Don was in a nasty mood. “When are you going to fix that stair? I almost killed myself this morning!”
“Look who’s talking,” said Plotnick righteously. “I asked you to come smash up my building? Watch where you’re going!” He turned to Ferguson. “So, Mr. Peach — how much money do you make?”
I slammed my hand down on the tabletop. “Mr. Plotnick, you don’t ask a guy something like that!”
The landlord shrugged. “A person is interested. Six figures maybe?”
The Peach laughed. “They bumped me up fifty bucks a week.”
Plotnick was insulted on Ferguson’s behalf. “If you hold yourself cheap, Mr. Peach, you get treated like a bargain.”
“I’m not exactly a career man,” Ferguson. pointed out. “I’m only going to be there for a couple of months.”
“All the more reason why you should grab fast!” said Donald Trump in a greasy apron. “You let me talk to your thief of a boss, and soon you’ll be on Easy Street. I only charge twenty percent.”
“No, thank you.”
“But you’ll be rich! You’ll live in a penthouse!” I pictured the third floor. “Why? Is the Ugly Man moving out?”
Plotnick ignored my wisecrack. “Don’t think only of yourself, Mr. Peach. Remember, you’ve got two unemployed bums to support.”
I looked over at the other bum. We’d have to find work — and fast!
* * *
At Plastics Unlimited, Ferguson got paid, and Don and I got paid off. We stopped at the bank on Bathurst and put most of the money into a checking account on our three signatures. Our convenience cards would be sent in the mail, but the teller presented us with a checkbook on the spot. None of us had ever written checks before. We were psyched.
As we left the bank, Don couldn’t take his eyes off our passbook. “We’ve got over a thousand dollars.” He grinned. “A thou. A grand.”
“The rent’s coming up tomorrow,” the Peach pointed out.
“Six hundred and eighty-five bucks,” Don shrugged. “We’re rich. Let’s celebrate.”
Before we knew it, he’d hailed a taxi, and we were headed against the traffic downtown. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Tonight is the first night of the rest of our lives as swinging city guys!” declared Mr. Wonderful grandly.
“Well — uh — I was thinking of checking to see if there was any word on the car —”
“You need to forget the car for one night,” advised Don. “We’re going to drown ourselves in loud music, colored lights, and hot babes.”
Ferguson laughed in his face. “Babes?”
“Shut up, Peachfuzz,” snapped Don. “What do you know about women — besides the fact that they all agree what a geek you are? Come on. It’s Friday night! Let’s get some action. Jason, how long’s it been since you broke up with old what’s-her-face?”
I reddened. Amy Loezer, my one and only girlfriend, had ditched me in February. That was just after she made me throw away my Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue because it exploited women. One day I opened her locker, and there was my brother Joe, his muscles oiled, smiling out at me, Mr. February. There was even a lipstick smear on Joe’s bulging biceps. I tore it into a billion pieces, and she never spoke to me again.
“What about you?” I countered. “What was the logic behind you dumping Teresa last month?” Teresa is Don’s ex. She’s going to have trouble deciding whether to be a high-fashion model or a nuclear physicist.
But Don just smiled. “That was a masterstroke. A perfect move.”
“How do you figure that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s the whole point,” Mr. Wonderful argued smugly. “There was no reason to end it with Teresa, so when I did, what did everybody think?”
“That you’re stupid?” suggested Ferguson innocently.
“That I’ve got something going for me even beyond what everybody sees. So I’ve kind of traded Teresa for future considerations — and in September I’ll have my pick of any chick I want all year.”
“But you lost Teresa when you still like her,” I protested.
Don shrugged. “Let’s concentrate on tonight. Now, what’s the key to hooking up with a chick?”
I wasn’t prepared for a quiz. “Uh — I guess if she thinks you’re a nice person —”
“No, no, no,” interrupted Don in exasperation. “Girls say they want nice guys, but they never do.”
