Elliot Allagash

by Simon Rich

  “I think so.”

  She flashed me a friendly smile.

  “It’ll be okay, Seymour,” she said. “I mean, how bad could it be?”

  RETRACTIONS

  The New York Times

  An article published on October 15, “High School Activist Skips Prom to Fight Disease,” contained several errors.

  • The article’s subject, Seymour Herson, was referred to as Secretary of the Anti-Asbestos League of New York. He does not hold that position. In fact, no such organization exists.

  • The article erroneously stated that Seymour was attempting to cure Pasternak-Schwarzschild’s disease. He has never attempted to cure this disease.

  • The article reported that Seymour speaks four languages. In fact, he speaks only one language, English.

  • The article erroneously reported that Seymour Herson’s favorite book is Gravity’s Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon. Seymour Herson has not read this book.

  • The article contained an anecdote, which was supplied to the Times by a “close friend,” in which Seymour visited a museum. In the anecdote, Seymour became so absorbed in a Cezanne painting that when a guard told him the museum was closing, he failed to hear him, and had to be “physically shaken.” This event did not take place.

  • It was reported that Seymour Herson had to choose between laboratory research and attending the Glendale Senior Prom “with a date.” Seymour did not in fact have a date to this prom.

  The Times regrets the errors.

  Art in America

  Our annual painting roundup misattributed a painting, Green Waters, to the artist Seymour Herson. In fact, the painting is the work of Terry Allagash. The legendary tycoon says he painted the work under a pseudonym in order to “receive fair evaluation from critics.”

  Art in America congratulates Mr. Allagash on his major achievement.

  Bishop House Fall Books Catalogue

  The editors of Bishop House would like to announce the following changes to our publication schedule.

  Marxian Semiotics, the third work by Professor Daniel Herson of Fordham University, will no longer be released this fall. The book has been canceled and Professor Herson has been released from his contract.

  Genezaro Tribal Newsletter

  A feature in our December newsletter, “Tribal Son Makes Good,” contained some inaccuracies. Seymour Herson is not, in fact, a member of our tribe. His documents were forged. The article also said that Seymour would be attending Harvard in the fall. This is no longer true—his offer of admission has been rescinded.

  The Genezaro Tribal Newsletter regrets the errors.

  “Seymour? Jesus, how long have you been up here?”

  “Ashley, if you tell anyone—”

  “We’re back to threats? Okay, fine, let’s hear it. What are you going to do to me?”

  I crawled out from under the water tower. My clothes were splotched with tar and my sweatshirt was damp from when it had rained the night before.

  “Christ, buddy,” she said. “Have you been hiding since yesterday?”

  I nodded. I had snuck up the tunnel right after talking to Jessica. I had only meant to stay for a minute or two, to plan out what I was going to say to my parents. But it took me longer than expected to strategize. I knew I would start off with some small talk, to put them at ease. Something about the weather, like, “Guess summer’s on its way,” or, “Can you believe this rain?” That’s as far as I had gotten.

  “I saw Mr. Hendricks talking to a reporter in the lobby,” Ashley said.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Relax, he’s loving the attention.”

  She sat down next to me and flipped through a stack of tabloids. My face was on some of the covers.

  “Man,” she said. “You are busted.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what they’re most upset about? The Indian thing.”

  I nodded.

  “That one was pretty crazy.”

  I picked up the newspapers and felt their weight. How much money did the Allagashes make from a stack this size? Ashley grabbed them and stuffed them into her bag.

  “Nobody will care in a couple of days,” she said. “Some lady in Omaha will drown her kids and people will forget all about you.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  She laughed.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’ve got to come down from here. This is ridiculous.”

  I shook my head stubbornly.

  “What are you afraid of? You’ve already been caught.”

  I was concentrating on a nearby streak of tar to keep myself from crying. It wasn’t working.

  “Seymour, come on. What are you worried about?”

  I wiped my eyes roughly with my sleeve.

  “They’re going to be mean to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone.”

  She nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  I could hear the bell ringing in the distance, but I didn’t budge.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’ll be nice to you.”

  I looked at her suspiciously.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? It doesn’t cost me anything. I mean it’s not even my hot chocolate! I steal it from the cafeteria.”

  “Aren’t you mad at me?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Because you were a jerk. Not because you’re not a real Indian. And I’m not mad anymore.”

  She handed me a mug.

  “Here you go, Chunk-Style. Drink up.”

  “Ashley…I need to tell you something.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “In eighth grade, when we were running for class president…me and Elliot, we fixed it so you would lose.”

  “I know about that.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I always assumed you cheated. But in case there was any doubt left in my mind…”

  She rummaged through her bag and handed me a small gilded envelope. The wax seal was too smudged to read. But how many people had wax seals?

  “When did Elliot send you that?”

  She shrugged.

  “A couple of months ago. I guess he thought I was a bad influence.”

  I stared at her in disbelief.

