by Steve Kluger
Once inside, I discovered that the door to Dr. McKenna’s suite was ajar and a cleaning cart was in the hall. Since I saw no one else present, I kind of squirmed my way past the reception desk and into the doctor’s office. Which is actually kind of touching when you think about it. After all, it’s not like I was stealing anything.
Having found Dr. McKenna’s Rolodex sitting on her desk, it was only a matter of moments before I’d located Craig’s address and telephone number. Period. That’s all I did. But by then I could hear a vacuum cleaner coming down the hall, so I knew I couldn’t go out the way I came in. And seeing as Suite 100 is on the first floor, I saw no harm in leaving by the window. That’s when the alarm went off. They have an excellent security system, Your Honor.
If I hadn’t slipped in the mud and landed in an azalea bush, I’d have been back at Motel 6 before the police even showed up. But it didn’t work out that way.
That’s the whole truth, Your Honor. And if you were in love, you’d have done the same thing.
Respectfully submitted,
Travis Puckett
On second thought, this is a really bad idea. Especially if they still have firing squads in Missouri. Maybe I’d better lie. Through my teeth.
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MUNICIPAL COURT OF THE ST. LOUIS JUDICIAL DISTRICT COUNTY OF ST. LOUIS, STATE OF MISSOURI
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CITY OF ST. LOUIS,
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CASE NO. M98–020331
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Plaintiff,
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ARRAIGNMENT
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vs.
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TRAVIS PUCKETT,
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Defendant.
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_____________________
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TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS
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The Honorable Brent Carter, Judge Presiding
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BAILIFF:
THE COURT CALLS THE DEFENDANT, TRAVIS PUCKETT.
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(THE OATH IS ADMINISTERED)
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THE COURT:
WHAT WERE YOU DOING ON THE GROUNDS OF THE JEFFERSON MEDICAL CENTER WHILE THE ALARM WAS RINGING?
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DEFENDANT:
YOUR HONOR, I’M FROM OUT OF TOWN AND I THOUGHT IT WAS A HOTEL.
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THE COURT:
THAT’S THE MOST IDIOTIC THING I EVER HEARD.
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DEFENDANT:
IT WOULDN’T BE IF I TOLD YOU ABOUT MY BOOK PROPOSAL. IT’S CALLED “ALEXANDER HAMILTON AND THE DESIGNATED HITTER”, AND—
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THE COURT:
KEEP QUIET!
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MS. LARKIN:
THAT’S THE WAY IT HAPPENED, YOUR HONOR. I WAS THERE.
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THE COURT:
WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?
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MS. LARKIN:
A.J. LARKIN. I OWN A RESTAURANT CALLED STREAKER’S.
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THE COURT:
THAT PLACE NEAR THE BALLPARK WITH THE CRAPPY CALVES’ LIVER?
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MS. LARKIN:
YES, YOUR HONOR.
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THE COURT:
CAN YOU VOUCH FOR THIS MAN’S CHARACTER?
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MS. LARKIN:
I CAN.
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THE COURT:
GUILTY OF TRESPASSING. PAY THE BAILIFF AND DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN. NEXT CASE.
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FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
I don’t get it. First she tosses me out of Streaker’s on my ass, and then she perjures herself for me. Now I’ve been grounded. She gave me vanilla ice cream and then she put sheets and pillows on the couch and made me go to sleep. No TV. The only thing that qualifies as entertainment while you’re lying on your back is the poster gallery called her living room. “James Dean in East of Eden.” “James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.” “James Dean in Giant.” As we were making up my bed, I mentioned that James Dean is what happens when you Xerox Marlon Brando. Badly. That was a mistake.
Let’s see how she handles Gordo—assuming she ever gets off the phone with him. Serves him right for turning my life into a screenplay. I warned him after the baseball cap thing that I’d rough him up if he ever did it again. Does he listen? “I miss the smell of Pledge.” Translation: “I need a second act. Do something.”
118 Congress Park, Suite 407, Saratoga Springs, New York. (12866.) I wish I was Stephen Sondheim so I could set it to music. Only two more days of hitchhiking, Craigy. I promise.
Maybe I should leave right now. Maybe I should sneak out a window and—Yeah, right. Nice learning curve. Besides, I’ve been awake for twenty-nine hours straight. I could barely keep my eyes open in the detention cell. And I practically fell asleep right in the middle of
Gordo:
Dump Jolene and do it now. Then take your brains out of your ass. How did you ever wind up with a degree from NYU? A relationship that starts with intestinal parasites isn’t going anywhere. If that’s not clear enough, Starbucks has a new blend called Moroccan roast. Buy it. Open it. Smell it.
Thanks for the Speedo pictures. I like your eyebrows. The smile works too. But you really need to get the Adobe PhotoShop upgrade. It won’t leave any shadows the next time you expand the bulge.
