“Well, that’s going to be difficult, since he’s in a coma.”
“Do you expect him back soon?”
Blank stares.
“That was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Ned responded. “I want you out of here. Right now.”
Ned, the oldest of the Link’s sons, had been appointed by the board as the interim president and CEO of Tailburger. My only hope was that power had corrupted him.
“I’ve got an offer for you.”
“What could you possibly offer us?”
“A way out of the SERMON suit.”
“I don’t believe you. (Pause) How?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a very useful videotape.”
“Of who?”
“Muffet Meaney.”
“So what? We’ve got tons of surveillance tape on her. Have you forgotten what we do for a living?”
“You don’t have any tapes of her having sex.”
“You don’t have that.”
“I do.”
“With who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Is it graphic?”
“Very.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Just my pension. That’s all.”
“What else are you offering?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What else do you want?”
Ned, Ted and Fred asked for a minute to confer with each other behind the hospital curtain rigged up around their father’s bed. The curtain closed. A minute passed and the curtain swung open.
“Crooked Creek.”
“You want to become members at Crooked Creek? All three of you?”
Ned, Ted and Fred nodded, grinning all the while.
Crooked Creek remained the white whale of golf club memberships for the Fanoflincoln clan. Long shut out by their new-money status, their father’s table manners and the mythical waiting list (the flames of which I’d fanned over the years like a Boy Scout at a bonfire), they hungrily eyed their opportunity to bargain their way into the elite of Rochester’s links.
“Done. I want a letter reinstating my pension and a lump-sum distribution check by Monday. Then you’ll get your tape.”
“Not so fast, Sky. Not so fast. We hold the upper hand here, not you. You get our memberships at Crooked Creek authorized and show us the tape, and then we’ll give you the pension money.”
I didn’t bother to tell the brothers that my membership at Crooked Creek had been placed on indefinite suspension pending the resolution of my “legal difficulties.” Although Tad Hamilton, club president, assured me of the board’s deep-rooted belief in my innocence and offered me full use of all facilities between the hours of 2:00 A.M. and 3:00 A.M. in his letter, I knew my questionable status would make it difficult, but hopefully not impossible, to sponsor a new member or three. I would simply have to get other people to do the sponsoring. With admission to Crooked Creek a murky process at best, however, I left the hospital far from terra firma.
Before I departed, I took a long look at the heaving carcass spread out on the bedsheets before me. Pale, bloated and breathing by the aid of electric device, he held no great affection in my heart and that was a sad truth. I’d spent twenty years working for someone whom I didn’t respect and didn’t particularly like. “Why?” was the question that came to mind. Why?
32
Going Public
Macrocock.com opened at $8.50 on the day of its initial public offering. Soon it skyrocketed on hot CNBC buzz and busy trading, finishing the day at $56 and a quarter on the NASDAQ. Although the company had no revenues, no earnings, inexperienced management and a business plan with the word “spam” liberally sprinkled throughout, the Money Honey liked it, and so into the stratosphere went the price, along with my parental pride.
“Ethan, it’s Dad. I saw the IPO!”
“Hey, Dad. Isn’t this amazing?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got two million five on paper right now. Skull’s got a mil.”
It really stuck in my craw that Skull (a guy I found passed out on my lawn more times than I care to remember) had more than me, but I chose to focus on my blood relation.
“You’re doing great!”
I wasn’t doing so badly myself. With ten thousand shares from my initial investment, I was up more than half a million, thanks to my son’s company, whatever it was they did.
“So are you ready to open the kimono for me?”
“Well, Dad, it’s really complicated. I don’t know if you’d understand. We’re an infomediary site.”
“In-fo-mediary? What the hell’s that?”
“We’re a portal for vendors of cutting-edge electronic products. We capture customers’ information and then protect them from unwanted home invasion and spam.”
“Spam, huh? Are we talking about the sodium-rich luncheon meat I enjoyed as a boy?”
“No, we’re talking about electronic junk mail.”
“I see. I still have no clue what you guys do.”
“Dad, this is going to make you rich. That’s all you need to know.”
Ethan and I didn’t dare speak about the six-month lockup period that loomed over our giddy heads. For either of us to truly get rich, Macrocock’s share value had to sustain itself for the next half year, when we would be legally entitled to sell our stock under the securities laws. Would it hold on? Could it hold on? So obvious was the subtext, we ignored it completely. So our gains could disappear in a day—so what? There was no good reason to mention the lockup. Why cast a pall on the parade?
For Ethan, a successful sale after the lockup would mean he’d fulfilled the destiny of every member of his generation—to make his money young and to get out unscathed, left to dabble at his leisure in the things that truly interested him. He could start a nonprofit, collect rare wine coolers, Do the Dew—whatever the hell turned him on. I wanted that for him. If the stock tanked, he could simply start again.
For me, it was a bit more complicated. If the stock went from $56 TO $100 and stayed there, I might not need my Tailburger pension. The possibilities were endless and intoxicating. Maybe I wouldn’t have to turn over the tape of Muffet and me or do any other self-degrading act for my own financial survival. Maybe I could buy my way out of my legal trouble like a well-connected investment banker or C-grade celebrity. Maybe the stock would go to $200 and I’d become a beloved local philanthropist who threw dimes at the kids on Halloween and obsessed over airborne pathogens.
