by Daniel Parme
"Awesome. Where is it?" This was a serious question.
I was about to tell him the truth, which is to say I was going to tell him that I honestly had no idea, but we were interrupted by a group of college kids, three of them, and their recognition of "that guy who ate those people in Canada." Two of them appeared to be brothers. I would have even guessed they were twins, were it not for the height difference and the striking difference in the widths of their noses. One had a nose that may have got him gassed in Nazi Germany, while the shorter one could have stolen his from some old-time, negro, bare-knuckle boxer.
It was the taller one who set the shot in front of me. "Holy shit," he said, "I can't believe you hang out in here."
I shook my head at Dave and Adam. "Neither can I."
The unrelated one stood behind the brothers, his cap down, almost hiding his eyes. "Do you mind signing my hat?" He took it off his head and held it out between the heads of his friends.
Adam stifled his amusement by going after his beer. Dave, well, Dave wasn't the stifling sort.
Neither was I. I laughed right out loud, right in the kid's face. This might as well have been a night at the Improv. "Really man? An autograph? On your hat? You're kidding, right?"
He looked confused. Wasn't I famous? Don't famous people sign things? It was obvious he'd never been out of Pittsburgh.
If I hadn't been so wrapped up, so lost in the absurdity that was becoming my life, I like to think I'd have been a little more polite. "No, man. I’m not signing your hat. That's fucking stupid."
He covered his head back up, and the brothers laughed at him the way you're allowed to laugh at your friends. "Smooth, dipshit."
I held up the shot glass full of clear liquid. "What is this?"
"Grey Goose." The tall one looked really proud of himself.
I slid it over to Adam. "Thanks for the thought, guys, but I'm not a vodka man."
"He's a whiskey man," said Virginia, who'd been serving drinks at the other end of the bar the way they throw bread to refugees crowded around relief effort trucks. She set a big fucking bourbon in front of me. "It's still on them," she said before hurrying back to the poor starving bastards just dying for a drink.
"Thanks, boys." I raised my tiny glass.
We took the shots. "We figure anyone who went through what you went through deserves a shot." It was the short one, and he caught his mistake all on his own. "A lot of shots, actually."
"Amen to that. Thanks, guys." I nodded to them, which was, in effect, my way of shooing them off with a wave of my hand. Only, they didn't get the hint. "Um, I'm sort of in the middle of something here, boys. If you don't mind."
Heads down, they found themselves a table, and Adam rolled his eyes. "He asked you for your autograph. Unbelievable." He paused a moment, then took a few sips of his beer. I think he was trying to pick up where we'd left off before my Celebrity pushed the conversation to the back, but he was getting drunk, and to my relief, he gave up.
He did stumble across something during his search, though. "So, what's up with you and Virginia?"
I checked to make sure she was out of ear-shot. As luck would have it, she wasn't even behind the bar. "Nothing, man."
And then I stopped. I thought about telling him everything, the way you think about admitting to cheating on a test (if you're a conscience-driven person, that is), the way I'd thought about telling the shrinks that I sort of enjoyed the taste of my friends, the way I thought about telling anyone about my inner conflict concerning my newfound interest in cannibalism.
I thought about it in the same way, which is to say that I thought it would be a bad idea.
As it turns out, I didn't need to tell him; Virginia was standing behind us, holding a tray loaded with dirty glasses. She told him for me. "We fucked for a few days, and then we didn't anymore."
I shot her a look that I hoped would either shut her up or knock her unconscious. It did neither.
"You have to be honest sometime, Travis," she said, and then continued, looking at me while she spoke to Adam. "We were fucking, but then he went back to not being able to get it up, so we stopped."
At that moment, I was closer to hitting a woman than I'd ever been. Instead, I gave her my best fuck you face, finished my drink, and went home.
Chapter 22
My buzzer buzzed, and when I opened the front door, there was Malcolm. “Are you ready to go, Mr. Eliot?”
