The Chairman Had My Telescope Cart Wheeled Into The Street

Roland Fitch waited until a child had her eye at my telescope before he called me a trespasser.

"Step away from that equipment, folks. This is an unlicensed street hustle."

The girl pulled back so fast her knit hat caught the eyepiece. I steadied the tube before it tipped.

Above Main Street, Jupiter shone through a thin patch of cloud. Below it, holiday shoppers stopped with paper cups and little bags. The brick walk was damp. Somewhere down the block, a handbell kept missing the same note.

I was twenty-seven, a Jewish American man with olive skin, dark curls, wire-frame glasses, and a thin brown beard that never filled in at the cheeks.

I worked as a public astronomy guide. I showed people things they could find again without me: Jupiter, the Moon, the three bright stars in Orion's belt. I mended constellation-shaped patches onto my coats. That night, seven white stitches made the Little Dipper across my left elbow.

"This session is booked," I said. "Please lower your voice."

"Your booking doesn't override my authority."

Roland was fifty-nine, a white man with silver hair brushed flat, pale eyes, and a red face above a spotless camel coat.

He owned the gift shop beside the little paved observation court. He also chaired our merchants' association. When he spoke, he turned slightly, making sure the crowd saw his good side.

For two holiday seasons we had been market partners. His association listed my sessions on its paper map. I paid $120 each season for that listing. It had never been rent.

"Jonah, move your sidewalk pitch," he said. "You've had your warning."

"The court isn't a sidewalk."

Two men in orange work coats stood behind him. One held a clipboard. The other had a flat cart.

Ximena Duarte rolled forward from beside my ticket table.

"Which boundary are you using?" she asked.

She was thirty-one, Mexican American, and an architectural historian. She had been coming to my sky nights for a year. She used a wheelchair and could spot a sealed doorway in a brick wall from half a block away.

Roland pointed at the whole court.

"The association manages this area."

"That wasn't my question."

His smile thinned.

Behind her, his steel storage cage filled most of the level passage from Main Street. Boxes of glass ornaments rose inside it. To enter, Ximena had needed a stranger to shift a loose display rack. The remaining gap scraped her wheel rim.

An old iron gate stood folded against the passage wall. It could open wide. His stock couldn't move itself.

"And that entrance is still blocked," she said.

"Temporary holiday storage."

"You told me that in October."

I took my phone out and opened the county tax receipt I had saved. My grandfather had left me the court three years earlier. The estate lawyer had recorded the transfer. I paid the tax, swept the paving, and bought the liability insurance.

But the receipt showed a parcel number, not a useful drawing. The court had no fence. Its bricks matched the shop's passage. Roland had spent two years treating every shared edge as his own.

"This is my property," I said, holding out the phone.

He didn't look.

"You rent a place to sell looks through a tube. Don't dress it up."

A few people laughed. Most looked away.

The man with the clipboard asked Roland, "You're signing as the person with control?"

"Yes. Remove it."

"Wait," I said. "That mount has a locking pin."

The other man pushed the cart under my stand. The scope jolted. I heard the small, sharp crack of the slow-motion control hitting steel.

I stepped back because a child was still beside the tripod.

They wheeled my telescope through the rear opening, down two steps, and into their van. Ximena couldn't follow that route. She stayed by the cage while I stood in the street with an eyepiece in my palm.

"Release office opens Monday," the man said. "Fee is $286."

Roland smoothed his coat.

"Next time, get permission."

I refunded six tickets at $14 each. The little girl's father accepted the money without meeting my eyes.

When the crowd moved on, Ximena said, "Don't argue about his title. Find yours."

"I have the estate deed at home."

"And the original purchase?"

I looked at the seven white stitches on my elbow.

My grandfather had taught me to find the North Star by following two stars along the Dipper's cup. Start with the points you could prove. Extend the line.

"He kept a blue closing folder," I said. "He said never throw away the thin pages."

My phone rang before I put the eyepiece in its case.

It was my mother.

"Jonah," she said, "I found your grandfather's folder. There's a drawing in here, and somebody signed an agreement about that passage."