A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  The lawyer was short on cash—said as much by way of concession to fun and extravagance as a lifestyle, including several wives and cars and a steady flow of top-drawer liquor. It happens, but the lawyer wasn’t broke like the rest of the firm. He was only strapped for cash, on the edge of the abyss instead of down in it, clawing out. Eight bills an hour and coming up short? But that’s kicking the horse. At the time Mulroney was way flush, and he chuckled at the calamities of some people.

  Big M Mulroney never wanted wood paneling or a nineteenth floor, but some days he made eight bills an hour times ten. Or twenty. How can you not love days like that? You can’t. How can you not know those days will come again? Just sitting back, rolling a controlled substance, inhaling deeply, and feeling the dough come at you in waves is lovely, lovely, lovely, a day of bliss and harmony. Some guys added the toot, and that was okay but not so much for Mulroney. It made him anxious. He made way too many phone calls on the toot, and a stoned reverie tended to mute him up and make him look much smarter. Like now, with things tidied up and responses in place, the M will be out-of-pocket, away from the office, in a meeting, attending to important business, which bolsters attitude no less than another latte and maybe one little inhale of the magical herb. What could make for greater success on a beautiful day than a full schedule with a great ride and a massage? Of course, a bridge to the financial future would enhance success with greater greatness, but not to worry, because that bridge appears to be, as they say, under construction.

  With big-picture perspective, the path seems productive and perfectly suited to the skill set at hand.

  Mulroney knows the way

  to carry the sleigh

  through the white and drifted snow …

  So he ponders life and business, leaning back into the lumbar support only an executive office chair can provide, taming the dragons as only a Big M can do. With work dispatched and consciousness mildly altered, he moves out, via the bathroom for an executive dump of semi-massive magnitude that alters consciousness more significantly still, with consideration of yet another million dollar idea in the process: a toilet seat with lumbar support, a one-up on those Japanese units that squirt the anus free of fecal debris and then blow dry the tender membrane. Besides lumbar relief, The Mulroney Throne could also include a delicate applicator for the ChapStick. But surely they already thought of that.

  Lightly stoned and a few pounds lighter, an executive could well justify a lie-down for a minute or two for equilibrium adjustment, but no. The massage will be restful soon enough, and besides, a quick shower will rejuvenate and remove the odd scent and/or dingleberry, because cleanliness is pivotal to first impressions on a masseuse. Which is no more nor less than brushing and flossing before a dental exam. It’s merely polite.

  Then it’s the kitchen for the latte boost on the way to the beach for a mile or so walk to stretch things out and for perspective. Could the sky be bluer? Could blessings be greater? The house could slide into escrow easy as downhill on a mudslide, but again, all things in time.

  A half-mile or so down the beach, a crowd gathers at the waterline to watch a big man reeling something in, his rod bent double, his muscles bulging. An eagle ray breaks the surface thirty yards out, a thick, sixty-pounder with a four-foot wingspan, flapping into the shallows and onto the sand. It breathes heavily, critically fatigued and hooked a few inches into the mouth.

  Mulroney is saddened by the struggle that seems so unnatural, so void of benefit to anyone. He’s had days like that.

  The big fish and fisherman gasp in unison, the man apparently dumbfounded and fearful of the other—the eagle ray confused on what behavior could possibly alter the unfortunate situation, till Mulroney parts the crowd and asserts, “Cut the line. He’ll slough the hook in a few days.” The fisherman shrugs—he has no knife. Someone offers a fingernail clipper, and Mulroney cuts the line. The crowd watches the big ray flop weakly in the sand.

  A woman mutters, “Stingray. Look out.”

  “Come on,” Mulroney says to the big fisherman. “We’ll ease him back in. You get one side; I’ll get the other.”

  “He’ll get you with his stinger,” the fisherman says.

  “No he won’t. He’s tired. He needs a break. You ever need a break? Besides, he’s not a stingray. He’s an eagle ray.”

  “He has a stinger. I can see it,” states a woman in the crowd. The crowd murmurs warnings, reaching consensus on the ray’s nasty intentions.

