As soon as he set foot on W. 28th Street, he felt at home. It was a sunny day. Across from the shiny metal facade of the hotel was Holiday Orchids. A young man was watering the row of potted trees lining the sidewalk, and the curb was wet. It was a tiny jungle right in the middle of the city. Arthur crossed and turned left to head towards the bar.
The McDonalds on the corner called his name. Arthur popped in. After an annoying wait, he had himself a double cheeseburger and orange drink. He crossed the Avenue of the Americas. He had always thought it to be a pretentiously named street. It was fitting for Manhattan.
All along the street were white floral delivery vans. He turned right on Broadway, still sipping on the soda. It was funny, he thought, how back at school everyone called it “pop,” but, as soon as he was back in New York, he used “soda.” The buzz of the city was familiar, comfortable, and inspiring.
It had been a great place to live and write. In a few blocks he was at Madison Square Park. It was one of his favorite parts of the city because of the famous Flatiron building. It always made him think of the rich history of Manhattan. When the building was first built, there was a draft caused by its shape. When women would walk past, they had to fight to keep their skirts down and their modesty intact. The phrase “23 scadoo” came from that era; the local beat cops would tell the guys hanging around to move along.
Arthur made his way through a sea of yellow cabs. The light changed as he was crossing the street, and he was greeted with a honk and a comment he could only assume was profanity in some middle eastern tongue. “Fuck you,” he said without missing a beat.
It was good to be home.
He turned left on E 23rd and continued heading for his destination pin on the app. Robert had said he would like the place as it had just the right level of angst for someone like him. He passed a second Starbucks, looked across the street, and saw the brown and gold sign of the “Bull’s Head Tavern.”
It was dark inside. Arthur was early by fifteen minutes, which meant it would be close to an hour before Robert arrived. His lack of promptness was almost as bad as Arthur’s. He ordered a scotch and took out the notebook to do some writing while he waited.
All around were things that reminded him of a life that seemed almost fictional. The attitude had such color; it made characters spring to life. A couple of ladies with big hair sat within earshot. Their conversation, which had little substance, helped him get back in the wordsmithing groove.
The past was back and it still had all its charms.
The first hour with Robert was filled with talk of family, a lengthy discussion of tennis, and how they had each gotten old. Arthur was a fan of the game mostly because of Robert. They had met in college where Robert was a walk-on in tennis. Arthur hadn’t had delusions of being able to play professionally, but it kept him in shape and let him date a crazy, hot Czechoslovakian who was on the women’s team. Arthur dated several of her friends, who were also disturbingly attractive.
The stories started after that. Each tale was old, worn, and funnier than the one before. They called them the eighty percent. It was a reference to the oft made comment by the wives of the college friends who complained of how they always rehashed the same memories. The good stories, “the eighty percent,” were the ones that couldn’t be told in their presence in order to protect the guilty.
Arthur said with tears in his eyes, “Stop, I need a break. The llama story always makes me laugh until I’ve had a world-class ab workout.”
“It’s one of my favorites, too. Are you still chasing women far too young for you?”
“I’ve lost a step. I have to settle for the few who chase me.”
“You always did need a wingman.”
“In the history of wingmen, you were an ace. I remember that tournament you played at in Lakeland Florida. Was that the summer of our sophomore year?”
“I think it was between junior and senior year, but, yeah, it was crazy. If I recall, we were telling people that you were a star on the European tour and were in town giving me some coaching.”
Arthur started laughing again and said, “Yeah, you kept adding in details that were hard to deal with.”
“Didn’t I say you were fluent in Russian, Chinese, and what was the third?”
“First of all, it wasn’t Russian; it was Romanian and that blonde with the spectacular tits wouldn’t stop until I said something. I had to make up something...”
“You did, and she bought it.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the funny part. You said I was also fluent in Australian, and she didn’t get the joke.”
“She was the joke.”
“Very true and...” Arthur was interrupted by his phone. “Hey, Wen, what’s up?”
“It’s really bad. Things have gotten worse.”
“Just a second; let me go outside. I can’t hear you,” Arthur said, holding up a finger to let Robert know he would be right back. He went outside. The darkness was a surprise. “Okay, I can hear you now.”
“This woman called and asked if I had ever been pressured into having inappropriate relations with you.”
“I can think of several things that were inappropriate. Who knew you were so bendy?”
“This is serious.”
“Okay, sorry. What did you say?”
“Nothing at first. Well, I said ‘no comment’ but that sounded like there was something to hide. I tried to explain that I found the whole line of questioning absurd. She told me that a former TA of yours had come forward with a complaint that you took advantage of her.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say, but I got the impression it might have been that woman with Cheryl in the picture.”
“That’s ridiculous. If anything, Crystal took advantage of me. She was a little...”
“I don’t want to hear the details.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“Anyway, this reporter started comparing you to Jerry Sandusky and making all sorts of accusations.”
