by David Boyle
“Screw you. Look whose playing judge and jury. A guy whose actions negate his self-proclaimed decentness. Just another sob story from a man who lacks the drive to triumph over his circumstances and make his life what he wants it to be. Cry on somebody else’s shoulder. You’re a cliché.”
“I’m not crying. I’m simply telling you the truth, giving you the deal. You know, seeing your reaction to what I’ve been through makes me feel good that I betrayed the trust of my superior. He was a swaggering, overconfident corporate criminal, just like you.”
Ross ground his teeth, cracked his knuckles.
Drew’s face brightened. “That he had a minor stroke when he found out his money was gone gave me a boner. I’m still hard. For all intents and purposes, justice was served.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Drew. A lot about life. About loyalty. About your own definition of decency. Which to my mind is appalling and self-serving.”
“Whatever, man. Take a hike.”
“Sounds good to me, crybaby.” Ross got to his feet and kicked the chair away. “The truth is—I’d normally be inclined to help a guy like you. Do a noble thing. But where would it get me? Even if I were to help you, you’d steal from me, it’s only a matter of time. If I refuse to come to the rescue, you’d probably complain every day for the rest of your life, assigning blame as it suits you. I’m worth millions because I’ve mastered the game of life and play it better than anybody. I take the hits and counter like a champ.”
Drew gave Ross the finger. Ross pulled out a wad of bills and fingered through them hastily. Drew couldn’t help staring at how much cash Ross carried around. Enough, it seemed, to pay a few months’ rent and then some. Ross slid a single from the stack and slammed it on the counter. “Here’s for the candy bar, grease monkey. I always pay my way. I don’t take handouts. I’m not a charity case. Later,” he said, walking toward the door.
“Hey,” Drew said, raising his voice a notch.
Ross turned, his face creased like he smelled something foul. “What now?”
Drew pointed at four dollar bills sitting underneath a paper weight, a note attached: Money for candy jar. I pay my own way too. I had it taken care of.”
“How honorable,” Ross said derisively.
Drew grabbed his book and sat down. For a brief moment, scanning the pages, he contemplated a response, one that would sum up his past behavior, his current state of mind, his new outlook on life. Without looking up, he said, “The owner’s fair to me, I’m fair to him. What starts well, ends well.”
Ross paid him no mind. He left the building and got back on the road. The roads were slick, and dirty from sand. He peered in his rearview one more time, watching the distance grow between himself and the gas station, between himself and another mental midget—one of the countless he had met in his forty-six years. Driving cautiously down McBride Street, he dialed a number on the cell phone mounted in his center console. A dial tone. Then an answering machine. Ross spoke softly, as if he was afraid someone might hear him although he was alone: “Sally, it’s me. Can’t believe I didn’t make it tonight. Let some gas pumper hold me up. It’s a long story. Not worth repeating. I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll set something else up.” Ross snatched the envelope from the console, pulled out the card, and read to himself what he had written at the office. “You might want to know,” he playfully said into the phone, “you would have loved the card. You’ll see it soon enough.” He downed a few mints and turned the dial on the radio until he found a local jazz station. Sally had turned him on to jazz. Sally could turn him on to anything.
The snow had accumulated in Ross Albert’s driveway, which he could tell hadn’t been shoveled since the storm commenced earlier in the evening. His first thought was to fire the plow driver first thing in the morning. Or maybe call him once he got inside. One phone call would settle the whole ordeal, satiate his need to control someone or something, and set a precedent. How unreliable the contractor was, even though he had solid references. Ross had plenty to set straight, several hurdles to clear convincingly.
