SUMMATION (4 page)

           He was fed up.

           Even more than usual. The supervisors he had to
deal with, and their bosses - how could they be working for the Vatican, much
less call themselves Christian? The bastards had been riding his ass for years.
Not having much choice in the matter, and little opportunity for employment
that would pay better, Frankie took it. And Frankie would smile. And Frankie
wouldn't say anything. Even now. Even here.

           Frankie Notini was standing in sewage up to his
knees. Raw sewage.

           The ancient cast iron line had cracked, then
virtually exploded, spraying the subterranean room with sewage from Building 3.
Building 3 was not large - no more than about forty people worked there. Normally,
not a huge load for the system. Problem was, no one knew when the line actually
blew out, and the room two levels below ground where the various lines joined
before heading outside the compound had been gradually filling, like an
oversized septic tank.

           And they think their shit doesn't stink.

           He had already spliced in a new PVC pipe where
the shattered section was missing. Fortunately for Frankie, there was enough
pipe exposed to work with. He was able to join the four inch pipe with simple
rubber connecting boots, and the six radiator clamps snugged over the metal
plate covering the rubber connection joined old and new in a simple, but
waterproof, connection.                                                    

           He knew the original pipe that he fastened the
new PVC to would break again, further back, and in the not too distant future,
but hopefully, someone else would have to deal with it. He certainly didn't
give a shit.

           So to speak.

           The level was dropping, thanks to the huge sump
pump he himself had carried down, running hoses back up two floors, across the
sidewalk, and into an adjoining drain.

           If only all those people in their spotless robes
stepping over the hose on the sidewalk knew what was running through it, he
thought.  

           He imagined the pipe bursting up there, as it
had here, spraying everyone around. He smiled to himself.
That would be
worth the cost of admission.

           Someday, all this would change. He wouldn't be
doing this forever. He wouldn't always be
NoWienee
.

           As a kid, the other boys were merciless with
their teasing. "
There goes Frankie Notini, or is it NoWienee?  NoWienee,
NoWienee, NoWienee..."

           To his horror, the name stuck. All the way to
adulthood. Somebody would find out - God only knows how - that he'd been stuck
with that nick name, and it would start all over. Seems there was never a
shortage of assholes where he worked.

           Of course, Frankie never considered that
his
responses and attitudes towards everyone just made it worse.

           Even now, even here, at work, it was always the
same. Calling him NoWienee was so automatic, a lot of the newer people thought
it was actually his name. It had lost some of its sting, but there was still a
slow burn, a seething underneath, every time he heard it.

           But he never said anything.

           He'd blown up at it, started fights over it,
laughed at it - he'd tried it all. They still always knew it got to him, and
they still always used it.

           But in his mind, this would change one day.
           Perhaps this is all that kept him sane and functioning.

           Oh, yes. One day, this was all going to change. His
boat would be coming in. Oh, how he dreamed of it - every waking hour. The day
his money was coming in.
Then
things would change.

           He had no relatives to leave him any
inheritance, no other source of income, current or potential, yet he hung on to
the dream. Perhaps that was all that kept him coming back, day after day. This
job was just something to tide him over until he hit it big. As it had every
day, every week, every month, these past twenty odd years. Not a day went by
without him imagining what he would do with the windfall. He had spent the
money twenty times over these past few years in his mind as he cleaned up after
everyone and everything.

           He had already picked out the car, a Bugatti he'd
first seen in a magazine dropped in the restroom trash he had been emptying. Setting
the bag down, he had taken the magazine and, after looking around to see that
no one was watching, sat down in one of the stalls, closing the door behind
him. He proceeded to read the entire article, soaking in all the stats. From
that point on, that would be his car.
His
car. Top down, he would cruise
the boulevards, dark sunglasses on, wind blowing his hair.

           Oh, he would look good. And oh, would the people
look. He closed his eyes, imagining the entire drive. And the ladies. Oh yes,
he wouldn't, he
couldn't
forget the ladies.

           The door to the restroom opened, and he heard
footsteps. He stayed silent in his stall, listening as whoever it was relieved
themselves, and left. He'd figured he'd better get back to work - he'd been in
the stall for a good half hour reading.