The cab stopped in front of a giant neon sign that blazed:
CLUB MOONTRIX — TORONTO’S PREMIER TEEN CLUB
“The first impression is the most important thing,” whispered Don as we paid our admission. “So watch what you do, how you walk, what you say. Take medium-sized steps, and try not to smile so much. It’s better if you look like you’re p.o.-ed about something. Not too much. Just a little.”
Club Moontrix was huge — bigger than the entire Plastics Unlimited plant area. The dancing hadn’t started yet because they were still serving dinner. We got a table and ordered three burgers. The Peach and I wanted pizza, but Mr. Wonderful insisted it would do too much damage to our breath.
“As soon as a girl steps into a place like this,” he told us as we sipped on our Cokes, “she divides all the guys into the nimrods and the cool people. You haven’t even said ‘Hi’ to her yet, and it could be all over if you’re in the wrong category.”
Ferguson signaled the waitress. “Excuse me, do you know if these napkins are made of recycled paper?”
Don held his head. “If you look up nimrod in the dictionary, there’s probably a picture of Peachfuzz.”
As we were eating, the place was steadily filling up. By the time the music started, it was wall-to-wall people. The beat was bone-jarring, and colored lights and lasers electrified the dance floor. If they moved a great place like this to Owen Sound, it would probably be shut down by the police. For this kind of excitement, you couldn’t beat downtown Toronto. We just stood there for a long time, soaking up the atmosphere, and then Don said it was time to mingle with the ladies — “catch a rap,” as he put it.
But we didn’t. Instead, we walked around the club while Don looked at every girl in the place — and I mean every girl. It was like he was shopping for a house. He would walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene, walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene. We must have circled the club five times that way. After about an hour, Ferguson gave up and went to the bathroom to read a book. I was dying to ask somebody to dance, but Don said no.
“Just watch. And take notes.”
Who was I to argue with the guy who dumped Teresa Barstow? Finally, after all that walking and staring, he headed over to the soda bar.
“I guess it’s not our night —” I began sympathetically.
“Are you crazy?” he gasped. “I can’t miss!” He ordered the Moontrix Mountain, the most expensive drink in the place, a giant whipped-cream-topped milkshake float that would fill a toilet bowl. Then he stuck two straws into the concoction and went off to share it with — who?
You had to give Don credit. After carefully scouting out every human female in the building, when he went after his quarry, it looked totally spontaneous — guy sees girl, guy offers drink. He didn’t even say a word. He just pushed a straw in her direction and grinned an invitation.
You saw it coming, but you couldn’t stop it — two thirsty people and a Moontrix Mountain. She lunged at her straw, and Don lunged at his. There was a crack as loud as a gunshot as forehead met forehead. Don staggered back, but the girl crumpled to the floor, unconscious. The entire Moontrix Mountain slipped out of his hand and plopped down right on her head.
There was a lot of screaming and scrambling, and suddenly Mr. Wonderful was at my elbow. “I think we’d better get out of here,” he said. “I just killed that girl.”
“You can’t leave now!” I raged. “She’s out cold!”
Don rubbed his brow. “But when she wakes up, she’s going to be mad!”
I grabbed him and sta
rted dragging him into the fray. “We have to find out if she’s okay.”
We pushed through the crowd of spectators to where the victim lay. Guess who was at the center of everything, directing traffic, barking orders, and applying wet towelettes to the girl’s forehead? Ferguson Peach.
Pretty soon she was on her feet again, although dripping with Moontrix Mountain. She cleaned up a little, and we hustled her out for some air. Even after that vicious coco-bump and a drenching with a giant drink, you could tell she was great-looking. She was tall and slim, with a really natural look to her. She didn’t put on makeup with a trowel like the Stripper. Also, it didn’t hurt that she was wearing a miniskirt, revealing fantastic legs.
We introduced ourselves, and she told us her name was Jessica Lincoln. I booted Don in the back of the leg and looked at him sternly.
