5 O'Clock Shadow
A Charming Conceit
Years ago, in New York long before 9/11, as the towers of the World Trade Center were going up, I found myself able to access one of the unfinished upper floors. I couldn’t resist exploring. I was most amazed by looking down into the urban canyonscape, seeing the birds below me. They flew up high and then coasted with wings outstretched to ride the downdrafts like an amusement park ride. It was there, in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight, that I imagined the following story, 5 O’Clock Shadow.
He was well-dressed, fashionable. His suit was pressed, although a bit shiny on the backside. His shoes were polished, clearly a favorite pair, shoes that had been worn for many years, with repented soles. His tie was in vogue, a thin, vermillion red, around the collar of a mauve pin-striped shirt. His hair was combed, parted on the right, with a presidential air. His eyebrows were a trifle thick, feathering at the ends, owl-like. His executive, yet gentle appearance, made him a man easily approached, perhaps for advice, perhaps for directions, or perhaps simply to idle the time away.
He always carried a briefcase of brown vinyl, expandable. On spring mornings, he strolled through the park, stopping midway near the benches, to open the case, withdrawing a small bag of bread pieces. He cooed to the pigeons and fed them his special breakfast of heels and crusts broken into pieces easily pecked by the grateful birds. At the pond in the park, he stopped again, this time to draw out a small wooden bowl. He bent down to the edge of the water. He dipped the bowl in, filling the bowl with fresh pondwater. From his briefcase, he fetched a small leather shaving kit. He lathered his face. He balanced a hand-sized mirror in the twigs of bushes growing nearby. With a steady hand, he shaved his whiskers, whistling the whole while, without missing a note while maneuvering the razor over the terrain of his face. He poured out the soapy water, rinsed his razor, patted his face dry with a small towel, and repacked the whole works– bowl, towel, kit– into his briefcase.
He continued his stroll, saying hello to passersby in a subdued manner, as if he’d prefer to be invisible, and only by the chance discovery of brief eye contact would he acknowledge the passing person with half a smile. He approached the corner newsstand, waving more purposefully. The man behind the counter, twiddling with the pencil he kept poked above his ear, tossed out a once-used copy of the morning Times. The executive caught the paper and rolled it up under the arm which also carried the briefcase. With the other hand, he saluted to the newsstand man, calling out cheerfully, “Thanks, Major! See you tomorrow.” A daily ritual of momentary contact at the entrance of the tallest building in the City.
He entered through the revolving door of the shiny new skyscraper, soaring upward with its reflective glass that reproduced the morning cloud patterns amidst the blue sky. At ease with time, his pace was relaxed, unlike the other executives rushing by, still caught up in their rat race ambitions. He calmly pressed the elevator call-button, and upon boarding, pressed the key for the top floor, over a hundred flights up.
Upon emerging, it was clear that the top floor was yet unfinished. The electricians were still wiring the new offices. At the end of the hall, one door was slightly ajar. He entered unobtrusively, relieved to find that no workmen were present. He closed the door behind him and locked it. The floors were bare concrete, no carpeting. The walls were bare drywall, no paneling. The windowpanes looking out to the City below, still bore the pasted labels announcing their manufacturer. He liked it this way. Peaceful. Solitary. He let out a sigh of feeling at home. He surveyed the construction progress. Satisfied, he found a spot where a shaft of light warmed the floor and lit up the particles of floating dust in the room.
He separated the sections of the newspaper into three parts, Opinion, Funnies, and Sports, laying them out precisely about two feet apart. He removed his shoes, and set them by the Sports section at one end. At the other end, by the News and Opinion section, he placed his briefcase. He removed his suit jacket, hanging it on a nail in the wall. He stretched his arms, yawned, and then lay down his frame, feet, bottom, and shoulders resting on the news sections, his head resting on the briefcase. He folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and slept in repose in the warmth of the morning sunlight.
About noon, the sun had moved above the building, and he was in shadow. As the spot cooled, he stirred from his sleep. He sat up. He stretched, standing to look at the vast City from his cliffside perch, an eagle overlooking canyons of tall buildings, ready to ride the wind.
He smiled, then slipped his newspaper into his briefcase, slipped his feet into his shoes, slipped his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, slipped his fingers through his hair, slipped himself out the door, slipped back down the hallway, slipped into the elevator–“Going down!”– slipped through the revolving doors, and finally, slipped back into the bustling street.