           Then, he thought better of it, and leaning back,
read through another article, staying in there for the better part of the
afternoon.

           Yes sir, from that day on, that was going to be
his car. It was just a matter of time.

           But that was only one of the fantasies. His
favorite, in fact the one that really kept him going, was not the car, nor the
home, nor even the women he fantasized about (and there was no shortage of
these). His greatest was more a culmination of all these, or perhaps the
distillation of them all.

           His greatest fantasy was the day that he would
put on the clothes that he had seen in GQ, and a number of other magazines, for
that matter. The thousand dollar suit, the hundred fifty dollar tie, the five
hundred dollar shoes - complete with the gorgeous woman who would serve as arm
candy with the skirt up to
there
and the top cut down to
here
,
and he would take
that
ride in
his
car.

           That ride - the one where he pulls up right
here, inside the back area of the Vatican, pulling up to his boss's office,
next to the little shit Audi his boss drove. The ride where he walks inside,
woman on his arm, straight into his office. His boss wouldn't be alone. Oh, no,
not alone. The other supervisors would be there too. And his co-workers. And
even a few people he knew who didn't work there.

           Oh yeah, they'd all be there.

           Sitting there as he walked in. As he
strode
in. Like he owned the place. Which he almost could, in that fantasy. And his
boss would speak. The asshole would actually speak, making some snide remark as
Frankie walked in.

           Of course, he wouldn't speak
to
Frankie. No,
he'd be talking to one of the others
about
Frankie. As if he wasn't
there. As if he didn't exist. And not even about
Frankie
. It would be
about
NoWienee
. With him standing right there.

           With him standing right fucking there.

           He was going to walk straight in, walking right
up to the little shit, and he was little, come to think of it. He'd walk right
up to him, grabbing his shirt in a bunch under his chin, yanking him to his
feet, pulling his face right up to his. Then, now that he had his attention, he'd
introduce himself.

           "My name is Mr. Frank fucking No
tini
,
not No
Wienee – Mr. Frank Notini
!" He imagined slowly turning
around, glaring at everyone, staring down the worst of them. Daring them to
respond. Waiting. And then... And then...

           But the fantasy always seemed to stop at that
point. He never knew what to do next. Beat the shit out of him? Pull a pistol
and waste him? It was his fantasy, after all. He could do whatever he wanted,
but he always seemed to stall right there.

           He always came back, more angry, more depressed,
more frustrated than ever.

           No, he'd never stand up to them. He knew it. Which
is why he was standing where he was, knee deep in other people's shit.

           He'd never risk his job. He knew that, and they
knew that as well.

           No. He would smile. And say "Yes, sir, no
sir, whatever you say, sir."

           The resentment had grown, and festered. He
thought, dwelled, obsessed about it every night on the way home when he stopped
for a drink. Or two. Or so. He didn't know how long he would be able to
continue the charade. It didn't matter how much he needed the work. Or so he
told himself.

           Soon, the resentment turned from a passive
condition that ate away at him daily to a slowly heating hatred of those above
him, eventually turning him from nursing a hot anger to an icy cool
contemplation of revenge. Then, almost at once, decision made, his attitude
changed. For now, rather than pitying his position, he had decided to use it.

           He would bide his time.

           Watch.

           Wait.

           And when the time came, he would nail every one
of those bastards to the wall.

           The plan was simple. Basic. Safe. He began documenting
all the things done wrong. Anything that they could get into trouble over. Late
lunches, shoddy supervision. Unauthorized borrowing of equipment. Anything
wrong.

           He knew the rules. They had certainly been
pointed out enough to him over the years. Oh yeah, he knew them. He kept a
list, and he was going to turn it over. It was an impressive list - over the
past several months, his little book had pages and pages. Dozens of pages. He
enjoyed flipping the pages, much as a reclusive miser, stacking gold coins. It
was with the greatest pleasure that he completed each page, and he would relish
reviewing that page over beers that night, each page another notch in his belt.

