Up, Down and Sideways

by Patton, Robert;

  My lawyer arrived. His name was Jeffrey Masters. Susan had recommended him, and at our first meeting he’d been disarmingly candid about his fee and his brilliance. Right behind Jeffrey came Nick Bakes. Nick wore pizza-chef whites and brandished his car keys before him as an exorcist might a crucifix. His brother Frank had removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that burned as they tracked his wife’s chosen. Bill Kelly and Alison stood by like hired protection. I wondered what I was doing here.

  Neil clapped his hands. “My timing’s kaput but let’s do it. Let’s make some money.”

  “Neil,” I said. “About that—you are taking a loss on our deal?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Susan implied—”

  “The loss she’s talking about is what I could have got for the property, had I held out for my price. Relative to what you’re paying, yes. I’m taking a significant loss.”

  I nodded, confused. “It was a question I had.”

  “I want you to be comfortable.”

  It’s fair, I thought as he walked away. He’s a businessman and—it crossed my mind—he’s a Jew. A real estate Jew. He isn’t Santa Claus. Susan approached me. “Excited?”

  “Terrified.”

  “That’s understandable. Frank and Nick haven’t seen each other since the breakup. You can feel the anger.” She shivered. “It’s, I don’t know—”

  “A turn-on?”

  She gave me a stony look. Jeffrey Masters came up behind her, pulling papers from his briefcase. “While we’re doing the deed with the Bakeses, Philip, you wanna read this and sign it? It’s a release, says you agree to my representing both parties in your closing, Neil and you.”

  “A release?”

  “I told you I work for Neil, right?”

  “I told him,” Susan said.

  “It’s not often done, and it can look odd, but in a casual deal like today, no problem.”

  “Casual,” I echoed.

  “Exactly. I’m also representing the bank, of course. Your loan check came this morning. You brought the balance, I trust, and a checkbook for incidentals.”

  “I do. I did.”

  “You okay, buddy?”

  “It’s his first closing,” Susan explained.

  Jeffrey got wistful. “I remember my first. It was sweet. Anyway,” he continued, “regarding evictions—the letters are drafted. I’ll drive one over to Nick’s Pizza after we close. My secretary will hand deliver the other one to the old lady this afternoon. My guess is they’ll ignore us. Next we hit ‘em with a cease-and-desist. It’s a process. Eight weeks tops and they’re out.”

  “Can’t you give Nick his notice right now?”

  “You’re not the owner yet.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Incidentally, Philip—your suggestions as to the wording on those eviction letters? Primo. Classy yet blunt. I’m keeping them as guidelines for the future.”

  “It’s a knack. I was born to persecute.”

  “Don’t be weird,” Susan said.

  “I feel weird.” In fact I felt afraid. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them I’d royally paid off Mrs. Bakes to vacate her apartment. They’d mark me a fool, and rightly.

  Jeffrey said to me tenderly, “This thing today is cake. One hour and you’ll be a real estate entrepreneur. Revel in it! This is the 1980s!” When I smiled he gave me the high sign: “Sweet.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Susan asked when he’d left. “You act like you’re on death row.”

  “I’m not used to real estate. I feel vulnerable.”

  “Fake it.”

  “That’s not what I need from you.” I needed her to break code and touch me, give a reassuring stroke to my wrist or jacket sleeve. No one was watching, surely it would be all right. But the only plea I could verbalize covered our usual topic. “Tell me the building’s a bargain and it’ll make me money.” Tonelessly, she recited it back to me:

  “The building’s a bargain and it will make you money.”

  “You’re dear to say that, Susan.”

  I took a seat outside the conference room. Jeffrey’s release reminded me of releases I’d signed three years earlier, of my father and Stalls Associates. Absolving them in the event of my financial failure was a smart move in retrospect. As a fortunate son in fortunate times, I was hard-pressed for woe. Young people traditionally encounter trauma that amputates the fledgling past and leaves a phantom pang, a permanent intimation of one’s lost innocence; maturity results. But unblessed with a war to fight or bereavement to endure, I’d created my trauma in accordance with what was available. I was certain that my attorney had conspired with Neil and Susan to sell me a bogus building. So be it. If my suspicion proved wrong, I’d settle for success. If correct, I was prepared for the Plan B of growing wiser for the experience.

