Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

  Life events are just real estate transactions with Hallmark cards attached to them. Cynical but true.

  When I walk inside, the bells on the door tinkle in time with a chorus of “Sebastian!”

  “Hi, girls!” I wave at the regular cast of misfits. Today I spot at least five of my closest octogenarian girlfriends, wiggling and bouncing in the automatic massage chairs. I should’ve guessed they’d be here. It’s Wednesday, and that’s when the bus from Clark Retirement Home brings them to the salon and then to the grocery store.

  I’m immediately comforted by the smell of acetone, the sound of bubbling water, and Bella, the Slavic commander telling me in her thick Russian accent to “Sit. Now. Do it.”

  Ahhh. To be told what to do. It reminds me of Ash. God, I love bossy women.

  I stoop to roll my pants while Bella studies me. “You want polish today?” she barks at me.

  The octogenarians giggle, because this is a schtick I have with Bella.

  “Not today,” I say as always. Then I stage-whisper to the ladies. “I’m getting mauve the next time. Saving it for a special occasion.”

  Pearl smiles wide and says, “Go with coral. It’s more your color.” Pearl is the feisty one of the group.

  “Enough,” says Bella and she points to the water. I salute and sit down. It feels…so good. I sort of just sink into the chair and exhale. Bella starts to work me over. She’s very militant in her approach to my feet.

  “Your feet look bad. You not take care. I tell you to come in once a week! You a slacker.”

  “I know, sweet Bella, but I’ve been busy.”

  “No! Never too busy for pedicure. That is failure talking.”

  I nod because she’s right.

  She shoves my feet in the hot water and then aggressively begins smoothing down my calluses. The bubbling water allows my thoughts to drift a bit.

  But I’m not truly relaxed. I’ve given myself two days to do…what? Fix everything. My parents not only ruined mine and Bramly’s childhood with their pyramid scheme, but they ruined countless others. I can’t make amends to all of them. I don’t know who they are, but I can help the Powers.

  Isn’t it just the universe laughing at me to make the one person on the planet I’m head over heels for, be the one person I’ll never be able to love once she finds out the truth?

  “What is wrong with you.” Bella says. She tends not to ask questions. She likes statements much more. “You not being fun Braht. You being serious and whiny Braht.”

  It’s like seeing an unforgiving therapist. “I’ve got something on my mind,” I say.

  “Tell it.” She gives my feet a sharp shove. She’s not asking me to tell her what’s on my mind, she’s ordering me to.

  Pearl says, “You better say something or we’re going to start talking about how many of us have had moles removed lately.” There’s a chorus of “I have,” and I’m a little bit terrified.

  So I tell them the whole thing. I tell them about my deep fascination and love for Ash, how we’ve connected, how when I look at office supplies now I feel frisky.

  Then I tell them how my parents were terrible people and abandoned me but also ruined Ash’s life. I tell them about Dweeb. That fucker. I can’t help but get a little angry about that. I tell them the whole story.

  “So I’m going to lose her,” I say after it all tumbles out. “But I can’t let her go until this fuckwad she used to be married to is rearrested.”

  That’s the end of the story. I take a deep breath and wait.

  There’s a lot of blinking. Everyone looks at Bella for her words of wisdom.

  “You are being, how do you say…?” She strokes her mustache. “You are being a pussy.”

  There’s a kind of stunned silence, but then Maura at the end, petite, kindly Maura, whispers, “Actually, being a pussy is a good thing now. We’ve taken back that word. I think Braht needs to be more like a pussy. Dark and mysterious and oh so very powerful.”

  There is a collective “Ahhh!” and everyone nods.

  “Okay, yes!” Bella agrees. “Good. You need to stop being so whiny and be more powerful like a pussy.”

  I’m trying to process all of this. I really am.