           A splash caught his attention. As the brackish
water receded, he saw the culprit. Some of the stone was coming loose, a result
of great age, and the washing out of some of the ancient grout supporting it,
due to the leak. He stepped back. The entire section of wall looked as if it
could collapse. It would be just his luck - trapped under a wall of stone,
drowning in other people's shit. Sounded like a metaphor of his life. He
stepped back further. Not his problem, anyway.

           The water had almost completely drained, so he
checked his work again. Satisfied it was okay, and that the regular drain was
functional again, he turned off the pump, gathered his tools and headed back to
the locker room. It was going to take more than a quick shower to get rid of
the stench of today.

           Back in the locker room, he peeled off the soggy
clothes. Leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor, he stepped into the
shower. At least there was hot water. That wasn't always the case. The one good
thing, probably the
only
good thing today. Alone in a hot shower,
getting rid of all the crap, literally and figuratively, from the day. He
leaned back, letting the warm water hit him in the face, running down his
chest, rinsing off the putrid remainder of the day.

           "What the- somebody take a shit in here? Who
in the hell left this - is that - NoWienee - is that you in there?"

           The booming voice carried throughout the locker
room, undoubtedly down the hall to where the others were signing out, and, for
all he knew, probably out to the street above.

          
So much for the relaxing shower
.

           "NoWienee? Get your ass out here and clean
up this mess. Whaddya think you're doing? Jesus, what's that smell?"

           He quickly turned off the spigot, pulled the
plastic curtain back and grabbed the towel hanging just outside. Not bothering
to dry off, he just wrapped the towel around his waist.

           "Uh, sorry - I had clean up the junction
room where the -"

           "Just get this shit out of here - man it
reeks in here. What's wrong with you?"

           "Well, like I said, I had to -"

           But he was already gone, out the door. Frankie
could hear him yelling at him down the hall, knowing he couldn't hear him, but
yelling anyway. Frankie could see him through the window, shaking his head,
then, a little quieter, though not much, repeating the whole story to whoever
was in the maintenance dispatch area, which would be just about everyone
getting off duty. He could hear it now.

           One more thing for them to be on him about.

          
Shit
.

           He dried off, tossing the towel on the floor.

           Screw it, let someone else clean up after me for
a change
.  He put his work clothes in a
plastic bag so he could take them home. He'd have to hit the laundromat on the
way home. He could already imagine the looks as he walked by the people outside.
Just one more gauntlet he had no desire to go through.

           He looked at his bag, then the garbage, and back
at his bag.

           He dropped the bag, sealed up to hide the odor,
into the garbage. He finished getting dressed, taking his time, hoping that
everyone would be gone when he finally punched out.

           Getting ready to go, he took one last look at
the open garbage can his clothes were in. He hesitated, thought about it,
hesitated again, then finally went back to the can. He pulled the bag out of
the garbage.

           He ripped the bag open, letting the clothes fall
into the can, open. He tossed the plastic bag into the can after it. Finally, a
smile crossed his face.

          
Let them have a whiff of that. Should be
pretty good by morning
.

           He flipped off the light and closed the door. Tightly.

* * *

           He reached his regular watering hole about
fifteen minutes later. It was only a short walk from the Vatican. He didn't
live a whole lot further away, so it worked out pretty well. Not the bar he
would have generally chosen, but hell, it was on the way home, and it was
pretty cheap. Those were two strong points in its favor. That was enough.

           He'd finished his first two beers. He still
thought he could smell everything from today on him, a stench that stealthily
wove around him, a tell-tale heart announcing itself not through the ears but
through the nose. He knew it was only his imagination, but it was there none
the less. No one was sitting close to him. Could that be why? He wondered,
taking a slow, deep breath, seeing if he could smell anything. Nope, nothing. At
least nothing from him. He did manage to pick up a whiff of the
not-necessarily-emptied-every-day garbage can right behind the bar.

           At least it wasn't him.

           He pulled out his notebook. Just the feel of it
in his hand was soothing. Another beer arrived, and he took a large swallow,
just looking at the cover. Savoring it. This was going to be his salvation. The
one thing he wanted more than anything. Well, the Bugatti and other items in
his fantasies were one thing, but this, this was real. This was within his
grasp. The day he walked in with his list. The day he would see the shocked
look of his boss. He had never really thought about it before, at least not quite
like this. They were right.
Revenge is a dish best served cold
. Did
payback fit as well? It was true that this was more of a payback than revenge,
though the difference may only be semantic. He took another swallow, and
considered the difference between them. He decided the difference didn't really
matter.

