by Nathan Roden
Babe allowed his friend a half bottle of beer in a salad bowl. It just seemed cruel not to. Mr. Pendleton lapped the bowl non-stop until it was empty. He belched and then ran around the tables twice. He stopped and barked, which just about brought down the house.
The televisions were on inside the bar but receiving little or no attention. The Red Sox were in yet another rain delay. It was just past eleven o’clock.
Babe could hardly keep his eyes off of his parents. He had never seen his mother like this; her makeup imperfect, her hair having surrendered in its battle with motion, humidity, and gravity to fall around her face and down to her shoulders. Her laugh was…as if it had just been born.
Babe took Mr. Pendleton out the back door for a potty break, and as he opened the door back into the bar, he was met by music and laughter.
Babe went back to his seat and saw the source of the commotion.
His mother and father occupied the makeshift dance floor. Journey’s classic, ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ blasted from the speakers with Amanda and Robbie singing along; Robbie was singing into a salt shaker and Amanda into a ketchup bottle.
Everyone in the bar was cheering the couple on—clapping and laughing. During a chorus cry of “Oh-Oh-Woah!” Robbie tried to put the salt shaker down onto a table, but he missed. He then attempted a classic spin move, but he failed to stick the landing—flailing his arms and surely about to fall. Amanda reached out and grabbed him by the lapels and it appeared that she would perform the save.
Until she opened her mouth again.
“I got you, Babe.”
Amanda threw back her head and a laugh escaped that was nothing less than Glenda the Good Witch on helium and nitrous oxide.
Robbie’s weight and Amanda’s complete loss of motor skills left her nothing to do but slide clumsily to the floor, pulling Robbie down on top of her.
A moment of hushed horror swept the crowd as people jumped to their feet. Then they heard Amanda, and then Robbie start laughing again. The sounds of the crowd’s laughter refilled the room. Lewis was jumping up and down, wide-eyed and making slashing motions across his neck toward his team of bartenders. One of them finally noticed him and gave him the ‘okay’ sign. That was as far as the message went, since the entire bar staff was laughing so hard that they had tears in their eyes.
Babe was laughing as hard as anyone.
Millie stepped beside him. They looked at the spectacle in the floor before them.
“So, what do you think?” Millie asked.
Babe caught his breath.
“What do I think?” he said, as he pointed at the laughing heap that was his parents,
“I think that there is not enough therapy in the western world to deal with that.”
Thirty-Eight
The night was gloomy, moonless, and sagging under a continuing rain, outside of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the penthouse luxury suite that occupied the entire top floor of the most exclusive hotel in Paris.
As the doors of the private elevator opened, Hans bolted to his feet—scattering to the floor components of the three gun cleaning kits that lay before him on the heavy oak table. He grabbed a pistol from the table and assumed an offensive military stance.
Seated across from Hans with his back to the elevator, Dante Vlada smiled broadly.
“Relax, my friend,” Vlada said.
“Come in, Gabriel. We were beginning to worry about you.”
Gabriel entered the room and crossed directly to the picturesque windows.
“Your taste for the exquisite never disappoints, Dante—even in the face of defeat,” Gabriel said, “complete with your signature weather.”
Vlada laughed.
“Have we not progressed beyond the standard verbal sparring,” Vlada said, joining Gabriel at the window, “when it is obvious that I have discovered the key to this senseless game?”
“I am a little behind, Dante. Why don’t you catch me up?”
The room phone rang. Vlada answered it.
“The laundry is on its way, Hans,” Vlada said.
Hans returned to his gun cleaning, performing the rituals with the grace of an artist. He packed everything into cases, which he placed next to the elevator.
“Taking a little trip?” Gabriel asked.
“Our operation in Boston has come undone, yes,” Vlada said. “Frail humans were involved, after all. They are so difficult to predict, wouldn’t you say? In retrospect, I should have taken down Jack Englemann when he was at his most vulnerable. He surprised me, and I certainly did not foresee Russell Eckhart becoming my Judas—how unlikely was that?
“We have discovered the ‘safe house’ location for the ‘perverted hero of conscience’ and his wife. Hans has very special plans for them. I admit that I acted too quickly and with perhaps an errant amount of bravado. I do still possess quite the vast fortune, which is untouchable—arrayed as it is within this world’s elaborately devious systems of finance. And like a colony of single-minded insects with their ‘Queen’ intact…” Vlada threw his arms out to the side flamboyantly while sliding one graceful step to his right.
“We have merely to take one lateral step, and begin again. Do you know what real victory is, Gabriel? My victory? No, how could you?”
“I am very anxious to hear how you declare this a victory, Dante. Has madness overtaken you, at last? You will not be the first. And what a cast you join—a veritable who’s who.”
The bell on the elevator rang with the arrival of the dry cleaning. Hans tipped the attendant a hundred dollar bill and moved the clothing to garment bags. He hung these next to the elevator.
