Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  “One thing I remember about the camps is how different people were,” he said. “How differently they acted. Some of them would do anything to survive. Anything at all. Those were the ones who thought of nothing but seeing loved ones again, or finishing something important they had started before the war. Whatever it was, they had hope, and that’s all there is to have in life. There’s nothing else. Hope is greater even than happiness, you know. It’s more powerful. More useful. In the camp, the ones without hope fell into two groups. One group ran into the wire. That was the most popular form of suicide there. Running into the electric wire along the fences. The other group just sat and waited for the end. They didn’t yearn to survive, and they didn’t run into the wire. They lived in that empty space in between. That’s how I’ve become, it seems. That’s how I’ve spent these years. I don’t take pride in that. But you have to call a thing a thing in life. You can always do that much.”

  Suddenly there was a popping sound, like a gunshot, and we both looked up. The repairman had dropped a bulb from Vegas Vic on the sidewalk. He looked at us apologetically at first, then less so when he noticed us holding hands. Even at three in the morning in the strangest city on earth, the sight of a nearly ninety-year-old man in a seersucker suit holding hands with a guy less than half his age had to qualify as an odd sight. The Professor smiled and released my fingers. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ray. I must be a terrific bore to you.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “What you said about the wire—that’s something else.”

  “Yes. It was. But a person can get to that point easier than you might imagine. I thought about it a great deal after Peg died, but I couldn’t do that. And I couldn’t do the other thing, either. There were opportunities. There are always opportunities, no matter what you think. Friends in California urged me to come manage their land for them. Orange groves, you know. There was a woman there I could have shared something with, I believe. Mutual acquaintances suggested as much. But I never went.”

  He took off his glasses and wiped them with the cloth again. “And I never did that other thing, obviously,” he said. “Neither of those options seemed to suit my nature. I regret this. A person should find something that suits his nature and make some kind of decision in life. Carry on from there and forget everything else. You should remember that.”

  “I will,” I said.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and helped himself up. “Tell me, Ray: What the devil do you need false identification for?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you make it?”

  “A tenant in my building left the machine a while back. I learned how to use it. But to answer your question, I have a lot of problems with the government and how it operates. It’s getting worse by the day. People think they’re living in a free country, but they have no idea how wrong they are. At any rate, I like to help people out when I can. I’ll spare you all my thoughts on Big Brother.”

  I smiled at him. The pills were kicking in, and it was time to get back to the MGM. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Luck,” he mused.

  “Yeah. I don’t suppose you’re a big luck guy. Philosophically speaking.”

  “Not particularly, no,” he said. “I studied the idea for some time. I could have stayed in bed that morning, for example. Or woken Peg when I left for breakfast. But she didn’t feel well and wanted to sleep. She never slept in. I played it a million different ways. But the fact is that someone left a pie display on in the restaurant downstairs, and there were faulty wires, and there was a fire, and some people were in a position to get out and some weren’t. You could call it luck, but it was just what happened. That’s half of life, I’d say. Just what happens, and whether you’re in the way of it or not. The other half is what you decide to do yourself, and what the consequences of those choices are. If you think there’s something more to it, there isn’t. You take good care of yourself, son.”

  And just like that, he hobbled off toward the Four Queens. I was sorry to see him go, and for a second I almost called after him, because he was someone I might have been able to tell the truth to. Someone who could have given me some fatherly advice, maybe. But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I sat there and considered what he’d said about luck, and I thought of the series of events that had landed me on that bench in the middle of the night, and how everything might have been all right if just one thing had gone one way instead of another. As the pills kicked in harder, I closed my eyes and replayed the series of events that had led me here. The countdown to my top 10 hits played out like this:

  #10

  As I was playing blackjack one afternoon at Mohegan Sun, Dawn came running up to my table. She had just hit an $800 jackpot. I gave her a high five, and she said she was going to the gift shop to buy me a present, which I told her not to do. I distinctly said, “Get something for Penny,” but she said, “Everybody’s getting something, buddy boy,” and went running off, returning fifteen minutes later with a turquoise and silver western shirt. It looked like someone had put a dolphin in a blender. When I said, “Jesus, I can’t wear that,” she got pouty.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll wear it one time, but then we take it out back and shoot it.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But I choose when.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said.

