Flabbergasted: A Novel

by Ray Blackston

Debauchery and Idolatry ... I had those two figured out-evil twin brothers who lurked deep inside the Internet and Porsche dealerships.

  Self-control and Patience ... probably related, like stepsisters. I had a bit of the first, hardly any of the second. Possible arch enemies of Idolatry and Debauchery.

  Gentleness ... surely reserved for women and children; had little to do with men.

  Drunkenness ... self-explanatory.

  Faithfulness ... I was working on that one, and assumed it had something to do with the old guy and his psychedelic pages.

  Envy ... see Idolatry.

  Peace ... that was the one that got me. Did anyone ever really achieve peace?

  Married people could have their bliss, the elderly their contentment, and the wealthy their security, but peace I could not define. Maybe Faulkner had been right: Maybe peace was a past-tense quality. Maybe after we'd waded through our personal muck and the scrabble of daily routine, we could look back at an event, at a time, at a snippet from a perfect day under perfect skies and say ahh, then, right there, I had me some peace.

  Maybe peace wasn't a present-tense phenomenon.

  Maybe, like casual waves on Manhattan sidewalks, it just didn't happen in real time.

  Monday morning I woke to big and little dogs howling at a distant siren. They were all off-key, and to make matters worse, half the dogs began barking when they should've been howling, then commenced to howling when they should've been barking.

  This, too, never happened in Dallas. Monday mornings in Dallas, the dogs would harmonize.

  Honest.

  I drove to work in a drizzle. A warm drizzle, since it was still mid-September. At each of the six stoplights between my house and the officehaving nothing better to do-I looked around to count the chrome-plated fish. Less than half the cars had one, but it seemed more were stuck to the rears of expensive cars than beat-up cars.

  Maybe the poor could not afford them. Or maybe the rich figured such decor might help their chances, what with the odds stacked against them over that eye-of-the-needle thing.

  I could not decide. But I didn't care to own one; a Dallas Cowboys sticker graced the rear of my Blazer, and that was enough ID.

  On the other hand, if I got the New York job, I would soon be a camel myself. So as I pulled into reserved parking, I was neutral on the subject.

  I sloshed into our office lobby, and as usual, the TV in the corner was fixed on the financial channel. It was also raining in Manhattan, and the young reporter lady on the screen said all premarket indicators looked down. Very down.

  It would be a most volatile day.

  "Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone, sir."

  I grabbed my headset. "Thank you, Glenda.... Yessir, Mr. Gruber, they have had to recall every remote-control G. I. Joe from the shelves due to heads and feet falling off and the fear that a young child could swallow one. The stock is getting hammered. Sorry, this is the downside of capitalism. We could buy more-"

  Words not usually associated with the Bible Belt rattled in my headset.

  "I know, I know, Mr. Gruber, we've already bought more on three separate occasions. We've chased it all the way down, but you still have all the shares you've ever purchased. All 1,260 shares of Toys `R' Us are still in the account. They're just worth 40 percent less, at the current price, than what you paid for them."

  In the world of Wall Street, September is one nutty month. With extra pecans. The market had plummeted from the opening bell, and our office was flooded with calls from panicky clients bailing out, cursing us for leading them astray.

  By midmorning the clients were selling without regard to price. `Just get me a bid!" they screamed. Every stock on my screen flashed red as longtime owners of Cisco and Microsoft, Boeing and Merck, all lost their minds in a unity of foolishness, retreating to the safety of cash. This felt like a capitulation, the point at which no one wants to own anything and swears off investing forever.

  The market dropped 200, 250, 300 points. Dialing number after number, I urged my clients to buy. They would not listen. `Just get me out!" they hollered.

  Mr. Gruber was not spared from the fear. He called me back and sold all of his Toys `R' Us stock-at a huge loss. I said, "Don't do it, Franklin." But he just could not take the pain anymore and insisted we sell. So we sold.

  As if on cue, the market reversed in a whoosh as thousands realized they had acted herdlike-they had sold low, sold into the panic.

  Very bad for your financial health, that selling into panic.

