Who Killed the Fonz?

by James Boice

  “No,” Richard said, “those kids are relying on you. Fonzie would understand more than anybody. It’s okay—saying goodbye is something I can do alone.”

  MONDAY

  RICHARD TOOK A COMAIR RED-EYE out of Burbank into General Mitchell. Walking from the gate to the rental car counter he had the feeling of standing out, of being the center of unwanted attention. It might have been the grief. He could feel it all over himself, like a stink. But it also might have been something else. The people around him were dressed in the prevailing Wisconsin fashion of flannel shirts, work boots, and camouflage hunting jackets. Passing him in the terminal in the opposite direction, their eyes fell on him, and they stared at him with no expression, taking him in like he was an unfunny joke. It made him conscious of what he was wearing. He had not even thought about the Armani blazer and trousers as he was pulling them from his closet in a hurry on his way out the door. Maybe it was the Bruno Magli loafers they didn’t like? But it was not just the clothes he wore, or the way he had his Wayfarers hooked in the neck of his shirt. And it was not just his tan, which was hard to avoid when you lived where he did. It was him—there was something about who he was, who he had become, he thought, that did not sit well with these people.

  He had forgotten how much they valued the humble and low-key here. He kept that in mind with his choice of rental car: a Ford Tempo, in riveting brown. Driving Highway 100 to the old house, traffic moved briskly. Nothing like rush hour in LA. He scanned the radio, found the rock-and-roll station—the one he had known as a kid was now country and western—which was playing a brand-new song by Don Henley, former drummer of the Eagles, one of Richard’s favorite bands. The guitar licks of “Boys of Summer” were edgy and longing and immediately jimmied open Richard’s chest and crawled inside. The tune was about looking around one day and realizing your youth had fled out the back window without even thinking to say goodbye. Richard’s throat grew tight.

  The Henley song faded and a commercial came on. Richard flipped the station. It was a talk radio show. The host and caller were arguing about the Wisconsin governor’s election next week.

  “Get ready for another term for Johnson,” the host said. “He’s got too much money, too much machinery. Even a guy with Sealock’s charisma can’t beat an incumbent like that.”

  “What about Sackett-Wilhelm?” the caller said. “They were ready to pull out of here and move to China. They were gone, baby. The moving trucks were pulling up to the door. And what happened? Martin Sealock sat down with the CEO and hammered out a deal. Sealock saved thousands of good Milwaukee jobs. What has Johnson done for us working people in this state besides flap his lips? Look at the polls. Sealock was down fifteen points in August. Now, because of what he did for Sackett-Wilhelm, he’s within the margin of error . . .”

  It felt like they were pounding wooden nails into his skull with rubber hammers. He turned it off. It was exhausting to think anyone could be so caught up in irrelevant nonsense like local politics while ignoring the only news that mattered: Arthur Fonzarelli lay dead at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

  • • •

  HE STOOD IN THE DRIVEWAY of 565 North Clinton drive, taking his suitcase from the trunk. His childhood home looked the same, just with different color shutters, window trim, and garage door. Like his high school, which he had passed on the way, it seemed smaller, more modest than he remembered. The trees lining the street, though, were much bigger—their trunks were massive and their bark weathered and thick, their colorful but steadily fading tops reached across the street to almost mingle with those reaching from the other side. Not clocks and calendars, he thought, but trees are what best show the passing of time. Richard could almost see his father pulling up the street in his DeSoto after another long day at Cunningham Hardware. He could almost see his mother inside through the kitchen window, waving to him, beef stew or rump roast ready on the table. She had been so young when he had been in high school, he realized now. She had been only, what, forty? That was younger than he was now. His father too. Back then, to a teenager, they seemed so powerful and flawless, exempt from all laws of human nature. Now he could see that they were only making it up as they went along and holding their breath, trying not to panic, doing their best to do what was best. It made his heart hurt with a new degree of love for those sweet people who probably weren’t nearly as assured as they had seemed to him at the time, who in fact were most likely flailing around in their own heads about what to do in the situations their kid put them in.

