office.

I’ll be right in. I got up, clutched my coat, and strode to the elevator like catching a train.

Paul stood at the reception desk. Behind him was a silver-haired man in a silver sweater and silver pants. He looked like a silver Oscar statue.

You coming? Paul asked.

This is the kid who’s fixing our little problem? The director had an accent but spoke precisely. He was a fan of locking down details. I pushed the elevator button.

Please explain this call I just got. Paul said.

I did all I could, I said. This guy has you over a barrel.

Paul gestured toward his office. Face the music, I thought. I followed them inside. It’s squared away, Paul announced. He wants to sign a contract.

The strings attached are not my fault, I said. I had no leverage.

He said we didn’t need to pay more. I’d call that a good thing.

Erik unfolded his arms. What strings?

Rasmus, Paul warned. You fixed this. You can stop.

If they found out later, Erik would walk off the set. Paul would be out the entire budget, ruined. I’d better tell you. I explained the manager’s demand.

Erik laughed. He wants me to shoot his awning, is that it?

They both looked too amused. "Actually, he wants his restaurant sign to appear like the black slab in that movie 2001, in every shot, with a faint shrieking choir in the background. And he’s doubled the overage fee if we go the cash route."

The director wiped his mouth. I brought up my hands. The other locations I found are looking better, you think?

Erik clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder. We’ll keep in touch. Addressing me, he said, Kid. He wouldn’t let himself finish. Paul’s house payment walked out of the room.

Erik, wait.

I was left alone in Paul’s office. It was spacious like a luxury hotel room with areas of furniture. You could get a lot of work done in here if you weren’t an executive who didn’t work. Well, that’s over with. I turned to go.

Paul stood in the doorway, ready to wring my neck. No, Paul would sue me. He would garnish my wages for the next twenty years. I wondered if New York courts had ever heard the good-person defense.

Paul gestured for me to sit, in that civil way that preceded ugliness.

Twenty miles of rail, thirty coffees, zero salary, I said. My last three days, if it makes any difference.

Paul walked over to a desk chair that could be sold for a thousand. Are you interested in a full-time job here? A manager title, an office with a door, an assistant? Or, just this freelancer check?

The check, definitely.

See Marie.

Which way?

He pointed. The money was to the left. I shouldn’t be asking this… I began.

You solved the problem. You get the check.

Solved.

Paul sat behind his desk, a minimalist affair with a glass top. You got the guy to sign.

I was halfway out. I turned back. What about his terms.

The exposure he wants? I’ll sign the contract but won’t do it.

Can you get away with that?

The lens cap was on. Footage got lost. He doesn’t know all the ways we can ignore a condition like this.

You’ll stiff him.

His fault. He overreached. Money is a metric he knows. An extended shot of his restaurant sign? That’s our area. By the time he sees our commercial on a football game, it’ll be over. We’ll have what we wanted.

Won’t he sue?

He’ll move on.

Did you want me to deliver the…

It’s already signed. I sent Jenny over.

Hearing it was done, I felt unexpectedly pleased. Was this the feeling of success? I didn’t pump my fist in the air. I almost did. Although I heard the way it was going down, it didn’t matter. He signed. Well, that was easy, I joked.

Paul arranged papers on his desk. It was impossible, and you came through. Why I’m offering you a job. Do you not want it?

I noticed I was back inside his office. I can’t help but remember this morning’s conversation.

About?

Your business collapsing.

It got his attention. Didn’t it work out? We live to fight another day. Clearly, I need a problem solver. Thought you might fit that role.

This drama, every day.

Working here couldn’t be worse than freelancing, Paul said, reasonably. We make it, or we don’t. Why don’t you see how it goes?

Before offering me this job, you should know. I didn’t come through today for you. I called the restaurant for another reason.

It got done.

It was for the employee you were going to sacrifice. Paul’s hand stopped writing. I did it to help her, not you or me so much.

He resumed his note. ‘Think of her family’ was advice I gave.

When you said just now, the manager signed… I did some good.