  Even worse, a mere two hours after Gruber had sold, the Toys `R' Us company announced that the problem wasn't as bad as they had originally thought.

  By 4:00, the stock was up 30 percent.

  After holding her stocks for over forty years, the prescient one-eightyyear-old Beatrice Dean-waited two days for the market to fully rebound, then came in before noon to sell it all. She shuffled into my office wearing a Gardening Club T-shirt, a yellow watch with a daisy face, and a straw hat encircled with two lavender bands. A single blue-jay feather stuck out from behind the lavender. Her soft eyes twinkled beneath the brim, and I thought her a wrinkled teenager.

  "Mr. Jarvis, that's a fake, isn't it?" she asked, pointing toward my window.

  "What's fake, Beatrice?"

  "That plant in the corner; it's a fake."

  "Yes, ma'am. It is."

  "Shame on you, dear."

  I offered her a seat, but she ignored my chivalry and instead huddled around my quote screen to watch her transactions process.

  I punched in the first order: Sell 6,800 shares of Ford.

  In an instant, the shares were gone. Swallowed up.

  "My, my," she said, staring at the screen. "Stock goes from owned to sold much quicker than roses go from bud to bloom."

  "Yes. Now for the PG," I said, reading the totals off her account statement.

  "Yes," said Beatrice, smiling now. "Today I finally sell Piedmont Gas."

  "No, Beatrice, PG is the symbol for Proctor & Gamble."

  She blinked rapidly, then raised the brim of her hat. "Well, I declare. And all these years I thought I owned Piedmont Gas."

  "No, ma'am, you own Proctor & Gamble. It's currently at eighty-seven per share."

  For a long moment, she just sat there in a trance. "Just curious, dear, but what is the price for Piedmont Gas?"

  I called up the quote. "It's at thirty-three and a half."

  "Well, then, lucky me."

  I punched in the order: Sell 4,600 shares of Proctor & Gamble.

  She scooted in closer. "You know, dear, I've been using their soaps since I was in grade school."

  The order was confirmed. "That's a lot of soap, Beatrice."

  "Yes, Jay," she said, her nose inches from my quote screen. "Now for the ABC."

  "You mean AT&T."

  "Of course, dear. Sell all but one share."

  "But you sold two shares back in May. Now you want to keep just one share?"

  "Yes, so I can vote at shareholder meetings. They should reduce their rates."

  I punched in 9,397 shares of AT&T. Ten seconds later, the trading desk in Manhattan called me back and asked if I was sure.

  I said, "Yes, Manhattan, we are sure."

  Then without warning, Beatrice leaned in to where she could speak into my headset and said, "Yes, Manhattan, some old Carolina ladies are going to Europe, and we are sure!"

  While waiting for her cash balance to print, Beatrice excused herself and hurried from my office. Curious, I looked out my window and watched her cross the parking lot. She opened the door to a gray Oldsmobile and, while holding her hat in place, stooped over and pulled out a Saranwrapped package. She returned to my office with a basket of homemade gingerbread cookies. Shaped like elves. Raisins for eyeballs.

  "I was hoping you wouldn't charge me a commission, dear," she said, pulling back the Saran wrap. Fresh scents of ginger filled my office.

  "Mmm, delicious, Beatrice," I said, biting the head off one. Crum
bs fell onto my keyboard, but I didn't care.

  She smiled and asked for 5 percent of her account for travel money.

  Three minutes later, her check was cut. She held it up to a fluorescent light, inspecting the paper as if it were some undiscovered foliage. The check was for just over forty thousand bucks.

  "Lovely, Jay." And she folded her check in two.

  "Can I walk you out?" I asked, motioning toward the door.

  She reached across the desk and patted my hand. "I know my way out, dear."

  "Oh ... okay. So, are Francine and Trevor still planning to travel with you?"

  She didn't answer immediately but walked back over to inspect my fake potted plant. "We haven't worked it all out yet, dear. There are now eleven women wanting to go. But before we leave, you simply must fill me in on the aqua-door girl."

  "She's still behind that door, ma'am."

  Beatrice Dean didn't say anything else. She just flicked a plastic leaf with her finger, shook her head, and strolled out of my office.

