by Alex Wellen
“This had better be a joke,” Mills yells, drawing attention to himself. “This is grotesque. I’ve tried to be polite, but I’ve had enough,” he says walking away.
I catch up to him and we dance as I block his path.
“Look, I know about your arrangement,” I say in a conspiratorial tone.
“Excuse me?”
“You invited Gregory to this club as your guest—I’m sure he appreciated that—but those samples you gave him were free, and the toiletries you so generously helped yourself to cost Gregory thousands of dollars,” I whisper.
His face is beet red. Mills is about to blow a gasket.
“It’s what’s fair,” I say with gusto.
“It’s what’s fair? You are way outside your depth, son. You haven’t a clue of what’s fair! I could still lose my medical license for giving Gregory those pills,” he whispers with pure vitriol. “Not to mention that I never charged him for a single office visit. I never charged anyone in that family. Neither did my father. The fact that it took you three weeks before cashing in on his death, was that out of respect or a lack of resourcefulness?”
Dr. Mills pokes me in the chest.
“I don’t know what that lovely daughter of his sees in you. But Gregory is spinning in his grave right now. Spinning!” Mills yells.
Mills shoves past me. I’m numb.
“He was so right about you,” Mills adds smugly, his back to me.
I just stare.
“I’ll pay the $3,000 in toilet paper,” he says, addressing me one last time, “simply because this whole episode is a steaming pile of horseshit. But expect an invoice from me, too: for Gregory’s doctor visits covering the same five-year span.”
CHAPTER 18
Comfort Food
I SHOVEL Honey Nut Cheerios into my mouth with one hand and use the other to shield my squinty eyes from the atrocity on the television screen. HBO is running a Real Sex marathon. A hairy, overweight middle-aged man with a beer gut, dressed in a brown bear costume, tells the camera that “furry fetishists” are more common than one might think. The man bears an uncanny resemblance to the Cal Berkeley mascot, Oski, minus the cute golden cardigan, plus the easy-access aperture to conduct, uh, business. A woman dressed like a white bunny rabbit bounces up and down on top of him. He is about to have a heart attack and HBO is there to catch the nightmare on video.
The phone receiver is sitting right next to me on the couch so I pick it up on the first ring. It’s Paige, again. She called ninety minutes ago promising she’d be home “within the hour.” Does that mean before the current hour is up or within the next sixty minutes? I’m never sure.
“Yeah?” I answer, oddly enamored by the bestiality on the screen.
“Whatcha doing?” Paige chirps.
“Research.” I’m hypnotized.
“You sound like you’re mad.”
This snaps me out of it. I mute the sound.
“No, I’m fine,” I say, relieved to hear her voice. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s grand,” she says, drawing out the words. This is what Paige sounds like when she’s drunk.
“Uh, I can smell your breath from here,” I say.
“Those mojitos sneak up on you.” She laughs. “I had, like, two”—code for three—“but I should have eaten something.”
“You’re probably fine to drive. If it were me … I’d risk it,” I advise her.
“Really?”
“Of course not really. I’ll come get you.”
“That’s okay, sweetie. I think I’m going to stay in the city tonight. It’s late and I have to be back at work early tomorrow. I can buy something cheap to wear at Ross’s.”
“You’re going to stay in the city? Stay where?”
Paige pauses briefly. I can hear her thinking.
“Tyler sailed his houseboat over to San Francisco from the East Bay. He docked it in the marina and invited a bunch of us over for drinks,” she blurts.
“Tyler who?” I pretend. “You said you were having drinks with ‘work friends.’”
“I was. I did. But then we all came here. It’s a lovely boat, Andy. I really think you’d like it. He has a small whirlpool and a full kitchen. It’s spacious. I’ll have my own bedroom. I swear it’s no big deal.”
“He has a whirlpool?”
“Uh-huh.” She sounds distracted.
“He’s standing right there, isn’t he?”
“No, I went into his bedroom for privacy.”