  Noise came from the conference room. I heard Frank Bakes curse his brother, heard Neil shout, “Let’s be men!” More oaths followed, then the voices of lawyers trying to referee. Lyle the office secretary was manning the phones across from me. “Tragic,” he said, catching my eye.

  I nodded. Lyle was gay. To avoid any misconception I was generally rude to him. He seemed to pity me for it, but better that than the other, I figured.

  “I’ve seen the building you’re buying. You won’t be sorry.”

  I perked up. “You think?”

  “In this area? Can’t miss.”

  “Evicting people is no fun.”

  “I don’t imagine it is.”

  “Matter of fact, I paid one to leave.”

  “Bought out the lease?”

  “She didn’t have a lease. I was buying peace of mind, basically.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  It had grown quiet in the conference room. The door pushed open and Alison came out as if tiptoeing from a nursery. She shut the door and rolled her eyes. “You won’t believe what’s happening in there. Frank—he’s drunk, right?—one second he yells, the next second he bawls. He got on his knees and begged Nick to send his wife back. In front of everyone, begged. I couldn’t watch.” She went to her desk for Kleenex.

  “What’d you expect?” Lyle said. “He’s heartbroken.”

  “I have sympathy for the guy, but show a little backbone.”

  “Backbone is for liars. Frank is in agony.”

  “How’s Nick holding up?” I asked her.

  “Says not a word. Totally noble.”

  “Sure,” Lyle said. “He’s the winner. He has what he wants.”

  “Sometimes it’s harder to be the bad guy than the victim,” I said.

  Lyle laughed. “You have to say that.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve never been hurt.”

  “Now boys,” Alison said, turning toward the conference room.

  “You’re going back in?”

  “They need Kleenex. And I wouldn’t miss it.”

  It was me and Lyle alone again. He typed and I reread my lawyer’s release. Now and then I glanced up at him and dealt him a punishing glare. “Relax, Philip. I’m not the enemy.”

  This threw me. “Who is?”

  The door flew open and Nick Bakes emerged, pursued by a howl: “How long you fock her! How long I’m a jackass!” Nick took a chair beside mine. His face was sweaty.

  “He’s not doing so good, my brother.”

  Lyle typed reprovingly.

  I asked Nick, “They about done in there?”

  “I sign the paper. I get my check in a minute.” In my acquaintance as the man behind the pizza counter, Nick had been jovial most of the time and gushing when I paid my rent. Lately, however, his clash of remorse and illicit joy had been manifested in a mishmash of inappropriate humors and long, unfocused stares, one of which was aimed my way right now. I became uncomfortable:

  “I met your—your what?”

  “My Melina? She tell me. You give her much money yesterday. For my mother.”

  “It
was something I could do. I guess your mother’s looking for a new apartment to rent?”

  “She decide to live with me and Melina. We make an addition, a room for herself.” With my $18,000? Swindler!

  “I thought your mom and Melina didn’t like each other.”

  “Is better now.”

  “I’ll bet.” Annoyance made me pushy: “I thought your mother was taking Frank’s side through all this.”

  “She must watch for herself, too. Where she gonna live?”

  “She can live with Frank.”

  “No one can live with Frank. And she’s afraid a little. His problem.”

  “Ohhh. He’s a boozer.”

  “You know nothing about it! He’s all the time angry, Frank. Like our father.”

  “Today oughta cheer him up.” His eyes narrowed at my sarcasm:

  “You tease with me? Because if you tease with me, you make a mistake. Me and Frank and Melina is not for your fun.”

  “I’m not teasing you. Come on, we’ve always been friends.”

  “I sell you pizza. Big shit.”