Vlada pointed toward Hans and the garment bags and spoke to Gabriel.
“An example of my ‘madness’, Gabriel—as simple as sending clothing to a laundry service. It was not necessary, was it? But do you know what it is, Gabriel? It is expected. It is normal. It is unequivocally human. Above all, it is patient.”
Vlada walked to the middle of the room.
“This list you refer to with your air of superiority—these failures of mankind. Not so unlike the failures of your kind: Impatient. Victims of ego. Unwilling to sacrifice for an ultimate vision—to buy time. Consumed by their desire for power. Unwilling to watch. To wait. To learn. Unable to use the laws that exist to their own advantage.”
“When did running and hiding like cockroaches become the definition of success, Dante?” Gabriel asked, “It is never too late to admit that you are in the wrong. There are no limits to redemption; No limits on mercy.”
Dante Vlada paced and appeared to digest these words. Hans crossed in front of one of the bedroom door carrying a shaving kit into one of the bathrooms.
Vlada dismissed Gabriel with a wave of his hand.
“You equate movement with failure? Have you not observed that in the loss of movement, is death? No. You do not need to understand us in order to play your part.
“Consider this. The two abominations that were placed in Paradise; they proved unable to comply with simple law and were forcibly expelled. Why? Because the Tree of Life—the pathway to eternity—remained. Why? Why did it have to remain there, accessible? The first law of Creation, Gabriel.
“To breathe life into a Creation requires that the Created possess the ability to become the equal of the Creator. Why have so many failed?
“Impatience. Ego. I want it now. ME! I AM!
“The Tower of Babel, Gabriel—was it impossible? To reach heaven? No. If impossible, then why strike the people down—confounding their language and destroying their ability to cooperate while crushing the very desire to fulfill the destiny that had been breathed into them.
“Why do you fight for them? Look around you—arrogant, apathetic, selfish creatures consumed with a desire to destroy each other. They value nothing of importance and it has been this way since this sphere of rock was thrown into space. The advances of this age work only to further infuse their utterly ridiculous lives with trinkets and nonsense.
Their religions and all that remains of their hunger to fulfill their holy destiny are reduced to the pursuit of filthy currency.”
“And you are above this, Dante?” Gabriel asked. “Explain to me how stealing from them and amassing their wealth has become your noble cause. Your plans lead nowhere. You kick over the anthill simply because you can, and the destruction feeds your dead soul. Forever have I watched the self-righteous turn their passion into their new god.”
Dante Vlada laughed, shaking his head.
“One pious response after another. Why am I not surprised?” Vlada said.
“Assembling a group with which to manipulate great wealth is child’s play. Even now, I have the means to influence governments throughout the world, all while the mindless sheep beg for someone to do so. They pray ceaselessly for someone to save them from their meaningless and mundane existence. My message to them will not be to enslave them for my pleasure, as you probably believe.”
Vlada crossed to a window and threw his arms out to his sides.
“My people!” he yelled. He turned toward Gabriel, his arms still outstretched. He looked toward his right arm and made the motion of a wave, like a child with his arm outside the window of a moving car. A swirl of dark gray shadow moved in harmony with his arm. Vlada turned to stare at Gabriel.
“My people! You were not created to merely endure this miserable excuse for life—Slave to a country’s borders. Slave to an employer. Slave to a religion or political party. A slave to anything. You cry out for help to a God that does not answer you because He has already given you everything.
“My people; this world belongs to you. It belongs to me. It belongs to us all. It is our birthright—kept from you by those who seek to keep all good things for themselves while delighting in your servitude. Rise up. You have only to decide to accept your rightful place on this earth. Become one with me. Become perfected. BECOME!”
Gabriel clapped slowly.
“That is the most messed-up reaction to mortality I have ever heard, Dante. Congratulations, you join the cadre of mad men whose bones rot beneath your feet.”
Vlada chuffed.
“Just what I would expect from one of you. This discussion is my mistake. Why have I dignified your existence with a pointless exchange of ideas? You would not dare to speak an original thought.
“Robot. You are a fucking robot—motivated only by your fear of banishment, of separation from your Master-Builder. You have no burden or ability to choose as the Chosen do.
“Gloat all you like, Gabriel. I fear you no more than I have ever feared any of your kind. Does this offend you?” Vlada pushed Gabriel hard in the middle of his chest.
“Do you even fucking know what that means? Strike me down, then, Holy One!”
Dante Vlada looked around the room. He picked up a stained glass oil lamp from an antique table and threw it at Gabriel. Gabriel turned his head. The lamp shattered against his left cheek. Several shards stuck to his skin as the rest rained down upon the floor. Oil dripped from Gabriel’s face.
The commotion brought Hans to the doorway, his cheeks and neck covered in shaving cream. He laughed and returned to the bathroom.
“Strike me down, goddamn you,” Vlada continued, pacing.
