FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

  But No!—NO!—Instead what? Instead he gets blamed for taking three measly hours off—three stupid little hours! Crap! Just goes to show you; you can’t even trust the guy you’ve always considered your dearest, closest friend!

  Thus he pouted, thus he ruminated darkly as he walked the staggered path between the cubicles en route to Alex’s secluded cell. The green light was glowing brightly, welcomingly, and so he went right up and knocked, and announced himself, and the latch clicked open, and he tentatively stepped into the stuffy room. And….

  What in the world?! Alex wasn’t sitting at his computer terminal facing away, as usual. He was standing, facing the door, facing Rajiv as he stepped inside. The door closed and latched, and Alex opened his mouth and actually spoke—actually spoke!—And what he actually said, right out loud, was:

  “Hey, Rajiv. Hi—I want you to help me go get something, OK?”

  He said that in words—in spoken words! Alex himself said it—Alex! ALEX! No printing on the screen, no standing there staring at the back of the fellow’s head—But the guy was actually talking, just like in the old days when they were back in grad school and the two of them were working together on their theses in the same place at the same time. Those had to be presented orally in part, and all those days and nights sitting in his parents’ basement practicing their delivery, arguing the points they would need to make in their thesis expositions, defending their conclusions, going through a mutually brisk critique. Hard work, but fun in a way, stimulating, a challenge—a necessity—that had made Alex come out of his shell for just the teensiest little bit of time—until the work was over and done with, and he’d clammed back up into his old familiar shell.

  But here he was again, the old—well, not lovable exactly—but at least communicative Alex Daugherty in the flesh—Miraculous! Rajiv was open-mouth astounded.

  “Alex—Good grief!—what’s up?”

  “I want you to help me go get something, Rajiv. Will you do it?”

  “You’re not upset with me? I thought you were upset.”

  “Upset? No. Why? I just want you to help me go get something. Will you help me?”

  “Sure I’ll help you. Of course I’ll help you. You want to tell me what you want me to help you with?”

  “I want to go shopping. I want to buy some clothes. Will you take me someplace where I can buy some clothes? We’ve got lots of money now, don’t we? I ought to be able to buy nice things.”

  “Yeah, sure. Hell, you can buy the whole store if you want to, the whole factory that makes them, looms and all. But for shopping? Gosh! Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know. Where do they sell nice clothes that people can wear?”

  “Where do they…? Hey wait a minute; hold on: You mean to tell me you’ve never been shopping before? Like with your mom and stuff? Never?”

  “No, of course I never went. When would I ever go?”

  “What about the stuff you’re wearing now? Like this….”

  What could he say? ‘like this filthy shirt and threadbare pair of khaki pants with pizza stains around the fly?’—What else could he say? And so he paused right there and thought a bit, and finally came out with:

  “Hey, I know the clothes you’ve got are old and all, Alex my man, but you must have bought them someplace, didn’t you? They must have been new once.”

  “Not me; I never went to buy them. My mother always brought home shirts and pants and stuff for me to wear. I’ve got no idea where she got them from.”

  “OK then, sure; we’ll go. I’ll take you. Hey, I’ll get you dressed in style, old pal, like a GQ model. But let me ask you something else, OK? How come you didn’t put the message in my email box for me to come? How come you’re communicating through that new girl Linda? I was surprised as hell when I came in and Andi told me Linda had her own separate line.”

  “I didn’t know she was a girl till she told me in her text. You said it was a person, but you didn’t say it was a girl.”

  “So? Is that a problem?”

  “No. Not a problem. Only I just didn’t know.”

  “So does that bother you? You want me to get rid of her, or reassign her to some other kind of work? Not that I’m sure she’s planning to stay too long in any case.”

  “NO. NO! I want her to stay, Rajiv, I like her. She’s smart.”

  “Is she? Her sister told me that she was, but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t an exaggeration.”

  “She’s smart. She is smart, really smart—I like her ‘cause she’s really smart. I never knew a girl could be that smart.”