  “But then why didn’t you say anything? I mean, why’d you hang out with me anyway?”

  “Because that was kid stuff, Seymour! I’m not a kid anymore. Are you?”

  I swallowed.

  “No.”

  I looked down at my lap.

  “Ashley?”

  “Yeah?”

  I hesitated.

  “Will you be my friend?”

  When I looked up, she was smiling.

  “I am your friend,” she said. “Seymour, I’m your friend already.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I think I can come down.”

  I stood up and made my way toward the tunnel.

  “Wait,” she said. “Is it okay…I mean…can we just go the other way?”

  I walked across the roof and grabbed her hand. She smiled.

  “Let’s never come back here,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said.

  And the two of us walked right out the door.

  • • •

  My parents must have been listening for the elevator, because they were waiting for me in the hall. My dad hooked his arms around me as soon as the doors slid open, while my mom shouted hysterically into the phone. They dragged me inside, shoved me onto the couch, and frantically examined my body for cuts and bruises. I was disheveled after my day as a fugitive, but my parents looked even worse. My mother’s hair was wild and frazzled, and my dad’s neck was crawling with scraggly hairs. I started to apologize—about hiding, about everything—but they both cut me off simultaneously.

  “We can talk about all that stuff later,” my dad said, untying the knots in my shoelaces.

  My mom filled up the tub and I took my first bath in years. My face was still chalky with television makeup. I dunked my he
ad underwater for as long as I could, and I could feel it peeling off in flakes.

  I got dressed in an old, baggy Knicks jersey and made my way to the living room. There was brisket on the table and my parents were hunched over a box.

  “It’s Monopoly Night,” my mom said, in as normal a voice as she could muster.

  Restitution would start the following day and would take months. But first, my parents would allow themselves one night of domestic tranquility.

  We ate in silence while my dad set up the board. The phone rang every couple of minutes. My dad would answer, mumble, “No comment,” and then hang up. After seven or eight calls, he yanked the phone cord out of the wall.

  I looked down at my plate. It was horrible to think about all of the humiliation my parents would have to deal with because of me.

  My dad rooted around in the box until he found his wheelbarrow.

  “Hey,” he said. “Kiddo. You want to know something?”

  I shrugged.

  My father glanced at my mother, hesitated, and then cleared his throat.

  “I cheat at Monopoly,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What?”

  “I cheat at Monopoly,” he repeated. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

  He threw his hands up in the air.

  “There it is,” he said. “I’m a full-grown man who cheats at a child’s game.”

  “How?”

  “I steal from the bank,” he said. “That’s why I always agree to be banker, so I can steal. I also steal from your mom.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Mom, can you believe this?”

  “I’ve known about it for years,” she said. “You know what’s crazy? Sometimes he loses anyway.”

  My father nodded.

  “I’m not good at Monopoly,” he said.

  “Wow,” I said. “I never knew about that.”

  “Are you angry?” my dad asked.

  “Well, a little, I guess. But you know…I’ll get over it.”

  He reached across the board and grabbed my hand.

  “You better,” he said. “We’re family.”

  The door buzzer rang sharply, and my parents both stood up.

  “Jesus—”

  “Don’t tell me they looked up our address—”

  “Guys!” I said. “It’s okay. I forgot to tell you, I invited a friend over.”

  My mom’s eyes widened with panic.

  “Who?”

  The doorbell rang. My parents were completely rigid as I walked across hall and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Ashley said.

  “Hi,” I said. “Mom, Dad? This is my friend Ashley.”

  “Oh!” my mom exclaimed. “Oh!”

  “Nice to meet you!” my dad said. “You’re just in time!”

  He pulled a fourth chair up to the table and rummaged through the box for another game piece. Ashley was debating between the thimble and the car when I felt my phone vibrate against my leg. I took it out of my pocket, hesitated, and then slowly held it up to my ear.

  “Seymour! Thank God you picked up!”

  Ashley examined the car and then tossed it back into the box.

  “You haven’t been getting reception. Listen, we need to speak at once. It’s urgent!”

  She stuck her thimble on Go, and my father lined up the four pieces.

  “I know I behaved rashly this week. I had to teach you a lesson—I know it was harsh, but it needed to be done. But you’ve got to understand, there’s nothing I did that isn’t totally reversible—as long as we act fast!”

  My mother brought Ashley a plate, and my father served her a slice of brisket.

  “Anyone can freeze in front of a camera! We can explain away every crime! Or better yet, frame someone! Multiple people! It doesn’t matter! Within three weeks, a month, tops, I can get it all back for you—I’ve got journalists! I’ve got public officials! Seymour, are you listening to me?”

  My parents looked up at me.

  “This is just a blip on the timeline! In twenty years, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh! Come over tonight. We’ll start planning. I’ve already taken care of all the preliminaries—Harvard, Bishop House, the press—all I have to do is say go and they’ll move like lightning! We can get it all back and more, Seymour! More!”

