Trash Talk

by Robert Gussin

  a novel

  robert gussin

  ipswich, massachusetts

  Copyright © 2006 by Robert Gussin

  first edition All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Illustrations by Melissa Stewart

  ISBN-10: 1-933515-04-X ISBN-13: 978-1-933515-04-5

  Published in the United States by Oceanview Publishing, Ipswich, Massachuetts

  Visit our Web site at oceanviewpub.com

  Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books

  www.midpointtradebooks.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  printed in the united states of america

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Pat, and our children, Jeff, Bill, Lisa, Joe, Lynne, Wayne, and Ben. They are a constant inspiration. Florida novelists have a special talent when it comes to infusing humor into stories about serious topics, especially the environment. Two of the best are Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey. It was their work that inspired me to write Trash Talk.

  I want to thank all my friends and family who made me a huge sports enthusiast — more like a fanatic. That’s why Trash Talk is about professional athletes.

  And a special thanks to my ganddaughter, Melissa Stewart, for the illustrations. Not only is Melissa a talented artist, but she’s a medical student as well.

  And finally, I want to thank my wife, Pat, for encouraging me to start writing this book and then for her continuous prodding to finish it. Without her this book would not have happened nor would have any of the other wonderful things in my life. I can never thank her enough.

  C h a p t e r 1

  Maxwell Gordon was having a bad day. The six foot eleven, 250-pound center for the Orlando Stars was pissed off at David Kress, Commissioner of the National Basketball Association and at Whitey Starzl, that little shit, skinny-ass guard for the Streaks. Not only had Philadelphia beaten the Stars on the previous evening, but the six foot five, 200-pound Starzl had peppered Gordon with so many insults, culminating with one about his mother, that Gordon had taken a wild swing at Starzl, which cost him a two-game suspension and a $10,000 fine. If I had only hit the little bastard, Gordon thought, I would have knocked him into the stands.

  Now, Gordon had this additional shit in the letter from Commissioner Kress. The Commissioner, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that it was time to add a little culture to his players, and class to the league. So, starting immediately, every player in the league had to attend at least one meeting or “symposium” — educational in nature — per year. Naturally, their teams would pay all fees and travel expenses. These had to be legitimate offerings, and at least one day long. What a bunch of crap, Gordon thought. Why the hell does Kress think I went to college? Just to play basketball? Shit, thirty more credits and I can get my degree. I’m sure Michigan State will take me back in a few years after I make a little money. And these fuckin’ courses got to be taken in the off-season. Bullshit!

  c h a p t e r 2

  Arnie Schwartz was more excited than he had been since his Bar Mitzvah, and he was now thirtytwo-years-old. Seven years working for the Sarasota Environmentalist Society, and they were giving him the responsibility to set up the Annual National Environmentalist Meeting to be held in Sarasota this year for the first time since 1957. Even the advertisements and other promotional material would be his to plan. If only they had decided that he would be “the man” earlier. With only five months until the May meeting, the pressure was on Arnie.

  Arnie was not particularly adept at working under pressure. At five foot four and 170 pounds, he was a bit rotund, and tended to move about rather slowly. His thick glasses and pudginess gave him a scholarly appearance. Since his graduation from Rutgers, Arnie had been working for the Sarasota Environmentalist organization. Although he loved the job, it took Arnie more than a year in Sarasota to become comfortable living alone and in a new area of the country. Arnie grew up in East Brunswick, New Jersey, and lived with his parents until he graduated from college and was hired by the Sarasota group. He even passed up the opportunity to live in the dormitory at college, and chose to stay at home and commute to school. When he moved to Sarasota, he decorated his small apartment to look like his former room in his parents’ home.

  Even Arnie considered himself sort of nerdy, and rarely dated, or in fact, went out with anyone — even the guys — socially. He did go to the YMCA once or twice a week to play chess or checkers, which, along with television, was his favorite pastime. Arnie had gone to one of the spring training baseball games in Sarasota with a neighbor in the apartment house, but had not cared much for it. He just never became enamored with sports the way many of his college classmates did. But his grades were reasonably good, and he landed the Sarasota job fairly quickly after graduation.

  Arnie had always been kind and good-hearted and, when he wanted to, could make friends fairly easily. He was very much liked by his neighbors, particularly those on the elderly side, because he often carried in their groceries, carried out their garbage, and even, on occasion, washed their cars.

  But now Arnie dived into action with a passion not before seen in the Sarasota Environmentalist Society office. Within a week he had set aside one hundred rooms at the Sarasota Hyatt and had reserved the grand ballroom and six meeting rooms that would hold about fifty people each. He reserved the ballroom for daytime meetings and for two evenings for special occasions that he envisioned would take place during the four-day meeting. Arnie’s mind was going a mile a minute. Participants would arrive on Sunday evening to a welcoming reception. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday would provide a mixture of large plenary sessions to address major topics plus smaller specialty sessions and workshops.