  #9

  One night a couple of weeks later, after another spirit-crushing string of beat hands and misguided impulse bets, Dawn once again came trotting over to my table. She said the casino was offering free country line-dancing lessons in the Wolf’s Den lounge.

  “Take a break and learn how to Texas Two-Step with me,” she said.

  “What the hell,” I said. “It might be the only time we get something for nothing in this joint.”

  #8

  We were sitting around Dawn’s apartment on her twenty-ninth birthday. No one had gotten her anything except for this papier-mâché raccoon Penny had made in school, and her ex-husband had just phoned from prison and called her a bitch. I felt bad for her.

  “Go get dressed,” I said. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go for your birthday.”

  She ran into her bedroom to change, emerging a few minutes later with a bright smile and a brighter shirt. She tossed it to me and said, “Button her up and let’s dance.”

  “I’ve been afraid this might happen,” I said.

  #7

  We drove to a place called the Littleton Saloon, which was just about halfway between my house and her apartment. While in the middle of performing something called “The Montana Kick,” a bartender started taking Polaroids on the dance floor.

  “Say cheese, y’all!” he said.

  “Cheese, y’all!”

  #6

  Sometime after that evening, the owner of the Littleton Saloon (a person I do not know but clearly someone who cannot leave well enough alone) made a pair of decisions: 1) to open early and start serving lunch; and 2) to make the decor more customer-friendly. He removed most of the steer horns and cowhides from the walls and replaced them with framed candid photos of customers he’d been having his staff take for months.

  #5

  Less than a week after returning home from her mother’s funeral, L got a call from Sandy Flynn, her freshman-year roommate at Emory who had lost her own mother to breast cancer. How she knew about Lucille I have no idea, since she hadn’t spoken to L since they’d graduated. How did this happen? Was there some cancer newsletter that went out every time a doctor dropped that shitty hammer on someone? Where did this Flynn woman come from?

  #4

  One morning the following week, Sandy Flynn invited L to lunch. I was in the study, making believe I was doing research for a potential new show, when I heard L say, “No, no, you’re due soon. I’ll come up your way.”

  Five minutes later, she poked her head in the office and said, “Hey, Ray, where’s Littleton if I take the parkway?”

  “Where?”

 
“Littleton.”

  “No idea,” I said.

  #3

  My wife drove to Sandy Flynn’s house (again, where did this woman even come from?), which was being sprayed for termites or flying squirrels or caribou or what the fuck ever, and so they were forced to go out to eat. The Flynn woman was pregnant and craving chili, so she took L to a “cute place that just started serving lunch.”

  The Littleton Saloon.

  #2

  A hostess led the two of them to a booth, where they started nibbling on corn bread. A waiter approached the table, and as this Sandy Flynn person ordered a bowl of Uncle Mickey’s Firehouse Chili, the love of my life looked at the wall. Hanging thirty-six inches from her nose was an eight-by-ten photo of a familiar face in an unfamiliar shirt.

  #1

  L returned home from lunch and poked her head in the office, where I was studying baseball lines.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she said.

  “Working. How was lunch with Sandy What’s-her-face?”

  “Sandy Flynn. And it was fine. We went to a place called the Littleton Saloon. You ever hear of it?”

  I stuck my head farther into the paper and said, “Nope, how was it?”

  “Interesting,” she said. “I’d say it was very interesting.”

  And welcome to Fucked City. Population: Ray.

  As I contemplated this brutally unfortunate sequence of events, I felt a slight kick and opened my eyes to see a girl wearing white capris, a yellow halter, and a silver and turquoise belly ring that was about eye level for me. Her stomach was flat and brown and magazine-perfect, and when I glanced up and saw her straight blond hair and bangs, I recognized her as the cashier at the Girls of Glitter Gulch.

