© 1994 J. B. Chevallier SLAG Boyle and his father stopped for breakfast off Route 55. Boyle had the #4 - three pancakes with choice of sausage, bacon or ham, a glass of orange, grapefruit or prune juice, and the diner's "bottomless" cup of coffee. "No substitutions - NO exceptions." But Boyle's father was a regular. "Molly, could my boy get a glass of milk instead of the coffee?" "Why, of course he could, Ben." She turned to the thirteen- year-old. "Haven't seen you in a while, Boyle. Hear you've been away at school." "Yes, Ma'am. I got a scholarship. From the County." "So Ben's told us. He's real proud of you. Put on some weight, though, haven't you hon'?" Boyle nodded, fighting back a blush. "Well, I hope it's just a phase, that's all. As I remember, you used to look just like your father." Her eyes danced towards Ben. "And that's no bad way for a boy to look. Not one bit." At the Academy, when Boyle remembered his father's face, he thought of it as square, solid. Now for the first time he noticed how fine it was, almost pretty. But years of bodybuilding, followed by spells of physical work, had toughened its lines with a rude, taut vigor. Ben was no taller than his son, but looked much bigger sitting down. Boyle compared his own slack upper arms with his father's, which rippled and bobbed at each move. "Tell me son, how you getting on with the other kids?" Ben dumped two large sugars in his coffee. "They're nice, mostly." Boyle watched the brown wake as his father stirred. "They tease me a little." Ben looked up. "What about?" "My clothes. They say they look like they came from a K- mart." "They did. A lot of them." "I know. I didn't tell them that, though." Ben spread his two broad arms across the back of the booth. "Look, son. Those kids you're with have had everything handed to them. If they give you a hard time, just tell them your old man has to work for a living. No one's given me any hands up the ladder." Boyle'd wanted to ask for a new blazer. But now he put the idea aside. He wondered what his schoolmates were doing for the break. Probably skiing or visiting Europe. For Christmas vacation, Boyle was helping his father break shale. Veins of the frangible rock, rust-red or turtle green, lay along fields and hillsides throughout Dutchess County. Prehistoric mud, the rock showed its former flow in slumps and bulges. Together with its sullen tones, these undulant forms made it popular in aquariums, where soft lights and aquatic plants enhanced its moody beauty. In New York, Ben sold this and sometimes "glass rock", rough, clear lumps whose bulk was shot through with brittle syrups of black, yellow, red and blue. When the pancakes came, Boyle slipped a pat of butter between each pair, then spread another across the top. His thumb holding back the spring lid, he circled the small pitcher of maple syrup over the pile until the three sausages beside it were drenched. "You sure can put it away, son," said Ben, chewing on a slice of buttered toast. As Boyle began to nick wedges out of the speckled circles, he asked, "Dad, where's glass rock come from?" Ben sipped at his steaming coffee. "A factory on Long Island. All it is really, is garbage glass. Out there, they call it "slag". But who wants to put "slag" in their fish tanks? So I call it "glass rock". Makes it sell better, that's all." He broke the yolk on his fried egg, then spread it across the gleaming white. Neatly, he cut off a forkful, rolled it up and speared it. "They used to throw it away, you know. I was doing them a favor by hauling it off. All they do now that's extra is, they throw some colors in it. Takes them all of five minutes. But the cocksuckers have started charging me for it. And they keep raising the price, on top of that." Shaking his head, he smiled. A satisfied, cynical smile. "They think they've got me by the balls, the bastards. Especially since my competitor's started buying from them too." He looked his son in the eye. "Sounds like bad news, doesn't it?" Boyle wasn't sure. "But the fact is, I don't mind. I don't mind him buying from them one little bit." Before they left the parking lot, Ben stopped to unwrap a cigar. Slipping off the ornate paper ring, he offered it to Boyle. When Boyle shook his head, he laughed. "What's the matter with me? You're too old for that now." Crumpling the ring into a tiny ball, he tossed it behind him. He took a long minute to light the cigar, licking one end until it was moist, then caressing the other with the flame, watching it split and curve silkily up each side. As he sucked and puffed several times quickly, a half-inch of the tip started to glow. Shaking the match out, he flicked it away. Slowly, the dense smoke began to spread, faintly sweet, suggesting the rot of moist, trampled leaves. A sour residue of this odor always clung to the van, coating the seats and metal frame, soaked into the rags, papers and shale dust which lined the floor. Now its muted presence came alive, rolling full and pungent, expansive, across the narrow space where the two sat. A few miles down the Taconic, the van hit a bump. With a sharp bleat, Ben let loose a fart. The heavy, harsh fragrance blended with the thick smoke so that soon the two odors could not be distinguished, but wrapped them both in one rich, intimate cloud. Ben found a parking spot on Chambers Street, directly in front of his customer's store - "Nick's Tropical Aquarium". Inside, Nick was with a customer. "Ben!" He waved to them both. "Be with you in a minute." Ben stayed by the register, while Boyle walked up one of the three dimly lit aisles. The first tank held tiny blue tetra with neon bands along their bodies. A small school of them fluttered back and forth, vivid under the soft aquarium light. In the next, two angelfish, yellow with green stripes, floated idly. Further down, a piranha hung in an empty tank, its tight sharp rows of teeth exposed. Large reddish goldfish clustered at the top of another, brawling for scattered flecks of food. In several of the tanks, shale was set on its side, a sloping shore, or planted upright in underwater peaks, with plastic mermaids and seahorses and strands of seaweed floating about it. In