  Arnie recruited three of the remaining eight employees of the Sarasota office as his team. They were Melissa Stanford, the office secretary; Jordan (Jordy) Gifford, the public relations specialist; and Pamela Swain, whose main job was to organize demonstrations and protests when local environmental issues warranted it.

  The director of the office, Rama Schriff, was impressed with Arnie’s enthusiasm and energy. Mr. Schriff had emigrated to Sarasota from Calcutta (now Kolkata), India, only eight years prior, and had a bit of difficulty appreciating the seriousness of any of Sarasota’s environmental issues. But the pay was adequate, and Mr. Schriff had reasonable management skills and a background of having dealt with some fascinating environmental problems back in Calcutta.

  What had clinched the job for Mr. Schriff when he interviewed with the Board in Sarasota was how he’d significantly reduced air pollution and smog in Calcutta. Schriff was working as a chemist in the city lab when he became interested in the smog problem. He decided to explore the major culprits contributing to the pollution, smog, and resultant poor air quality. Schriff was dogged in his pursuit. He analyzed garbage he found on the streets, polluting emissions from vehicles, and smoke from cooking fires. But the breakthrough came when he analyzed a sample of dung from the sacred cows that wandered freely on the streets of Calcutta. To Schriff’s surprise, the dung was loaded with volatile, air-polluting substances. Schriff was shocked and fascinated. So as not to offend any of his fellow citizens, he went out at night with special collection containers and collected gases from both ends of the sacred animals as well as more dung. He found all of his samples to be highly polluting. Schriff calculated
that each cow emitted almost twenty pounds of pollutants a year as gases from manure, regurgitation, and flatulence.

  What touched a sensitive chord with the Board of the Sarasota Environmentalist Society was the way Schriff handled this delicate issue. He requested meetings with his supervisor and then with the city leaders. He apprised them of his findings in very private meetings and then suggested that if they could very subtly move the sacred animals to a “sacred pasture” outside the city, the smog problem should dissipate. The city fathers admired the young man’s intellect and courage and accepted his advice.

  The cows were slowly and quietly guided over time to a site just outside the city. Although the mass of citizens never realized what happened, they all appreciated the sudden decrease in smog and increase in air quality. The newly visible sunshine was accepted as a blessing by all.

  Rama Schriff was promoted to a director in the Office of Environmental Issues and then, two years later, was discovered by the Sarasota group shortly after he and his family decided to seek a different lifestyle and moved to Florida.

  Schriff had melded into the Florida group quite well. His managerial style was very passive and he allowed his people to do their jobs without much input from him. Sometimes the group wished he were more involved. True to form, he was supportive of the planning committee, but did not contribute significantly to the process.

  Once Arnie and his team had the meeting location and hotel rooms set, they began to think about the major theme for the meeting so that they could begin to plan a program and invite speakers. They also would have to put out a call for abstracts of presentations to be given in different sessions by members of the National Environmentalist Society, students, and other attendees who wished to present.

  “Well guys, what do you think?” Arnie asked at the first meeting of his small committee at which they were addressing theme and program.

  “I think the theme should be global warming,” said Pam. “It will screw up our ocean temperature and kill the fish and ruin our tourist industry here, as well as endanger the food supply nationally and globally.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jordy. “We don’t even see agreement as to whether there is global warming or global cooling.”

  “Well,” said Pam, “we could do both. You know, what are the long-term effects of global warming or global cooling?”

  Melissa chimed in. “I believe that the biggest problem today is trash. We are generating so damned much of it, and we have no place to put it. Everybody has the ‘not in my backyard’ syndrome.”

  “I like that.” said Arnie. “Trash really is a big problem, and it’s everyone’s problem everywhere. All the members should have an interest.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Jordy, “but it doesn’t sound like a topic that’s going to excite our membership. ‘Come and make a presentation on trash.’ Not much pizzazz in that!”

  “Hey, trash talk can be exciting,” Melissa said. “Hell,” cried Arnie. “That’s it. Trash talk. Melissa, you’re a genius. Jordy, why didn’t you think of that? That’s really a catchy name. Short and to the point. What a great title for our conference. I love it. ‘Trash Talk.’ It’s a great major theme, and will lead to all kinds of interesting

  sessions on biodegradability, incineration, waste hauling, dump sites, and so forth. Hell guys, this is going to be the best Environmentalist meeting ever!”

  The joy and excitement that filled the little conference room was palpable. Jordy ran down the hall and came back with a flip chart on an easel and a handful of Magic Markers.

  Pam was practically jumping up and down helping Jordy set up the easel. “I can’t wait to design some posters,” she said. “It will be great to put together a poster that’s not urging people to fight some environment-harming issue.”

  Pam’s job setting up demonstrations usually involved attacking a major corporation for polluting or a local politician for supporting legislation that might lead to environmental damage. Pam was involved in protest-type activities during high school in Orlando, where she grew up. She continued the battles through her days at the University of Florida, while majoring in political science. Pam felt that she was born too late, for she considered the Vietnam War era to have been the Holy Grail for protestors. She dreamed of being knocked down and kicked by a Chicago policeman or teargassed in Philadelphia or clubbed by a Columbus, Ohio cop.