In the middle of the block, he ducked into the alley. He passed the rear entrances of several restaurants, known for their international cuisine. A Thai place, with chicken on fire, a Mexican place, with tortillas and rice, an Argentine steak house, with simmering tender beef. As he passed each place he investigated the bin of leftovers and extracted pieces of bread, chunks of meat, leafy greens, and handfuls of rice. He placed each item in a separate container or bag which he kept in his briefcase. Emerging at the other end of the alleyway, he rejoined the flow of people along the sidewalk.
After several blocks, he veered up a hill where only cars drove, where no sidewalk invited the casual pedestrian. A cloverleaf ramp created a canopy for an ivy-covered area of lush vegetation, hidden from view. He climbed up a narrow path until he reached a small clearing where several pieces of corrugated cardboard leaned up against a wire fence.
“Sally,” he called out. “I brought you some lunch. Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she answered. “I’m here already. Where’d you think I’d go, anyhow?”
“I know, Sal, but all the same, I don’t want to catch you by surprise. I call out so you’ll know it’s me.”
“A gentleman to the bitter end, aren’t you? Well, lay out your table. What have you brought?”
“A feast, Sal, a smorgasbord of tasty morsels from around the world.”
“The Fifth Street alleyway mall, hey? Even on your dying day, you’re bound to do it in style. I don’t doubt it for a minute.”
He drew out a red-checkered tablecloth, shook it, and placed it over an orange crate. He set out his scavenged delicacies. The two of them ate and chatted the afternoon away.
He cleared the makeshift table. He carried the dishes and food containers over to a faucet which the City had rigged, ostensibly to attach garden hoses to water the greenery, but in practice, an indispensable amenity of home away from home. He washed each item, returning each one to their honored place in his briefcase.
“Did you bring me anything for my collection?” Sal asked.
“Sally, do you think I’d forget?”
“Not really. You never mention it. You always tease me with a sly look. Then you suddenly bring it out like a magician’s trick. Well, I guess that’s just your way.”
“Well Sal, today in my office, I supervised the electrical work on the top floor of the newest and tallest of the skyscrapers going up. As I looked over the work, I found a beauty of an object for your collection. Close your eyes, Sal. Go ahead, close them.”
“Do I have to?”
“Close them and give me your hands. Before you see it, I want you to feel it.”
She closed her eyes and held out both her hands. He drew out what appeared to be a small silver box and cradled it tenderly, placing it in Sally’s eager hands.
“Oh, it’s cold. It’s metallic. It’s a box.” She opened her eyes.
“Technically, it’s a junction box, an aluminum casing where they fit all the wiring, so you can plug something in. You see that hole in the side? That’s where the electric cables go in. It’s got a plate across it, so they can leave the ends loose until they finish it off and put the plugs in. But you can slide the plate and use it like a box or anything you like, Sal.”
“Thank you. You’re such a sweet one, charming the girls with exotic food and marvelous gifts. A rare one, you.”
“Well, it’s time I get going, Sal.” He rubbed his chin, feeling the growth of the day’s beard. “If I don’t get down to the pond before dark, I won’t be able to shave off my five o’clock shadow.”
“Don’t go. Keep me company for awhile. Besides, don’t you know it’s the fashion now? I got the scoop from Gentleman’s Quarterly. It’s here in my grocery cart somewhere. Handsome men like you let their stubble grow, two, maybe three days-- on purpose!”
“Not for me. A gentleman prefers a clean-shaven face for the evening. Magazine or not, no five o’clock shadow for me, Sal. I’ll be on my way. Besides, what would you do with me here after dark?”
“Maybe I’d shine the light of my smile on your five o’clock shadow. How can you be worrying about your beard?”
“It’s my executive privilege, Sal.”
“You know what I think?” Sal said, cupping her hands round his stubbly cheeks. “A five o’clock shadow is an invitation for a kiss. Her lips placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “That’s my privilege, Executive!” She said, smiling.
He settled himself down next to her. “Okay, Sal, I’ll keep you company,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders.
As twilight eased into darkness, they watched the car lights on the cloverleaf click on like stars dancing in the shadows that delve into nightfall.
Not to worry, the next episode of the Grey Fox story will be coming soon!