by Graham Parke
“A change of venue for the thing?” The receptionist sounded confused. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
I knew it! Dr. Hargrove had lied to me. There was no work thing on Friday!
“Are you sure you have the right number?” the receptionist asked. “What did you say was the name of your catering company?”
I was tempted to hang up, but worried the receptionist might track me through caller ID and this whole thing would find its way back to Dr. Hargrove. So instead I made up a fake name. “I’m with the, eh… Eat Something Sweet caterers. Surely you remember contacting us?”
There was a pause. Some mumbling. The sound of someone typing on a cream-colored keyboard, then, “You did say Eat Something Sweet caterers?”
“Yes, that’s right. Maybe I have the wrong number–”
“I have you down for Dr. Franklin’s retirement party on Friday.” She still sounded puzzled. “There hasn’t been a change of venue, though. Are you absolutely sure we contacted you about a change of venue?”
“I think so, yes…” This was one for the books. Had I just correctly guessed the name of the company catering the thing on Friday? Surely not! Surely there was No Hope for Gomez? Had to test this theory further, “Could be a mistake on our end,” I said. “Is the party still in the Waterton building?”
“The downtown conference center.”
“Right. And it starts at ten?”
“Eight.”
“And there’s no dress code?”
“Black tie.”
“Exactly. That’s what I have here as well. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
30.
Blog entry: Showed up at Dr. Franklin’s retirement party uninvited. Needed to make sure Dr. Hargrove was there, and that she was there alone. To this end, I wore an elaborate disguise that made me look like a caterer from a rivaling company. This way I could appear to be part of the help while still looking unfamiliar to the Eat Something Sweet caterers. If I ran into any of them, I’d do an ‘Oops, wrong party’ and re-enter later. Once all the way inside, I’d ditch the disguise. I was wearing my father’s old suit and tie underneath.
My plan was foolproof.
It was also, it turned out, entirely unnecessary. No one was tending the registry and the caterers where nowhere to be seen. I ditched my disguise at the door and entered as guest no. 173.
Blog entry: The main conference hall was a huge space with drinks and snacks tables lining the walls. A small podium had been set up at the front, and 172 other guests mingled in little clusters dispersed randomly about the room. I couldn’t find Dr. Hargrove so I made my way to one of the drinks tables. I wanted to find something to hold in my hand to make me feel less self-conscious. There was an assortment of beers on offer, but no Foster’s. I found the next best thing and gulped down a glass. Then took a second to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the first. Then a third to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the second. By the fourth beer, my taste buds were beaten sufficiently senseless to stop objecting to the cheap crap, and I scanned the crowd with renewed vigor.
Dr. Hargrove was nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell are you doing here!” Dr. Hargrove hissed. She’d crept up behind me. “I told you we can’t be seen together. Get out of here, Gomez!”
“Why, if it isn’t Dr. Hargrove,” I said, out loud, as I turned to face her. “Fancy meeting you here, completely unexpected and unplanned.”
“What are you up to?” She whispered this into her hand while looking away. “You’re going to get me fired!”
“I’m so happy to see you’re actually here,” I said, a little less loud and for her ears only.
“Are you checking up on me?”
“What? No! Of course not. I’m here to, eh… save you.”
She glanced at me for a moment, her eyes shooting daggers.
“From boredom.” I added sheepishly. “Haven’t you heard? Three guests have died already, two more are in low spirits, but they could develop complications. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.” I showed her my crossed fingers.
Dr. Hargrove shook her head and stalked off.
I quickly gulped down another beer before I could contemplate how severely I’d just damaged the most important almost-relationship in my life.
Yet again.
Blog entry: Scanned the crowd while trying to determine my next move. I knew no one else there. None of the other trial participants had shown up, of course, and chasing after Dr. Hargrove would be a bad idea. We needed to talk things over, but I wanted her to calm down first.
Took another sip of beer and tried to look much less self-conscious than I felt.
A gray-haired gentlemen approached me and shook my hand. “Hey there,” he said, “I’m Larry.” He gave me a congenial smile. “You’re chucking those fellows back awfully fast, aren’t you?” He pointed at my empty glass.
“Well, Larry,” I said, “that’s the only way I can keep ’em down; knock ’em back before they can climb out again. Know what I’m saying?”
Larry’s smile wavered. “You know,” he said, “friend of mine lost his job a couple of years back. Couldn’t handle it and started drinking. Dug himself a deep hole. The thing was, he didn’t even realize he had a problem.”
I nodded gravely. “That’s very sad, Larry,” I said.
Although I was relieved to be talking to someone, I searched for someone to match Larry up with. What was wrong with people these days? Couldn’t a guy have a few beers to drown a personal problem without getting caught up in a makeshift intervention?
“After we talked to him,” Larry said, “told him the things we’d noticed, my friend finally realized something was wrong. He understood something had to change.”