Ross pulled up close to his three-car garage and put the car in park. He tucked the envelope under the floor mat, then got out of the car and made his way to the front door. As he unlocked it, his twelve-year-old daughter came to the upstairs window, her hair tousled, her eyes barely open. She wedged her dainty hand between the blinds, spread her fingers, and peered through the interstices. Not the first time she had seen her dad come home so late, nor was it the first time she had shed tears of sadness and neglect. Over the years her confusion had become unbearable, unrelenting, unanswered for. She could never understand why Mommy couldn’t bring herself to resolve the problem, why any self-respecting mother wouldn’t ask about the smell of perfume on Daddy’s clothes, an odor that was as obvious and profound and as invariable as her own embarrassment among her classmates. But since she as the daughter had been desperate for resolution of some kind for what seemed like an eternity it was time to go downstairs and learn for herself why he worked so much, why his customers came before her and her mom, why everybody loved someone who so infrequently expressed love for his own family. Out of the room and down the spiral staircase she padded, her red face marred by tears and strain.
Inside, Ross hung his jacket on the hook. He blew into his hands to relieve his cold skin. The scuffing of slippers, the creaking of stairs, caused him to look in their direction, where he observed his daughter, Tammy, coming down the staircase. Her once long dark hair had been cut short, but not professionally. She had a band-aid on her finger but Ross had no idea how, where, or when she had sustained an injury. He just looked down at her, perplexed, uneasy. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”
“I should be asking you that,” she said.
“You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Tam, I’m your father.”
“Really?”
“What did I just say, young lady? Would you talk to your teachers that way? What?—What did you do to your hair? What happened to your finger?”
Her arms tightly at her side, her hands trembling nervously, Tammy said, “Daddy, don’t you remember a few days ago? Mom came to get me at school. Because of those mean girls in gym class. Wasn’t my fault. You hardly notice anything anymore.”
Ross stood speechless. As he registered what Tammy had just said, he remembered having a conversation with Betsy the other night, and then being sent to his daughter’s room to talk with her. The substance of that conversation eluded him now. Even the reason for the discussion escaped him. Standing dumbstruck before Tammy was not only embarrassing but pathetic. His stomach in knots, he tried to salvage his dignity by asking the next question with genuine concern, although he knew a girl as bright as Tammy might interpret his words as uncaring, mechanical. “What’s wrong with your finger? I’m worried about you.”
“Daddy,” Tammy blurted exasperatedly. “That goes back to the hair thing. I nailed one of the girls with my fist, and cut the knuckle. What do you pay attention to any-more?”
“That’s enough now,” Ross said. “Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s late. It’s late for me too. I’m tired.”
“Where were you, Daddy?”
From the top of the stairs an even voice echoed in the foyer. “That’s a darn good question.”
Ross slowly craned his head in the direction of the staircase, looking upward from step to step, from post to post, until his weary vision found Betsy standing statue-like in her silk robe, wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses, clenching a crumpled tissue between her manicured fingers. Ross’s heart tumbled and flipped as he mulled over the tone of his pending reply; all conditioned responses had suddenly gone asunder. So he played it safe. “I’ve had a hell of a day. Worked late. Went to a gas station and got into a bit of a mess with some guy. It’s a long story.”
“You’re so full of it,” Betsy said. “Do you have a list of excuses that you pull from? Because this is your worst yet.”
“I’m te
lling you the truth,” he said, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “I’ll bring you there if you want. You can ask the guy for yourself.” He shook the keys over his head in frustration. “Go ahead! Take a ride. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
For the first time in a long while—for the first time ever, in fact—Betsy seized the chance to challenge him, to call his bluff. She hurriedly moved down the stairs, approached the coat rack, and put a long jacket on over her robe. Tammy grabbed her mother’s arm. “I wanna go too, Mom.”
“You stay here with Daddy,” she said, slipping her bare feet into sneakers. “I won’t be long. Things are gonna change around here. Starting now.”
Ross stood speechless the whole time, meekly shaking his head. The door ajar and Betsy standing in the opening with her back to her husband: “Which station was it?” she demanded.
“The Gas Stop,” he responded, his voice sounding tired and dry. “His name is Drew. A real winner, if you ask me.”