Arthur didn’t say anything. His little problem just got a lot bigger. “Are the vultures still circling about the house?”
“There were thirty of them today. There are rumors you’ve fled the country. It has gotten out of hand. When are you coming back?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
Wen was quiet for a bit and said, “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Don’t worry. I was just kidding. I miss you, too.”
Her voice changed back from sad to chipper. She said, “I’m glad because there are still a few inappropriate things I haven’t shown you.”
“You little minx. Okay, I’ve got to get back to my friend. I’m having lunch with someone tomorrow then I’ll get on the road.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Arthur stood as she walked to the table. He said, “You look great, Laurie. How did you avoid aging?”
Laurie kissed him on the cheek and said, “I got a waiver from aging.”
“You always had connections.”
“What have you been up to?”
“I teach literature, or, more aptly, I mock the uninformed and misguided opinions of painfully optimistic youth who hope to find a life in words and thus avoid getting a real job.”
“I pity them.”
“You should. I take such pleasure in crushing their dreams. How about you? Since you’ve not been spending any time aging, what have you done with yourself?”
“After we broke up I went back to school.”
“In what?”
“Graphic design. I decided to stop drawing to relax and see if I had what it took to be an artist for real.”
“And did you?”
“I’ve been working for a small company for the last six years. I do environmental design.”
“Ads for green companies and stuff like that?”
“No, it’s where
one designs the sign and art for an entire environment. For instance, I did all the signage for an off-Broadway theater. Of course, the fun part is doing the marquee, but I also had to do the signs that say things like ‘no smoking’ or ‘ladies.’ It is fun.”
“I’m glad.”
Before the conversation could make it to that first awkward pause the waitress showed up to take their orders. Arthur ordered a steak sandwich. Laurie spent some time not being able to decide. She ended up going with the Chef’s salad, which is what she always ordered.
“You really went out on a limb with that one.”
Laurie laughed. “I always think I’m going to get daring, but it is just so yummy.”
“I guess that’s how you’ve kept father time at bay.”
“You might be right.”
The silence came. Arthur didn’t mind. She ate a breadstick, and he sipped his water. The waitress brought their food.
Laure said, “I was watching TV the other day and thought of you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Barefoot in the Park came on.”
“How many times did you make me watch that movie?”
“You liked it.”
“Robert Redford and Jane Fonda were hard not to like.”
“‘Six days does not a week make.’”
Arthur smiled. “That was my favorite line.”
“I know.”
“I don’t see a wedding ring.”
“Nope, it turns out I wasn’t the marrying type.”
“What about kids?”
“I never got around to those either.”
“You didn’t? But I thought you liked kids and wanted to have a dozen or so.”
“I liked the idea of kids, but the reality of them was less appealing.”
“Then why did we break up?”
“You think I dumped you because of the fight about kids?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, it was just a good excuse. We were done long before that.”
“We were?”
“Oh, Arthur, you poor, dear man. Yes, I’d grown tired of your...well...youness.”
“My youness?”
“The whole celebrity author thing had gone to your head. You became unbearable.”
Arthur thought about it and said, “Okay, I’ll concede that point.”
“It didn’t mean I didn’t love you; I just didn’t like you much anymore.”
“I can hardly say I blamed you. I didn’t like me much, either.”
“How about now?”
“I’ve recently found a few things about myself that aren’t so objectionable.”
“It took you long enough,” she said with a grin.
“It really did. How’s the salad?”
“Delicious.”
It had started as a get together with an ex-girlfriend and ended as lunch with an old friend.
The memories weren’t lost. As he drove east, Arthur replayed the good times in his mind. He waxed nostalgic for an hour. After that, it was time to think about his job. He wanted to save it more than ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Normally, he would have begun a long drive early in the morning. Starting after lunch as he had made the road seem longer somehow. It wasn’t pleasant.
The first hundred miles were fine. The sky was clear, and Arthur let himself think about the first half of the semester. It seemed as if he had awoken from a long dream...or was it a nightmare? He couldn’t be sure, but looking forward to a new day was something unfamiliar and precious.
He thought about Wen and how she had bullied him into the twenty-first century. Arthur couldn’t remember the exact moment he switched from curmudgeonly troglodyte to computer nerd, but it didn’t matter. He liked it.
He saw rain for the second hundred miles. Arthur had driven into a storm. Now the windshield wipers were doing their best to lull him to sleep. He drank his Pepsi to stay awake. You have to keep going, he thought.
It didn’t work. Arthur tried the radio. He knew that if he could make it through the weight of sleepiness he would be fine. Still, it was like a great wave was pulling him under.
He had been through this stage on other long trips. He always had the desire to get where he was going. When it got too bad, he would sleep in a rest stop and continue after an hour or two. This time he refused.
The song, “Crocodile Rock,” came on, and he tried to sing along. He shook his head from side to side, but the wipers still tried to knock him out. “Fuck! Wake up!”
