Into the Business District
Matthew Wherttam
Into the Business District
The roots of the older trees had pushed apart the cement blocks that made up the sidewalk, leaving ridges and gaps that I had to avoid on my way down to the business district. My sophomore year had ended, and I was heading toward the office of an attorney/notary whose name and address I had gotten from a fat phone book.
May wasn’t over yet and it wasn’t even midday, but it was hot, and beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. In fact, I was sweating everywhere, but the sweat on my forehead was what I was noticing. I saw a barbershop, and just beyond it an ice cream parlor, so I stopped for some ice cream.
Mint chocolate chip.
I ate it at the counter. Around me were gumball machines, tall flared glasses filled with straws, and candy canes on top of clear plastic cases, which in turn were filled with lollipops. And there was a soda fountain and a collection of ice cream scoopers, one for at least a dozen different flavors, each in its own tub. Overhead, a huge fan rotated slowly and the store’s front window was open. But that fan and open window weren’t doing much to lessen the heat of the day.
The chocolate chips in my ice cream didn’t taste like chocolate, and crunching on them wasn't much fun either. And though the ice cream itself was green, it didn't taste minty. It didn't even taste green, whatever that might mean. But it was ice cream so it must have been cold even though I don't remember it being cold. Nevertheless, I finished mine and amazingly, my mouth felt dry when I was done. I remember that.
Then I was back on the sidewalk and into the deep, outdoor heat of that day.
The door of the attorney/notary’s office had a window filled with gold lettering, spelling out his name, his street number, and a lot of other stuff. I knocked, was told to enter, and found myself in a hot room filled with law books. The man in that room was seated behind a large, carved dark brown wooden desk. He was half bald, and only the top of his head, not his face, was pointed at me. All he needed was a visor and a light bulb blazing down on him from above and he would have looked like one of those silent guys in the movies who takes in and dishes out the money during late-night poker games.
He had on a long-sleeved white shirt and tie, over those a dark green vest, and over that a dark green suit jacket. I remember that. It was too much dark green and too much clothing for the weather we were in.
I couldn’t seem to say anything. I sensed I might be annoying him. I was a bit nervous and felt I had a right to be.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I need this notarized.” I handed him the tax form I had brought with me.
He squinted at it while reaching into his desk for his notary stamp.
“You’ll be working this summer with one of the professors up on the hill?”
“Yes.”
“And you'll be getting minimum wage?”
“Yes.”
“And you walked all the way here to get this notarized?”
“Yes.”
“What will you be doing for this professor?”
“Chemistry. Lab work.”
“You’ll be working indoors? This entire summer?”
“Yes.”
“No field trips? No going outdoors?”
“No.”
He notarized my form.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
And I turned and walked back out into the deep heat of that day.
Matthew Wherttam has worked as a patent attorney, a chemist and a summer camp counselor. His short stories have been published in Voices de la Luna, Nude Bruce Review, and Umbrella Factory. He shows his stories to his family and so far they have not disowned him.