Then again, to wait for the lockup to expire and rely on the stock was a big risk on my part. What if the price leveled off to $20? At ten thousand shares, $200,000 wouldn’t buy much of a retirement. Even at $56 a share, I wouldn’t have the fuck you money necessary to walk away from the world on my own terms. Worse, by the end of six months, the SERMON suit might proceed to the point where Tailburger’s involvement would be intractable, making my video bargaining chip worthless. Who was I kidding? Regardless of how much money I made on Macrocock.com, I needed my pension. Trip Baden and his attorney, along with two dozen other creditors, would all have their hands out for a piece of my newfound fortune. I was fucked. I couldn’t take a chance on the stock alone.
For as long as I could remember, one thought traversed the shallow circuitry of my mind: as soon as I was done serving my time at Tailburger, I would fill up my life with all the things I was dying to do. I would clutter every hour of every day with important pursuits, giving greater meaning to my existence, drawing the admiration and envy of others—living well as a form of revenge. But the closer I drew to the end of my corporate career, the less I longed for any of that. If I’d learned anything from King it was that clutter was fear (something he told me during a late-night rap session on feng shui). I needed to shed clutter and simply wanted the financial freedom to do as I pleased, a later-in-time version of the liberty I envisioned for my son and a faded facsimile of what Ethan felt entitle
d to. What did I want? The option to do nothing for hours on end or to cut the grass if so moved. The luxury of such a choice was still just a dream—big and beyond my reach.
I called Cal, as I’d done for days now, expecting to hear his machine pick up. None of the kids from the food poisoning incident, including Kyle, had died, but their story was in the press now, and the Tailburger franchise owner who sold the infested fare was blaming me publicly. He said I’d given the order to undercook the meat and told him he’d lose his store if he didn’t follow orders. Although that defense didn’t work for the Nazi war criminals, it was working here, and now everybody was piling on my back. Even the store’s assistant manager, Randall P. McMurphy, made a point of holding his own news conference to commend Tailburger for my firing and to condemn me not only as a purveyor of the skin trade, but as a life-threatening danger to children everywhere. My reputation as a prime candidate for castration was secure. Now I existed only as some kind of horrible Hannibal Lecter figure whose phone calls went unanswered and unreturned. Another victim of caller ID. Until I caught a break.
“Hello.”
“Jenny, it’s Sky.”
I hadn’t spoken to Cal’s wife in weeks, a streak she wished to extend.
“Sky, I really have no desire to speak with you right now or ever again. Please stop calling.”
“Wait, wait. Let me explain a few things, please. How’s Kyle?”
“Barely alive, thanks to you. I’m going to go now, Sky.”
“Jenny, listen to me. That wasn’t my idea. It was the Link. I swear it was the Link. He gave the order to undercook the burgers.”
“Sky, I really don’t care who gave the order. I’ve got a very sick little boy because of you and Tailburger. I don’t know what role you played in all of this, but whatever it was, shame on you.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I made a mistake. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt Kyle. You have to believe me.”
“Sky, I’m not sure what to believe anymore. After twenty years of marriage, I have to find out on the news that my husband and his best friend are porno kings.”
“We’re not porno kings.”
“How could you two keep this from me all these years? What am I going to find out next, that you two are a couple of angel dust dealers? Drugs and porn go hand in hand, don’t they?”
“We’re not angel dust dealers. I promise you.”
“Or maybe it’s Ecstasy. Isn’t that what the kids are using these days? Who knows? Certainly not me. I’m just the stupid, stay-at-home, sit-in-the-dark wife who finds out last about everything.”
“Jenny, we’re not Ecstasy dealers. (Pause). Don’t you see? Cal just wanted to protect you.”
“Well, he’s done a lousy job.”
Jenny’s gripes were legitimate, no question about it. But her tone of voice and the overall direction of the conversation put fresh paint on the fence for me as to why I wasn’t married anymore. I was bad at reasoning with women. I didn’t lie very well and my ear was pure tin when it came to picking up the subtleties of female inflection that cued a man to reflexively say things like, “I was wrong,” “Awwww” and, most importantly, “I was wrong.” Did I mention the phrase, “I was wrong”?
“Cal loves you. He was afraid of what you’d think.”
“What I’d think? How about what I’d feel when the truth came out. Did he ever think about that?”
“He worried about it constantly.”
“Well, he’ll have plenty of time to worry about it on his own.”
“You didn’t kick him out, did you?”
“Oh, yes I did. He’s staying at Woodcliff.”
Woodcliff Lodge was a modern, hunting-themed, hilltop hotel surrounded by golf courses and condominium developments. Located on one of the highest points in Monroe County, Woodcliff, with its brick and glass facade, overlooked much of Rochester and was one of the few places where you could physically place yourself above the fray. It was an obvious choice for Cal’s accommodations during his marital crisis.