  “Whoa! Hey, just don’t let any of our people hear you say that or we’ll get sued for discrimination or harassment or whatever the heck the Suit of the Month Club is working on today.”

  “I don’t want to get sued, though. I just want you to take me for some clothes—Will you take me to get nice clothes, Rajiv? Please?”

  “To get spruced up for Linda, I bet—Wow! So have you even met her in person yet? Have you seen her face to face?”

  “No, not yet. I’m gonna ask her to send a picture though. But I bet she’s beautiful, though—isn’t she? I’m pretty sure she is.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe in a good picture she might be; depends on the light, I guess—Or the dark, maybe. But, hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy too. So, anyway, let’s head on out Alex my man. I’m gonna get my bestest buddy dressed up in style.”

  It was late on that sweltering Monday evening when Thomas J. Mulroy took a little stroll around the Toronado exulting in his work. He’d lost the weekend traveling to New Jersey, sure, a necessity that couldn’t be helped. But he’d made it up today, taking off from the dealership at noon. Well, it was a light day anyway, and Mr. Dworkin was pretty understanding about his buddy Stanley’s car needing to get finished up. And so….

  But this was the heaviest of heavy labor without a doubt. Whew! Ten straight hours with a buffer—it just wears you to a pulp. Mechanics are simple, suspension a breeze, brakes so mindless, you can daydream while you’re slipping in some pads or changing out a rotor. And even masking off and painting—just tweaking the mix to get the color right, then spraying on the base and clear—even doing a behemoth of a vehicle like this one—the paintwork itself is pretty much over and done-with in a couple of longish days.

  Yeah, but sanding and polishing to get the finish so mirror-perfect that it’s suitable for show—That can make your muscles ache for days on end. The darn buffer alone—fifteen pounds at least, just lifting it, and then having to haul it around and press it tight against the body panels done in modern-day compounds that are super hard to cut—No, you sure don’t need a work-out when you’re finished with a job like that. And Tommie sure had his work-out in the polishing today. And—Man!—it was terrific to be done!

  He adjusted the light stand up a trifle, double-checking everything again—Smooth and even along the sides—yep, looking good. Gaps between the panels way better than the factory would have ever turned them out back in the day. He repositioned the light up front, climbed into the driver’s seat, and checked the reflections off the hood. That’s where you needed to be extra careful, compulsive almost. It’s the view your customer gets when he’s sitting behind the wheel, and it’s got to be dead-on perfect. And to Tommie’s eye it was—which was essential, since he had always been the toughest critic of all.

  He checked his watch: 10:15. Mom would likely be home pretty soon. That girl she’s got to work with—Angela’s the name—always calling in sick, so Mom always picks up the extra shift—Poor Mom! She’ll be just as whipped as he is—which is saying a lot. But they’ll need to talk anyway, however late the time. Last night he and Rachel got in when Mom was half asleep, and today with her out of the house at six, they hadn’t had a chance to say more than a word or two. Tonight, tired as he was, tired as he knew his mom would be as well, he’d have to take the time to fill her in.

  And such exciting things to tell her too! All the fabulous stuff
he and Rachel had seen and done those past three days—Oh, and the money, sure! He could hardly wait to see the smile on her face when he told her about the cash. Five thousand dollars! Just imagine how far that much would go toward getting them ahead—A fortune, really, to the Mulroys. But, as far as Eddie was concerned: what had he called it? Nickels and dimes? Small change? “Honestly, kid, we blow five thou on a fancy meal to entertain a client, what with the caviar and wine—So just relax and play like you’re getting taken on a five grand junket by the firm.”

  Small change to them, maybe; nickels and dimes. But for Mom, it would be a godsend, making things a whole lot easier for them all—Buy some nice new clothes for Mom and Rachel, plunk a little more down on the mortgage for the house, and most of all, get a little R and R for Mom, who totally deserved it: Skip the nights, go in a little later in the mornings. That would help a lot—But pretty soon, once he finished school and got a decent-paying job, he’d retire her for good. Another year of studying, his thesis on the modular, his orals, a couple of big-name interviews—And then a job pulling down some money on his own and doing the kind of work he’d always longed to do.

