A Naked Singularity: A Novel
Page 18
“That’s the most recent one,” explained Alyona wearily and was that maybe a little fear I detected in his voice?
“He’ll think of something,” reassured Angus.
Television: At participating stores only.
“Wow they can’t even make the food look good in the commercials anymore,” Alyona said as the camera zoomed in on the golden potato skyline in the red container. “I will give McDonald’s credit, however, for making no bones about the fact that for us food is first and foremost entertainment. I recently went to one of these restaurants and I was reminded how a lot of them have these playgrounds in the back. So I went into this McDonaldland as it’s called and at first I was dumbfounded, like what does this purple Grimace guy riding a seesaw have to do with cheeseburgers? But really the marriage is perfect and beautiful in its honesty. I now think that McDonaldland may be the purest province in our land.”
“Relax,” said Angus. “McDonaldland is not some modern Utopia. It has its share of problems as well.”
“Like what?”
“Well crime for one.”
“Crime?”
“The Hamburglar,” I sheepishly interjected.
“That’s absolutely correct. The man’s a menace.”
“I forgot about him,” said Alyona.
“Please,” I said. “The guy’s an idiot. How effective does he expect to be walking around in that prison garb?”
“He does positively announce himself Angus,” said Alyona.
“Maybe so, but the fact remains he’s been plying his sinister trade for like forty years and they still haven’t been able to stop him.”
“Well then maybe Mayor McCheese has to start running a tighter ship over there,” countered Alyona.
“He can’t. His hands are tied, all these concerns over the rights of the criminal.”
“Tied hands? Are you nuts? Mayor McCheese is essentially a dictator. He’s been in power like thirty years and I have yet to hear of any election. Also, the guy’s surname prominently features the word cheese. Shouldn’t he be dead of a heart attack by now?”
“First of all it’s not a dictatorship. You have to account for Ronald McDonald. The government of McDonaldland is more like a . . . what do you call it?”
“Kakistocracy,” I offered.
“Oligarchy,” Alyona said.
“Thank you, yes. In fact, there are those who believe that Mayor McCheese is nothing more than a puppet of Ronald McDonald’s. I believe those people are correct, incidentally. Goddamn Ronald McDonald runs that fucking city. It’s his eponymous ballgame.”
Television: I’m living on the air in Cincinnati . . .
“This is a great show,” said Angus
“I have to go,” I said opening the door.
“Wait Casi. Before you go, what do you think happens to these people?”
“Who?”
“Like Herb Tarlek where is that guy now?”
“You mean the actor?”
After a long pause and I mean the kind of pause that makes you wonder whether you made yourself heard, Angus finally responded. “Not sure,” he said almost silently.
In the hall I was immediately set upon by Louie. He looked relieved to see me—maybe just glad to be indoors—but also apprehensive about approaching his apartment door. After an exchange of minor pleasantries:
“Angus in there?”
“He is.”
“He’s watching The Honeymooners right? I’m telling you, the whole thing’s getting a little weird I don’t know if—”
“He’s not watching it.”
“He’s not?”
“No, I think he said he was taking a short break.”
“Well thank our good friend God for that at least. I mean it man. First he tapes them all sans commercials, of all things, and now he just plays them in a constant loop. I can’t believe I was encouraging him at first. It’s that damned carousel man. There’s no stopping for air, it’s truly constant.”
“Casio makes some device huh?”
“You mean Sony.”
“I could’ve sworn he said Casio Carousel. I’m always alert to all alliteration.”
“Right.”
“The Casio Carousel?”
“Yeah made by Sony.”
“But it says Casio?”
“Right, it’s the latest new and improved thing. It’s actually quite beautiful in its subterfuge. It’s called cross-pollination. Sony made the product all right, but for an outlandish fee they allowed Casio to put their name on it. Casio’s happy because they have their name associated with a great new product. Sony’s happy because they get to add this monstrous fee to their already massive profits.”
“But people don’t know it’s made by Sony?”
“Oh it’s in there but writ tiny and you have to know where to look. After all, Casio has to get bang for its buck.”
“But doesn’t Sony want the credit?”