  Bella is still thinking hard. So hard she’s stopped buffing my toes for a bit, and she’s holding one of my feet in a tight grip. “You need to be more like, oh, what was that movie? It was movie that convinced me to come to America? He wears a bandana. He carries big gun. He no take shit from no one.” I have no idea what to answer, but it turns out I don’t have to. She snaps her fingers. “Rambo! You need to be strong like Rambo pussy, and not whiny like tiny Braht.”

  Goddammit.

  This is some of the weirdest advice I’ve ever received. But I think there’s some truth in there. “You have a unique way of looking at the world, you know?”

  “Just truth,” she snarls.

  I fucking love this place.

  A pair of soft hands touches my arm, and I look down to see Pearl has gotten out of her seat and approached me. “Here you go,” she says and hands me a knitted pink scarf. “You tie that around your head like a Rambo bandana and you go get that motherfucker!”

  All the ladies are delighted by this idea. There are cheers and cat whistles.

  What can I do? My octogenarian friends are gazing at me with hope in their eyes. Bella looks at me like if I refuse, she’s going to throw me in the gulag.

  So I tie that pink hand-knitted scarf around my head. But only for the remaining duration of my pedi. Even I have limits.

  While Bella finishes up on my feet, I consider my options. There are two tasks I must accomplish. One thing is crystal clear—fix Ash’s financial woes. The other thing is a little trickier. I have to discipline Dwight. I’m not going to be allowed to look after Ash anymore, that’s clear. But I’ll be damned if he’s going to fuck with her.

  I chew on that for a bit.

  Ash

  * * *

  That evening I insist on working late at the real estate office. I’m hoping to shake all my bodyguards. But it doesn’t work. Tom insists on accompanying me. At five o’clock sharp he parks his butt in Braht’s desk chair, puts on a pair of headphones and commences editing video on his laptop. “You won’t even know I’m here,” is the last thing he says to me.

  As if I could miss his big self in that chair, though. And he keeps chuckling as he works. Everything is happy-happy-joy-joy in Tom and Brynn’s life right now, and I’m glad for them. Brynn deserves her happiness.

  Maybe I’ll deserve mine, too, once I shake off my spoiled only-child woes and fulfill my duty.

  Two hours ago I published the MLS listing with the cottage on it, then sent the link to my parents. The photos are unflattering, but everything else is ship shape. I need the listing to be real but not so appealing that we get a flood of interest immediately. The season is on my side. People don’t shop for beach houses in late November. The holidays aren’t great in real estate.

  Now it’s time to shift the plan into high gear. I take a deep breath and let it out. Lying has never been fun for me, so this won’t come easily. Stalling, I line up my stapler with my pencil sharpener and check the order of my pens. None of my office supplies are having sex, which means we’re all having a dry spell. Maybe that’s why I’m in such a low mood.

  That and the life-changing call I’m about to make.

  I lift the handset and dial. Finally. It rings twice before my mother answers. “Hi sweetie! Still at work? Have you eaten?”

  Aw. She’s always been the kind of mom who looks after me. Now I can finally return the favor. “I ate,” I promise her. “Brynn fed me a burrito. Did you get a chance to look at the listing?”

  “I did.” She sighs. “Thank you for doing this. It was hard to see our beautiful home for sale.”

  “I know.”

  “Everything looks fine. Those pictures don’t really put everything in the best light, though.”

  “Well.” I give
a nervous giggle. “They were meant to be temporary until I could get a real camera in there. But I was calling to tell you something important. We have an offer already.”

  “Really.” The word comes out breathy. “Oh, I’m not ready!”

  “I know, Mom.” It’s going to be okay, but I can’t tell her that. “It’s just a little discount to your offer price. So it’s a pretty good offer. And since I found the buyer myself, that means you would save a hundred percent of the commission.”

  She’s silent for a long moment. “I’ll tell your father,” she whispers.

  “Okay.” Don’t take too long, I want to urge. “It’s a good offer. You think about it.”

  “You mean…” She swallows. “We should probably take it.”

  “Probably,” I say. “The buyer will put twenty-five percent down, so the odds of the sale going through are pretty good. She doesn’t need to close immediately, either. Springtime would be fine with this buyer.” Because this buyer needs to sell her house lickety-split.