  “Aren’t you, like, a little young to be sleeping on benches?”

  “I was just resting.”

  I launched into an extended coughing jag. She backed away and reached into her denim shoulder bag. “You sound like ass. Here, have some gelcaps.”

  “Much obliged,” I said. “You work at the club, right?”

  “I work at the club, not in the club. Like, I don’t dance.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.

  “OK.”

  “Sorry. I just don’t like people thinking I’m sketchy,” she said. “I’m Renée.”

  “Raoul,” I said, trying out my new moniker and extending my good hand.

  “You don’t look Mexican.”

  “I’m not. It’s a random name.”

  “I’ll say. But it’s cool,” she said, casually blowing a bubble. “That old man you were with—he your pop?”

  “No. Just a friend of mine.”

  She pulled a pair of earbuds and an iPhone out of her bag. When she asked what I was doing snoozing on the bench, I attempted to explain that I had a VIP suite up at the MGM, only it took me twenty seconds to get it out on account of another coughing fit. She gave me a professional eye roll.

  “Riiiiight. Every time I have a fat place to stay, I like to sleep on benches downtown, too. See ya around, high roller.”

  And with that, she flashed me a peace sign, put in her earbuds, and sauntered away. I could hear her singing the words to some song I’d never heard before as she made her way down the avenue and hopped into a cab on Third Street. As she did, the maintenance worker climbed down from the ladder, mopped his brow, and gazed at his work. He turned and looked at me. “Es bueno?” he said.

  I looked up at Vegas Vic, his cigarette dangling and red neon boots shining. He was smiling and waving. Not a care in the world. If the cowboy could have spoken, he would have said, “Ray, pardner, everything’s gonna be A-OK. That old plan ’a yers is gonna work out juuuust fine. You ’n the little lady’s gonna live happily ever after. Ride right off into that sunset. You have faith now, ya hear? And don’t you be sweatin’ an old sack ’a feed like Boyd Bollinger. That old bastard’s got one foot in the grave ’n one foot on a banana peel, ya hear me? He ain’t nothin’ t’ nobody. Tell him t’ piss up a rope ’n run him out on a rail.”

  I gave the maintenance worker a thumbs-up. “Sí,” I said to him, grinning like a man with some kind of future. “It’s really bueno.”

  THE WONDER OF IT ALL

  April 3

  Where I ever got the impression that R was Paul Newman, I have no idea. It is quite literally the stupidest idea I ever allowed myself to indulge. If Paul Newman had pulled one tenth of the crap that R did, Joanne Woodward would’ve driven him down to the Westport train station and shipped him back to Hollywood no matter how blue his eyes were.

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT day around five in the afternoon. Sick. Jet-lagged. Delirious. I looked out the window at the Statue of Liberty for a solid half minute without knowing where the hell I was. After a while I snapped to, poured myself a drink, popped a couple of painkillers, and saw that a note had been slipped under the door.

  RAY—YOU’RE GOOD TO GO. SIGN FOR ANYTHING YOU LIKE. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS.

  BEST,

  BOB MOTA

  I slipped on a cushy MGM robe and matching slippers and sat on the couch, flipping the tube on and checking my messages. It was a bloodbath. The texts were in the hundreds, so I figured I’d try my voice mail, since that was where the most urgent stuff generally landed.

  Hello. You have fifty-nine new messages.

  First message, received at 11:58 A.M. . . .

  Pick. Up. The. Fucking. Phone.

  Second message, received at 12:16 P.M. . . .

  Damm it, Ray, where are you? Why do you have to pull this crap? You can just be the sweetest thing, and then you always turn around and flake out. KC always says you’re unreliable and hung up on your ex-wife and I should never talk to you again, and maybe she’s right. Maybe you’re a hopeless case, like she says. I hope you show up to take Penny to Central Park Saturday. She’s so excited to see the fireworks. I really hate this shit, you know? I hate it.