  “Our relationship has been more than that to me. It’s been a welcome part of my day, my life.” I couldn’t help sounding condescending—the preposterousness of my words demanded it. The sad part was, I meant to be genuine. I did consider Nick and me friends, had relished the chat about sports and weather that had bonded us as men while I awaited my mushroom-bacon. His dismissal stung me like a lover’s rejection. In a reflex of wanting to sting him back, I brought up the future of his pizza business. “Soon there will be medical offices upstairs,” I told him. “I’ve been advised that pizza is no go as a retail tenant. Purely image, I’m talking.”

  “You kick me out?”

  “I like you, Nick. I like your pizza. But you haven’t got a lease.” Now he pulls the knife, I thought.

  “I figure this,” he said mildly.

  “Can you relocate?”

  “This location is beautiful for me. To move? No.”

  “The building’s in a valuable spot, isn’t it?”

  He studied me. “Not bad. You wanna sell?”

  “I think not.”

  “The place needs work.”

  “It’ll pay off.” I was happy again, feeling fine on two unsolicited shots of approval—from a fag and a Greek backslider, true, but I was grateful for anything. Nick slapped his knee as if relieved.

  “Okay, Philly. You kick me out. I tell my people when?”

  “You’re going to fire your workers?”

  “Not your fault. Frank say it to me he will do this.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “For my workers, no. For me?” He sighed. “Is fair.”

  “Because of your affair with Melina?”

  His look of anger at my mentioning this passed—Frank had spilled the news all over town. And Nick’s silence told me it was because of Melina: her love, its price, his need to pay it. I was touched. Nick’s penitence was the real thing, its prideful armor rendering it still more affecting. Clearly he had regrets about betraying his brother, and clearly he’d do it again in the same situation. No redemption, no hope of forgiveness, none of that salvation guff—just the bleak satisfaction of accepting the penalty commensurate with the prize. At which thought I got an idea. Nick needn’t be penalized at all. I could reward him, spare him. With the added relief, too, of easing my own apprehensions about some of the choices I’d taken in life, and some of the consequences I’d so far avoided. Let me remain the holy sinner. Let Nick be another of God’s undeserving lucky ones.

  “Tell me,” I asked him. “Is there a business you know besides pizza? Something snazzy. Say, a boutique?”

  No answer.

  “A boutique. You know: ladies’ underwear, soap.”

  He shook his head.

  “Does Melina?”

  “Underwear? Not so much.”

  “Does she work?”

  “In a flower shop. Downtown.”

  “Perfect! Turn the pizza place into a flower shop, you and her. There’s nothing like it around here, and with all the yuppies and condos sprouting, you’ll make a fortune.”

  He considered. “Is possible. And how much rent to pay?”

  “Well, it’s got to kick up some. Economics.”

  “We can share gross.”

  “I’m hesitant. Partnerships stink, as you know. But forget the details. You must sell your fixtures and order new. You have cash to capitalize, I assume—at least eighteen grand, right? So it’s done, you’re a florist.” I was pleased. I’d saved him, taken his sin on myself just like Jesus. “You’re Nick’s Flowers now.”

  He shook his head. “Melina’s Little Bud Shop.”

  “Nice,” I said. At his desk Lyle started to clap.

  “Bravo, gentlemen. You have touched my heart.”

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Lyle.”

  “How could I not? And let me say, it was beautiful.”

  I thanked him, thanked Nick, then leaned back in my chair, exhausted. Anticlimax brought doubt and an old foreboding, and like Lyle said, it was beautiful.

  12

  Exiting the conference room, everyone looked beat and relieved, save Frank who seemed merely beat and Susan who seemed Susan, brisk as an eyewitness newsperson and looking every inch the imperial Jewess. It’s not a nice term, “Jewess,” conferring anthropologic distinction as Custer conferred it on Indians. But what was she to me if not a threatening exotic? With no clue to her center I’d stuck her, as with arrows, with rancorous labels, “Jewess” joining “bitch” and “cunt” and “real estate broker” as blind attempts to pinpoint her. “Mother of my child” came later, and proved my biggest miss.