“Why are you drunk in Tyler Rich’s houseboat bedroom at ten P.M. on a school night?” I demand. I hate that she made me ask.
“Andy, sweetheart, calm down,” she whispers loudly.
“Who else is sleeping over?” I ask like a protective parent.
“There is nothing to worry about,” she says.
“I’m picking you up.”
“You can’t.”
“Excuse me?”
If I concentrate, I can make out the reggae music in the background.
“Okay, so like, we’re not in San Francisco anymore. We’re about three-quarters of the way back to Crockett. Tyler thought it might be nice if we slept ‘at sea.’”
“Name one guy who would be okay with this, Paige?”
“A guy who trusts his girlfriend and is secure in his relationship.”
“So a chump?”
“I know you’re upset.”
“I have to go. I’m watching a movie and this is the climactic scene.”
“Don’t be upset, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, mumbling good-bye and poking the off button on the phone, hard.
This is the beginning of the end. No, me killing her father, her taking off her engagement ring, and us placing this wedding on hold was the beginning of the end. Bunking with your high school boyfriend in his high-tech houseboat is the end of the end. How did this happen?
I channel surf for the next seventy-eight minutes, mulling over my options. Then suddenly, with conviction, I wiggle on my sneakers, swipe my car keys off the glass coffee table, and throw on my leather jacket. I plan to be there the moment the SS Lobsta Mobsta docks at the Crockett Marina. If that means I need to crash all night in my car, so be it.
As I open the front door, I notice a car pull up to the curb. I assume it’s Lara until I realize it isn’t.
Paige and Tyler Rich stop one house away. Despite any attempt to be inconspicuous, Tyler Rich’s veggie machine comes to a loud, puttering halt. The nerve of this guy: Doesn’t he know that
I’m the one who invented the parking-one-house-away shtick? I dart inside, grab Gregory’s binoculars, and peek through the blinds. In less than a month, I’ve become Gregory and Tyler’s me.
The two of them are talking. With the interior car light off, it’s hard to make out faces, but Paige seems dead serious. Her body language is all wrong. Arms pinned to her sides, she’s not making any of the big, animated gestures I’ve grown to love. She shifts from side to side, never looking toward the house. This goes on for another five excruciating minutes.
By now, she must know I’m watching, but she won’t look at me.
The conversation winds down. Tyler Rich manages to give her a peck on the cheek before Paige scurries out of the Mercedes and up the lawn. Tyler Rich waits for her to spin around and wave good-bye, but she doesn’t.
With lightning speed, I leap over the couch, grab my soggy bowl of cereal from the coffee table, and power on the television. My friend Real Sex is back. The women on the screen appear to be attending some sort of orgasm camp.
When the front door swings open, I poke a gross spoonful of Cheerios in my mouth.
“Hi,” Paige says apologetically.
I don’t turn around, greeting her only with a raised cereal bowl. Paige sits down next to me on the couch, real close.
“Why are you wearing your coat indoors?” she asks.
I ignore the question, remaining focused on my program. Paige tries to kiss m
e hello on the lips but I pull away.
“Why won’t you kiss your girlfriend?” she complains.
“I’m eating,” I sputter with food in my mouth.
Multiple moans of ecstasy blast from the television speakers. The women in the workshop appear to be overachievers.
The phone rings. It’s been ringing off the hook all night.
“Can we just rip it out of the wall?” she asks.
“It’s wireless,” I inform her.
The person hangs up a split second before the machine answers.
“Can we go to the kitchen?” she yells over the chorus of orgasms. “I’ll make you a proper snack.”
“I’m watching this,” I complain, convulsing in agony as the scene unfolds.
Paige finds the mute button. Then she cups her hands around my face, forcing me to look at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“For being late. For drinking too much,” she says. “I have no tolerance for alcohol, you know that.”
The phone starts ringing again. What the hell. It’s after eleven.
“I’m also sorry if you’re upset,” she says.
“Excellent apology,” I respond, giving her the big okay sign.
Paige studies me. She considers amending her statement.