  And he could almost see Fonzie in the apartment above the garage. He had lived there for a few years. A competing hardware store had opened across the street from Howard’s, and the family needed the extra income to make up for the loss in sales. Howard had charged Fonzie fifty dollars a month rent.

  It was days until Halloween. To get to the loose brick on the stoop under which Joanie said he would find the key, Richard had to pick through phony cobwebs that clung to his hair.

  He opened the door. He had not slept. Fatigue hit him as he stepped inside and turned on the lights. No one was home, but it felt like there was. The place was packed with ghosts. His mother’s hatha guru, who was a student of Bikram Choudhury, said the things you did in life remained, reverberated. Actions had reactions, and it all went on indefinitely. An unending chain of cause and effect. The things we did in life stayed behind us, as energy. He knew it was true, because he was feeling it now—his family’s energy, his family’s history. His youth.

  Joanie had modernized the entire interior of the lower level with lush brown carpeting, dusty light blue wallpaper with a floral border, track lighting, glass-top coffee and end tables. He collapsed onto the oversize sectional in the living room and remembered Fonzie laid out on the old one, recuperating after busting his knee. At everyone’s urging, he had tried to break a record by jumping fourteen garbage cans on his motorcycle for a You Wanted to See It. It was a rare moment in which Fonzie had allowed himself the glory he deserved, had stepped out of the shadows and onto the stage the world was always trying to drag him out onto. He made the jump, but when he crashed on the landing he took it as a punishment for having given in to temptation, influence. For having been full of himself. Everyone called him the Fearless Fonzarelli after that, but he seemed chastened. Quieter, even more reticent.

  Richard also remembered when Howard hosted his old army friend’s wedding here. It had scandalized the neighborhood because the bride and groom were black. Then there was the time Richard put up a rock band while they were in town on tour, because girls were mobbing their hotel.

  In Hollywood when people asked him why he moved away from here, he had always answered that he needed to be somewhere exciting, that as a writer he needed to live somewhere alive. But as the memories came back and he now gave in to his body’s demand to sleep, he realized how foolish he had been—there was more life in a day growing up here than in a decade growing old out there.

  • • •

  NO ONE HAD EVER MISTAKEN his sister for Julia child. The refrigerator in the kitchen—newly renovated with linoleum tile and wood laminate cabinets—contained little more than condiments, sour milk, and an uncovered plate containing what Richard could only speculate had at one time been a pepper. He resorted to a Hungry Man dinner he found in the freezer. It did not heat evenly nor did it go down easily, but the brownie was delicious. Then he showered and dressed for the memorial service. He had last worn the black single-breasted Armani suit to the funeral of a costume designer he knew who was buried at the same cemetery as Marilyn Monroe. It had fit in well at Westwood Village Memorial Park, but it might be coming on too strong for Heavenly Slumbers Funeral Home in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But a search of Chachi’s closet turned up only suits whose arms hit at his wrists and pants that hit at his shins. Armani it had to be.

  He drove the Tempo to the funeral home. The parking lot was full, so he drove around, searching the nearby side streets for a place by a curb, but there was nothing there
either. He had to park in the lot of a Kmart a half mile away and walk. He had not thought to bring an overcoat. He had been too distracted, stunned. He had even forgotten a toothbrush. Joanie had extras. But he was shivering by the time he arrived and stepped inside, joining an already immense crowd.

  He could barely move. It was mostly women. It was like an open casting call in Studio City, except at casting calls the women all looked the same. These women seemed to represent every varietal of human personality there was, from biker chicks in leather jackets to corporate types in pantsuits and shoulder pads. They were tall, short. Blond, brunette. Straight hair, permed. There was no type. Each was different from the next. What they had in common was Fonzie.