I just checked on Beaver. He should have been out cold by now, but instead he’s scribbling something into a notebook with the same sort of ardor one usually associates with Anne Rice when she’s taken too many amphetamines. Have you actually put up with this for twenty-four years?
A.J.
A.J.:
Ouch! Busted! Caught red-handed! Please don’t blow the whistle. I’ll lose my endorsements from Hebrew National.
The shot of you in the black dress at the cocktail party makes a piquant screensaver. But how come you’re the only one in the picture without a date? You couldn’t possibly be single. Maybe that’s why you left Cleveland. Maybe all the eligible men there threw themselves off a parapet when you said no.
Seriously, I’m smitten. T was right. (That’s all I’m going to say.)
That’s not a notebook, it’s his journal. He doesn’t want to forget anything, ever—especially if he’s on a Quest. When we were kids, I always used to worry that he was going to get his heart bashed in from wearing it on his sleeve 24/7. Now I sometimes wish I was him instead of me. He understands passion. All I understand is horny.
Want to have some fun? Tell him I opened a window and two of my dustballs blew over to his side of the living room. Then watch what happens.
What does A.J. stand for?
Gordo
Gordo:
A.J. stands for Alene Jeanette. Keep it to yourself or Hebrew National gets e-mail. And take me off your damned screensaver. I can only imagine the company I’m in.
They have no parapets in Cleveland—just malls and cemeteries. This is why Noah Webster coined the word “escape.” So I took him up on it. Naturally, my mother was crestfallen. We’d always been close friends. (Except for one occasion in 1974 when she slapped most of my face off. I don’t remember what I did to deserve it. I may have called her a cunt.) But she guessed that I’d fallen in love with Toby Heller—who had James Dean’s face and Ben Affleck’s ass—so she let me follow him to Northwestern, where (in no particular order) he gave me his frat pin, asked me to marry him, found me an abortion clinic, and discovered Sorority R
ow. Then my phone stopped ringing. So while he was fucking his way through the Greek alphabet and flunking out of grad school at the same time, I was nailing a B.A. in journalism just for the hell of it. That led to an offer from one of the St. Louis papers to cover the Cardinals—my big break—which lasted until our first staff meeting, when they found out that A.J. Larkin was, in fact, a Vagino-American. After they pulled the plug on me (“overqualified and no scrotum”), I took a job as assistant manager at a restaurant called Streaker’s, where I was second banana to a vindictive lox named Lorraine. So I sold some stocks, bought the joint, and fired the bitch. And in between payroll and inventory, I write an advice column for women in an alternative weekly called the St. Louis Other. It has a readership of three, and one of them just died.
That’s the résumé. Aren’t you glad you asked?
Beaver’s sound asleep. And he’s smiling. Know what? I don’t want him hitchhiking to Saratoga Springs. What if he gets picked up by a pervert like you?
Good night, Gordon.
A.J.
P.S. I just checked out your credits. Why did you write that Mel Gibson movie? Did you lose a bet or something?
A.J.:
The Mel Gibson movie started out as an animated feature about two talking squirrels during the Civil War. Then Universal got their hands on it. Remember the scene in the strip club where the bartender says, “How about a grape juice, buddy”? That’s the only line they didn’t cut. And it was originally said by an owl.
You’ll like the new one. The hero’s a nut-head who points his pimentos down and ties his shoelaces chronologically. Know what happens? He hits the highway hoping to find the guy who popped his cork in high school and winds up in a St. Louis pokey instead. But this is classified information. DO NOT TELL TRAVIS. He hates it when any of his neurotic nuances wind up in letterbox format. One summer he got it into his head that he wanted to own a baseball cap for each of the major league teams—so instead of picking them up at Scoreboard in North Hollywood, he drove to all twenty-six stadiums. (You have to understand the way he thinks. Any other option would have disrupted the order of the universe or something.) When he found out I’d used the cap story in Honolulu Honeymoon, my life was hell for six weeks. He even Windexed my oatmeal. While I was eating it.
But there’s just been an unexpected plot twist involving Pimento Boy’s best friend and a long-distance romance he hadn’t counted on. Will he ever get to meet her for real? Are eyebrows and a smile enough? Stay tuned.
If I could write the ending ahead of time, Travis and Craig would live happily ever after. But somehow I think it’s going to be a little more complicated than that. So when you cave in and decide to drive him to Saratoga Springs yourself, watch out for his feelings. They bruise easily.
Toby Heller was an asshole.
Good night, Alene.
Gordo
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Craig
Noah Kessler
6026 Foxhound Run
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
June 2, 1998
ATTORNEY-CLIENT COMMUNICATION
Craig McKenna
McKenna & Webb
118 Congress Park, Suite 407
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
Dear Craig,
In case you still don’t know if you should stop being a lawyer and get elected instead, these are my thoughts. Do it. First of all you get to make laws like taking the lights back out of Wrigley Field and inventing new holidays, and also because if you run for an office and get in it, the judge will have to do what you say and let me live with my father because you’ll outrank him. So tell the Democrat guy yes.