“Uh — yeah,” he said, studying his shoes like a four-year-old admitting he’d thrown his Tonka truck through a picture window. “I’m sorry about — you know. It was an accident”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I left myself open.”
“Open?” queried the Peach.
“In my tae kwan do class, they teach us always to expect an attack, no matter how safe you think you may be.”
“So you’re into martial arts?” I jumped in quickly. If we ran out of conversation, she might leave, and I didn’t have her phone number yet.
“Only as self-defense,” said Jessica. “There are all kinds of criminals and lunatics on the streets of this city. I don’t want to become a statistic.”
“Have you ever been mugged?” I asked.
“That’s what scares me,” she admitted. “I’ve lived in Toronto my whole life and I’ve never had the slightest problem.”
“That’s good,” I said. Wasn’t it?
“It means my number could be coming up any minute!” she reasoned. “The law of averages is against me.”
“Actually,” the Peach began, “according to probability theory —”
“What good is probability theory when some drug-crazed maniac is ripping off your watch?” she interrupted.
“We’ve had kind of an incident,” I said, almost proudly. “My brother’s car was stolen.”
Jessica looked triumphant. “Society is one big smelly cesspool. You want to go out somewhere?”
My head snapped to attention. I’d been contemplating the cesspool when she threw out this curve. She was looking straight at Don. No question who she was asking.
Suddenly Mr. Wonderful was alive in the conversation. In ten seconds, he had a taxi. Don, who had been ready to leave Jessica unconscious in a pool of melting milkshake, got the girl. I got “it was very nice meeting you.” I hated both their guts.
“Hold it,” said Jessica as Don was about to climb into the cab beside her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Don was mystified. “Going with you.”
“Not like that you’re not.”
Don surveyed himself in anxiety. Could it be that there was a flaw in the outfit he’d spent hours selecting?
“Your wallet’s in your back pocket!” exclaimed Jessica. “Do you want to make yourself a target for a pickpocket?”
“No way!” agreed Don. This was the guy who refused to carry anything in his front pocket because it threw off the visual symmetry of his lower body. Not only did he move his wallet, but Ferguson and I had to move ours, too.
I stood fuming as they drove off. “I can’t believe it! Why would she go with him?”
Ferguson shrugged. “Maybe society is a smelly cesspool.”
“Don was right about one thing,” I seethed. “Girls really don’t want nice guys. If it wasn’t for us, she’d still be out cold, wearing dessert. He was ready to head for Switzerland. And what do we get? Anti-pickpocket advice!” I pulled out my wallet and jammed it into its former position. “Hey, pickpockets, lookee here! It’s party time!”
The Peach put a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. “At least we know he’s safe from crime. I pity the poor sap who tries to mug her.”
* * *
Since July 1st was Canada Day, and Plotnick refused to do business on a holiday, our rent was due the next morning. I broke in our new checkbook — number 001, to Plotnick, $685. Writing checks makes a guy feel very independent. It almost made me forget my telephone call from my parents, who made boring small talk for twenty minutes, leaving long pauses so I could break down and beg them to come and take me home. I filled in this dead air by raving about Plastics Unlimited, telling them everything about the company except the fact that Don and I didn’t work there anymore.
Don was still bragging about his enchanting evening with Jessica Lincoln. “I was ‘on’ last night, and Jessica knew it. I was the perfect combination of hipness and coolness. You want to know the best part? She lives right near here, just up Bathurst. Convenient or what?”
“Great,” I mumbled, without enthusiasm.
Don didn’t get the message. “I could tell she was really impressed when I bought her a single perfect rose from this vendor on the street.”
“She must have been devastated,” put in Ferguson. “She had her heart set on a bullet-proof vest.”
“Shut up, Peachfuzz,” Don said mildly. Last night had put him in a mellow mood, and not even the Peach could rile him. “You’re just jealous. We’ve got to work on scaring up a woman for you.” He looked thoughtful. “There must be some boring people around. Maybe a lady professor of Stonehenge.”