I found my friend in the hotel’s gym on an industrial-sized treadmill, sweating like a man who was fighting his age—and losing. Cal saw me enter, but pretended that he didn’t. As I walked closer, he focused more intently on the television set hanging from the far wall.
“Are you going to ignore me forever?”
“If that’s how long it takes for you to leave.”
Cal refused to make eye contact with me.
“Cal, I’m here as your friend.”
“Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?”
“I’d like to show you that the title still fits.”
Cal finally looked over at me and then away, but didn’t say a word.
“I talked to Jenny. She told me that Kyle’s going to be okay.”
“Lucky for you.”
“I’m glad, Cal. I want to apologize to you again.”
“What else did she say?”
“She’s very angry. She feels like you betrayed her. Like we betrayed her.”
“I think it may be over.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. She still loves you very much.”
“When she kicked me out, she said our whole relationship was based on a lie.”
“Oh, c’mon. Show me a good one that isn’t.”
“She said she didn’t want the kids living with a porno king.”
“Why does she keep using that phrase? It’s so offensive.”
“I know. I’m no porno king. My market share is maybe three percent. That’s far from king-size. (Pause) I can’t live without her, Sky.”
“You’ll get her back. I’ll help you.”
If I’d killed Kyle with my boneheaded burger policy error, I think it would have been difficult to patch up my friendship with Cal. Not impossible, mind you (men don’t take these things as hard as women), but definitely difficult. Kyle lived, however, giving Cal and me the chance to resume a friendship we’d begun 40 years before. And I’ve got to tell you, it felt pretty damn good.
First we resolved to help each other get our women back. Cal stood a better chance to succeed on this account than I did. He was, after all, married to the object of his affection and the father of her children. I, on the other hand, was merely a political liability to my amour, not to mention a social pariah, equally unwelcome at private parties and public gatherings, from Denny’s to the discount mall. Nonetheless, we agreed that this mutual objective could be accomplished with copious amounts of groveling and profuse gift giving. Begging and baubles alone, however, wouldn’t be enough.
In order to win back the hearts of those we’d hurt (some might say irretrievably devastated), we needed to stay jail-free, which brought us face-to-face with our next hurdle: how to handle our small legal matter involving the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes. Divide and conquer. That would be the strategy of the prosecutor—to turn Cal and me against each other until we ratted out our own best friend. Plea bargain. That would be our strategy. We’d have to give the prosecutor something he wanted in exchange for a deal—but what? After I noodled over this with Cal for most of the evening, he sent me home to get some rest.
For some reason, Cal’s willingness to forgive me for what I’d done to Kyle spurred a strong desire in me to make amends with Sophia. I hadn’t heard from her since our blowout over Tweeter, and I was anxious to be back on speaking terms with my daughter. My drive home from Woodcliff was thus full of reflection on my role as a parent, and, in particular, one exchange with Sophia that stuck out. The day before she left for college, she asked me why I’d never taken her to Disneyland. I didn’t have a good answer for her. It was simply something I’d never gotten around to doing with her and her brother, nor considered crucial to their personal development. I pointed out that we’d been to Pedro’s South of the Border and Wall Drug, the biggest pharmacy in the state of South Dakota, but to no avail. To her, those were merely missed opportunities to go to Disney World, EPCOT, Bus
ch Gardens, Six Flags over Georgia and, most importantly, Disneyland. I could tell that she was genuinely disappointed despite the years that had passed. And so it was the nature of parenthood, and of most relationships I concluded, for others to remember what you didn’t do instead of what you did—to remember your screwups, errors, omissions and mistakes, leaving you with an overall feeling of underappreciation, something I wished upon no one. This was human nature. And this was why, as a parent and as a person, it made any moment of true appreciation, one unimpeachable exchange with your own child where you knew you’d come through for her and she was trying to thank you for that, the most gratifying experience on Earth I’ve ever had and one that, more and more, I sought out.
I reached Sophia on a cell phone I’d given her for Christmas.
“Soph, it’s Dad.”
“Daddy, what are you doing? It’s so late. . . .”
“I know it’s late, but I need to talk to you.”
“What for?”
“I need to tell you something. I need to tell you that I’m sorry about what happened at the house with Tweeter.”
“It’s all right, Daddy. . . .”
“No, it’s not all right. Listen to me. I’m sorry about what happened and I want you to know that I support your decisions and I trust your judgment, and if being with Tweeter is what’s going to make you happy, then I will be behind you the whole way. (Pause) What I’m saying, Soph, is that if you love Tweeter, I love Tweeter. End of discussion.”
Sophia was silent for a moment.
“Daddy, Tweeter and I broke up a week ago. We’re just friends now.”
“Sweet, merciful Jesus!”
Sophia went on to explain that she and Tweeter were really very different people with very different goals. To sum it up, she didn’t want to live in a van for the rest of her life, and he did. When Sophia informed him of her decision, Tweeter decried the irony that a vehicle designed to bring people closer together had actually ripped them apart. Sales of used Vanogens (circa 1982) would surely plummet.
33
Lying Low
The next morning I found King at the breakfast table with a strange assortment of food laid out in front of him.
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