“Yeah. And you can call me Travis, by the way.”
“Oh. Ok, Travis. I see you’ve learned about what kind of people we have in our group.”
He meant my clothes, and he was right. I didn’t want to show up in my other duds this time. I wasn’t about to buy a new suit for these bastards, but I had to step it up at least a little. I’d had time to go out and pick up some black slacks and a nice shirt and new tie.
“Nice tie,” he said, and he handed me the blindfold. We walked down to the car.
“Again with this? Really?”
“Sorry, but Walter insisted. And you understand. We need to protect ourselves.”
“Protect yourselves from what?”
“Hah! ‘Protect ourselves from what?’ You’re a pretty funny guy there, Travis.”
He opened the door for me, and I got in and put the blindfold on again. Malcolm got in and started the car. He called someone to let them know I was with him, and we were on the way.
My phone rang.
“Hey Malcolm, do you mind if I pull this blindfold up a little to see who’s calling?”
“No. Go ahead. We’re still in the city.”
I lifted the blindfold off my right eye and saw that it was Adam. I didn’t ask about answering it.
“What’s shakin’, duder?”
“Hey man. I was just pulling up to your place because I was close by and I thought maybe you’d want to smoke a little, and I saw you get into a car with some guy in a suit. I was right behind you until a minute ago. Who is that guy?”
Fucking Adam.
“Oh. Uh, I have an interview at KDKA.”
“An interview? I thought you had that meeting thing tonight. That’s why I thought you’d want to smoke a little. Keep you calm so you don’t pass out again.”
“Yeah. Well…”
“Wait wait wait. That guy’s giving you a ride to the meeting, isn’t he?”
“I’m kinda in the middle of something, man. Can I call you later?”
“I’m totally gonna follow you.”
Fucking Adam.
“And how are you going to do that?”
“You guys just got off the Fort Duquesne Bridge. 279 North, baby. I can catch up.”
“Adam, please. I’ll just call you later, all right?”
“You better, man. I want to know what their deal is. Peace.”
Fucking Adam.
I put my phone back in my pocket.
“You’re doing an interview with KDKA?” Malcolm scared the shit out of me. Adam got me all worked up, and I’d forgotten the man was up there, driving. “That’s interesting. It must have been a lot of fun doing all those shows after your accident, eh, Travis?”
“Fucking blast, Malcolm.” I suddenly wished I hadn’t told him to call me by my first name.
The rest of the way, he asked me questions about people I’d met in L.A. and what were they like and a bunch of stupid shit like that. I honestly don’t remember the conversation very well because, even though I was 99% sure Adam wouldn’t try to catch us and also 99% sure he wouldn’t be able to find us even if he did decide to try, Adam had sort of a knack for giving you the unexpected. I gave Malcolm the auto-pilot answers as I calmed my thoughts.
And then we were there. My blindfold was off, and I was somewhere north of the city. I looked back the drive to make sure Adam’s dumb ass didn’t follow us up. I stooped to untie and retie my shoe, just to give it an extra minute.
“I should have been a pair of ragged claws s
cuttling across the floors of silent seas.” Malcolm had walked past me and given the password. And the guy inside opened the door.
“Come on, Travis. People are already here.”
And in I went, a few paces behind Malcolm. I said hello to the doorman, or guard, or whatever it was they considered him to be, and I walked down the hall. I wanted so badly to give a good shove to the door of many locks, but I knew it wouldn’t have opened anyway.
The door at the end of the hallway opened easily, though, although it was difficult to walk through. I had a feeling, as I watched myself open the door, much like the feeling I'd had when Jason and I took stab at cliff diving. I stood there, atop a monster cliff, high above some big body of water, and I didn’t move a muscle. Even with Jason's coaxing, I couldn't bring myself to jump.