My Dad went 3-for-4 against Syracuse last night. He called from the clubhouse to tell me, even though I was already asleep. I think Frau Schneller put dope in my chocolate milk.
Just so you know, we’re suppose to leave him alone with Charleen once in a while this weekend, so maybe you and me and Clayton can go to the batting cage or play pool. How come she still won’t let him kiss her when everybody knows she wants to?
I have a question. Since Clayton is your boy friend and Charleen is your partner, if she marries my Dad does that mean we’ll all be related?
Noah
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
June 3, 1998
ATTORNEY-CLIENT COMMUNICATION
Mr. Noah Kessler
6026 Foxhound Run
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
Dear Noah:
Guess what? We’re already related. In some countries—especially this one—the attorney-client privilege is even more sacrosanct than marriage. (“Sacrosanct” is your word for the week. It’ll be a lot easier to remember than “ubiquitous” was.)
Clayton says that playing pool with you is like trying to put one over on Minnesota Fats, and you always out-hit me at the batting cage. How about the zoo instead? It’ll save us a couple of bruised egos. (Look up “ego” too.)
I’m meeting with the Democrat people in Albany tomorrow and I’ll try to keep all of your instructions in mind. One thing, pal. No matter what happens, you’re still too young to be a secretary of state. So get that idea out of your head.
Don’t worry about Charleen. First she said she wouldn’t go to Utica at all, then she said she might, and then she bought two new dresses. Men are usually easier to figure out than women, but not sometimes. So I’m guessing that the kissing thing is on deck.
Remember—nobody knows about the offer from the Democrats except you and me, and we need to keep it that way. At least for a while. (So no blabbing.)
See you Friday. I love you.
Craig
Craig McKenna Attorney Notes
Interview with Wayne Duvall
6/4/98
Attorney implied to his law partner that he had a last-minute deposition in Albany. Had she known the true purpose of the trip, she likely would have removed attorney’s head—thereby creating an unnecessary personal injury/workers’ comp situation.
During the drive south, attorney attempted to psych himself up by playing Mack and Mabel at full volume. Then he began rehearsing the word no.
Attorney met with Wayne Duvall, chairman of the New York State Democratic Committee, at his offices on State Street. Upon being served coffee and pastries, he noticed that the blueberry croissants from Au Bon Pain were still hot. This was obviously going to be a frontal assault. Attorney began practicing a negative headshake as well.
Attorney was advised that he had been unanimously chosen by the committee as the candidate best equipped to replace Ken Curran on a civil liberties and child welfare plank. (“You can be a pain in the ass about the environment on your own time.”) Attorney declined, but Wayne kept talking anyway.
Attorney expressed grave reservations over his qualifications for office. The matter was summarily discussed and disposed of. “Do you have a valid driver’s license?” “Yes.” “Ever murder any relatives?” “No.” “You qualify.” Attorney demurred, but Wayne wasn’t finished yet. This man is dangerous. He could probably talk Mamie Eisenhower’s remains into running too.
With the evident time constraints of a November election, attorney was given ten days to deliver an answer. He was also given the remaining blueberry croissants to take home to his sig oth. Attorney accepted the pastry and refused the offer. Apparently Wayne didn’t hear him. “Will you think about it?” “Not a chance.” “Sure, you will. See ya.”
When attorney returned to the parking lot and started his car, the Dolby speakers picked up right where they’d left off. “Jumpin’ Saint Jude, look what happened to Mabel,” sang Bernadette Peters. Oh, shut up.
I can’t believe I’m even considering this. I barely know how to coach a Little League game—how the hell am I supposed to run a state? Assets: a big mouth. Period. Suppose they ask me questions about budgets and stuff? Sooner or later they’re boun
d to notice the thumb up my ass.
“The floor calls upon the representative from the Fifth District. How much do you feel the County of Saratoga should allocate for the Waterford landfill?”
“Uh—a couple thousand?”
This isn’t going to work in a million years. And I can prove it. (1) I have no charisma;(2) Clayton would kill me;(3) I’m not all that cute any more, so forget about “Oprah”; (4) Clayton would kill me. (5) If I leave Charleen with a caseload that includes the Pioneer Scouts, she’ll never speak to me again;(6) Clayton would kill me;(7) My gym card’s not valid in Albany. And (8) Clayton would kill me.
By the time the Miata and I had lost the I-787 on-ramp and made a U-turn out of an unexpected forest (having inexplicably wound up at a 7-Eleven in New England twenty minutes earlier), I’d sufficiently recovered from toxic shock syndrome to keep from rolling down the window and vomiting on Vermont again. Get a grip. This could actually work. After all, these are the same people who elected Dan Quayle, and he was no Bobby Kennedy either. How tough could it be? Think about it—if anybody’s dumb enough to vote for me, maybe I’m just dumb enough to pull it off. Besides, who knows where it could lead? “Congressman Craig McKenna.” Wow.