  OK, good enough; nicest Toronado in existence; it had to be. He rubbed his hand across the vinyl dash which he’d spent a day in dyeing and padding anew, checked the headliner—smooth, tight—looked once more for smudges in the glass. Mr. Crane was going to be delighted when he picked this gorgeous baby up. Tommy stepped out and shut the door, ran a chamois over the handle to sweep off any fingerprints he might have missed, took one last swing around the Olds to revel in a job superbly done, and clicked off the lights. Then out through the yard—He’d have to trim those oleanders, the darn things grew so fast—and in the kitchen door.

  “Mom?’ he hollered. But, absent a response, he went down the hallway to Rachel’s room, finding her—big surprise, right?—lying on her belly on the bed with her earphones on and the music so loud you could hear it blasting out even with the regular speakers being off. He tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped.

  “Oh, Tommie! Geez, you scared me—So? You finally get it done?”

  “Just finished up this second—Hey, where’s Mom?”

  “I dunno. Working late, I guess. Like always.”

  “It’s 10:30, though—or even after that; twenty-to-eleven now, I think. She didn’t call?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “You wouldn’t with those earphones on. I’ll go check the answering machine, and if she didn’t leave a message, I’ll dial her on her cell.”

  No message, though, and so he called:

  “Mom? What’s going on? You’re running kinda late, aren’t you? Everything OK?”

  “Yeah, Tommie, I’m fine, sweetheart. I finished up a while ago, but I couldn’t get the doggone car to run.”

  “The Buick? You’re kidding—So why didn’t you call?”

  “I would have. I was just a-gettin’ ready to, but Cosmo said he’d take a look at it and if he couldn’t fix it, he’d make sure I got home.”

  “Cosmo!” Tommie laughed. “Cosmo can’t even make those pies you get up every day at six to bake for him. Does he know anything about cars?”

  “I don’t know if he can do much with it, honey, but he said he’d take a look. He fixed the oven when it got broke.”

  “The oven! A car is nothing like an oven. OK, look; tell him to leave the poor thing alone. He’d probably do more harm than good if he gets to messing. I’ll be over in a bit.”

  No point is stopping to tell Rachel. She’d never even notice he was gone. So out to the ‘Vette, and firing it up, and right on 26th and left on Thomas heading toward the diner. Not far; he could have walked it in fifteen-twenty minutes if Mom wasn’t waiting and if he was positive he’d get her Buick running well enough to drive her home. There were only a couple of vehicles left in the parking lot, neither of them Mom’s—Cosmo made the employees park around the back, which was where the car most likely was. Mom was outside waiting in the heat near the entrance when he pulled his Corvette up.

  “OK, so where’s the patient, Mom? Around back? Come on, climb in; I’ll drive you there.”

  Not much goes wrong with recent-model Buicks, Tommie knew; and this one was about as pristine as any pre-owned vehicle gets, dealer-tweaked and -serviced from birth up to its present middle-age, fluids changed as needed, tires rotated precisely when they had to be, great drivetrain, good rubber, never a spot of rust. Tommie got it for his mom for what the dealer allowed in trade, then went over it himself—in detail, in depth—Hey, when it’s for your mother, the fine-tooth comb has micro-millimeter spacing for its teeth.

  Cars that crank but don’t fire up are simple things to diagnose: This Tommie had known full well since the early age of ten. Spark, fuel, air, timing; that’s all they need to run. And turned out it was the second of the three at fault: It took exactly two minutes to diagnose that the spark was good, the timing on the money, the air getting through just fine—but the fuel pump was on the fritz. Not something he could fix without hoisting it up, dropping the tank, and getting a new pump from the parts guys. He’d fix the car tomorrow once the fellows towed it in. For now, all there was to do, was drive Mom home. Which turned out to be the absolutely perfect time for them to talk.

  “Well? Tell me about your weekend, honey. What’s that Mr. Atherton like?”