  Seated alone at the end of pew twenty-three, I heard the same hymns from my initial visit. Over a dozen visits now, and a recognizable pattern had emerged from the North Hills Presbyterian choir: Every fourth week the hymns repeated, starting with the longest.

  Sorta like the moon phases, but less romantic.

  I had become a note taker, and today I ended up with a half page of Israel wandering in the desert with a limited menu. A good Sunday morning for me, since I even remembered to bring a check for when they passed the brass.

  Blessed and dismissed, I shuffled up the burgundy carpet, trapped behind the elderly. Though something didn't feel right: a page of notes, a check dropped in brass-both good, but how good? And what was the standard? Did something just accrue to me, like in a monthly savings account?

  I could not decide.

  Across the parking lot, Steve bid me sit next to him at the end of the second semicircle. He polished off a donut and straightened his tie.

  Three weeks had elapsed since I'd last been a powdered Presbyterian. One bite, however, and flourlike powder sprinkled my khaki pants.

  "You borrowed that tie, didn't you?" I asked, pestering Steve by running his silk accessory between my thumb and forefinger.

  "Ransom took pity on me," Steve said. His shirt was white; his tie, bright yellow. Little green waves seemed to glide horizontally across the silk.

  Progressive, those surfer ties.

  I restrained a yawn and watched a horde of singles file in, suits and dresses color coordinated with Sunday smiles. On the far side of the room, Nancy and six Numericals took their seats-together. Tall, lime-lovin' Darcy sat behind them. Alone.

  Seemed to me that a singles class would at least try to sit boy-girl-boygirl, if only to hurry things up a bit.

  In the front row, black-suited Stanley sat beside red-clad Rona, though crazy Alexis was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she was Methodist this week. Or Quaker.

  "Heard from your interview yet?" asked Steve, wiping his chin.

  I shook my head no. "Those Yanks take their time. So how's the world of civil engineering?"

  "Makes my Jeep payment," he said. "Not much else."

  Wade Doman, our punctual, gray-suited teacher, adjusted his podium and called us to attention. "Be absolutely truthful, answer completely, and do not put your name on these sheets. This survey is only to find out where we are as a class and to provide feedback for church leadership, who feel somewhat disconnected from the singles."

  "No kidding," said a voice from the back. "They stick us 'cross the lot in a building by ourselves."

  "Take your time," said Wade, ignoring the comment. "Your answers can be as long or as short as they need to be. Do not put your name on the paper. I would like to read these back to the class for our mutual benefit, before turning the answers over to the pastor."

  The stack had by then reached the end of our semicircle. I clicked my pen.

  One simple question occupied the page. After ten minutes, the rustling of paper and the stirring of feet signaled to Wade that our quiz was complete. We turned the sheets upside down and passed them to the end of the row.

  Wade rearranged the stack and cleared his throat. "The question is: Why do you attend this singles class? I've picked out twenty or so to read back to you. Maybe a consensus will emerge."

  Oh, what consensus would emerge.

  Coughs and cringes followed the pronouncement. Steve covered his face with a church bulletin.

  Wade, calm and expressionless, peered up from the stack. "Here, class, are your answers." His voice had taken on a deep, monotonal quality.

  "To get to know Jesus."

  "To learn to pray."

  "To go on the beach trips."

  "Because Alexis said there were lots of cute guys here."

  "Because I live next door to the church."

  "Because Alexis said there were lots of cute guys here."

  "Because there are no good TV shows on Sunday morning."

  "Because my dad is a deacon."

  "Because Leviticus says if I skip church I will turn into a block of salt like Isaiah's wife."

  "Because I was blackballed from the Episcopal denomination. Don't ask."

  "To be an obedient follower of Christ and prepare for seminary."

  "To meet my soul mate."

  "To meet a guy."

  "To meet a girl."

  "To meet Jesus and a girl."

  "To meet the babe in the lime green Cadillac."

  "Because Alexis said there were lots of cute guys here."

  "Because my neighbor Maurice said it was cool to go to church."