  Richard had known many ladies’ men over the years. His industry had plenty. It might as well have been a prerequisite for becoming a male lead. Even no-name actors were successful at the single bars. But none of them began to approach Fonzie’s degree of proficiency. Ever since they were sixteen years old, all Fonzie had ever needed to do to get a woman to fall in love with him was snap his fingers, and she would come running. All these women had loved Fonzie—even though they knew he did not love them back and probably never would. He cared for them. It did not matter if they were his girlfriend for three hours or three months. But he did not love them. They knew that. It was part of the deal, with Fonzie. They knew the time would come when he would have to go his own way. And when that time came, they understood. It hurt, but only for a little while. He left their hearts intact, so they could love someone else, someone not like him, not fated like he was to forever be alone. Those Hollywood guys’ trade was charisma, but Fonzie’s trade was respect. Any two-bit lothario can pick up a woman. Only a real man can let her down with dignity. That all these women had shown up today was a testament to which one Fonzie was.

  Richard was relieved there was no casket, no body. It was better that way. It was just like the man to not show up at his own memorial service. And Richard would not have been able to stomach a mortician’s idea of a waxy, reconstructed Fonzie. It would have been a lie, it would have blown out all the real memories Richard had of him to become the way he remembered him forever. Instead there was a giant photo, propped on an easel. Fonzie sitting on his motorcycle, glaring into the camera, the sun in his eyes. His leather jacket perfect. His black, greased-up pompadour perfect. That was Fonzie. That was how Richard wanted to remember him. You could not tell a lie to that guy in the picture. He would see through it. He saw through all pretenses, all illusions and cons. Whatever you told that guy, the guy in the picture, it better be the truth.

  Richard went up and stood close to the picture. Inches from it. Eye to eye. He could almost smell the gasoline, the engine grease. Fonzie had always smelled like machinery. Transport, speed. It was odd looking at a still close-up picture of a man who had so wanted to remain a distant blur to the world. Richard could hear the bike’s engine, how it used to rattle the ribs, shake the liver and pancreas into a stew. He could hear the way Fonzie would come through for you, fix your car, or straighten your head about a girl, or even save your life, and then when you thanked him he would say nothing, just shrug and let out a low purring grunt: “Ay.”

  • • •

  “HI, RICHIE. REMEMBER ME?”

  A small grayed man looked up at him.

  “Al,” Richard said. “Of course I do.” Al Delvecchio owned the diner that had been Richard’s teenage hangout. He put his arms around him. “It’s great to see you, Al. Great. How are you? You look fantastic.” He was speaking in hushed tones, the grief and sadness in the room barely containing the thrill of seeing Al again.

  “You too,” Al said. “You look like Miami Vice. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “Why not?”

  Al shrugged. “Big movie star and all.”

  “Not even close,” said Richard.

  “Still modest, huh? That’s good.” His eyes darted down at Richard’s blazer then away. Richard thought he seemed to take half a step away from him. He had the feeling of forcing something unwanted on the man. Whatever Al was thinking, he was not saying it. “Look at you. I just want to give you a milk shake and a cheeseburger or something. Remember those days? Every day at two thirty, the high school would let out and here you’d all come, a bunch of rowdy teenagers taking over my diner. An occupying army.”

  “You were a very patient man,” Richard said, wincing at what he and his friends must have put him through—the noise and messes.

  “Are you kidding? I loved it. You were good kids. When I bought Arnold’s Drive-In, I had no clue I’d ever have as much fun as I did when you kids were around. And the way you took me into your circle. That meant a lot to me. I didn’t have a lot of friends. Few if any. My life was all business, work. Seeing how important you and your buddies were to each other, that made me realize that I needed friends. It changed me. I was different after you kids. I learned how to be a friend. How to have friends and how to be a friend. Changed my life. Made me a better man. I bet you had no idea, did you?”

  “No,” was all Richard could say.

  “Your group was always my favorite. The ones after you? Forget it. They did not want much to do with me. Didn’t matter, I had friends now.” He looked around, taking in the room. He shook his head. “Good ol’ Fonzie. Taking over my men’s room, turning it into his own personal office. Remember? Writing girls’ numbers all over the walls. Those were the best days. Magical days.”

  “How’s Arnold’s doing?”

  “One of those Bennigan’s moved in across the street, but we’re doing okay. We’re hanging on. I’ve got my regulars. Like those two over there.”