Think of all the good we can do here. Paul glanced up from his paperwork. No longer desperate like earlier, he still looked pathetic.

I’ll definitely give the offer a lot of thought, I said.

I’ll tell Marie you’re coming by. He picked up the phone.

Marie, Paul’s financial person, accepted an invoice I had scrawled on a sheet of copier paper. I watched her pull a check from a perforated ledger, from petty cash most likely. Paul was cutting corners again.

I read the check. He was cutting corners. I returned to his office. Why this low-ball treatment? I saved you a hundred times this amount.

He didn’t look up. It’s what I have. We’ll try to get you next time.

You think there’ll be a next time?

I hear you’re upset, Paul observed me with soft, empathic eyes. It’s not enough, I know.

You’re not exactly buying my loyalty here.

Meaning?

I pointed out the office doorway. If they knew the truth about nearly being laid off over a careless mistake, they might not like it so much.

Paul fumed. You breathe a word of that to anyone, and we’ll simply stop the check before you hit the street. Let’s not end things this way. The amount on that check is what I pay freelancers. Those on the payroll get more. Freelancers know it’s the way it is.

Paul had the pay structure backward and knew it. In our industry, a freelancer was paid more than an employee for short-term work, especially when solving impossible problems and saving big productions.

Why bother. I left.

Have a good weekend, he called out.

I marched by the cubicles where Paul’s workers labored for his good. My destination was the tallest desk by the elevators. The receptionist turned the pages of a magazine, rhythmically, one after the other. I placed my hands on the counter and half-whispered. I need to speak with Heather.

She looked up, unfocused. Say again?

Heather?

‘In accounting. Back over there."

Heather was easy to spot. Visibly pregnant in her confining desk chair, she stared at her computer screen, working with headphones on. The headphones were a cheap pair that came with cassette and CD players, with a tight wire headband and small foam ear pads. I stood off to the side of her computer screen and waved a little. Looking over, she slipped off her headphones.

Yes? She had the official air of a good accountant.

I stopped myself. This isn’t easy. How long have you worked here?

Three years. Why?

She looked to be in her mid-twenties. It was her first job. I was only a few years older but in those years had become an old hand. I have something awkward to tell you. I think you should know.

Sorry, but I’m married. She leaned back to show her belly.

No, congratulations by the way. I’m not… that’s not… I saw her glance down at her headphones. How fast can checks be canceled? That’s not the awkward thing. Do you know, offhand?

Canceled? How do you mean?

I gestured manically, hand over hand, like a motivational speaker. If you send out the wrong check and it needs to be voided.

If it’s payroll, it would take some time.

And a check from petty cash?

Just a phone call to the bank.

That fast. She shrugged. I was losing her. A coworker seated nearby leaned over. The thing I need to tell you…

I knew what to say. Helping you had helped me. Telling you this secret will send me home broke, and with a bridge burned, but it might save your job… and give me a reason to start living. My extended pause, the length of pause that she was, roused her ire. What?

Think. I lost my train receipts. I explained I had been given forty dollars in petty cash. I couldn’t process the receipts. I had lost them. It was awkward since I was a freelancer. To make things even, I gave her forty dollars out of my wallet. She asked me for the job number.

Heather put the money from my wallet in her desk drawer. She slid her cheap headphones back on. Seeing my opportunity disappear, I waved to regain her attention. Her desk lamp swayed and fell. I drew back my arm. She pulled off the headphones. What? What do you want?

I set her lamp upright and beat a retreat to the elevator.

TWO

A sour smell permeated the lobby of my apartment building, either from roach spray or urine. Five years on, I realized it might be both. I climbed the stairs. Did you get it? I heard.

I knew that voice. Yes, I said, averting my eyes. I mean, no. I brought my apartment keys to the door.

The building superintendent was staring when I glanced back. If you cooperate, I can give you a few weeks to get out.

Where would I be going?

That’s up to you.