  “That stinger can shoot out at you,” says the big fisherman.

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day,” Mulroney says. “It won’t happen.” He turns to the woman. “Did you see somebody get hurt by a ray on TV? Or dream it? Or make it up?” He stoops to liberate a fish out of water, to help a natural player return to his element, perhaps wiser, perhaps recognizing the true M as few fish have a chance to do. Or maybe Michael Mulroney feels a bond.

  The fisherman follows Mulroney’s lead with trepidation. They lift the wings into the next wave and move out, giving the ray some depth until it’s underwater.

  “Okay, and out to sea,” Mulroney advises, as the ray swims gracefully out. The crowd applauds. In his moment of heroism and happy interface, he accepts group approval on a noncommercial behavior. In the limelight of a righteous act, Mulroney bows, smiling sadly inside, wishing for a helping hand that might ease him back to his depths as well. He bows to the crowd to keep it light, humorous, and subtle, achieving the imagery of a man on the beach, doing good in the world. The small but engaged audience chuckles. A few applaud. Someone gasps, “That’s Mike Mulroney!” Those with cameras make the scene immortal.

  Mulroney corrects, “Michael, if you will. Big M OK Cars, at your service.” It sounds corny. But it can’t hurt. Because when you get down to it, it’s a nonstop campaign, running for office or selling cars. You work the stump where you find it. You don’t shy from responsibility. You don’t grandstand or blow your own horn, but you step up to do the right thing and take the credit when it’s due. And let’s face it: every candidate these days is striving for more than meets the eye, sooner or later.

  Mulroney is further affirmed in his decision to forego the lie-down, lest he and the fish would have missed an excellent opportunity. Isn’t it grand, the way things work out for the best in the most stimulating weather in the world?

  The route to Rosa’s is mostly negative grade, which gets really negative on the way back. But a massage in seventeen miles will be sweet. Maybe Juan Valdez will throw Mulroney’s bicycle in the back of the truck and offer a lift home. Maybe they’ll bond and be asshole buddies.

  XIV

  Esteffeno y Phillippé

  or

  A Bastion of Liberal Thinking

  At fifty-six, Steffen looks like, talks like, and is protégé to Phillip at sixty-seven. A perennial practitioner of the soft expression, Steffen tilts his head and juts his chin as a chronic mode of emphasis, doubt, wonder and the way it is among men of reflection on the California Coast. Ever so gently asserting the true context of the avant-hip local scene, he avoids the macho burden, shuns the macho concept. He could be gay, or not; the dramatic point being that either/or is A-OK, and if you have doubts, then society will deal with you in timely fashion. Steffen and Phillip are friends and riding companions who keep a more moderate pace than the bike shop elite. They call out to the more compulsive cycling set speeding casually past, “Oh, nice one!” Or, “You just passed a couple of dope-smoking geriatrics!” Or, “You’re ready for the tour!” Steffen is known as Esteffeno on these outings, and he does the catcalling because it seems more suited to the younger set.

  Phillip became Phillippé as part of Steffen’s—Esteffeno’s—fantasy, which he borrowed from that movie a few decades ago about the Hoosier who dreamed of bicycle racing in Italy. Further grist for Steffen’s and Phillip’s mill is their common past, including childhood constraints and traumas as inflicted by the Catholic church in the tender years, with intimations
of attempted buggery and values run amok. The church’s evil ways are the likely source of Phillip’s sexual confusion, which serves him to advantage in the neighborhood, given the social capital granted to victims and the minority oppressed with a bonus payout for revelations of childhood abuse. Phillip and Steffen had both been altar boys, and they revel in the mother lode of priest jokes currently on the circuit. Do you know the difference between a full nelson and a Father Nelson?

  The two friends also enjoy a running joke on their appetite for a little brown round now and then. So? What’s it to you? And it is a joke, followed by laughter every time.

