by Mike Heppner
“Okay.”
“That way you’ll get a sense of the whole thing. See? How the doors close. Very slowly.”
Act now!
“It gives you enough time—”
“Exactly. And then look. See how the numbers go. One. Then two. Then three. And now we can either go back down or we else stay on this floor.”
“I think my ears just popped.”
You’ll hit the ceiling!
“So this is Hedgemont Heights. Fifty years, I’ve been here.”
Very special community. Private schools. Well patrolled. The eighth most desirable place to live in the United States (call for the complete list).
“In this one house?”
“Just about. My wife and I came over right before the end of the war.”
“This was World War—”
“World War II, of course, what other war—the only war. We couldn’t stay in London. England was so dependent on the United States in those days. So I liquidated. I ran a stencil company—you know what those are, don’t you?”
“Sure. They still make stencils.”
“Of course they do. What am I thinking? I should’ve stayed with stencils. Instead I got into publishing and everything was fine until these goddamn gadgets came along.”
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“You’ll be all right.”
“You really think so? You’re intelligent, I trust your opinion.”
“These things happen. Look at the printing press. The first fifty years. Cultures died, whole languages wiped out. But as some languages died, other languages grew. The Renaissance, the Protestant movement, the rise of the working class.”
“But what did that get us? More literacy, of course. But what’s literacy? Does literacy imply judgment? I don’t think so. Literacy equals class consciousness. Take a look at the Westernized nations. What’s the first thing they teach you? How to pay your taxes.”
We also have plenty of inexpensive models available. Ask about our E-Z finance plan!
“One way or another, there’s always money to be made. They encroach on your territory, you encroach on theirs.”
We’ll meet you halfway!
“Permanent things, Olden. This is what I love. Permanent things. Quite natural for a man of my age.”
Retired? How about a condo in the Everglades? You’re not getting any younger!
“Nothing’s permanent, Mr. Hasse. Even the Gutenberg Bible will eventually fall apart, if it hasn’t already.”
“Then tangible. Americans are obsessed with ghosts. Even their government’s imaginary. We have invisible money, invisible universities, invisible shopping centers. But invisible words? Invisible words are the worst. Invisible words hide empty thoughts. Give me ink. Give me paper. Fuck technology.”
“Hear, hear.”
“I want a drink. How does that sound?”
“I’ll go along with it.”
“Will you take the house?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll give it a shot.”
“Good kid. You need some time away. You’ve been through a lot.”
Relax! We’ll do the paperwork for you.
“What if the woods start to get to me?”
“The woods you don’t have to worry about. It’s the ghosts.”
“Hunh?”
“Come on. Let’s go back down to One.”
Terms of contract may vary. Subject to owner’s approval. Open House Realty is an equal opportunity employer. Ask for Sheri. Ask for Sheila. Ask for Sharonne. WE ARE NOT THE SAME “OPEN HOUSE REALTY” PROFILED ON THE NBC “BETTER BUSINESS” REPORT. Ask for Clint. Ben Donaldson no longer works at this address.
XIII
Prodigy
A September Stroll
1998
It’s six a.m., and Simon can hear his parents sleeping in the master bedroom. The cat is awake, as usual. She creeps around all night, suddenly present in different rooms of the house. The cat is the only family member who knows about Simon’s little secret. No one else cares enough to notice.
At 6:03, he enters the kitchen and pushes open the screen door. His skin looks blue in the dawn-light. The lake is still, and some deer are browsing in the neighboring woods. His chest swells with a rush of heart-flopping energy as he flings off his pajamas and runs down to the beach. The lake is a wide-open bowl, and his feet make conical divots in the sand. An empty boat rocks nearby, a wet rope anchoring the prow. Still running, he cups his hands around his penis. Even this feels naughty. His mood changes; he no longer wants to do this. He turns and races up the jagged hill, determined now to reach the highway. This is something he cannot explain, the conflict of fear and desire he feels every time he does this thing. He wants to be caught. He doesn’t want to be caught. Scaling the hill, he sees the highway’s dented guardrail, then hears the clatter of a pickup truck taking the bend at forty miles an hour. He has never come this close to the road before. The thrill spools away. Turning, he scampers toward the house, finds his pajamas and quickly dresses behind a tree. Even now, he feels naked. The insides of the pajamas are gritty with dirt and twigs. Heading home, he keeps an eye on his parents’ bedroom window. No light—nothing. The screen door makes a scandalous noise as he inches it open and creeps inside. Past the kitchen, the cat zooms and leads the way up the steps. Out of breath, he rolls into bed and closes his eyes. It is only now that he feels truly ashamed. He imagines thousands of security cameras nailed to the tops of every tree in the forest, recording his bad deed and broadcasting it live onto a four-hundred-foot projection screen. This has to stop, he thinks, then falls asleep.