one, a chunk of glass rock sparkled, laced with streams of turquoise and obsidian. Boyle walked slowly from one to the other, lulled by the muted light and the gurgling of the aerators. The clear shape and sharp colors of each fish enthralled him, as they had when he was little. But they wounded him, too, in a way that made no sense. More and more things did that now - a bit of music, the light on a branch. When that waitress had looked at his father's face, he'd felt this same sharp ache, as if something had stung him from inside. In the quick brush of her eyes, he'd sensed something deeper, darker, a brooding power just out of reach. He stopped now before a lyretail, trying to decipher the shadows behind these: the bold, clear beauty of the fish and the hooded spark in her glance. Back at the register, Nick was talking to Ben. "I wanted to give him a shot. You know what I mean? I thought it was fair. And, to tell you the truth, he did offer me a good price." "Don't sweat it. You give me steady business on the shale. If Sonny's cutting you a better deal on the glass rock, go with him." "That's damned decent of you, Ben. But I did want to be straight about it." "And I appreciate that. I really do." "Come on. I'll have one of my guys open the entrance to the basement." In the back of the van, jagged shards of shale jutted from twenty bushel baskets. These looked flimsy, wire-handled wooden hoops with squat bases, formed by wafer-thin strips of wood. None looked strong enough for the hundred pounds or more of rock each held. But today they appeared to be reinforced - a second rim on the top of each showed that another basket sat inside. Two black metal doors, dimpled to steady passing feet, were set in the sidewalk outside the store. Now these opened to either side, as a muscular young man in a sweatshirt rose between them. "All yours, Ben. Need a hand?" "No thanks, Sal. Boyle can use the exercise." He began hoisting the baskets out of the van. Boyle grabbed the first one and tugged it towards the opening. Fifteen minutes later, all the baskets had been unloaded and hauled downstairs. Ben locked the van, then joined Boyle in the basement, closing the two doors as he came down. Only two bare bulbs lit the space. The floor was made of poured concrete. In one corner, several broken aquariums stood on their ends, beside a pile of cartons marked "Snuffy's Fish Flakes." In another, a makeshift set of shelves held fuses, a toolbox, several boxes of plastic plants and figures, and an aquarium lamp without a bulb. At the right, a second set of stairs lead up to the store. Along the wall running from these stairs stood six large wooden bins. Four held varying quantities of shale. The two furthest in were loaded with glass rock, which caught and distorted the light from two clear bulbs. Boyle began emptying the first basket into the closest bin. As he got to the bottom, he called out to his father: "Dad, one of these baskets is broken. The bottom's completely gone." Swiftly crossing the space between them, Ben whispered fiercely, "Shut up, you idiot!" Boyle looked down at the two baskets, then back at his father. He nodded. As they continued to work, each of the inner baskets proved to have no bottom. When all the shale had been emptied into the bins, Ben began stacking four of these in each one of five intact baskets. "Go up and sit by the door," he said. "Tell me if you hear anyone coming." From the top of the inner stairs, Boyle watched as his father took glass rock from the bins at the end and loaded the glittering chunks into the first hollow stack of baskets. When the stack was half- full, Ben took another unbroken basket and placed it on top. Nothing suggested now that the stack held anything more than six empty baskets, placed one on top of the other. With quick, sure movements, Ben began to assemble a second stack. Soon he had filled five columns of baskets with glass rock from the corner bin. The level in this bin was now visibly lower than the other. For a moment, Ben studied the two bins. Then he began to rearrange the uneven chunks of glass, spreading out the lower layers and moving pieces from one to the other. When he was done, the levels of glass rock in both were slightly lower. Each in fact held far less rock. But, in the dim light of the far corner, the two bins appeared undisturbed. He gestured to Boyle to come back down. "Open those, would you?" Boyle lifted the two metal doors, squinting as the stark winter sun hit his eyes. Behind him, his father began to climb the stairs, effortlessly lifting the first of the stacks. Boyle opened the back doors to the van and his father hoisted the baskets onto the ridged floor. Then he sat on the hood of a neighboring car, while Ben went to get the others. "You should help your father, son!" Boyle started. He hadn't seen Nick come out of the store. "All he's carrying are empties. You can handle those, can't you?" Boyle's lip started to tremble. He stared at the dusty floor of the van. Nick patted him on the shoulder. "There now, I was only teasing. I'm sure you're tired after helping your father haul all that rock." Boyle nodded, avoiding his eyes. Finally, Nick said, "Look, tell Ben his check'll be ready inside when he's done." On the way uptown, Ben lit another cigar. Looking over at Boyle, he touched his cheek. "You look a little ill, son. Don't worry. I just need to drop off this load of glass rock, and then we can head on home. Why don't you roll down the window if the smoke bothers you?" Slowly, Boyle wound the handle. A cold rush of air hit his cheek, cutting through the faint cloud of smoke that covered his face. Ben spotted an empty space. Expertly, he swung the van in along the sidewalk. "I'd better break out my haul before we get to our next stop." He shouldered his way into the back and began uncovering the glass rock. Boyle, meanwhile, leaned out the window, breathing in the biting city air. His eyes fell on his image in the side mirror and he studied his own face - a face in which weight had obscured all the fine lines, erasing the shape of his inheritance, so that now, so close to manhood, he looked nothing at all like his father.