           He prided himself on the depth of his thinking
after a few beers. Moments like this, when he would consider the significance
of the difference between two items so central to his being, arguably so
similar, but could they really be interchangeable?

           No, he thought, those people at work never would
really understand that at heart, he really was both intelligent and thoughtful.
No question about it. People just didn't give him enough credit. Once again, he
agreed with himself, and with a congratulatory flourish, finished off his beer.                              

           Setting down the empty glass, he caught the
bartender's eye, and with a flick of the finger, ordered another. A slow buzz was
just beginning to kick in. He settled back, momentarily closing his eyes as he
imagined walking into the Monseigneur's office, the priest in overall charge of
the maintenance of the Vatican's ancillary buildings. A cold man, his superiors
had made the surprisingly intelligent decision to take him from the day to day
spiritual contact with the masses to instead supervise the maintenance of the facility.
His lack of tact with the public became his greatest asset in the new position.

           Who would have known?

           He had never had much contact with the man, but
had had enough to know that he would much rather be turning the information in
to him than be the one called after he read it.

           Such a satisfying moment.

           In his mind, he handed it over with great
flourish to the Monseigneur. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it,
picturing the priest opening the book, and starting down the list. Item, by
item. One item at a time. One page at a time. Savoring it as he had. He opened
his eyes, and started reading the list himself. He began reading his book, just
as he would read it, from the first page on. Item by item, page by page.

           A sick feeling began to come over him. A quiet
feeling of desperation, that all was truly for naught.

           He set the notebook down, and took a long drink.
Picking up the notebook, and opening it again, he began to read. Going through
the list again, it began to dawn on him how sophomoric the attempt had been.

'05/17  J. Stenno took carpet cleaner home without
permission overnight'.

'05/19  M. Marcos left at 2:30'                                 

'05/20  J. Stenno called meeting for first thing this a.m.
but was late himself and

            everyone had to wait instead of starting on
their assignments.  

           He flipped a couple of pages back. Same thing. Several
more pages - the same again. Stunned, he looked at the closed book as if he had
never seen it before. This was to have been his opportunity. This was his
chance at payback.

           This was ... This was…This was just
stupid
.

           Juvenile. Childish.

           Nothing would ever happen with this, other than
getting himself fired, and worse, laughed at again. Even more than before. All
this time. All this work. He looked up, and caught his reflection in the mirror
over the bar. He was disgusted. No wonder people laughed at him. No wonder no
one hung out with him. No wonder he had no friends, male or female. In disgust,
he reached over the bar and tossed the book in the trash.

           "Hey, Whaddya got to do to get a beer here?"
He pounded on the counter. "C'mon, man, let's go. Can't you see that
fuckin' glass is empty?"

           Another glass quickly appeared. Several people
looked up, and catching his eyes, quickly looking back down into their own
drinks. Ignoring the looks, he tipped his glass up.

           It was the start of a long night. Or it would
have been, had he not run out of cash. He staggered home, arriving at a
reasonable time, despite himself. Opening the front door, he steadied himself
in the door frame, then headed for the kitchen. He hadn't eaten all night. Leaning
against the top of the fridge with his left hand, he pulled the door open with
his right, bending over to see what was in there. Two cans of beer, and some
carryout left-overs from, from when, he couldn't remember. Trusting his
balance, he took his left hand off the fridge and opened the bag. The air
wafting up reminded him of his day earlier, and he quickly shut the bag again. Looking
again, there was nothing else in there other than some catsup, some mustard,
and an open carton of cigarettes.

           He pulled out the carton, tipping it on end to
get another pack out. None left - the carton was empty. He tossed the box aside
in disgust and grabbed one of his last two beers. Truth be told, he was
surprised he had left two unopened cans in the fridge. He popped the top and
took a quick sip, then set it down to flip on the TV.