The sleep drifts and fades, and soon his mother enters the room and tugs on his leg. Through one peeking eye, he can see the face of his digital alarm clock flashing 7:08.
Lydia yanks on a paper blind, setting the roll flapping. Obnoxious sunlight fills the room. She opens the closet and parts the clothes with both hands. Squeezing past the first layer, she gropes around, finds a garment bag and throws it at him. “Put that on and meet me downstairs.”
Simon reaches between his legs for the bag. “What’s this?” he asks. Through the clear plastic, he can see a tuxedo jacket, one eyelet thinly stitched, a false boutonniere.
Lydia checks her watch, then hurries out of the room. The boy is alone, wide awake and yet somewhat dazed by the commotion. Resigned, he kicks off the covers, gets dressed and stumbles downstairs to join his mother in the foyer.
“You’re here?” she asks, focused on her work. Racing about, she fiddles with a camera—pointing, a few tiny adjustments—then tapes a white sheet of construction paper over the front door. The sheet hangs, slanted. “Christ, good—look, just stand right here and hold still.”
Simon poses in front of the backdrop, his hair still messy from the pillow. The door inside the kitchen is open; he notices it just as his mother swoops in with a camera. He can feel his heart inside his chest.
“Damn it!” She points the camera at the floor. “Simon, hold still.” The boy stands, waiting for instructions. “There!” She studies his face. “That’s it. Do that.” Simon frowns and looks at the ground. He hears the camera and feels hot all over.
Taking a break, Lydia skips out of the room and goes upstairs. The quiet of the place is amazing when she’s gone; he can hear his father getting ready for work, running his hands under the bathroom faucet. Anxious, he tiptoes and shuts the back door.
Soon Lydia returns with a pair of reading glasses. “I almost forgot. Put these on.”
She thrusts the glasses at the boy, who takes them and asks, “Whose are these?”
“Grandpa Tree’s, now shut up.”
The plastic stems hurt the backs of his ears. “I don’t want to wear a dead guy’s glasses!”
“He’s dead, who cares?” She crouches, tilting up with the camera, getting a good angle. “Act intelligent. Like you’re thinking about something.” Interpreting thes
e commands as physical gestures, Simon decides to wrinkle his nose. Acting does not come easily to the boy; most of the time, he has no real sense of what he’s doing.
A few more clicks and the sink upstairs shuts off. Lydia curses, then takes down the backdrop and puts the camera away. The ceiling creaks. Simon feels dumb, standing there.
“Jeezo-pete, what’s with the tux?” Steve Mould, dressed in his manager’s golf shirt and slacks, comes down the stairs, his knees bending outward like the legs of an unwell barnyard animal. He presses the boy’s cheek against his cold belt buckle, a brass medallion with the word POP written in tall block letters. “I’ll tell ya, boy, today’s the day you come into work with the ol’ man! I’ll show you what it’s really about!” He smiles at his wife, his kid, the stack of newspapers on the floor. His face is still wet from the shower. Dressed for work, he resembles a delivery boy, here to do a job.
Lydia grabs her son and pulls him close. “Where the hell are you taking him?” She frowns, lines breaking across her face. “I need him today. He’s mine.”
Steve starts to laugh, then checks himself. “Lydia, I explained this to you. I patiently went over this with you yesterday. I’m taking Simon into work with me because he’s going to be in a television commercial. I told you this twice—once over the phone, and then once at dinner.”
Lydia sighs, conceding nothing. “If you have to do these things, fine, but I’d appreciate it if you would consult me—”
“Consult you?”
“Yes, Steve, consult me. Believe it or not, I am a human being, and I also happen to be the boy’s business manager—yes, strange but true, me, not you—”
“Hooo, listen to her go, I tell ya . . .” He turns his head, playing to the empty room. “Business manager, like the whole world’s about to come to a—”
“Goddamnit, Steve!”