  Steffen’s rapier wit cuts most often like a butter knife, with soft poignancy and wicked humor, endearing him to many. As an effete dilettante for whom bicycling is an intellectual sport, he is proud of his legs, his annual mileage, and his riding regimen. He defends his medium-grade bicycle with a biblical passage: If an Acme bicycle was good enough for Jesus …

  Steffen and Phillip’s friendship is visible and could be intimate, but nobody cares. Two old guys who ride bicycles and may engage in anal sex are harmless. So what? The general assumption is that Steffan and Phillip get high and get it on, not so often, but whenever they want, leading suburban lives in the meantime. Some men would rather not admit being gay, especially those married to women. The local betting line would lay odds that Steffen wears his underpants backward—except that nobody would make a line because it doesn’t matter or make a difference or change perception for anyone. Yet the duo compensate with a vigorous, public yen for firm young women. With murmuring speculation they ogle passing females, comparing notes in soft glances sideways. Could churchly culpability run so amok?

  On any weekday, they might pedal a few miles, stop for a latte, and pedal on. So what? They are the eldest two riders around, besides Mulroney, and they live in the neighborhood, but they have yet to see if he’d like to join them for a ride. That’s what.

  Michael Mulroney is a car salesperson—used cars at that. Magnate, shmagnate, Mulroney came up to the sun deck after a long passage below the water line. Mulroney runs ads on TV and fills the air otherwise with visual pollution, with all those plastic flags and silly signs promising perfection in used cars. How utterly blue collar, and he doesn’t read The New Yorker, so he can’t very well join the road talk on the juicy tidbits therein.

  Mulroney is not offended but is rather relieved that Phillip and Steffen offer no potential for friendship and stimulation. He doesn’t mind their sexual preference or their antics. Their stares and pithy asides can be offensive, and that’s a fine how-do-you-do for two egregiously liberal men in tights that emphasize the gonads.

  Phillip and Steffen are content to go their separate way, and so is Mulroney. Phillip the elder rode professionally on a European race schedule with a paycheck, many decades ago. The aura lingers, because he harks back so often and still wears some of the old kit, like the droll knit socks and funky jerseys.

  Steffen and Phillip jovially recall this week’s cartoons in The New Yorker as Mulroney overtakes them. Riding politely behind, Mulroney wonders how long they’ll ignore him. And why would two dyed-in-the-wool Californians read The New Yorker, if not to compensate something or other?

  “Hello, boys,” Mulroney demurs, easing alongside.

  Seeing Mulroney in riding togs, Phillip’s brow scrunches as his eyes strain on Mulroney’s new bicycle. “Olioglo?” Phillip rides a vintage Alligator frame in aluminum from twenty years ago and openly covets carbon, even in the mid-range, but cannot muster the initiative on fixed income.

  “CX-61. I just … picked it up.”

  “Hm. Campy components. Super Record. Electronic shifting.” Phillip looks straight ahead as if wearing blinders, because years of sizing up riders while showing no interest is a developed skill. Still, he has difficulty in constraining his regret, much less his envy and resentment, as if a used car salesperson should experience CX-61 glory and a committed road racer for decades cannot. Mulroney is not proud of the bicycle, yet he savors the exchange and visible ruffle. Phillip can’t help himself either, effusing soft wit at Mulroney’s expense: “I suppose it’ll be a nice bike for you, especially if you’re going to use it.” The suggestion is that Mulroney is a wheelman-come-lately in the worst ways of the affluent suburbs, where chic pursuits are attacked with massive accessorizing, rather than the blood, sweat and tears that make a difference on long grinds up major hills and sweeping descents. The wanna-be will get bored and/or lazy often as not—or claim a lame injury or sorry circumstance—and the rig collects dust. Not that any grind or descent in the suburban foothills makes a difference in the world of cycling, but values and priorities remain pure.

  Mulroney understands, himself a well-seasoned veteran of competitive dialogue. So he sees Phillip and raises: “Yeah. I might get tired of it. Who knows? So far, though, it’s a breeze, especially with those Certification Eleven wheels on there. You know those, don’t you, Phil?”

