The Best Bad Dream

by Robert Ward

  Johnny turned around to meet the next guest and was shocked to see an amazingly overweight man with an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth. He gave Johnny a thumbs-up as Millie listed his many contributions to the city’s well-being.

  “He kept the powers that be—the others powers that be, that is—from turning the city into one giant strip mall,” Millie said.

  “Way to go, dude,” Johnny said, backing away from the grotesque figure as fast as possible.

  The rest of the guests were equally distinguished and equally worn-out looking.

  There was a guy named Russell who was trussed up in a back brace. And there was Sally Amoros, a once beautiful blonde opera singer who was all hunched over due to osteoporosis. And there was some guy named Desmond, who was apparently a comptroller but who made sure to tell Johnny that he only had one real leg, having lost the other one to diabetes. And there were more: a woman named Helena who had a crushed hand, a guy with an eye patch, and another woman named Suzanne Lutz, who had a tumor sticking out of her neck. Some of these people were on the council and others were on some fund-raising committee called “the choosers,” whatever that was.

  God, what a group of freaks. Johnny looked around and it was all he could do not to break into hysterical laughter. (Or was it a scream? He wasn’t quite sure.)

  Being in a room of old, totally beat-to-shit people set his heart beating and his mind racing.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to get a flamethrower and incinerate the whole lot of them?

  Finally, he could stand the tension building inside him no longer.

  “Hey, Marty,” he called out. “We ready to play?”

  “Of course we are,” Marty responded in his most affable voice.

  “What’re the stakes?” Johnny asked, taking out his newly stolen cue.

  “That’s strictly up to you,” Marty said, smiling.

  “All right, dude,” Johnny said. “How about three hundred a game? For starters.”

  “Fine,” Marty said. “Three hundred it is. Follow me.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Phil headed down the hallway to Annie’s condo door. He had already forgotten all about Dee Dee. It was kind of amazing. Soon he’d get his hip operation and he’d be a new man. Hell, he was still young, and he could hire lawyers that would keep her from getting one red cent.

  He’d keep all the money from the business, and he’d be available for women who appreciated him, great-looking pert-breasted women like Annie.

  But not just Annie. Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He was going to have many women, the more the merrier. White women, Indian women, Chinese women, Thai women—oh, man, just the thought of Thai women—every kind of woman he could imagine. Because he was going to travel, seek out all kinds of new sexual adventures.

  To hell with one woman. To hell with all that “I thee wed” crap.

  He was going to be a swinging dude!

  And he was starting right fucking now, baby!

  He rang the doorbell to Room 101. Inside he could hear Sinatra singing “Young at Heart.” Perfect, ‘cause that’s what he was going to be from now on.

  Young at heart, baby. You bet!

  The door opened and there was Annie. Dressed in a tight sweater and skinny jeans, she looked like a million bucks.

  “Hey, there, Phil,” she said. “Come on in.”

  He walked inside and saw a bunch of other guests hanging out, talking animatedly. They were eating caviar and drinking champagne from a wet bar that was in the corner across the room.

  Annie made eyes at Phil and he felt the delicious sliver of sexual longing throughout his body.

  This, he thought, was more like it.

  “This is great,” Phil said. “Fantastic.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, a lingering kiss that gave him chills down his neck.

  “Have some champagne,” she said. “Then there are some guests I want you to meet.”

  She led him toward the bar. There was a very pretty barmaid, part Mexican, named Sylvia. A barmaid who smiled at him in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  Hell, he thought. He was as attractive as ever.

  Unlike that guy over in the corner. The old guy with so many rings of flesh hanging off his neck that he looked like one of those redwood trees. Each ring must stand for twenty years, which, from the look of him, would make him at least 150 years old.

  And the woman he was with? She looked like a weed in a dress.

  Why, the two of them reminded him of so many people he used to, well, best not to think about all that.

  The lawsuits, and the anger, and the half-crazed relatives coming to harass him . . .

  No, best to have this lovely glass of Perrier-Jouët and think about now . . . now and the future.

  All that old-folks unpleasantness was in the past.

  As his shrink had told him just last month, before he and Dee Dee had won a prize to come down to Blue Wolf for a week, all expenses paid, he had survived the serious ugliness and was a happy, happy man.

  He drank the bubbly and smiled. Yes, sir, this was going to be quite a night.

  Now Annie was refilling his glass, and Phil started to protest but then thought better of it. Why not? Why the hell not?

  Annie smiled at him. God, she had a bright, white-toothed grin.

  Phil hadn’t really noticed it before, but her teeth actually glowed with good health.

  It was pretty incredible. You couldn’t tell just what the hell age she was. She might have had some work done, as they said, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Not that he was at all against her if she had. Who wanted to look old, like the two ancient geeks in the corner who were still looking over and smiling at him, like they were in love with him or something . . . Or was it more than that? Those smiles seemed almost knowing. Yeah, isn’t that what they called it in books? “Knowing smiles.”

  But that was ridiculous. What could those two old crocks know anyway?

  Nada. Nothing. Zero.

  He walked into the other room and started meeting people.

  Young, attractive people. Annie’s friends. Some great-looking women, too.