I was determined not to show it, but my guts were churning. If Mr. Wonderful said one more word, I was going to pop him. Obviously Jessica had no taste at all. Any idiot could see that I would treat her like a queen, and Don would treat her like a customer at the ice cream parlor — take a number and wait — “Now serving number twenty-three.”
I tore out the rent check. “Let’s go pay up.” With the walk to the deli came a pleasant surprise. Plotnick had finally gotten around to having the stair fixed. In fact, he’d had all the stairs fixed, and a new bannister installed. And carpeting.
God’s Grandmother was flitting up and down barefoot, enjoying the new luxury. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed. “I never expected Mr. Plotnick to do all this.”
The bill came to $319. Plotnick handed it to me, skewered on the end of his meat fork.
“Wow,” I said. “How much do we owe you?”
“You’re maybe having trouble with your eyesight, Mr. Cardone? It says $319.”
“Yeah, but that’s for the whole job,” I protested. “What’s our portion?”
Plotnick was patient. “A staircase is like a chain, Mr. Cardone. If one of the links is broken, the whole chain is kaput.”
“Then,” put in Ferguson, “fixing one link would save the whole chain.”
“Better to get a new chain,” said Plotnick evenly. “And that costs $319.”
I could feel my face flaming. “I won’t pay!”
Plotnick shrugged. “That’s your privilege. And just to show you I’m a reasonable man, I’ll hold off my eviction proceedings so your brother can be present in court.”
In Owen Sound, people like Plotnick go to jail. But in Toronto, here he was, holding all the cards. I remembered my brother’s message: Whatever you do, DON’T lose me this lease. Whatever you do. Even if you have to hand over three hundred bucks to this hoodlum in a greasy apron.
“But it was only one stair,” I managed weakly.
Plotnick nodded sympathetically. “Prices these days. Out of sight. Your brother, also Mr. Cardone, used to say that a lot. Nice boy. Big muscles. I’d miss him if he moved away.”
I’ll say this about Plotnick. He certainly knew how to get to the heart of the matter. I looked at Ferguson and Don, who nodded. I wrote him another check, number 002, and felt even more independent — like I was alone on a desert island surrounded by crocodiles.
With two of us unemployed, and Ferguson’s next paycheck six and a half long da
ys away, we were left with exactly $17.60 to live on — $5.86 per person for next week.
FIVE
Living for a week on seventeen bucks was a special talent. Fortunately we still had some groceries left — nothing fancy — soup, sandwiches, Kraft Dinner, and cereal for breakfast. A care package of bran muffins from Mrs. Peach arrived by mail, and we were really thrilled until we found out that Ferguson’s mom bakes hockey pucks. It was agreed, even by the Peach, that only after going through the garbage would we resort to the muffins.
Every penny counted. We had enough cash to send Ferguson on the bus to and from stupid Plastics Unlimited, but if Don or I got jobs out of the neighborhood, we would have to walk. As for entertainment — forget it.
We were still stinging from the big rip-off, especially Don. Things always went perfectly for Mr. Wonderful, so he had no experience in dealing with anything less than sunshine and roses. He seemed more bewildered than upset. Plotnick had overloaded his brain.
“I still don’t see how he can get away with it!” Don seethed. “Surely there must be some board of review or something that we can complain to!”
“I’m sure there is,” I said. “We’d probably win, too. But by the time all the technicalities got straightened out, it would be months — maybe years! And Joe would be back from Europe, kicked out of his apartment, and we’d be wrapped in plastic, sitting in the supermarket with the rest of the hamburger!”
“Well, maybe,” said Don. “But it stinks. I mean — things aren’t supposed to go this way.”
It didn’t make us feel any better when an envelope arrived from my brother in England. Inside was a snapshot of Joe, carrying a gorgeous blonde through the surf. On the back was scribbled: Me and Daphne at Brighton. P.S. I forgot to warn you. If you break something in Plotnick’s building, don’t tell him, or he’ll fix up the whole place and try to make you pay for it.
Losing Joe's Place Page 4