“What for? They’re already the unquestioned leaders in the field. There’s really nothing more they can do to gain prestige and remember that the fee is outlandish.”
“But aren’t they helping a competitor?”
“Arguably, but not really enough to affect their own position in the marketplace. If anything, Casio may now hurt other healthier competitors in turn dropping the worth of those companies and maybe positioning them to be engulfed by Sony. I guess I exaggerated before. The more I think of it, the constant loop isn’t that bad. Come in, I’ll show you what I mean.”
“No I have to go,” I said.
“By the way, cold enough for you? That’s my new thing. I take the weather, no matter what it is, and ask if it’s enough for you.”
“Good luck with that but did you happen to see a really old shirtless man out there?”
“What does he look like?”
“What does he look like? It’s an old-timer wearing no shirt in five degree weather, how many of them are there?”
“Never saw him. Don’t worry, he’ll be out there for a limited time only, that’s for sure.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Well I’m no doctor but it seems to me that a dude that old, in that cold, without a shirt, will likely be dead before the sun comes up.”
“Dead? What then?”
“Huh?”
“I mean he’s obviously homeless, no family or anything. What do they do with the body?”
“Speaking of, I never got the chance to ask you what you think of Traci.”
“I think she just left for one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she left about ten minutes ago.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Fuck. I fucked up. I’m fucked!”
“Sorry.”
“Wait a fucking minute. Are you fucking with me?”
“No.”
“Because if you’re fucking with me, fucking tell me.”
“I’m not fucking with you.”
“Look if you are fucking with me, I’m going to ask you to fucking tell me that you’re fucking fucking with me because there’s nothing worse than being fucked with and not fucking knowing it, or even the fucking opposite which is not being fucked with but having fucking residual doubt as to whether or not you’re being fucked with.”
“Listen to me closely. I’m not fucking fucking with you you fuck.”
“And you’re fucking sure?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Fuck!”
chapter 7
A world where dog will set upon dog.
—eponymous
Witnessed years back in a courtroom:
“You want the newspaper?”
“El newspaper, you wanneh?”
“You want the periodico or no?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll visit you tomorrow, sí.”
“But what do I do with the newspaper?”
Overheard that day in a different but oddl
y similar courtroom:
“So I’m sent out to Part 49. Who’s that?”
“McGarrity.”
“How’s he?”
“Not bad, tried a case in front of him. He lets you try your case but he’s pretty dumb on the law.”
“Let’s you voir dire?”
“Only because he’s not really paying attention. That said, if any legal issues arise, he’ll reflexively rule against you unless you tape the controlling case to his forehead or something similar.”
“Wait, did I hear not bad? I beg to differ.”
“You’ve had him too?”
“Once was enough.”
“What happened?”
“Well I’m expecting it to come back down on appeal any day now.”
“Why? What’s the issue?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“What’s rather not say? I’ve known you twenty years!”
“What’s twenty years? I’d rather not say. I never even told my wife about this.”
“You hate your wife.”
“Exactly, she barely qualifies as a person in my eyes and I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her about this. That’s how painfully embarrassing it was.”
“That settles it, now you absolutely have to tell me what happened in that case.”
“You would force me to regurgitate a painful, traumatic memory? For Chrissakes, you’ve known me twenty years!”
“Listen, this entire situation is now clearly outside the bounds of morality. First of all, everyone who knows you, whether for twenty years or otherwise, knows you to be a superb raconteur, a master storyteller. Joe, what kind of storyteller is Ronny here?”
“Master.”
“Precisely. Now in addition to this skill you possess, you dangle the carrot of an incident so deliciously embarrassing that years later you still can’t bring yourself to relate it? Well what kind of friend are you to offer then rescind such entertainment? Haven’t the last twenty years meant anything to you?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be starting a trial?”
“What do you think I’m doing? Researching the judge that’s what.”
“Well I get paid to help with legal research.”
“Oh is that so? Well of course then Ronald my good man. Here’s a hundred. Now that’s more than you made last month so make it good.”
“Well I tried the case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Rob One.”
“Co-defendant?