  This was his new scene. No question about it. Youth, vigor, and action.

  That was what the new Philly was all about.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Johnny had to admit that the game room was awesome, all oak and brass. And the table was terrific, deep green felt that looked like a summer lawn on a great estate.

  Johnny could scarcely believe his luck. It was as though the table had been invented expressly for him.

  All his fears of losing to the old crock vanished and he played the best games of his life.

  Playing straight pool he ran the first ten balls, and when Marty missed on a tough corner shot, he ran fifteen more. Marty stood by sort of clucking to himself like an old rooster. “Well, well, my boy. Quite a good shot. Didn’t play quite this way last time, sonny.” Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.

  He reduced the old goof to babblemania in no time. The wizened old bird seemed to have lost all his confidence as he missed shot after shot.

  Within an hour or so Johnny had won back all he had lost and was pressing on with his bets.

  “Let’s move it up to five Benjamins,” Johnny said.

  “That’s steep, John,” Marty responded.

  “Can’t handle it, Martman?”

  Johnny laughed and downed his fourth Chopin vodka, felt it kick in with the Vicodin he’d just swallowed. A fine mixture. He was a well-tuned Porsche 911, and he was cruising down a twisty road but he couldn’t crash if he tried. He was in the groove, baby. He was the man!

  “Okay,” Marty said. “I’ll give her a whirl.”

  Johnny laughed out loud. The guy sounded like some old prospector now. A Model T? I’ll give her a whirl? Yep, by crackie. I mean, who was this dude? Mr. Europe, or some old gulch rat? Johnny laughed as he shot and made another amazing banker.

/>   “How’d you like that one, Martkowski?”

  “Loved it, son. Bet you can handle just about anything.”

  “You got that right,” Johnny said.

  “‘Ceptin’ women, I bet,” Marty said.

  “Women? No problem. I take what I want from ‘em, and ditch ‘em. End of story!”

  “Really?” Marty said. “What about children? You ever have any kids, John?”

  “Nah. Well, let me amend that: maybe, but I walked right out on ‘em. Bye-bye, baby, bye-bye.”

  “So you have no children and no wife?”

  “I got me,” Johnny said. “Me and my wits.”

  “Must be lonely, John,” Marty said, missing an easy shot. “Don’t you worry about getting old and being all alone?”

  Johnny chalked his cue.

  “Tell you the truth, Mart—no offense—but before I’d get as old and fucked up as you and your council in there, man, I’d take a handful of Vikes, drink a half gallon of vodka, and kiss this sad world good-bye.”

  “You might change your mind, son, when you get up to our ages. People all sound brave when they’re young. But when you see that cold hand of death coming for you, most folks will do anything rather than shake it.”

  Johnny made a nice cushion shot and looked hard at Marty Millwood.

  “Let me tell you, Mart. I’ve seen enough of this world, and when my time comes I’ll spit right in death’s ugly old face. Now can we lose the inquisition here and play some pool?”

  “By all means, John,” Marty said. “I meant no offense, son.”

  “None taken,” Johnny said. “Now rack ‘em up, Martburger.”

  They played five more games and though Marty had a good run in the first one, he was no match for Johnny, who was red hot. There was no beating him. He made banks, impossible combinations, and had total control of the cue ball. Every lie he got was better than the last, and most of his shots were easy ones.

  By the end of the night he had won over two thousand dollars of Marty’s money.

  Marty looked ancient, dilapidated, crushed. Which is just how Johnny liked the old goat.

  “Time to pay up, Martini,” Johnny said.

  Marty nodded.

  “Yep,” he said. “I am plumb tuckered out.”

  Johnny laughed. Marty was finished. In fact, all of those old farts in the other room were finished, too. He was the king. That was one of the best things about picking on old people. What could they do about it? Nada. He could go right into the other room this second and start smashing their old bones apart and what could they possibly do? Nothing whatsoever.

  They were the deadsters and he was their king.

  He saw Marty go to the end of the room and move aside a cornball painting of an Indian on a pinto horse looking into the sun. Behind the picture was a safe. How interesting. Johnny cruised down to that end of the room and looked over Marty’s shoulder.

  The safe was filled with money, tons and tons of money. Big stacks of bills. Why, the money he’d just won from Marty was nothing compared to this. And it was there for the taking!

  Marty turned with a few paltry bills in his trembling old hand.

  “Here you are, son,” he said. “Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “How generous of you,” Johnny said. “But I think I’ll have a little more, if it’s all the same to you?”

  “What do you mean, John?” Marty asked, in a shocked falsetto.

  “I mean all of it,” Johnny said. “I’m taking every cent in the safe. And here’s the deal: if you say one word to the cops I’ll come back here and strip the skin off you and the fair Millie. You dig?”

  Johnny was using his toughest, lowest, most terrifying voice, the one that worked on oldsters all over California and Arizona. It was easy to scare the living shit out of the deadsters, because they were already afraid of everything anyway. Crime, war, terrorism, hurricanes, snakes, spiders, heart attacks, dogs, cats, worms, snails. They were helpless and they knew it. A guy like Marty Millwood had no shot against a jungle cat like the cooking Johnny Z.

