The Hills Will Melt Like Wax

Antonio Fasciano. Street in Philadelphia. 2009. Digital photograph. 7.4 x 5.1 inches.

On a February evening in the Society Hill district of Philadelphia, Jeffrey stared at his manacled vehicle, astounded by a punishment he did not deserve. Some officious worker for the city had stuck a boot on his Nissan's front wheel, the clamps slender, almost frail, something a strong man could smash with a kick. Yet, squinting down the block of well-lit row homes, as the wind whirled against his back, Jeffrey could see no sign banning him from the spot. He had parked correctly. The cold was so bad his front teeth ached; he was seventy-one years old, and he knew only someone sick of life would stay outside on a night like this.

The boot was especially infuriating because he had come outdoors for a job he could not respect. Only minutes earlier, in the Hirschovitzs' home, when the boy had closed his book and run upstairs to the pleasures of his electronics, Jeffrey had pleaded that these tutoring sessions end.

"If Davey has problems adjusting to other children, he should be studying in a classroom, in a regular Torah school. He will never improve his anxieties spending time with a gray old man like me."

Robert Hirschovitz had replied, "Davey loves you, Rabbi. It's the only way he'll study. If you stopped visiting, Annette would have my balls."

Jeffrey knew that little Davey did not love him. This solitary tutoring was merely Mr. Hirschovitz's offering to the graven image of whatever dubious acronym the psychiatrists had assigned his son. Yet warm relief had risen hatefully in Jeffrey's flesh when Mr. Hirschovitz pressed the envelope into his palm. As he pocketed his money, Jeffrey could already imagine the goods he would pick from Whole Food's shelves—that lower sodium bread; peppered mackerel fillets, vacuum sealed.

Our modern desire for comfort, he told himself out in the cold, pressing his elbows into his ribs, is what keeps us from God. Our modern desire for comfort, he smiled, stamping his boots on the snow as he walked, is what keeps us from our beds on winter nights.

In a few steps he escaped the wind, turning into Delancey Street's shelter, the cold settling around him, becoming patient, almost pleasant. Then, standing with his cell phone palmed, ready to call a cab, Jeffrey found himself meeting the eye of a man in workman's clothes, who was sitting between the open rear doors of a small truck, eating a sandwich. The man, who grinned a hello, was wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket over his fleece coat, yet lacked a hat to cover his uncombed, half-blond hair.

The man said, "It's kind of late to be out."

"Some idiot has placed a boot on my car."

"Assholes. On a night like this, they're killing people. Guess they can't see that."

"It makes no sense. I have one traffic violation, from nine years before. One."

"They probably typed it wrong. Took you for some drug lord."

"And I am not even close to the no-parking sign."

The man spoke as he chewed, gesturing with his sandwich. "It's just money. They book you, boot you, hope you pay up. If you don't pay, so what? Another department takes over."

Jeffrey enjoyed this small, shared rebellion.

He asked the man, "What are you doing out? Must be tough work, in this weather."

"We're checking the roads. Going up and down, block by block. I find the cover, take a look, move on. Tonight, I got ahead of schedule." This explanation seemed a little strange to Jeffrey, and he wondered if it were true. The young man added, "Look, Rabbi. If you want, I'll slip that boot off your wheel. Be done like that. I got all the tools."

Looking into the man's vehicle, Jeffrey saw hammers, mallets, chisels, electric drills, and many shapes of wrench. He saw ropes coiled on themselves...