This time I jumped, and when I landed I ditched Malcolm and went straight for the bar, expertly avoiding two circles of conversation that threatened to pull me into their orbits. I made sure to make no eye contact, to get to the booze before anyone noticed me.
And I very nearly made it, too.
"Hello, Mr. Eliot. Nice to see you. Tony Conicella. We met at the last meeting, briefly."
Handshake. "Oh. Right. How are you, Tony? Where are your friends?"
"They're here somewhere." He looked for them, straining his neck and getting up on his toes to see over and around my head. "I don't know. They may be in the back, helping Walter or John Gregory with something."
"Hmm. I need a drink." I tried to use a tone that would let him know I didn't really want to talk. Either I'm no good with that tone, he didn't get the hint, or he just plain didn't care. He followed me to the bar and kept talking.
"I enjoyed your story, by the way."
"Most people do," I said into my ever-increasing serving of wine.
"I'm sure they do. No matter what they say, most people are fascinated by cannibalism. They just can't embrace that interest. Taboo, you know." He smiled at me and filled his glass. "You should get acquainted with some people. Follow me."
I reminded myself that I was there to find out who these people were, what they were, and I followed him.
He introduced me to Damien Rogers and his wife, Elaine. He was a lawyer with a firm that specialized in malpractice claims, and she was his wife. "I see no reason," Damien told me through his thin lips, "that we should both work. I make more than enough. Not to mention our investments." Elaine smiled and kissed him.
I was also introduced to Larry something and Bruce Rienhart, also attorneys, although I never learned for which firms. Larry was short and fat and balding. He snorted more than spoke, and he was sweating just standing there. Bruce was also a portly fellow, although his height thinned him out a bit. His moustache, like all good moustaches, gave him the look of a pedophile, but I have to say he gave me no indication that this stereotype fit him.
“We were just talking about the market.” Larry raised a stubby hand to my shoulder. “How’s your portfolio, Mr. Eliot?”
“Nonexistent. Yours?” There was a time I’d have gone along with this conversation. There was a time I’d have just kept talking because I knew he’d appreciate it.
Damien lit a cigar the size of a Louisville Slugger. “You should think about investing, Travis. People think that money is power, which is only true to a certain point.”
Synchek snuck into the group. “Indeed. It used to be that those with money and land were the powerful. Now, the power is held by those who own the big businesses. Even if only in part.”
Elaine Rogers worked her plastic face into a smile. It looked painful. She giggled. You could tell she was brought up with money and had no reason to outgrow the role of rich ‘fifties housewife. “You boys and your power. You’ll do anything to make yourselves feel like you’re in control.”
“Enough, Elaine.” Damien shot a look at his wife. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Didn’t you say it makes you feel powerful?”
“You’re right dear.” She left her head down for the rest of the conversation, which was neither very long nor very interesting.
At least, not for me. The rest of them were deep enough into it that I was left to listen to stock market babble; points, quarters, selling, mergers, and a slew of other words that I knew, but could make no sense of.
As I paid less attention to them, I paid more attention to the growing number of people filling the room with this exact conversation.
This was a power-hungry group. Power suits and power ties all walking around, shaking the hands of other power suits and ties. I could see the Lexus key chains resting on the marble tables of the foyers. I could smell the money oozing out of their pores. I could have reached out and grabbed hold of their desire to have more. Not more money or more stuff, although I’m sure they’d have been more than pleased with both; they wanted to be more than everybody else. They wanted to be higher on the food chain, to be the lions that the rest of the creatures in the jungle feared.
It was scary. As cordial, as polite, as friendly as they were, they all had the look of predator. It was scary because I could identify with them, even if I couldn’t understand them.
Synchek noticed my silence. “Mr. Eliot, I’m glad to see you.” He pulled me a few steps away from Larry, Bruce, and Damien, Attorneys at Law. “Enjoying yourself, I hope.”
“I guess. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m here. It doesn’t seem like I have much in common with these people.”