  Now she had to settle for the milder battles of south central Florida. Last month she led a protest against the residents of several large oceanfront condominiums for keeping porch lights on during the sea turtle hatching season. The belief is that the emerging baby turtles turn toward the lights, and go away from rather than into the ocean. This is the popular belief, but there have been few, if any, reports of infant sea turtles scratching on the doors of condominium owners.

  Pam had also led a protest against a group responsible for transporting alligators from residential properties to swamp areas. Although these wandering alligators are responsible for the disappearance of numerous small dogs and cats, much to the horror of the pet owners, Pam and her colleagues believe that the land belongs to the wild animals and that humans and their unfortunate pets are the trespassers.

  But now Pam could put her energy to a use that would influence far more people on a national, and perhaps even an international scale. How great that would be!

  Melissa was still seated at the conference table staring into space. She was elated that this group had embraced her theme. She was thinking of her role in setting up the entertainment. She knew that she would have to test some restaurants to assure that they would be appropriate to recommend to the participants. On her secretary’s salary, she didn’t get to eat out very often, except for an occasional stop at McDonald’s or Wendy’s. Her money was going toward night school tuition at the local campus of the University of South Florida, where Melissa was about twenty-six credits short of a degree in journalism. If she continued on Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings, she figured another two years until she would graduate. Melissa lived at home with her parents and so her other expenses were minimal. She loved her job at the Society. She hoped after she had her degree, she could stay on with more responsibility and a larger salary. But for now she was so excited about the national meeting opportunity, everything else seemed secondary.

  C h a p t e r 3

  Max Gordon was bitching about his woes to everyone he could— in person or on the phone. He called his best friend in the league, Moe Robbins, who played for Dallas.

  “The fucker gave me a two-game suspension and fined me 10,000 bucks, and I never even touched that son of a bitch Starzyl. Christ, if I had hit him, I probably would be suspended for fifty years! And this shit about going to courses or meetings. Holy fuck. Did you get that letter?”

  “You bet your ass I did,” said Moe, “and so did all my teammates, and I’m sure all of us in the league. Even worse, my buddies from the Cowboys got it. So it’s some kind of conspiracy by those dick-head commissioners of all the pro sports to turn us into some kind of pansy ass, ballet dancin’, sissy shits. Pretty soon they’ll be requirin’ us to go to the opera and read fuckin’ historical novels.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, Moe. The football guys got to do it too?” Max asked.

  “No shit, just like us,” said Moe.

  “Hey, Moe, why don’t you ask your Cowboy buddy Tony DiMarco, where he’s gonna drag his 385 pound ass. The seats at the ballet are too little to hold him. They’re made for those little round lady asses and the bony butts of those ‘in-tell-agensia’ men.”

  “Hey, brother,” Moe said, “keep me informed of your choices. Maybe we can learn together.”

  They were both roaring with laughter when they hung up.

  The news of the commissioners’ directive spread like wildfire through the sports community. There was even talk that baseball players, the intellectual elite of the sports world, might get the same requirements, and hockey players too. It r
ained like a plague down on the athletes. Every sports columnist wrote about it. Cartoonists portrayed huge football players in full uniform with a mortarboard replacing their helmet. Basketball cartoonists showed what looked like seven-footers dunking an encyclopedia through the basket. One cartoon showed a baseball player showing a hockey player some lines in a book by Shakespeare, while two hockey players on skates, but with tutus replacing their uniforms, practiced at a ballet bar.

  C h a p

  t e r

  14 robert gussin

  4

  The conference planning team in Sarasota was working feverishly. Pamela was on the phone to well-known specialists from around the nation requesting they arrange symposia on important topics related to trash. Sue Greber from Harvard had agreed to handle a symposium on recreational trash. Sonje Bhat from Princeton agreed to a biodegradability session. Professor Jacques Dimone from the University of British Columbia said his work, which showed that some weed killers could cause male frogs to develop multiple sex organs, would be a great plenary session major presentation. Pam agreed. Dale Bowl from the University of Florida, an expert on fish, agreed to talk about the impact of red tide on the fish population, and the problems of dead fish disposal.

  Pam was certain that the way things were moving, filling a program with exciting, interesting, educational presentations was going to be easy.

  Jordy Gifford was thrilled to have the advertising and publicity assignment. Even though the title was not his idea, he had grown to really like it and appreciate its potential to lure a broad audience to the meeting. Jordy’s mind was going a mile a minute. Not only would he run ads in the environmental publications, but he thought this conference could attract a broader audience and get more people involved in the environmental movement. He planned to even place some ads in the general news media. Jordy was now fulfilling one of his dreams. He was actually designing an ad campaign. On a picture of an overloaded garbage can with bottles, cans, and other assorted items protruding in a mound above the top of the can, Jordy had printed in large letters: trash talk.