The superintendent wore an army-type jacket with those exterior front pockets. It was attire that authority hounds bought from military supply shops. The army jacket was a constant reminder of the super’s role as a minor official around here, authorized by the building owner to deliver this news. He still didn’t leave.

I turned the lock. Is this about the letter under my door? I did get it. It didn’t say anything about getting out. It said you wanted to measure something in my apartment.

For the next tenant.

In my left hand was the crumpled paycheck from Paul. I had carried it all the way home. I can pay it down today.

You know I don’t handle that.

This check is blood money. The least you can do is take it. It’s not an entire month. I’m behind two, I think.

The owner wants your unit.

I heard that phrase strangely. I left the keys hanging in the lock and faced him. I’ll level with you. Six months ago, I lost my job. I’ve kept up the rent for four months. That’s pretty good.

You’re behind, and the owner’s moving on, he said. Your unit’s already rented. It has a street view.

Unemployment wasn’t available, I went on. "It was a full-time job, but my status was freelancer. I wasn’t eligible. I’ve paid the rent out of my savings."

That letter is legal notice we’re entering to measure.

I examined this short man in his forties, with thin, wiry hair that exposed much of his head. For what?

Furniture. The landlord’s niece is coming from Israel to go to college. She’s taking your apartment.

You’re evicting me. I walked in and closed the door all but an inch.

His reply came. We’re hoping you get the message and leave.

I stood in the foyer. My lease runs through the fall. It’s February. Is there an eviction paper?

The next time you see me, I’ll have it.

I’ll see you in court. I closed the door.

Losing your apartment in New York was a tragedy that equated to nothing outside the city. Getting evicted elsewhere, you could crash in someone’s spare room, or on a couch. Losing your New York living situation was more like a death in the family. Owing to the size of friends’ apartments, and to the level of New York altruism, you were expected to pick up the pieces alone.

The crumpled paycheck sat on my coffee table like badly-done origami. It was after six p.m. when I wised up and dialed Paul’s office. The company voice mail came on. Paul had offered me a job. I needed a job. It was a simple thing. The beep came, my turn. I hung up.

You caved in once. You kept quiet with Heather to preserve a tiny paycheck. Taking a day-in, day-out job with shady Paul? It would undo everything. It would negate the last six months, add to the mistakes I had been asking for time to erase. Working for Paul would complete the transformation to the ethically compromised bottom feeder I was becoming, a member of the urban undead.

And yet, Paul wasn’t being evicted. Being ethically compromised had saved him from that problem, actually.

Had I admitted to the superintendent, I lost my job? Even now, I had more esteem for Milo, the crafty boss who let me go, than for Paul who wanted to hire me. Paul succeeded by failing upwards. Milo was purposely inventive, even in the way he had ruined me. He tricked me into firing myself.

Paul was offering the job, not Milo. A New Yorker did what had to be done. You had two hands so one could hold your nose.

Whatever salary Paul had been thinking of earlier, he would lower it. Paul loved his leverage. I thought over the exchange in his office and what I had told him. I had boasted about trying to be a good person to save Heather’s job, how it had all worked out because of me. I saw now, I had been trying to change his mind about the offer, knowing I would have to say yes. It was why I had gone on. No, I felt embarrassed because I had been serious. What I had been serious about, I wasn’t sure. To be a crusader who slept at night knowing the world was a little better because of you?

Selfless. Altruistic. Good. These were abstract words with little meaning in the real world. They had popped into my mind while under pressure. I had looked for moral clarity in a chaotic day, which was understandable. Now I could drop the act. I wasn’t good, nor did I particularly want to be if I was honest. Of course, being seen as a good person was important. To shape how your actions were perceived was helpful, especially in business. But not as a lifestyle.

I was trying to talk myself out of this good line of thinking, but I had to admit, it led to results today. Being selfless had worked out. I had stuck my neck out for a stranger, not in some impersonal way like holding open a subway door or dropping cash in a cup. I had saved a family from being thrown out in the cold. It was as pure of an act as I imagined I could be involved with. No reward was coming. In fact, the person I helped now thought I was a creep.