  So how come the old dude wasn’t shaking in fear, wetting himself, crapping his pants?

  Instead, Marty did something that sent a chill through what was left of Johnny’s immortal soul.

  He smiled. A small, subtle grin.

  What the hell? Why?

  “What’s so fucking funny, Marty?”

  “Nothing. It’s more ironic than funny.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck your irony. You take off that smoking jacket and wrap all the money in it. Then we’re going to march right through the front room and I’m outta here. And don’t think you can call a cop to hunt me down before I get back to you. Because even if they catch me and lock me up, I have plenty of friends who will finish the job for me. Get it?”

  “Oh, yessir,” said Marty, in a mocking way. “I get it, all right.”

  But Johnny didn’t get it. Why was this old turd laughing at him when he was cleaning him out? Ah, who cared? The old guy was just trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered, to save face. That had to be it. In a few minutes Johnny would be gone like a cool breeze.

  Marty Millwood turned back around, smiled a little wider, and sprayed something horrible into Johnny’s face. God, it burned so bad. His eyeballs were on fire. He groped forward and screamed, “My eyes. You son of a bitch!”

  Then he felt a bony old knee crush his testicles and he fell to the floor, screaming.

  “You bastard. I’ll kill you.”

  “Good night, John,” Marty said. He smashed Johnny on the head with the cue ball. Things got very hazy and he tried to stand up but he couldn’t quite pull it off. Behind Marty he could see the door opening and all the guests streaming in to look down at him.

  “Help me,” he said. “Help . . .”

  But from the little he could still see, not one of them had a helpful look on his or her face.

  He tried to get up again but this time Millie picked up the eight ball and bashed him in the head. Her shot was even harder than Marty’s.

  “One for good luck, creep,” she said.

  Johnny Z felt an explosion in his head, heard some old folks chuckling, and fell back onto the rug into darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Phil was feeling really good. Really, really good. The champagne had made him sort of . . . no, not sort of, but definitively, hahaha, ecstatic . . .

  Hahahaha.

  He actually heard the sound in his head like there was a bubble in his brain with the cartoon word “hahahahaha,” and what was really far out was that he, Phil (that would be him, Phil, Philly, Philster, his own self), could see the bubble that was attached to his brain by an invisible string and which now floated above his head. Was that amazing or what?

  “Happy floating bubble,” he said to Annie.

  She looked at him and smiled. Such a sweet smile. Of course, she had no idea what he was talking about because he had failed to finish his complete thought.

  Suddenly that seemed hysterically funny to him, too. The concept of complete thought seemed highly silly in the extreme.

  He thought of a giant professor in the sky who was marking him down, like one of his old teachers in college, for failing to deliver a complete thought.

  He wanted somehow to convey this idea to Annie but she had taken him somewhere in the back of the condo, into a third room that seemed much bigger than he had first thought it was.

  This was an odd room to be in because the party was happening out in the other rooms . . . haha . . . so, maybe, Phil thought, she was going to give him a little sex right here.

  But, now he saw he was wrong. There was another woman here in the new room, and she was standing with a man over in the corner and they were laughing it up. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right.

  She, the woman, whose back was to him, was laughing it up, giggling in a high-pitched way, and suddenly Philly got a terrible case of the horrors.

  Shit! No way! It couldn’t be! But as h
e walked (stumbled, actually) forward, he realized that yes, sirree-bob-a-rootie there was no doubt that the giggling, hysterical woman whose back was to him was none other than his wife, Dee Dee. He knew that back, and he knew that dyed blonde hair, and he especially knew that high-pitched giggle.

  And it occurred to him that she was drinking from a fluted glass the same as he was.

  Wasn’t that odd?

  Champagne. Cold, bubbling, sparkly champagne.

  And she was just as ecstatically loaded as he was.

  And she was just as unsteady on her feet.

  And now she was turning to see who was approaching her here in the back room.

  This back room with no windows. It seemed more like a storeroom than part of a condo.

  Now Dee Dee was looking at him and her mouth was open in some kind of mixture of embarrassment and horror, and she was saying, “Oh, no. How did you get here?”

  And he felt the same thing but with a monster dose of shame, too.

  “I was just about to say the same . . .” But he couldn’t get the rest of the sentence out. He couldn’t do the complete thought but somehow that wasn’t amusing anymore, nor was cute, button-nosed Annie’s witty, youthful grin.

  No, it wasn’t what you would call an affectionate or amused grin. More like a predatory grin, a “Gotcha” grin.

  Definitely a “Gotcha” grin, and he was feeling really dizzy.

  Phil wanted to cry out to the other people at the party, but then he had a nearly complete thought, which was, No, the other party-goers weren’t going to help. Not at all. Because they weren’t really partygoers at all, were they?

  Because they were actors somehow, hired by someone, like the old people who had been staring at him with the knowing smile, and none of them were going to help him or Dee Dee one bit.

  In short, Phil thought, as he fell into a trancelike sleep, he had been played, and so had Dee Dee, and wasn’t it funny that as he fell off the shelf of consciousness, he suddenly felt an old, familiar love for his wife blooming in his very stoned soul.