Must Come Down ~ Short Story

The architect picked up his pace, crossing the plaza toward the intersection, hoping to beat the traffic signal. His vision was trained on a building across the street. He bobbed and weaved through his fellow citizens, but he never lost sight of the building - and its grand arch.

At his next sight, allowed by a momentary gap in traffic, the man stutter-stepped, almost stumbled; in that instance of recognition and hesitation he brushed into a slower-moving pedestrian.

“Pardon me ma’am,” he said without turning. 

Framed under the second story arch was a trio of men; sunlit figures against the shadowed opening. The Architect didn’t recognize two of the three, but he would have known the central figure anywhere. He righted his course and continued. He knew he was just yards away from his objective. He must speak to the man at the arch.

The signal changed. A bus hissed its imposition, and the scene was lost.

~~~

The three men loosened their huddle. The two taller men put their phones away. “I’ll have my estimate to you by end of business tomorrow,” one said. “Me too,” offered the other.

“You know the drill guys,” the contractor said, “I need your numbers by noon.”

“Right. Noon it is then.”

“Sharpen those pencils. This Renaissance job could change everything. Our banner would be seen my thousands.”

“Not to mention the press,” one added.

“Exactly. Call if you need anything.”

With nods of compliance the two broke away and headed down the block.

Bobby Falstaff, the contractor, lifted the aviators from his head and brought them to his eyes as he looked up. The landmark was twin reflected in his lenses. Bobby focused on the fifth-floor office where he had often played as a child. It had once been his grandfather’s office, a timeless place of designs and dreams. Hallowed then, hollowed now, and marked for demolition. The decades didn’t fully measure the distance Falstaff felt from that former place. Had he been so contented back then. Was everything so right with that world? 

Bobby reflexively began to recall the office adventures of his youth. 

His older brother Danny reading in the lobby, page by page through grandfather’s grand books about great buildings. Bobby in the room with the old man, his drawing table, his drafting equipment, his pipe aroma, and his mid-rise view of the city below. Bobby loved to stand by the window, taking in the buildings across the street; pondering the rooftop equipment, counting the windows, watching how changing sunlight and clouds altered the mood of the structures. 

Grandfather called Danny and Bobby his architectural interns. With rare exception they were warmly welcomed there. They would be the third generation of Falstaff Architects; it was good for them to be around. Bobby knew nothing but the family profession and he already had a sense of destiny within it. He naively believed he would actually work with his grandfather; he was too young to grasp the circle of life and the succession of generations. At that age he never questioned why his own father worked in a different place. Bobby believed that everyone designed buildings somewhere, but he loved being with his grandfather in this office the most.

As the adult Bobby Falstaff mused, face skyward, another memory flickered in the glass above.

That day he was again looking out the office window. He was counting the brick quoins on a building across the street. Quoin was a word and a building feature Bobby had just learned; one of a vertical series of distinct outcroppings at the corner of a building. “Quoins is spelled with a Q,” grandfather had told the boys, “but it’s pronounced with a K sound, like the coins in a pocket.” He had retrieved a pair of quarters and handed one to each of his young apprentices before returning to his drawing board. Bobby was turning his coin over in his pocket with each quoin he counted. Deep in thought, he didn’t hear Danny come up behind him. An overly aggressive grasp of his shoulder grabbed Bobby’s attention. With a start he turned away, but he couldn’t free himself. Danny said, squeezing his grip, “Bah-bah”, Bobby’s nickname, and added with a tone of malice, “Black sheep.” 

On the street, the adult Bobby winced in sympathy for his younger self. Something about that day, that assault, that expression, had haunted him over the years. The tap of a single domino that cascaded to this day.

“Bah-bah” was what toddler Danny had called his new baby brother. It translated easily enough to “Bobby”, but as these familial bynames often do, it stuck. Near the home fires Bobby remained “Bah-bah” for many years. It was a term of sibling endearment. Then, that quoin day, Danny introduced the “black sheep” component. A nursery rhyme reference in its own right; nothing offensive. But it had the sting of a curse. 

One dark day Bobby learned of the unrelated term: black sheep of the family. The wayward one, the troubled one, the prodigal. The word association stuck with Bobby. Through their adolescent years it wormed its way into Bobby’s psyche, and into their brotherly bond. Eventually it framed how Bobby saw himself with his brother, within the family, and in the world. 