  Mulroney understands timing, so he waits for the subtle side-glance that affirms Certitude 1111s front and rear for effortless climbing in the four thousand dollar range, for rotational advantage only. Or, more succinctly in the range of exponentially greater value than Phillip’s pile of Alligator junk. “I’ll try it for a while. See if I like it. I’ll let you know if I get ready to sell. Give you a shot at half price. Only ten grand or so. That would be a sweet deal for you, huh, Phillip?”

  Mulroney can parry. Oh, how sweet it could be to tell peeping Phillip that he would have been pilloried with his eyes gouged out not so long ago. Now he might go to jail, where he might casually drop his soap, but he should be cautious in picking it up … or not.

  But no. Mulroney stays calm, savoring the tart reality that Phillip knows that Mulroney knows, and between the two, Mulroney has the least to lose and is easily the tougher player. So he finds his cadence, easing into optimal averages that are stronger than on day one. He feels good, and the pace will now quicken. The three of them pick it up to eighty cadence, give or take. Each rider shifts subtly as the game picks up, as speed climbs from twelve through fourteen on its way to eighteen, as if men meeting on a casual ride accelerate as a matter of recognition and respect. Or a petty pissing contest. Because some men ride fast, and anyone is welcome to join in, given the balls to keep up, given the riding chops to turn forty-five miles at seventeen per, average—

  If you got the juice, asshole. Let’s get it on!

  Oh, Phillip’s challenge is unspoken but clear, fair compensation to all else he may show or fail to show. The guy was a pro, on the pro circuit, and even if that was decades ago, a pro does not forget the tricks and moves of the cutthroat game, where stealth and nuance are integral to creeping machismo overall. “Nice,” he casually calls. “Wireless functions and cadence.”

  Mulroney presses the button to cadence, to show how easily he can keep an eye on things. “Yeah. Why the fuck not?” Mulroney strains a bit, talking at such a sustained speed, but he has a few tricks himself, primary among them the significant grade coming up in a quarter mile, which doesn’t seem so far, but internal gauges verge on maximum for pressure, temperature, beat and flow. Can he make the grade? Because at only five percent, he can smoke a condescending blowhard easy as Certitudes can stomp an Alligator.

  Mulroney makes the incline and pulls ahead, not so dramatic as Lance but with equal gratification. Phillip was a pro, after all, and nobody pays Mulroney. Steffen is less aggressive trailing by a few yards, as he calls in soft superiority and strained intellect that maybe they should turn around for something or other. Steffen learned the soft quirks from Phillip. They fall back, giggling again over pithy snippets, trying to remember where they were before Mulroney butted in. Mulroney eases the pace.

  Phillip laughs out loud about one priceless cartoon showing a monk with a bulge in his robe over a caption about too much leavening in the rectory. That cartoon reminds him of the penance imposed on his own aging penis, though he pronounces it penn
is, perhaps in deference to Steffen—please, not Steven.

  So Mulroney lags till they catch up, and he asks, “Sounds like you guys aren’t getting any pussy.”

  Steffen is aghast at such blatant disrespect for women.

  Phillip says, “No, not like you. My wife is frigid. Her pussy is frozen. She wouldn’t let you stick it in there if you paid her.”

  “How much did you offer, Phil?” Phillip will not respond, so Mulroney presses, “What’s she look like?”

  Steffen says, “She’s beautiful.” He glares at Mulroney, who pulls a hankie for a one-handed nose blow. “Lose the handkerchief,” Steffen advises, offering a chic freebie to the used-car king.

  Mulroney pokes a finger into each nose hole then wipes the hankie sideways to snag what’s left. “Lose it? I didn’t lose it. I got it right here, Steve.”

  Steffen and Phillip ignore the ignoramus; Mulroney won’t lose his handkerchief or obnoxious habits, requiring others to suffer. The handkerchief flops from a jersey pocket, waving to anyone who sees it. Steffen accelerates, not a move but distancing in a soft statement of contempt. Phillip moves up with him, closing ranks and leaving Mulroney behind, where he came in. “Okay,” Mulroney laughs. “These five homos, I mean gay guys, are relaxing in a hot tub.”