“No.”
“Gun?”
“Knife”
“I.D. or what-happened?”
“What-happened, prostitution-gone-bad but really none of that matters.”
“Continue Ronald.”
“Well the evidence is over and now McGarrity’s smiling at the jury—he always smiles when addressing the jury—and he’s like, We now come to the point in the trial where we hear the attorneys’ summations and he’s looking at me. So I go up there but I don’t feel very well at all.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Well I had dropped my daughter off at school the night before and—”
“How is Theresa?”
“Katie.”
“Right, how is she?”
“Not good but it’s either blow all my money on her school or put her in a rehab clinic, institutions which incidentally take the ripping off of money to unprecedented almost-artistic heights. You know they won’t even guarantee results?”
“Why didn’t you come to me Ron? I’ve got the best place. Serenity Mountain or some shit. These people are great, you’ll never use anyone else. We put Julie in there and we swear by it.”
“Julie?”
“Oh yeah, Percoset, Codeine, Cocaine—powdered only—Ibuprophen.”
“Who’s Julie?”
“My daughter.”
“Tina has a sister?”
“There’s no Tina, it’s only Julie.”
“Oh.”
“Continue.”
“Well by the time I get to Katie’s room I’m positively ravenous.”
“For?”
“Food. Now you would think a dorm at an all-girls school would have something better to eat but all they had were these Señor Smoke burritos.”
“Hold it.”
“You’ve heard of these. They’re—”
“Forget the burritos. Did you say Katie goes to an all-girls school?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Now your wife . . . um”
“Anne.”
“Yes, good old Anne. Does she go with you to drop off Katie?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Roommates?”
“What?”
“Does your daughter—”
“Katie.”
“—have roommates?”
“Yes.”
“Are they there?”
“Yes.”
“What are they wearing?”
“All different things.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re getting paid to know.”
“Fine. Some are wearing those faded football shirts.”
“Over what?”
“Seemingly nothing.”
“No panties?”
“Well I’m sure panties.”
“What else?”
“Others are wearing nighties.”
“What kind?”
“What do I look like Calvin Klein? Nighties!”
“Is that all?”
“I guess others are wearing men’s pajamas.”
“The tops only or the full ensemble?”
“Full.”
“What kind of footwear we talking about?”
“Some of those cute fuzzy slippers, but mostly bare feet.”
“Painted toenails?”
“Predominantly.”
“High arches?”
“Some.”
“Now do you talk to them?”
“Of course, why do you think I’m driving Katie two hours to school and why do you think I insist on carrying her bags up?”
“How do you do it?”
“How else? I do that thing where you use your daughter as a crowbar to feign some sort of understanding of their experientially constricted lives. You know ah yes, Katie too is thinking of doing a year abroad in Guatemala, how was it? and declarations of this nature.”
“A tried and true method. I’ve employed it countless times myself. The beauty of it is that, if done correctly, the overall impression left is oh you’re dad’s cool and funny and he really knows a lot about Guatemala as opposed to, there’s a fat, follicly-challenged fifty-year-old who has the ability to talk to a dimwitted twenty-year-old about her career aspirations while not betraying that he is simultaneously imagining that same aspirant engaged in all forms of depraved debauchery.”
“Correct, but again this is all digression. The point, to advance the plot, is that I find myself ingesting two of these Señor Smoke burritos.”
“What kind?”
“Three Bean followed shortly by Jack Cheese. Now I don’t mind telling you that, surprisingly, Mr. Smoke makes a fine-tasting burrito, this despite the vagaries and flavor-robbing properties of cooking with microwaves. At any rate, the burritos pleased me greatly. More than that really; the consumption of these two burritos created an almost spiritual pleasure in my alimentary canal and created such affection in me for its creator that had Monsieur Smoke suddenly appeared in the room and asked me to drink some suspect Kool-Aid I would have at least swished it around in my mouth awhile.”
“Then what?”
“Well once I’d exhausted all possibly legitimate reasons for still being there and am threatening to turn into the aforementioned fat fifty-year-old, I take leave of the scantily-clad coeds and get in my car.”