“You worthless, powerless Golem. You cannot stop us. We are Becoming. Go stand in your place on the board, you fucking plastic pawn. You are nothing. NOTHING!”
Gabriel dropped his head and turned toward the elevator.
He curled the middle and ring fingers of his left hand toward his palm, which gradually pulled open the left lapel of his jacket while simultaneously tilting down his shoulder holster. The fingertips of his right hand brushed against the familiar grip of his favorite silenced Walther PPK.
“Man, how many times have I heard that one?”
Thirty-Nine
The hour, the laughter, and the alcohol began to take its toll on what remained of the party at Momma’s Sofa. Jack and Jordan continued to trade stories. Robbie and Amanda had settled down. After watching Robbie make feeble attempts to rescue Amanda’s hair with his bare hands, MG fished a brush from her bag and handed it to him. After a few seconds she took the brush away from Robbie, elbowed him out of the way, and began brushing Amanda’s hair herself. Amanda’s head was tilted back. Her eyes were closed and she hummed quietly as she moved her head slightly, side to side. Mr. Pendleton sat with his head against Millie’s leg with his tongue lolling out as she scratched him behind his ears.
In the meantime, the rain delay ended and the Red Sox resumed play in their game with the Orioles. Babe gave the game an occasional glance. Once again, the stadium had virtually emptied out—it was late and the Red Sox were behind by five runs.
That’s the way the game ended. The last Red Sox player to strike out slammed his bat into home plate, breaking it in two. The audio from the televisions tapered off, and Lewis or Leo were involved in listening to Jack’s and Jordan’s stories—leaving Wylie Westerhouse for another night.
The first jukebox selection of the evening crescendoed from the speaker system—the melancholy voice of Gordon Lightfoot, and his song, “If You Could Read My Mind”—a song that no one would remember requesting.
Babe glanced again toward the nearest television screen. The post-game desk was put in place along the third base line and two commentators moved behind it. They took their seats, but appeared to be having audio trouble. One of the commentators looked on as the other fumbled with his lapel microphone. He managed to drop it behind the set.
Babe’s eyes were drawn to movement in the stands behind the desk. One of the post game cameramen saw the commotion also, and since he saw no reason to remain focused on the crew working to restore the audio, he zoomed in on the action. A young couple, in an otherwise empty section of seats, climbed up on top of the home team’s dugout. Each held up a poster board sign. ‘We Love’ and ‘Our Red Sox’. They lowered their signs and began to dance on top of the dugout. Badly.
Babe slid out of his chair—trance-like. He walked slowly toward the screen. The camera remained focused on the dancing couple as two security guards spotted them and quickly descended the stairs toward them. The couple stopped dancing. They embraced, and then kissed. They looked at their signs, flipped them around, and held them together overhead.
‘LIFE IS SHORT’
‘BUT TONIGHT—WE LIVE!’
The couple jumped down from the dugout roof and ran away, laughing.
Babe stood still and stared. He blinked. And blinked some more. Something bumped his elbow.
“What are you looking at?” Millie asked.
“Did— did you see that?” Babe asked.
“What did they do?” Millie asked. “Shoot somebody?”
“No,” Babe said. “They were dancing on the dugout.”
“That’s no big deal,” Millie said. “I’ve done that.”
“Really,” Babe said. “Where? At college?”
“No,” Millie said, “it was a Braves’ game. A girl I knew at school invited me to go home with her for a weekend and we went to the game with her brother. It wasn’t much of a game—it was like, fourteen to nothing. She sneaked in some whiskey and we got stupid drunk. Dugouts look like dance floors after a while—what else can I tell you? Apparently that sort of thing is frowned upon. They threw us out.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Babe said.
“Well, the game wasn’t exactly over yet.”
Babe looked at Millie and it seemed as though she was standing very close. He kissed her. He blinked hard and leaned backward quickly, horrified—and wondered if he was losing his mind. Millie took his head in her hands and kissed him—for real.
Like grownups do, sometimes.
Babe squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, opening them to flashes of light.
“Wow,” he said. “What was that all about?”
Millie stood in front of him and turned to look toward the front window.
“Well, it is spring, you kno
w.”
She turned back to look at Babe.
“Maybe I’m just feeling a little…twitterpated.”
She reached around and slapped Babe on his butt.
“Thumper.”
Babe looked at Millie.
“Excuse me?”
Millie put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.
“Joshua Babelton, you are adorable, but just a little bit slow.”
She raised her right hand and gently patted Babe’s cheek.
“I’ll wait for you.”
<<<<>>>>
I hope that you have enjoyed Like Grownups Do. To find out about upcoming releases and works in progress, visit my website at,
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Check out the first book in the Wylie Westerhouse series, Wylie Westerhouse/The World Tour Begins, here:
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Nathan Roden lives in South Central Texas with his wife and two in-and-out sons, and more dogs and cats than is necessary.
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