He looked me up and down. “At first glance, I may have to agree with you. But you have more in common with these people than you might think.”
“Well. If you say so.” I looked around, but not for anything in particular. I think it just made me feel better to look like I was searching for something. “Is anyone speaking tonight?”
“Not tonight. We only have guest speakers every so often. It’s not always easy to find people of interest to our group, and most of us already know each others’ stories. We come mainly for the sense of, well, fellowship, I suppose.”
Suddenly the word CULT came to mind. Big, bold, flashing red letters.
“We’re not like a cult, though, Travis. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We’re just a little social club.”
The doorman entered the room, shouting for everyone’s attention. “Does anyone know a Thomas J. McGovern?”
There was no answer. He repeated the name. Still no answer. He thanked everyone and told them to go back to their conversations, then came over to Synchek. “Walter, we might have a situation, here. This guy out here isn’t on the list.”
“Why did you let him in, then?” Synchek looked annoyed.
“He knew the password.”
El Presidente sighed and turned to me. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of this.” He bowed his head and went out into the hall.
The door hadn’t even closed behind him and the buzz was buzzing, beginning slow and quiet, but picking up speed at in impressive rate, zero to sixty in six seconds flat. Between sips of wine, the name Thomas J. McGovern hovered over the rims of the glasses, the finger that makes the crystal sing.
“I don’t know him,” they said. “Nope. Don’t know him. Nothing to worry about, though. Synchek will take care of it.”
Some pulses sped up. I could almost hear the racing beats of all these greedy hearts. It was a drum circle, the dreadlocks replaced with hair gel, the patchouli with Chanel. The energy of the room swelled like the plastic bag attached to the vaporizer I’d bought a couple years earlier, when I decided that smoking the pot was bad for me. You could see it in dilating pupils and beads of sweat dotting foreheads and upper lips.
I nudged Conicella. “Hey, Tony. What’s the deal with this McGovern guy? Why does everyone seem so excited about him if nobody knows who he is?”
Conicella smiled, and I think it was a nervous one. “Apparently, he’s not on the list. So somehow he found out about us and is trying to sneak in.”
“It’s not that simple.” He looked at me like he couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t add it up. “We can’t just allow anyone to come. If word got out, we’d… well, it wouldn’t be good.”
I was about to ask why it wouldn’t be good, but a tap on my shoulder clasped its hand over my mouth.
“Nice to see you, Travis.” It was Dick. My boss. Dave’s uncle. Dick was there, grinning big.
“Dick? What are you doing here?”
“I’m a founding member. Almost twenty years now. What do you think?”
I didn’t know what I thought. “Why weren’t you here last time?”
“I was away on business. I’m sorry I couldn’t hear you speak, by the way. They tell me it was fascinating.” He, just like everyone else, had his glass of wine, his cigar. He also had his suit, although it didn’t look like Armani or whoever. My guess would be Sears. “So, what do you think of the place?”
“It’s great.”
“Yeah. We’re proud of it. It’s really grown from when it started.” He looked around. “Well, I just wanted to say hello. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to help Walter give this McGovern character the grand tour.”
He and Conicella laughed. I couldn’t find the joke, but laughed anyway. For some reason, I felt the need to fit in.
Once Dick left, I asked Tony what was included on this ‘grand tour’.
“Oh,” he said, “I’m sure he’ll gain an intimate knowledge of our kitchen facilities.” With that, he excused himself and went off to find his friends.
I refilled my glass and snuck to the front of the room, where a new podium, solid oak and imposing, had taken the place of the pine I’d shattered on my previous visit. A pattern of grapevines was carved into the front. It was excellent work. Not to say that I know anything about woodworking, but it looked good to me. Meticulous, even. Down to the veins in the leaves and a split grape here and there, where there was too much imaginary water for the imaginary skin to hold. I traced the vine with my fingers and stepped around behind the thing. It was hollow. A box with one side missing. It was hollow, but not empty.