  She was watching me watch her. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing.” Ambivalence had put a grin on my face. “Did I tell you, you look good today.”

  “I always look good.” Typical, but this time said with her hand on my shoulder, high warmth for Susan. I laid my hand over hers, my pulse accelerating at this forbidden public display. “Rough scene in there?”

  “Pretty rough. It was scary, all that emotion.”

  “All that pathology.”

  She smiled. “It made me appreciate my husband. He’s becoming more modulated these days, more sane. Like you.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as incredibly fucked up.”

  “Him too, believe me—fucked up on religion, on the rigors of his faith. He has Judaism where you have money.”

  “Of course there’s no comparison.”

  “Defending your rival?”

  “I’ve always conceded the high road. And I didn’t know we were rivals.”

  “Never presume, Philip.”

  “What’s his name again? The new one.”

  “It’s Gershom. As you well know.”

  “Right. Gershom. Good ol’ Gersh.”

  “Don’t be an ass.” She hesitated. “I saw him last night. He came by my apartment.”

  “Okay.”

  “We talked—”

  “It happens, go on.”

  “—about things.”

  “Susan!” Her drama maddened me. “Gershom wants you back and you said yes. Go in peace, baby. I’ll survive.”

  “I said no.”

  “Oh. Did he freak?”

  “He was very calm about it. Unusually so.”

  “Reverse psychology.”

  “Not his style. He asked me to come back and I said no. I had to.”

  “Had to?” I felt flattered. “Why?”

  She gave me a look I can only call magical, transforming her before my eyes from empress to maiden to puddle. “I’ll explain when we’re alone,” she said.

  I was sitting and she was standing in front of me, so when I raised my palm to the front of her skirt it was rather a salute. Between her legs the skirt material gave. I pressed into the Y of her groin and she pressed back and there occurred, through layers of natural fibers, contact. Her pubic bone throbbed
like an engine. I looked up, she down, the antithesis of our sexual postures—and in the meeting of our eyes unspoken secrets were shared. Two different secrets, however. To me the message seemed clear: She wanted me more than she wanted her marriage, hence she’d “had to” snub Gershom. But Susan, perhaps rendered mute by her gynecologist’s confirmation, was on another wavelength entirely. My touch must have surprised her with its tender presumption, must have led her to believe I’d sensed the truth and was lovingly endorsing it. I was thinking pussy, she was thinking womb. It was a simple mistake.

  As I worked the heel of my hand, she murmured dreamily, “I hated you this morning. That’s why I was a bitch before.”

  “And I hated you. I’d convinced myself the building was a rip-off and you knew it.”

  “Who cares about that now?”

  “I’m wrong, I trust.”

  “Jesus, you never stop.”

  “It’s on my mind, okay? It’s a big day for me.”

  She withdrew her crotch from reach. “A big day for you?”

  “I’m glad we agree.”

  “And what happens next?”

  “After this? We meet at my place and fuck like pigs in a gutter. Then food.”

  She shook her head violently, as if denying bad news. “My God, I don’t even know you.”

  “That’s why our relationship works! Ambivalence is hot. You need danger, a door to unlock to keep it exciting.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You have to ask? I’m talking about us, me and you and the ol’ one-two.” My poetry didn’t impress her:

  “Eat shit, Philip.”

  “Recess is over, kids,” said Neil Gray, approaching. “Let’s make Philip—”

  “Disappear,” Susan suggested.

  “—a landlord, I was gonna say. Whatsa matter?”

  “Philip and I were just wallowing in the grotesque.” The melting in Susan’s face of moments before had reversed itself, as when snow softens and then refreezes and takes a glittery crust. I was wishing she’d yell or laugh at me, poke out her tongue like a winter seedling, a harbinger of warmth to come. She glanced at Neil and he nodded, not comprehending but agreeing. It was two against one. To even the odds I called over my new friend and business associate, Nick Bakes.

  “Nick. Tell them I’m not a schmuck.” His brother shadowed him, steadying himself against the furniture.