  They were stopped at the entrance to the diner’s parking lot, waiting to turn out onto Thomas to head home, but Tommie slipped the car back out of gear, turned halfway round in the seat to face his mother, who turned partway round to face him, and they took a little while to have the necessary chat they’d missed last night. And as to her query about Mr. Atherton, Tommie told her:

  “Oh Mom, the guy’s amazing! I’ve got a picture of him when he was my age, and you won’t believe it—When he was young he looked exactly like me.”

  “A handsome kid then, huh? If he looked like you, he must have been a pretty gorgeous guy.”

  “I don’t know, that’s not for me to judge, but he’s a handsome-looking man in his middle-fifties right now. And … It’s hard for me to even describe it to you, but he’s so much like me now—even now—that the two of us kind of bonded in an oddball sort of way right from the start. Actually, I don’t know if that’s even the right word for it, but the moment that I saw him, it was like—I don’t know—almost like I recognized him somehow, like we’d known each other all our lives.

  “OK, I know that sounds weird and all, but that’s the way I felt. And the funny thing about it is, that I’m pretty sure he felt the same way too. We didn’t even talk at first. At first, I walked over to him—he was sitting at his desk and got up to greet me—but when we met in the middle of the room, he kind of put his hands out toward me, and I did the same thing toward him—I don’t know why; I never generally greet someone like that—but both of us reached out and our hands kind of locked together, and then…. I don’t know what came over me, but I felt the urge to hug him—it was weird, but that’s the way I felt, and I’m pretty sure he felt the exact same way too, so we did. We hugged each other like—well, it was almost like hugging Dad when he came home from a trip. But … don’t take this wrong, Mom, but hugging Ben was even more intense than hugging Dad used to be. I mean, I miss Dad and all, and I still think about him a lot. But with Mr. Atherton—with Ben—it was like meeting another guy just like myself, like meeting an older version of myself, but somebody who’d lived through all the things that I would have to live through in my life. All this stuff I’m telling you is weird, I know it is, but that’s the way it happened. What I’m telling you is just the way our meeting was.”

  “Does this Mr. Atherton have children, honey?”

  “No, it’s just him and his wife living in this great big home—An amazing home, like a palace almost.”

  “Yes, that’s where you stayed, ain’t it? They put you kids up in their house?”

  “No, we went there after dinner on Saturday to talk
some more, but Rach and I stayed with his friend, that Mr. Parker who flew out to pick us up—Who’s a great guy too. Remember I told you how he offered to pay me to go meet Ben?”

  “Uh-huh, and you asked if you could take Rachel instead—which was wonderful of you to do, honey. I bet every girl would love to have a brother as consid’rat as you.”

  “She wanted to see the ocean, remember? Rachel hasn’t had that many things she’s wanted in her life, so I figured….”

  “You’re a doll, you’re my handsome baby doll; that’s what you are. And what’d she think when she fin’lly got to see the beach she was so anxious to see? Was all that travelin’ worth givin’ up the money he said he’d let you have?”

  “I don’t know. She liked it, I guess. I know she liked the boardwalk; Eddie took us for a walk there and to get some seafood—But wait, Mom. Wait: I didn’t tell you about what finally happened with the money yet.”

  “The money he was a-gonna pay you that you said you ditten want?”

  “Right. Five thousand dollars. It’s in an envelope on the breakfast table at home.”

  “Five thousand dollars! He gave you five thousand dollars? And you took it?”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t really want to take it, but Mr. Parker insisted. He said if I wouldn’t take it then, when he handed me the envelope, he’d send it in the mail.”

  “Five thousand dollars!—Tommy! That’s a fortune! What’re you gonna spend it on?”

  “Me! What are you going to spend it on? You and Rachel, I mean. I sure don’t need it. I’ve got plenty of money coming from Mr. Crane, plus the income from my work this summer—Oh, I finished the car today, by the way—the Olds.”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m sure it came out great like everythin’ you do. But … let me ask you somepin’, Tommy: This Mr. Atherton—are you sure he’s—Oh how can I put this so’s you don’t think I’m just some jealous old mom or somepin’? Look, honey, some people, they get to bein’ a certain age, and they don’t have no kids or nothin’, and….”