He bent down and hugged Tammy. “I’m sorry, my big girl. Life has been crazy lately. I’ve been preoccupied with work and stuff.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know. But when Mommy comes back can we start all over again? Be happy again?”
“Of course. It’ll all be better in the morning.” And just as he uttered those words, just as the final consonant fell from his lips, he realized his car had been running for more than a few moments in the driveway. Betsy hadn’t pulled out yet. At that very moment the scathing reality of the biggest mistake of his life pierced his conscience with unmerciful force—Sally’s card was under the mat. Had she found it? Was she crying? Was she angry? Was she sub-merged in deep thought? Not only did he feel lost and helpless—he felt petrified, he felt his well-insulated world coming out of alignment, unexpected pressure tightening around him in a constrictive grip. Perhaps life was about to present him an obstacle he couldn’t overcome, not with all the verbal sorcery he could conjure up—a non-negotiable mishap that would cost him plenty.
He heard the car door open and slam shut. Curious, he sneaked a peek out the window. Tammy stood at the bottom of the staircase, her feet pointed inward, her arms in front of her, her hands folded, her head atilt, her posture showing an incongruous blend of uncertainty and yet the slightest tinge of promise. “What’s Mommy doing?”
Eyes bloodshot and watery, Ross Albert said, “Go to your room. Put on your headphones. Now!”
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En route to the movie set, Joseph Berrywood fingered his hair into place and then sprayed a mist of mouthwash between his teeth. He had just come from an extended lunch in the city and was eager to see his wife, Darlene, who for two weeks had been acting in her first feature film. Whenever his work day allowed him to take unscheduled breaks, he made a habit of visiting her. He always was back and forth between clients, shuffling wealthy executives to and from fancy meals and golf outings; and sometimes he treated his more demanding clients to a drink or two at “gentlemen’s clubs.” Joseph had often joked with Darlene and their friends about such language: In his mind a go-go bar would always be a go-go bar, a place where men who pretended to be faithful at home seemingly abandoned the meaning of fidelity once they got inside. The dancers were not dancers by any means, not in his opinion. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were true dancers. The girls in gentlemen’s clubs were hookers. These thoughts amused him on his way to see Darlene.
He pulled onto the sprawling lot. Lights, cameras, and crew members were all around him. The atmosphere was as it always had been on Darlene’s other gigs. The frenetic environment of a movie set was one of the many characteristics of the entertainment business that had made Darlene want to become an actress. She thrived on the camaraderie, the intense focus of everyone involved, the sight of cameras positioned on cranes and dollies, the bustling crew. She liked knowing that one grain of miscalculation in her own performance could disrupt the flow of a scene; this particular facet of acting made her strive to give her best, and Joseph both admired and respected her commitment to her craft. He had encouraged her through countless failed auditions and call-backs. But her chance to become noticed had finally arrived and he could feel the unbridled energy around him.
Joseph meandered through the cramped set, dodging staging material and ladders and huddles of people talking loudly and pointing. Darlene’s movie, “Grinding Gears,” was in production on the furthermost end of the lot, an area more expansive than a football field. Across from him, on the other side of the courtyard where he was walking, “Meltdown,” an apocalyptic thriller, was shooting. He’d heard about that movie a long time ago and enthusiastically awaited its release. The film starred two of his favorite actors, whom he hoped to meet by asking Darlene to have the studio manager get him a backstage pass. But this was his first time visiting this particular set; he would have to be careful about broaching the idea to Darlene. He wouldn’t want to put too much pressure on her; she already had enough on her mind.
Like the other productions, the set of “Grinding Gears” was immense. To Joseph’s left stood a row of large motor-home-like trailers: one of them had a sign reading make-up; the other, wardrobe. The remaining two had no markings of any kind; people were going in and out of them hurriedly. In the center of the staging area a race car was surrounded by industrial-sized fans blowing air through the windows, causing the actor’s hair to flutter; as papers scattered around him, he swatted them away.