“—screeching, clanging halt.”
“That’s what I do, and if you think it’s so fucking amusing—”
He stops, hearing it late. “Don’t curse in front of my kid.”
She smiles, voice loud, happy to win. “And don’t be such a goddamn self-righteous prick!”
Steve’s lips tighten. He nods, slowly processing the information. “Okay. I gotcha. I know what I am. But GAD-DARNIT—” His face prunes, turns red. He makes two fists, and his whole body seems to squeeze toward the center. “I’m the boy’s father, and I’m your husband . . . and tonight we’re all gonna go out and get a . . . dang-blasted pizza, and we’re gonna have ourselves a family celebration, and I don’t even care if I have to shove the cotton-pickin’ thing down your whole . . . damn . . . mouth! And . . . all right?”
Lydia covers her mouth and laughs, spoiling the whole thing. Steve’s expression doesn’t change; emasculated, he yanks open the door and stomps down the path. Simon lingers, then follows. Something quick pounds inside his gut, like a hand lifting him up. He wants to strip, wants to show. Even as his father starts the car, unseen cameras crowd the forest, desperate for another look. The house, the lake, the beach, the tower—all belong to the same company: Simon Incorporated. The boy smiles. Nothing happens without him.
Sheesh Redux
Wonderful. We’re driving in the car, he’s staring out the window, ignoring everything I have to say. I’m making conversation, “Have you had breakfast yet?” No response. That’s rude, right there. At least look.
I remember my old man, boy. Barndoor Mould. Would slap you so hard.
But Simon is . . . well, he’s an interesting kid. I can’t really say I understand him. That’s okay, though. He’ll appreciate it someday. And I don’t care what Lydia says. That side of the family is overrated—Kay Tree and the rest. Some people have to work for a living. I know that store managers don’t make a lot of money. But it’s not nuthin’. You have to deal with a lot of garbage every now and then. I’m taking my kid in for the big photo shoot, this woman comes up, waving her receipt, hooting and hollering. Right there in the parking lot. I wanted to say, Look, ma’am, I understand that you’re upset, and we want you to be happy with your purchase, but . . . I’m here with my son today, you know? Can’t I have that? The kid already thinks I’m a creep. WHY ISN’T THIS ON SALE?! YOU TOLD ME YOU’D GIVE ME THE SALE PRICE! You know, a real . . . I won’t even say the word, but you know what I mean. Some of these women, they’ve never worked a day in their lives, and they don’t understand the proper way to do business. So I say—very patiently, very professionally, “Ma’am, that pillow is not a part of the Cumfy Cushions Sale, the sign clearly says that only floral toss pillows are on sale, that is a solid-colored toss, therefore it is not on sale, but if you’d give us your name, we’ll be happy to let you know when it does go on sale.” WELL THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU SAID! I’M NOTIFYING YOUR CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS! On and on. I wanted to say, Look, lady, why don’t you get off my ass for a change, all right? That’s a buncha bull! But instead I just said, “Okay, ma’am, we’re very sorry that you feel this way, and because we strongly value your business, we’ll make a one-time exception in this case.” So I took her in and rerang her order. But I didn’t smile, and I didn’t give her any free coupons. No sir. I could’ve given her five thousand dollars in gift certificates. Heck, I could’ve let her walk right out the back door with whatever she wanted. I have power that most people can’t even comprehend.
Those people from the ad agency, though . . . they’re real professionals. I’m walking around, checking it out. Cameras everywhere. Floor’s a mess. It sure keeps the customers away. Sold a couple of candles, that’s all. Chump change, thanks a lot. I’m looking to clear a million two by January first—I need some cash. This acting business, that’s where you make the money. Maybe the kid’s got the knack, I don’t know. His mother sure seems to think so. I don’t know anything about acting, so I can’t really judge. When I was in school, they had the theater department. A bunch of shows. My buddies and I, we’d sit in the back and laugh at—well, I guess you can’t call them queers anymore, but you know what I mean. That’s one thing that Simon’s going to have to watch out for, if he’s serious about this. There’s a whole lot of temptations out there, and my experience is that people who go into that line of work tend to have very low moral standards. But that’s just in general. I’ll reserve judgment.