  "Because a girl named Allie invited me five months ago when she came thru my checkout line at the grocery store."

  Wade looked up from the stack and held aloft one last sheet of paper. "Class, this last answer is a bit long and a bit, well ... actually, I hesitate to read it out loud. But it's quite entertaining."

  "Go ahead and read it," came the voice from the back.

  "Go for it, Teach."

  "Yeah, Wade," said Steve, "go ahead and read it."

  Wade smiled, cleared his throat again.

  "To visit purgatory. One does not recognize purgatory at first glance-they serve meatloaf and black-eyed peas. One would expect to gaze out at the distant edges of purgatory and see heaven beckoning from one end, Satan taunting from the other. But that is not so. What you see are Blue Ridge Mountains on one end, and rows of antebellum homes on the other. One more thing they never tell you about purgatory: You do not float there in a body of light or ascend invisibly with your soul intact. You drive. I drive to this class every Sunday. I come for the entertainment, to observe firsthand the tragicomedy of being single in the heart of the Bible Belt. This class is twice as funny as any sitcom on network television.

  The End."

  Wade attempted a closing prayer but cracked up and dismissed the class instead.

  In the parking lot, leaning against his orange Jeep, Steve and I were curious to match answers with faces. I loosened my tie. Steve removed his wave-afflicted loaner and tossed it in his front seat.

  We were against the front bumper when I elbowed my friend.

  "Don't even ask me, Jarvis," he said, reading my mind. "I will not tell you my answer."

  "C'mon. Wanna do mutual confession?"

  "Not a chance."

  As the class filed past, we pressed them all for answers, though no one would admit to that final, long-winded response. In fact, the only person from whom we could get an answer was red-clad Rona, formerly known as Number Eight, who admitted it was she whom Allie had invited five months ago at the grocery store. Rona waited beside her Toyota and finally left with black-suited Stanley. After we climbed into the jeep to go grab some lunch, I made a third attempt to pressure Brother Steve. "C'mon, which answer was yours? I gotta know."

  He put on his shades and stuck his key in the ignition. "Leviticus and the block of salt."

  I'd spi
lled coffee on my client list, the market was melting, and Mr. Gruber would not return my calls. I got his answering machine instead.

  "C'mon, Mr. Gruber ... it's not my fault. We'll find another stock suited just for you. I'm certain of it. Pick up the phone, Mr. Gruber. Pleeeease."

  I should not have been surprised. Nature of the business. When the market had been soaring, he'd said it was we who had teamed together to produce all those great profits. Now, with things going badly, it was I who was at fault Jay, the lone gunman, plotting my client's demise from behind a grassy knoll.

  I was about to try Gruber for a fifth time when Bossman Tate Brophy summoned me to his office. I hurried down the hall, and again he held open his mahogany door for me, although this time his suspenders were turquoise. After sitting down at his desk, he held his glasses carefully between thumb and forefinger, gesturing with them as he forwarded the news concerning my interview.

  "First the bad news," he said, wasting no time. "Someone else made a bigger impression-a young Korean girl just out of Stanford. Vince Galbraith really likes her. She made twice the amount of profits as you did during her stint on the trading desk. Then she took him to Sardi's and left a hundred-dollar tip."

  His face was blank; his tone condescending.

  "So, no job offer for me, eh?" I was disappointed. And a little bit mad, since I had not thought of the take-Vince-to-dinner strategy.

  Suddenly Mr. Brophy grinned and slapped his knee. "There's good news too, Jay."

  "What, I get to keep my old job?"

  He put his elbows on his desk, interlocked his fingers, and rested his chin there. "They now want you and the girl to comanage a new mutual fund, an aggressive fund concentrating on natural resources like oil, gas, metals, et cetera."

  "You're kidding."

  "I'm not kidding."

  I stood again, hands on hips. "You're really, really not kidding?"

  "They want you in New York by November 10," he said, reaching for his vanilla Slim Fast. "That gives you a little over six weeks to distribute your accounts here to the other brokers. But be careful who you give that Gruber guy to. He called me yesterday to complain about some wackedout problem with plastic feet and G.I. Joes."