Joseph couldn’t see Darlene anywhere. But this was a surprise visit. Ever since his schedule had become over-booked, he hadn’t had a chance to stop by her set. To his right, in the distance, was a large shed, where he saw a man coming down the steep stairs wearing a headset and holding a clipboard and shouting incoherent instructions over his shoulder. He was on his way to the far end of the lot, where Joseph hoped to find Darlene.
A few hundred feet beyond the trailers and the car, Joseph came to a model house. Though it looked real, it was one-dimensional, nothing more than an elaborate flat. Joseph was impressed by the mere sight of it, by how convincing things can appear on film. Now he was even more anxious to visit the set of “Meltdown” and see behind the scenes, discover how filmmakers create life-like props and make the action look so authentic. He’d be sure to ask Darlene about visiting that set.
From the far corner of the prop house, Joseph heard the director, who was seated on a chair inscribed Hawkins, shout “Roll camera.” The sound of the man’s voice, deep and powerful in the confines of Cinemagic Studios, gave him chills. He walked about twenty feet ahead and saw two actors standing at the corner of the house surrounded by a small crew. Boom microphones dangled over the actors’ heads as they kissed passionately and groped each other’s backs and necks. Joseph immediately recognized the actress—Darlene. The actor was now rubbing the tattoo above her belly button, the place only Joseph was supposed to touch. Joseph took a few steps forward and a security guard held up his hand, preventing him from going any farther. “We’re rolling, sir,” the man said. “Stay back.”
Joseph watched his wife kissing the handsome actor. Seeing their embrace was unsettling; his stomach roiled. This moment forced him to confront the awkward realities of movie-making, and he had to cope with them. Darlene had not told him about this particular scene. Why? What made Joseph feel worse was the look of ecstasy on her face. She was unmistakably taking great pleasure in kissing the actor, in putting her tongue in his mouth, and he reciprocated. She nibbled his ears playfully and stippled his neck with kisses, groped his chest and smiled at him as if she wanted to have sex with him. Joseph wanted to run across the set and pummel the actor into a bloody pulp. No one was supposed to fondle his wife...no one! Her hands, her mouth, her tongue—these parts of her body were meant for his pleasure only.
From atop a tower a man yelled “Cut.” The actors parted. Joseph waved his arms and Darlene spotted him. She smiled and raised her index finger, telling him to wait for a moment as the makeup-man wiped her face clean. Joseph was having diffic
ulty hiding his brewing anger, his shock, his need to lash out at someone or something. As Darlene came toward him, he felt warm and woozy, overwhelmed by strain and anxiety. “Hi, Love,” Darlene said as she went to wrap her arms around him.
Joseph stepped back, avoiding her embrace.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “You’re pale too,” she said, “What’s going on?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Darlene. They said ‘Cut’ a few minutes ago.”
With her thumb she pointed over her shoulder. “That kiss was part of my job, Joe. Pardon the cliché, but what you saw didn’t mean anything to me. It’s all part of the script.”
“I beg to differ, Darlene. I know you pretty well, and you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Hell...I don’t think you’ve ever looked that turned on with me.”
“Look, Joseph,” she said, “I don’t want to argue with you—not now…not here. I have one more scene left to shoot and then I’ll be done.”
“Darlene, you know what irks me? That you would hide something from me. That you would jeopardize our—”
Darlene’s eyes widened. “What on earth are you talking about?” She raised her voice a notch. “How did I lie to you?”
A few people in the vicinity were staring at them. Joseph shook his head in disbelief, then grabbed his wife by the hand and pulled her out of earshot behind a nearby trailer. “Why didn’t you tell me about Miles Cavanaugh?”
Darlene seemed confused. “What are you talking about? What about him?”
In the vicinity, people were talking amongst themselves; other people were moving about, going back and forth to work. Frustrated, Joseph struck the side of the building with his fist. He lowered his voice to prevent anyone from hearing him. “You’re unbelievable. You have no clue what I’m talking about?”