“That’s great, Larry,” I said. “That’s a really nice story, thanks for sharing. It means a lot to me but I actually have to–”
“Then,” Larry continued, ignoring my platitudes, “he worked things out for himself on a mountaintop in Tibet. Came back right as rain. Told us how he finally found himself. Now,” Larry took my empty glass and placed it back on the table, “I’m not saying you should go to Tibet, it might not be instrumental, but you might want to think about talking to someone, going somewhere to sort things out, maybe go find yourself?”
Blog entry: We were beginning to draw attention. More and more people joined the intervention. They all shot me concerned looks as they shook their heads. They were trying to save my life, my happiness, my eternal soul, and what was worse, they were doing it while blocking the drinks table.
I found myself crabby from slightly too little alcohol and having to mount a defense against a very confusing and unfocussed attack. “Look,” I said, “you’ve got it all wrong. You’ve got me all wrong and you’ve got your story all wrong. You want me to go find myself? Seriously? That’s a stupid idea on so many levels!”
I had a sudden flash of insight. I grabbed a glass of champagne from one of my would-be saviors and gulped it down before they could react. “Nobody,” I said, “should ever try to find themselves.” I handed the empty glass back. “I mean, what if, after all that traveling and sitting on mountaintops you finally find yourself and you turn out to be an asshole? How’s that going to make you feel? Not so happy, right? You’re stuck with yourself for the rest of your life, and now you know, beyond a doubt, that you’re an asshole. Great!” I stole another drink, gulped it down, lost my crabbiness and felt a buzz take its place. “No, thanks,” I said. “If you ask me, ignorance is bliss!”
Blog entry: My saviors mumbled disapprovingly. They didn’t like the way I was treating their drinks and they didn’t see my point about finding oneself. I was about to clarify what I suddenly felt was a very valid observation, when I spotted Dr. Hargrove. She was standing not five feet away, kissing another guy. A large, fat, older guy!
How could things turn so badly so quickly?
I fought my way out of the intervention circle and hurried over. Aft
er a kiss on each cheek, Dr. Hargrove pulled back, smiling. I was about to knock the guy to the ground when I realized it was probably Dr. Franklin, the guest of honor. So I tugged on his sleeve to get his attention instead. The cheap champagne had me convinced that this was proper conduct, especially at a party where the guest of honor was bound to be a very lonely person. People tended to congratulate them and move on.
“Howz’it hanging, big guy?” I asked. I gave him a salute, just in case he mistakenly thought I was making fun of him. “Have you ever wondered,” I asked, a thought suddenly occurring to me, “why so many people call you the king of rock and roll?”
Dr. Franklin frowned at this, and even Dr. Hargrove looked suitably perplexed. I immediately diverted all my mental resources to helping them solve this conundrum. “It’s a tough one,” I agreed. “It really is. I mean, you don’t even play an instrument, do you?”
Dr. Franklin stared at me, wrapped up in the conundrum.
“No, I didn’t think you did. So that can’t be it. It must be something else, but what?”
Dr. Hargrove pulled on my arm, trying to wrestle me away. But I couldn’t leave Dr. Franking to solve this mystery on his own, not now I’d suddenly come up with the answer. “Wait,” I said, “forget all about that, that wasn’t you, that was Elvis! Elvis was the king of rock and roll!” I scratched my head. “Now, what was it they called you? It’s on the tip of my tongue. It was something to do with cats and large amounts of body fat…”
Blog entry: The rest of the evening passed in a blur. My memories of it consist of brief flashes. In some, Dr. Hargrove’s there, looking alternately angry and worried. In others, large and serious looking people seem to be handling me. In one or two, I see Warren milling about, but I can’t be sure. For the most part, though, there was blackness. Lots and lots of blackness.
31.
Blog entry: My return to consciousness was slow and painful. As I drifted out of my coma-like state, I sensed that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the pounding on the inside of my skull, or the feeling of something trying to burrow its way out of my stomach. No, what tipped me off was the pink nighty I was wearing and the abundance of flowers decorating my room. They covered every flat surface in sight.
Flowers on the coffee table, which I didn’t remember owning.
Flowers on the bookcase, which I couldn’t quite place.
Flowers on the TV, which was a feat of stupidity as well as balance as it was one of those flat screen models which, in fact, I was still thinking of buying.
Blog entry: The pounding in my head and the aching stomach could easily be explained of, course, the odor of alcohol in the room was a solid hint. I had no reason to believe that the origins of the nighty, the flowers, and the TV were any different. What I couldn’t fathom, however, was how I’d managed to procure all these items after midnight and at such short notice – my original couch took eight weeks to be delivered!
Had I been unconscious for two months?
I sat up and tested my limbs. They worked, if rather sluggishly. The pounding subsided, but my attention was drawn to my mouth, which was dry like the desert floor. I needed to find water.
I had apparently fallen asleep on the couch in the living room, which was more comfortable than I’d given it credit for. Nonetheless, I felt like I had just died.
I stifled a painful yawn.
Blog entry: “Feeling any better?”
Dr. Hargrove emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing one of my T-shirts – the pink one with the lacy neckline and the bunny on the front.
“You threw up all over your shirt last night,” she said, “so I hoisted you into one of my nighties. Hope you don’t mind?”
All I could do was smile.
I Rule!
I Rock!