  Al pointed to the back of the room. Two rather beefy gentlemen lingered in the shadows. They had been staring at Richard’s back without his realizing it. He knew because when he turned to look, they turned away a little too quickly. They shifted their weight, muttering to each other, making a big effort to direct their gaze anywhere but at him. They wore modest suits. They would have looked more comfortable wearing fiberglass insulation. Here came Richard’s grin again. He went over.

  In the twenty years since he had seen them, his old high school buddies Potsie Weber and Ralph Malph had lost hair on their heads and gained it on their faces. Both had mustaches. Both had added twenty or thirty pounds to their bodies, mostly around the gut, and had slight hunches to their shoulders. Richard held out his hand. Potsie looked at it and did not move. Ralph did not take it either.

  Potsie said, “Nice of you to squeeze this into your schedule, Richard.” Ralph laughed bitterly. The grin seeped back beneath Richard’s skin and stayed there.

  “Well,” Richard said, thrown, “hello, guys, how are you? How have you been?”

  “Been fine, Richard,” said Potsie.

  “Yeah,” said Ralph. “Fine. Richard.”

  He got it. They had known him as Richie. And when he had stopped being Richie and became Richard, it insulted them. Because it had seemed like he was trying to distance himself from where he had come from and who he knew there. And they were right. When he arrived in Los Angeles, no one would take a meeting with a kid just out of the army with no credits, no film school degree, and no connections, who had nothing but the name of a boy. Gleb Cooper started changing the byline on his submissions to Richard, and it helped, if only a little. And a little was better than nothing. So he became Richard. He knew these two would understand if he could only explain it to them. But he did not have the chance.

  Because there was a commotion from the entrance. A smattering of applause rose then fell quickly, like someone knew it was not the right time to cheer but could not help themselves. The crowd parted. A man came through who seemed to both float a head above the crowd and also be a part of these people in a way Richard had once been but now was not. This man wore a suit as nice as Richard’s. But where Richard’s suit seemed like a barrier to the people, the man’s drew them toward him. He went to the picture of Fonzie, lowered his head, sto
od there with his hands folded and eyes closed, paying his respects.

  Potsie turned and said to Ralph, purposefully loud enough for Richard to overhear, “Now there’s a guy who never forgot where he came from.”

  “What’s he doing here?” said Ralph. Potsie shrugged.

  The man turned away from Fonzie’s picture and glanced in their direction. He looked astonished. He came over.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re Richard Cunningham.”

  “I am,” Richard said slowly. He had never been recognized in public.

  The man smiled and laughed. It was an imperfect smile that went up much higher on one side of his face than the other. “You wrote my favorite movie.” He took Richard’s hand in his and shook it. “Welcome to Henderson County is a masterpiece.”

  Richard felt his face burn up. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Martin Sealock,” the man said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Richard knew the name but could not place it.

  Potsie said to Sealock, “Sir—”

  Sealock said to him, “Martin. Please.”

  “Oh my name’s not Martin, sir, it’s Potsie—Potsie Weber. But I just wanted to tell you that you’ve got our votes. Ours and everyone else at Sackett-Wilhelm. You really came through for us.”

  “All the way,” said Ralph.

  Now Richard knew who this was. The candidate for governor, from the radio on the drive from the airport. His natural charm and unforced charisma reminded Richard of John F. Kennedy, whom Richie canvassed for in 1960.

  “You knew Fonzie?” Richard said.

  “He was my mechanic.” Then he added, “Best in the state.”

  “Best in the country¸ Fonzie would have said.” They all smiled.

  “Most honest too,” Sealock said. “Margo and I didn’t trust anybody else with our cars.” He tried to catch the eye of one of the women standing in front of Fonzie’s photo. The others were moving past it in a steady stream, but she stood still. They had to part to get around her. She stood out even among all the beauties in the room. She was tall, with a short New Wave haircut, porcelain skin, and bold red lips. She saw Sealock was looking for her and came over. “Know who this is?” Sealock said to her. “Richard Cunningham.” She looked at her husband blankly. She turned to Richard, blinking, seeming to search her brain for where that name had been stored away. In her eyes Richard saw what he took to be worry about coming up empty and seeming rude.