“I’m not sorry I went. But I am sorry I didn’t tell you the first time I called,” she concludes. “Tyler and I are friends. We’ll always be friends. But that’s it. He knows that. As soon as I told him you were upset, he brought me right home.”
“Stop saying I was upset. I’m pissed.”
I can’t take the ringing anymore. I’m determined to pick this phone up before Gregory’s voice does. That’s all I need right now—him butting in posthumously. I grab the wireless sitting between us and hit “talk.” But I’m too late. Gregory and I answer the phone at the same time. I march into the kitchen for some privacy. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s Beatrice; she’s been driving me bonkers about her blood pressure medication.
“What can I do for you?” I holler into the phone.
“Can you talk?” Beatrice asks, her voice trembling. The conversation bounces off the hallway walls. Only then do I realize the answering machine is both recording and broadcasting every word.
“Not now,” I tell Beatrice and slam down the phone.
“Who was that?” Paige asks, meeting me in the kitchen.
“Telemarketer.”
“At this hour? Weird.”
“You’re telling me.”
Paige grabs a stick of butter, a few slices of Velveeta, some bacon, and a tomato from the fridge. I take a seat in the breakfast nook. She flips on the burner, lays out a pan, and begins making me grilled cheese.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
Paige works silently for the next few minutes. When the bread is golden brown, she slides the sandwich onto a plastic plate, cuts it diagonally, adorns it with some barbecue-flavored potato chips, and sets it down in the center of the table. Then Paige takes a seat across from me in the booth.
I refuse to look at her or the butter-encrusted cheese delight.
“Hey, I love you,” she reminds me softly.
She lowers her head so our eyes meet. Paige tilts her head slightly, touches my chin with her fingertip, and proposes. “Will you marry me?”
“Haven’t we been-there-done-this-before?” I ask.
“This is my engagement ring to you,” she says, sliding the dish a few inches closer. “What’s it cost to make a sandwich like this?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, “not including labor, overhead, or tax … wholesale, maybe forty cents.”
Paige calls for both my hands, but I only relinquish one. She clasps it between hers. That’s when I notice she’s wearing our engagement ring.
“I don’t know what you paid for this,” Paige says, adjusting the sparkler slightly, “but I’m ready to reciprocate in grilled cheese, forty cents at a time.”
I think about it. Assuming two sandwiches a week, one hundred sandwiches a year. “That could take you sixty years,” I say.
“Fine, in sixty years we’ll reassess this relationship.”
“You’re only doing this because you feel bad about your Carnival Cruise with Tyler.”
“Yeah, I’m committing the next sixty years to one man because I feel guilty about stepping foot on his houseboat. I love you,” she tells me. “I want to be married to you. I want you to be married to me.”
“Like I’m going to commit sixty years to one woman because she made me a grilled-cheese sandwich.”
“I can see your mouth watering from here,” she says. Who am I kidding? I want the sandwich.
CHAPTER 19
A Quiet Implosion
IT’S on. Oh, it is so on. Paige and I are in major wedding mode. In forty-eight hours, we’ve rejected no less than a dozen wedding locations. Hotel ballrooms, gardens, churches, gazebos, golf courses, you name it—if they’re not too dumpy, they’re too expensive or too decadent or just too preposterous to be considered seriously.
Real men are supposed to hate this process. Wedding planning is notorious for testing the will of young couples, bringing out the worst in them. But if that’s true, I’m not experiencing it. Still temporarily unemployed—we’re finally ready to reopen the pharmacy tomorrow—I’m finding this wedding planning stuff sort of fun, especially because we seem to see eye-to-eye on the basics.
Consider the location of the wedding: neither of us wants anything too elaborate or exotic, so this rules out your cathedrals and petting zoos. I refuse to be at the mercy of the weather, so everything needs to take place indoors. Paige agrees. Paige’s principal concern is accessibility, so the location has to be easy on our guests—many of whom will be senior citizens. I concur.