Arthur started to think about Hemingway. He hated his writing, but The Old Man and the Sea leapt into his consciousness. It was the least objectionable of all Ernest’s writings.
Arthur checked the speedometer. It was a steady sixty-five. He realized the limit was seventy and sped up. A semi with a giant loaf of bread painted on the trailer passed him.
Arthur got in behind the truck and let it run interference. All he had to do was stay behind him, and he would be fine.
The thoughts danced about in his head, moving too quickly for him to make sense of them all. He wished he had a slice of dolphin to chew on. That would replenish him. Arthur said, “Goddamn it. You’re using references to ‘Old Man’ to try to clear your mind. Fuck!”
A sign said there was a truck stop in thirty-two miles.
He could make it that far with the help of the giant loaf of bread. He would get a sandwich, another Pepsi or maybe a Diet Mountain Dew, and some chips. That would put him right as rain.
It wasn’t the sort of thing he would normally say as the phrase never made much sense. Robert Barr had used it in his book In the Midst of Alarms, 1894. The downpour had gotten to him.
“Clear your head, damn it. Only...” Arthur looked for the next mile marker. When he saw it, he said, “Fuck, thirty-one miles to go.”
He thought about the time Robert and he visited a friend at the University of Northern Iowa. It was a long drive home, too. They spent the day drinking, and she begged them to sleep on her floor. Youth and bravado wouldn’t allow it.
They promised to take turns, but, three miles outside of Cedar Falls, Robert was snoring. Arthur did fine for the next hour but started to fade. He punched Robert in the arm and told him to get up. Robert did for about five minutes before he was out again.
It had been the same sort of terrible sleepiness that wrapped around him now. The reason Arthur believed he could fight through it came from that night. The blue clock on the digital radio had gone from 3:59 to 4:00, and the voice in Arthur’s head had panicked.
He started to yell, “Rob, get up! It’s four o’clock. The cows will be on the road.” The terror in his voice had done the trick. His best buddy woke up.
“What happened?”
“It’s four o’clock. The cows will be out on the road. I don’t want to hit them. I love cows. You need to help me.”
The absurdity of Arthur’s delusion didn’t register with Robert. It seemed reasonable. He said, “Shit, you’re right. Slow down and turn on your high beams. You want me to drive?”
“No, I got it. You just keep an eye out for them.”
The madness went on for an hour. Eventually, he pulled over to let Robert drive. The buzz from the beer started to wear off, and Robert started to giggle as they sat on the side of the road. It was as if some giant cosmic joke had been played on the two of them, and they both got it at the same time. At that moment, neither one was tired. They enjoyed the rest of the trip.
Arthur just needed to make it past the cows.
He rubbed his hand over his face and rolled down the window. The spray from the rain helped a little, but it was cold, so he rolled the window back up.
He couldn’t lose the loaf of bread and panicked a bit when a VW Bug got between him and the truck. A moment later the car pulled back into the fast lane. Arthur bid it good riddance. He saw he had seventeen miles to go.
What was his great fish? Was it Mary? No, though he did spend a mile thinking about lashing her
to the side of his TR3 and having land sharks eat away at her underbelly. It would be a less sad ending than what Ernest had come up with.
No, it wasn’t Mary.
Was it his job? That didn’t sound quite right, either. The book wasn’t about fishing; it was about life and never giving up. What was Arthur chasing?
It might be social media or maybe technology. That wasn’t it, but he was proud of how the course had gone thus far. The students seemed to be learning something of value. Arthur got the sense the class had value.
The near perfect attendance had shocked him at first, but he started to get the appeal. Social media was the new world, and he was the ship’s captain taking them to a new life of limitless possibilities.
Fourteen miles.
A blue Dodge Ram pick-up passed him. The license plate read “Blue 85.” He had no idea what it meant, but the Old Man hooked the fish after eighty-four days of getting blanked. It was his eighty-fifth day at sea, and Arthur couldn’t get the damn book out of his head. It was like a bad jingle around the holidays that stayed with him for days.
The first thing Arthur was going to do when he got home was read some Kafka and cleanse his palette. He tried to compare his plight to that of the cockroach, but it just didn’t take.
The list of books he loved was long. Old Man and the Sea wasn’t on it. Arthur wished he had gotten Call of the Wild stuck in his brain. Jack London could tell a story.
The fatigue was unbearable. He couldn’t do the math exactly, but, at seventy miles per hour, he was only ten minutes out from stopping.
The rain went from hard to punishing. The loaf of bread slowed to forty-five miles per hour. Arthur couldn’t see anyone in his rear view mirror. The visibility to the side was almost zero. He was truly lost at sea.
If he could only see the lights of Havana, he would be able to use the favorable trade winds to find his way home. Seven more miles to go...then nine more hours after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
At 9 p.m. the pizzas arrived. The war room had started twenty-four hours before by Kurt. He and Wen had been talking about the state of things with Dr. Byrne when he got the idea.
Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Page 13