  “Right,” my mom says tightly. “I need a night to get used to the idea.”

  “Of course,” I say quickly. “I’ll email you the precise terms she laid out. Take a breath, Mom. Talk to Dad. Have a glass of wine. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. Thank you for all your help.”

  “My pleasure,” I say, because it really is. I would do anything for them. They helped me start over once before. I can start over again for them. I can rent a shoebox somewhere or—if absolutely necessary—look at roommate wanted listings.

  I’ll do it for them.

  We hang up and I shut my computer down for the night. I nudge Tom to tell him that I’m ready to go. And while he finishes up his work, I open my planner and choose a color theme for the day. It’s yellow and spring green. Sunny colors, for the sunny outlook that I will grab onto with both hands.

  I could add, in script, Today is the first day of the rest of my life. But I don’t, because please, bitch. Motivation is everything—but motivational quotes with butterflies above them are tacky.

  Tom and I are just standing up to go when Dennie gallops in the front door. Usually he’s more of a shuffler, but not today. He’s so excited he practically whinnies. “Ash!” he yells, charging toward me.

  Tom slides his big body in front of mine and says, “Who’s looking for her?”

  Dennie pulls up short. “Uh, I could come back?” He looks at both of us and then quickly says, “But I have an offer on her property. They wanted to deal just with me. Me! A real bona fide offer, from some very important people. They’re foreign!”

  For one fraction of a second, my heart soars. Because it’s in my DNA to get excited whenever someone says, “I have an offer.” “Very important people” is good, too.

  But then I remember what it’s for, and my stomach drops. “Wait, really?” I say, sidestepping Tom. “You have an offer on the beach cottage?” Inside I say, “MY cottage?”

  “Sure do!” He beams. “Right at the asking price.”

  I won’t panic yet, because an asking price offer isn’t high enough to derail me. My parents would have to pay Dennie a commission, so his offer is still actually worse than my lower one. It’s close, but no cigar, as they say. “Well done, Dennie,” I say, trying to make it enthusiastic, but mostly I think I just sound constipated. “I’ll let the clients know. You’ll hear from us later tonight, maybe.”

  “Awesome!” he says. Then he trots back outside.

  When the door shuts, I let out a groan.

  “What’s the problem?” Tom asks.

  “Nothing, really. It’s great,” I say with the phoniest of smiles. The problem is that Dennie has just screwed up my easy sale. I can feel it in my gut. Where there’s one offer, there’s more.

  Tom takes me back to Brynn’s place. We eat dinner together—spaghetti and meatballs.

  Then I call Dennie and gently inform him that the sellers have a better offer.

  “Oh, blast,” he says. “Let me check in with them. Maybe we can improve.”

  Shit.

  With that done, now all I have to do is sit here alone and worry.

  Tom and Brynn are putting a set together for their Christmas special. I don’t really understand why they need one, but they’re in the garage and there’s the sound of giggling and things banging around. I’m pretty sure the “banging around” is just good old-fashioned banging. It’s why I turn up the music and pour myself a gallon of sauvignon blanc. I need to crunch some numbers.

  And those numbers are not crunching the way I want them to.

  I just don’t have enough money to improve my offer on the house very much. Unless my own place sold quickly, there simply isn’t any wiggle room. If I cash in my one and only CD, I can add another 3k to my offer. I pray that it’s enough.

  I’m sure the other won’t offer any more. I mean, sight unseen, and with those terrible pictures. I’ll just tell this bidder that the sellers are accepting another offer.

  But when I get him on the phone, that’s not how things go. “It’s unbelievable!” Dennie cries, and my stomach starts to sink before he gets the rest out. “They’ve added twenty-five grand to the offer! Can you believe it? This is so exciting. If you close in the spring, they won’t even need a loan.”

  Twenty-five grand? It’s the kiss of death for me. I can’t compete. If I empty my account, if I sell all of my furniture, it still won’t be enough.