When it comes time for us to discuss the potential price tag for this shindig, I can’t imagine we’ll be that far apart—both of us keep using words like small, simple, and elegant to describe the finished product. Lara characterizes our desire to sponsor a wedding as “fiscally irresponsible.” But Paige says a good party is exactly what we all need right now.
As far as our finances are concerned, I’ve been crunching numbers for days. We need to raise about $75,000 to cover Gregory’s debts. The hope is we make a decent dent in that figure by collecting on some of his outstanding pharmacy tabs, but even that won’t be enough. If we really want to, one, pay off all of Gregory’s debt; two, keep this house; three, have this wedding; and four, live day to day, Paige needs to get a grip and we need to sell this pharmacy.
To cover some of our mounting wedding expenses and living costs, I bit the bullet and applied for another credit card. I’ve already maxed out my other two on that engagement ring, I have student loans up the wazoo, and still VISA jumps at the chance to overnight me $3,000 in credit.
One thing is for sure: the last thing any of us needs right now is to get mixed up in an illegal prescription drug scheme. That’s how Gregory got himself in financial ruins in the first place. I’m not a licensed pharmacist. I shouldn’t be dispensing medication. Not to mention risking legal action, fines, or even worse, prison. It’s a small miracle that the feds have never shown up with a warrant for Gregory’s arrest. Isn’t it enough that we’ve already got Brianna McDonnell poking her perfect little button nose in our business?
I elect not to traffic in narcotics. I want to help Sid and this community, and I want to make Gregory proud. But not like that. I haven’t got a good answer on how we’re going to get all these folks off the Day Co-Pay but we need to and we will. My pending nuptials to Paige are already premised on a lie. I went when I promised to wait. I don’t want any more lies.
“LAWRENCE Hall of Science!” Paige shouts, catching a glimpse of the partially obstructed sign near the bushy shrubs.
I take a hard left onto a narrow road, and we wind our way up the Berkeley hills. I haven’t been up this way since I was a kid. For years, my folks wo
uld take me to the old-fashioned carousel in Tilden Park. We’d eat caramel corn, and Mom and I would ride the antique hand-carved wooden horses. Dad never liked the merry-go-round much. Between the pungent smell of popcorn, the blaring organ music, and all that spinning, my father found the whole experience trippy. That’s when the Berkeley visits stopped.
“This is nuts,” I tell Paige as we cautiously maneuver the narrow, windy road.
On the next sharp turn, an approaching school bus nearly knocks us off the cliff.
“Maybe we should forget this,” Paige says, catching her breath. “We can’t expect our sort of guests to manage this trip.”
A children’s science museum seems like the last place you’d want your wedding, but Here Comes the Guide gave it four stars. The parking lot is jam-packed with yellow school buses just like the one that nearly killed us. It’s midafternoon and the museum is hosting dozens of student field trips with kids aged elementary to high school.
We walk toward the main building, across the concrete plaza, and past the fountain and DNA double-helix jungle gym to the ledge. What we see next changes everything. It is enough to make us forget about the hyperactive kindergartners screaming bloody murder or the preteen who just stepped on Paige’s big toe.
We’re much higher up than I realized.
“We’re screwed,” Paige says, letting out a long sigh.
We gaze at the spectacular, unobstructed panoramic view of the Bay Area on this warm, sunny afternoon. It’s breathtaking. We’re outside our price range, way outside, and yet nothing we see after this will ever compare. It’s like buying Paige’s engagement ring all over again.
“It can’t hurt to ask how much,” I say. “It might hurt.”
Sheila, the events coordinator, a lovely, bookish woman in her midforties, with a Dorothy Hamill 1970s bob and a great big smile, greets us at the front desk. She gives us the nickel tour, walking us past the earthquake simulators, the ocean waves display, and the insect zoo. Elementary school children charge through a gigantic maze like rats. As we walk, Sheila tosses around wedding terms of art like “preferred caterer,” “hired security,” and “nonrefundable security deposit.” Paige and I are total frauds. We’re wasting her time.