I Rock ’n Rule!
Blog entry: Dr. Hargrove pointed at a chair in the corner. My pants were folded neatly over the back. “I didn’t want you to ruin your nice pants,” she said, “so I took them off.”
A sudden flashback reminded me how I had very nearly killed our fledgling relationship the previous evening. And, apparently, I had continued on my wanton path of destruction undeterred. Yet, here she was, all friendly and half naked. All smiles with wild bedroom hair. That had to be a good sign.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Thanks for looking out for me, that was really nice of you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
She turned and headed to my kitchen. There she filled my new water cooker and set it to boil on my re-painted kitchen top. Somewhere, I could sense my wallet crying. “Cup of tea?” she asked.
“That would be great, thanks.”
Dr. Hargrove was amazing. I watched her beautiful body move about my kitchen and marveled at how she instinctively knew where everything was. Even the things I didn’t know I owned, even the things I was sure I’d put somewhere else.
She brought the tea to the living room and handed me my cup. I drank greedily, although it was still a little hot.
“You might want to take it easy today,” she warned. She sipped her tea leaning against the bedroom wall, which, for no good reason, I appeared to have moved into the living room. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your hangover lasted a while.” She shot me a knowing smile. “You were going at it quite hard last night.”
I nodded and drank some more.
“And be sure to get plenty of liquids,” she added. “You’re probably dehydrated.”
“I will,” I said. “Again, I want to thank you for taking such good care of me. I hope you won’t get into trouble at work?”
She waved it away. “I guess we’ll find out.” She didn’t seem overly worried. “If worse comes to worst,” she said, “we’ll have to tell them you have a harmless little crush on me.” She gave me a wink.
Blog entry: Finally reached the store after wandering around town for hours. Hicks was waiting, so we opened up together. I hardly noticed his hysteria. For the first few hours there weren’t any customers so I helped Hicks clean up. Started with the windows (which I cleaned on the outside), then moved the boxes of administration to the storage room. Hicks balked at this, mostly because I didn’t follow his preliminary plan of action. Eventually, though, he went to the back to sweep up.
I wanted to make the store really nice. Dr. Hargrove might drop by someday to see where I worked and I wanted her first impression to be one of professionalism, of success.
I moved through the store swiftly and happily, putting things in order. I was careful not to disturb the dust on the older pieces, as it lent the place an air of class.
Blog entry: While cleaning up, my mind kept going over the events of that morning. Although it’d been a very pleasant experience, I now realized I might’ve suffered a slight case of hangover-induced confusion. My sheer joy at seeing Dr. Hargrove in the morning had allowed me to temporarily disconnect from reality. I wanted so badly to see her at my place, wearing my T-shirt, that I’d mentally substituted her house for my apartment.
No problem, though. It had mostly gone unnoticed. No harm, no foul.
Blog entry: Hicks returned from the back. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Something’s up, Gomez.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Hicks waved the tip of his broom at me. “Don’t give me that,” he said. “In all these years, I’ve never seen you smile so often. Are you mentally ill?”
“Of course not!”
“Delusional?”
“No! Can’t a guy just be in a good mood? Can’t a guy just enjoy himself for no particular reason?”
I didn’t want to jinx my almost-relationship with Dr. Hargrove by talking about it too soon, so, for now, I’d keep it to myself.
“Well,” Hicks said, shooting me a suspicious look. “if you don’t want to tell me, fine. But whatever it is, stop it. You’re making my hair itch!”
Blog entry: Closed up at five and wandered around town, then returned to Dr. Hargrove’s by mi
stake. I was backtracking my route from the morning, as I do every day, and realized too late that I’d sat down at what was not my kitchen table, to eat what was not my soup, using what was my spoon, but only because I happened to have it on me and Dr. Hargrove hadn’t finished setting the table.
Far too embarrassed to admit my mistake, I pretended to have arrived on purpose. I finished the soup.
Apparently Dr. Hargrove hadn’t heard me come in. She let out a startled cry when she returned from the kitchen. Other than that the meal proceeded well. Especially considering the fact that the first thing Dr. Hargrove asked me, as I took some bread from her plate, was how my day had been.
32.
Blog entry: Spent the next couple of nights at Dr. Hargrove’s place.
Wasn’t entirely sure whether she expected me to leave and I didn’t want to appear like the kind of guy who’d only sleep on her couch when he was violently ill. That might give her the wrong impression. So I returned to her place day after day, waiting for her to kick me out.
She didn’t.
In fact, by the third night she complained about having to launder two sets of sheets. When I asked her what the solution might be, she mumbled something about using the couch only for sitting and her bed for sleeping. It made more sense, she said, as her bed was far too large for just one person anyway.
I’m not one to make trouble.
Blog entry: Meanwhile, Hicks was getting more agitated by the day. He broke out in hives and shingles, and his gums bled at random intervals.
Wasn’t sure what was causing this.
Told him to concentrate on his window displays and his sweeping, and not to worry about any other duties. He could do as much or as little as he felt comfortable with. Hopefully, this would cheer him up, help restore his health back to its normal levels.