“Model?”
“Toyota.”
“Make?”
“Land Cruiser
.”
“Luxury model?”
“Yes.”
“Ronald.”
“Thank you. Now I’m about halfway home.”
“Time?”
“Oh Two Hundred hours.”
“Two a.m.”
“Thank you, now let the man continue. Continue Ronald.”
“I come across a 7-Eleven.”
“Open?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“In a row?”
“Yes.”
“You stop.”
“Yes. I stop because I’m hungry again and I’m thinking maybe bag of chips. As I enter the establishment, however, I come face to face with a cardboard Señor Smoke advertising his south of the border wares. As I face Herr Smoke shootout style and contemplate my next move, the two employees behind the counter are arguing over whose country first tested nuclear weapons only I can’t figure out if they want to be first or not. Before long, I’m punching the oversized buttons on their microwave and contained within are two more Señor Smoke delicacies.”
“What flavor?”
“This time Baja Beef and Huevos Rancheros. After paying the jingoistic combatants, I resume my journey while inhaling the two burritos. I arrive home and go to sleep without incident, mindful that the next morning I must sum up on my case.”
“Of course.”
“Now it’s the next morning and my opinion of Señor Smoke has suffered a near-precipitous fall.”
“You may have overmedicated.”
“Yes, the thought does occur to me at the time that I might not be entirely without blame.”
“Señor Smoke’s not completely off the hook but you were complicit.”
“Yes. Nonetheless, however the blame was to be later allocated, I got the distinct impression that my body would soon engage in open, gastrointestinal revolt. Naturally, none of this was helped by the normal butterflies one feels prior to giving a summation. So being the responsible attorney that I am, and cognizant of my upcoming performance, I took every opportunity to sit on the toilet in an attempt to proactively deal with the anticipated problem. Of course, none of these attempts work and we can now resume the story inside of McGarrity’s courtroom as he signals for me to begin my summation, because it was then, as I began my carefully prepared closing remarks, that the previously-mentioned revolt began in earnest.”
“What exactly do you feel?”
“Well, for one thing, my rather large stomach is palpably convulsing to the point where the end of my tie is bouncing up and down. Luckily, the initial grimace on my face coincided with me saying that the People’s case sucked or words to that effect. In addition, I now feel an overwhelming need to release the gaseous buildup of the last nine hours and the preferred route appears to be my anus. So now in addition to this childbirth-type pain, I’m also required to use my sphincter to slowly negotiate the gas out of my ass without making any noise. But of course, while I can control the noise, I cannot control the smell which is like something akin to digging up a dead skunk and performing an autopsy on it inside an Indian restaurant’s dumpster. Now as luck would have it, the air-conditioning wasn’t working and a fan had been set up and pointed directly at the jury box. The fan kept wafting the odor smack into the horrified faces of the jury. Of course, once I open the floodgates I can’t stop and I’m ripping them machine gun style—but with a silencer. Eventually, the jury figures out that I’m to blame and they’re looking at me like finding my client guilty won’t be enough; they want me incarcerated. It also becomes apparent that while the release of gas provides some relief, I will soon need to divest myself of the actual burritos if I’m to ever see another sunrise. So now, as the jury’s eyes begin to tear, I take a dramatic break and go over to where my client is seated as if conferring with him. Well he’s all happy and says that the jurors seem to be really upset and responding to what I’m saying and some even look like they’re crying. I now feel like I have at most two minutes before an emotionally scarring accident occurs so I ask to approach. Now when I get there I can’t tell the judge I have to go to the bathroom because I will then have effectively removed all doubt in the courtroom that I am responsible for the almost ignitable smell currently enveloping the area. What I do instead is concoct a legal slash factual issue which has just come to my attention by virtue of discussion with my client and which necessitates a five-minute recess so I can rework my summation. With a little pleading I get my way and soon I’m in a full Olympic-Trials-type sprint for the bathroom all the while emitting loud and troubling noises. Well I barely make it on to the toilet before the Three-Bean-Jack-Cheese-Baja-Beef-Huevos-Rancheros explosion but I do and my troubles seem over.”