Both brothers in turn left home to study Architecture. In the year that his grandfather died, and his brother left to earn a master’s degree, Bobby pivoted out of Architecture school. He changed his major to Building Science; the practical, hands-on side of the family profession. Academically, it was a subtle shift, but the choice seemed to project dishonor to the Falstaff tradition. Danny rebuffed him for quitting, for dropping out, for rebelling. The rift was real, the drift was soon to come. 

With his first job out of school Bobby joined a company that specialized in demolition work. They dismantled and leveled buildings for profit. Their tag line was anathema to Danny - What Goes Up, Must Come Down. “You know the hardship that pervades all we do,” Danny argued by phone, referring to the troubles that are embedded in the creative process. Architects gave their souls for their work. “How can they be so glib? Doesn’t that just turn your stomach, Bobby?”

Nevertheless, with his first paycheck, Bobby had fulfilled his brother’s childhood curse. He was, especially in Danny’s eyes, the black sheep of the family. Bobby switched to his new company phone; he left no forwarding address for his new apartment. He was determined to make it on his own. He elected to be the prodigal form the generations of practicing architects.

Bobby had now lived the past five years estranged from his family. He passed up the annual beach trips, the Christmas vacations, the birthday dinners. Bobby assumed their lives continued as always, that the hardships were all his own. Someday there would be reconciliation, but he had to return as a success to justify his choices. This was not the time.

Bobby’s sidewalk view now dropped to the recessed form of the grand arch. He was standing before the most tangible tie to his family; The Renaissance. It was the classical building his grandfather had saved from its seventies-era “modern” cladding, the landmark the city had renamed and treasured. It was the award-winning building where grandfather ended his career. 

The building itself was now ending its career. It was one of the ironies of urban planning. The city and an out-of-town developer had new plans for the block. A small band of preservationists, led by Danny Falstaff, fought publicly to preserve the landmark, but they never had a chance.

The city was taking bids for the demolition of the Renaissance. Bobby’s fledgling firm, in a strategic joint venture, had a shot at the contract. He had just met with two of his subs for a walk-through to get estimates on the work. If he followed through, submitted the bid, and was awarded the contract, the doomed building would fall by his own hand. Bobby would literally be tearing down his grandfather’s legacy. If he walked away, however, the joint venture would fail. Bobby would be destined to bid on residential garage teardowns and interior office demolition work for the foreseeable future.

Bobby Falstaff knew in that moment what he must do. He would submit the demolition contract bid. It would require a mad rush of number crunching, maybe through the night, compiling and coordinating his subs’ numbers as they came in, and feeding them to his JV partners. A spark of excitement lit within him. As if to confirm this course of action he lifted his phone to snap one last picture. He focused on the landmark’s fifth floor. The photo would be a tribute to the man who had great dreams for his youngest grandson. Bobby’s one consolation was that Grandfather never witnessed his slow fall from grace.

Focused through the lens and deep in thought, Bobby was oblivious to all else. An aggressive grasp of his shoulder seized Bobby’s attention. Assault! He spun away to break the attacker’s grip. Reflected in his glasses was the face of the architect, oddly aged, weary, winded. Bobby’s stance was twisted, his free fist was clenched. 

“Danny! What the hell?’

~~~

The architect raised his hands in defense, if not in surrender. He should not have accosted his brother. When there was no immediate retaliation, Danny spoke. “Bobby, I saw your name on the bidders’ list. I hoped I’d reach you here.”

The years of separation had softened Danny Falstaff. He could only hope in this moment, before the grand arch of The Renaissance, that Bobby had also changed. 

“It’s dad, Bobby,” he said, cutting to the point, leaping over the years of estrangement. “He has what grandfather had.” He watched his brother ease his pose, remove his glasses, and reveal his shock.

“How bad is it?” The words came as a whisper.

“It’s been bad for months, brother. Dad’s been asking for you.” Danny paused just a moment and asked, “May I drive you to the hospital?”

Bobby glanced back to the top of the Renaissance. Danny guessed what his brother was thinking. Danny knew the schedule. To take Bobby away now would likely mean his brother would not bid on the project. He simply would not have the time. There was no such intention in Danny’s intervention; he simply wanted to honor their father’s request for reunion. The question hung in the air.

There was a bittersweet glaze in Bobby’s eyes when he turned to answer.

“Let’s go brother.”