So I’m working, running registers, the usual crap. I look over, Simon’s whispering to one of the makeup gals. Finally she says, “Simon says you’re making him nervous and please leave.” Okay. I can respect that. That’s good, that’s professional. He’s working now—no horsing around with the old man. Then this Gray Hollows person grabs my arm, says let’s go downtown, sign a few forms. I kind of hated leaving the store like that, but I took one of my assistants aside and showed her how to restack the armoires for the new Fall Into Fall Autumn Sales Extravaganza. They always screw it up. This particular assistant, she’s one of the worst. And I hate to say this, but I wish I could fire her for being overweight, because it’s just not what you want to see when you’re making a purchase. I think the way a person looks is important, and when I go into a store, I expect a certain bare minimum. No supermodels, just a nice, attractive, well-dressed woman, where you can at least see the shape. It’s all a part of creating a pleasant shopping experience. But in our country you can’t punish people for being overweight, which I suppose is good in the larger sense, but when I get burned by it, then I start to wonder. This sensitivity thing is getting out of hand. That’s not what America’s all about. If she wants a job, she oughta work in a cafeteria. Those people are always fat.
So we’re driving downtown, fifteen minutes on the freeway. I don’t know about this Gray Hollows person. The man’s car smelled like just about the worst stuff you can imagine. Bananas. Rotten bananas and socks. You’d think—we’re both professionals, both full-grown adults, he’s invited me out on a business excursion. You’d think he’d take the time to clean the place up, maybe turn off the radio. I tell ya, if this is what passes for corporate-le
vel material . . . a brassiere hanging from the rearview mirror? Yes. My jaw just about hit the pavement. A brassiere, a ceramic figure of the Savior Himself, with the head broken off, just a pair of legs and some bloody nails. I pointed, I said what the heck’s that? Music’s so loud, I’ve got my head halfway out the window, and you can’t even hear what’s going on. I wrote down the lyrics, too—I wanted Jim Carroll to know about it. This is a direct quote, so the curse words don’t count: “SHE’S MY FUNKY FLY BITCH, I’D LIKE TO FUCK HER WITH MY FREAK-FACE.” Now even I know what those words mean. Things were different when I was a kid, boy. Fourteen, fifteen years old. I had the Steve Miller Band going round the clock.
So we pull into the parking lot, right next to a big ol’ Mercedes. These people must be raking it in. Maybe I’ll go into advertising someday. Half of the guys they got down there, they couldn’t be more than forty. Nice place, too. One really foxy gal in the front room. With the spike heels and the miniskirt. Oh lordy, my. I just about had a heart attack. Mr. Mould, would you like a cup of coffee? Yeah, I’ll take a cup of something!
Finally, we get up to the CEO’s office. Some guy with a beard. Seemed like a nice enough fella. Next thing you know, Gray starts shouting, making a big scene. That’s smart, right in front of a client. I tell you, I don’t know much about office politics, but I do have two eyes and two ears and a nose and a mouth. I’m standing there, feeling like an idiot. Finally I said—this is what I said, word for word—I said, “Mr. Hollows is sure doing a great job, sir, and we’re all real happy about it, me and Jim Carroll and Mr. Pee.” I couldn’t tell, when we left the room, whether Gray appreciated my little plug. He seemed a bit aggravated. It’s hard to read a man’s mind when he’s wearing glasses.
XIV
Book Deal
The Adam Syndrome
I realize, in writing this, that I’m probably not speaking to a group of novices. You, I trust, have leafed through at least one of my books before. It is not arrogant to assume that I have affected some small part of your life. Business clients know me from my many seminars and weekend getaways, paid holidays organized around a dubious theme. Wearing the ridiculous hat of the corporate cheerleader, I preached an uplifting message; the end of each session was an emotional ordeal for everyone involved. The platitudes multiplied—neatly symmetrical word games that sounded the same forwards and backwards. A healthy company is a motivated company. Nothing makes quite so strong an impression in the workplace as sincere enthusiasm, I said sincerely and enthusiastically. Surveys prove that a vast majority of American employers value a sense of pride and personal ethics over performance abilities and even basic competence. I held the survey high over my head and brought it down against my leg. Together we made the walls of the conference center shake with our chanted slogans and our thunderous, neo-primal, corporate-bonding war dances.