  “Sweetie?” my mom asked. “Do you need to take it?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  I turned off the phone. Four gleaming pieces stood on Go, like runners jostling for position on a starting line. I picked up the dice and shook them over the five-hundred-dollar bill my father had placed on Free Parking.

  Then I stopped.

  “Is it okay if we play a different game?”

  The four of us looked at each other in silent agreement.

  “I’ll get a puzzle,” my mother said.

  My father cleared away the Monopoly board, while my mother poked around in the closet. We only had one puzzle—a thousand piece jigsaw—buried in the back. The top of the box had gone missing, but she dumped out the pieces anyway.

  “What’s this a puzzle of?” Ashley said.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” my dad said.

  I reached for a piece and we started to put it all together.

  PART THREE

  Chance

  ASHLEY AND I WERE BUYING supplies for a late-August road trip when we ran into Elliot Allagash. He was walking toward his limousine, shouting orders into his cell phone. A slovenly boy in baggy jeans and a wifebeater shuffled along beside him. I wasn’t going to say hello, but Ashley called out his name.

  Elliot looked up, swallowed, and closed his cell phone.

  “Well,” he said.

  I followed Ashley down the sidewalk, and for the first time since we met, Elliot and I shook hands.

  “This is Doug,” Elliot said, gesturing at the oafish-looking boy standing behind him.

  “’Sup,” Doug said. He held out a fist and Ashley and I bumped it.

  “Doug’s accompanying me to Harvard next month,” Elliot announced, “despite a 2.3 grade point average and three arrests for public intoxication.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  Doug nodded.

  “I’m going to smoke up behind that dumpster,” he said.

  “Very well,” Elliot said.

  He let out a long sigh as Doug lumbered off toward the alleyway.

  “He might actually be retarded,” Elliot said. “But I’ve gotten him into the greatest college in the world.”

  We all stood there for a moment in silence. Eventually, Ashley nudged me.

  “So,” I said. “How…um…did you do it?”

  “It’s none of your business,” Elliot snapped.

  There was a brief pause.

  “Although if you must know, I blackmailed a bunch of professors and tricked them into thinking they were blackmailing one another.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of paper.

  “Here. Here’s the chart I made to keep it all straight.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s really clever.”

  I looked around for Ashley, but she had walked over to a window display. She nodded at me and turned around.

  I examined Elliot’s chart; it was impossible to follow, but I could tell it had required an incredible number of hours to produce. I carefully refolded it and handed it back to him.

  “So…um…how’s your father?”

  Elliot shrugged.

  “Terry’s leaving New York.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where’s he going?”

  “Massachusetts,” he said, looking down at his feet. “Cambridge, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. He purchased an historic building near Harvard, a former statehouse. Completely gutted it, to spite some local professors. Anyway, I’ll be living there.”

  “That’s nice that he moved all the way up there just to
be closer to—”

  “It’s a coincidence,” Elliot said. “His favorite hatmaker opened a haberdashery on Newbury Street. He followed him on a whim.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well that makes sense.”

  “Yes,” Elliot said. “There are no good hatters in this city, so…”

  “Of course.”

  Elliot nodded.

  “We’re…actually working on a little scheme right now,” he said, “Terry and I.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Terry came up with a plot to bypass my math and science requirements. It’s quite artful—but very complicated. We’ll have to put in a lot of hours to make it fly.”

  “I’m sure you guys will figure it out,” I said.

  “Yes. We’re already well on our way.”

  Doug came out from behind the dumpster, walked past us and got into the limousine.

  “I better go,” Elliot said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Goodbye.”

  He got into his car, and it immediately sped down the avenue.

  I walked over to Ashley, took her hand and started off in the other direction. We were halfway down the block when I looked over my shoulder. Elliot’s limousine was disappearing down a hill, but I thought I could see his face poking out through the sunroof, gazing in my direction.

  I remembered the rush of the wind in my hair as we bulleted down Park Avenue. A drink in my hand, the sun in my face, the entire world spread out beneath me! It was such a thrilling memory that I started to laugh out loud.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel would not have been possible without the help of a shocking number of people:

  My agent, Daniel Greenberg, believed in this project from my very first manic email. Over the past two years, he’s given me valuable criticism and great advice, and talked me out of two separate panic attacks.

  Jonathan Jao was a perfect editor. He backed me up whenever I was right and reasoned with me whenever I was wrong. His patience and insight dramatically improved this book and made me a better writer in the process.

  My lawyer, Lee Eastman, took me on when I was a bewildered, unemployed twenty-two-year-old. I can’t imagine navigating the past three years without his constant support and counsel. He’s one of the first people I showed this novel to, and if he hadn’t said “Go for it,” I’m not sure that I would have.

  My mother, the fabulous editor Gail Winston, read two early drafts of this novel and gave me brilliant advice. Josh Koenigsberg helped me fill two separate plot holes, one of which I hadn’t even spotted.