  Though this is a great deal for my parents. They’ll get a nice chunk of money to buy their dream retirement condo.

  But I’ve just lost the last bit of constancy in my life. It feels really lonely.

  “It’s great,” I tell Dennie. I know I sound fake, but I can’t help it. I’m doing the best I can here. “Offer accepted.” I hang up while Dennie is screaming with pure joy.

  I take a big ol’ sip of my wine and just burst into tears.

  25 Noodles of Confrontation

  Braht

  “You’ve reached Hank Miller,” the voicemail message says. I take a deep breath, preparing for a long and confusing message. Then I hear, “This is Hank Miller. You called me, Braht. What do you need? Is that fucker messing with you? I’ve got some people who could deal with him. I could do some outsourcing.”

  Huh. Not a message at all. “Ah. Outsourcing! Good idea.”

  He grunts. “Yeah. I went to this CEO retreat where everyone had to do trust falls and write up action plans. My takeaway was that I needed to outsource more often. Busting up people’s faces doesn’t have a good rate of investment for me currently.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. “No, I don’t need his face busted. Mostly I’m looking for advice.”

  “Okay. Shoot.” I swear I can hear him lean back in his squeaky office chair and take a deep drink of Scotch. And is that the faint sound I hear of a saxophone solo in the distance? He’s classic detective noir.

  “I’m still able to track him and I think I want to approach him.”

  “Approach him?” Hank sounds genuinely baffled. “But not to bust his face?”

  “No. I was thinking more of making a deal between two gentlemen. If he lays off Ash, then I won’t…I don’t know exactly.”

  “You won’t turn over a heap of evidence I’ve uncovered for you that will get his tweedle dick put back in jail?”

  That’s quite the suggestion. “You are a prince among men, Hank.”

  He snorts. “Look, you wanted my advice. If you approach this guy, grab onto his balls like you’re trying to make a pancake sandwich, rough up his face, give him a wedgie, wrap him up all Christmas-y in duct tape, and then you throw his ass in jail. Preferably after you’ve set him on fire.”

  “Well…”

  “Too gruesome for you? You could always outsource it.”

  Hank is full of good ideas. “Not really my style.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Then Hank says, “Or you could play it your way. Be all friendly like. Make a gentlemanly dea
l with him. I just have one word of warning for you.”

  “Okay. What’s that?”

  “That Dwight Engersoll ain’t no gentleman.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  “Watch for the email I’m sending over. It’s full of evidence. And have a great Christmas!” Hank says and ends the call.

  An hour later, I’ve parked my car and I’m bundled up in my Burberry coat and Icelandic scarf. I’ve followed the dot on my phone app into a seedier part of downtown Grand Rapids. It’s a formerly industrial area down by the arena, with bumpy streets and bad lighting.

  But the parking is super cheap. So I’ve got that going for me.

  Dwight’s car is parked outside of a noodle shop called Pho Queue. I stare up at the sign and try to decide whether or not the shop owner knows how that sounds.

  It could really go either way.

  My target is easily visible just inside the nearly empty storefront. He’s sitting at a bright orange table looking grumpy.

  I’d planned to confront him privately, but maybe this is for the best. It’s starting to snow on me out here, and it’d be really picturesque if I weren’t pissed. So I decide to just get it over with, right here in the noodle shop. Besides, if Dwight turns out to be more than I can handle, the owner of Pho Queue might call 911.

  Or not. When I walk inside there’s only one big man behind the counter. His nose is pierced so many times I wonder how he can pass through a metal detector. Also, he looks even grumpier than Dwight.

  On the plus side of things, the place smells amazing. There’s a spicy, meaty scent in the air, and a hint of basil. And now I’m starving. Grief is sort of exhausting, and I really could use the calories.

  “What do you want?” grunts the scary dude behind the counter.

  “Spicy tonkotsu,” I hear myself say. “With braised pork belly.”

  “Twelve fifty.” The guy gives me an evil gaze that my pedicurist would envy, and then disappears in back.