  Third message, received at 12:34 P.M. . . .

  Oh. Son gun. I come the Vegas.

  Fourth message, received at 12:48 P.M. . . .

  If you cut the arms off a starfish, guess what happens? They grow back. It is the only thing that re— Hey, what’s this word? Not that one, this one. Whisper it—regenerates. It is the only thing that regenerates. That’s awesome! And the Tooth Fairy came last night. Her wings were blue this time.

  Fifth message, received at 1:37 P.M. . . .

  Ray, it’s Maurice. Sorry about the whole thing with Bing. He just—he scares me, Ray. You should probably call him, OK? Call Bing.

  Sixth message, received at 3:11 P.M. . . .

  KC just called and said you were on TV. What’s going on? Are you in trouble? Call me back. I’ll help. I hit for four hundred dollars today. I love you.

  Seventh message, received at 3:45 P.M. . . .

  Uh, Ray? It’s Maurice again. Sorry to bother you, but, um, did you know that you were on TV? You’re right there on the TV and . . . yeah. What happened? The police are looking for you and everything. Call me and let me know how things are. I mean, you’re right there on the TV. Right on SportsCenter. Oh, I think we better take the Twitter down. Should we take it down? Maybe we should take it down. All right, then.

  Eighth message, received at 3:54 P.M. . . .

  Ray, man, it’s Dinger and Lou at Bobby V’s. What the fuck, brother? You’re on the big screen!

  Ninth message, received at 4:12 P.M.

  Sugar Ray. It’s Chip. Dude. Everyone at Mohegan is talking about you, bro. You’re a lunatic! That video is awesome! That jockey was, like, what the fuck? Craziest thing ever! You’re a legend! Janie says what’s up.

  Tenth message, received at 4:29 P.M.

  Hey. It’s Ronnie and April in the ATL. Is that you?

  Eleventh message, received at 5:02 P.M.

  Raymond, you have done it this time. What on earth have you gotten yourself into? The police called. Boyd may have given them y
our number. You better straighten whatever this is out. You’re unbelievable.

  Twelfth message, received at 5:07 P.M.

  Ray, Boyd Bollinger. A Detective Jack Keller is going to be contacting you regarding an incident in New York. I’m sure you know what it’s in reference to.

  Thirteenth message, received at 5:16 P.M.

  Maurice again. The cops called. I told them I didn’t know where you are. And again, I’m sorry about the Bing thing. I should have kept my mouth shut. Don’t worry about my Super Bowl bet. It doesn’t matter. Hold on, the Sarge wants to say something . . . Ray, you and this boy here are a couple of weak, sorry sons of bitches. That is all, soldier.

  Fourteenth message, received at 5:22 P.M.

  Ray Parisi, this is Detective Jack Keller. We’d like a few words with you. Obviously. Call me back at 212-422-6899. We don’t want to chase you around on this. That won’t be in your best interest.

  Fifteenth message, received at 5:39 P.M. . . .

  You know what? Screw you. I’m going out to dinner with Ken from the aquarium.

  Sixteenth message, received at 6:12 P.M. . . .

  I Vegas.

  Seventeenth message, received at 6:22 P.M. . . .

  Ray, I think you should come on the show. I know they let you go, but you’re still one of us here, and we should have the exclusive. You can do the interview with me.

  Eighteenth message, received at 6:38 P.M. . . .

  Oh, Ray, no make Bing look. You call . . . 7 . . . 0 . . . 2 . . . you call Circus Circus. You ask Bing Buli.

  Nineteenth message, received at 6:41 P.M. . . .

  What in the hell?

  There was no way I was going to sift through another twenty minutes of that landfill, so I clicked my phone off and thought for a second. The continued fallout from Belmont wasn’t anything I hadn’t been expecting, or would have been expecting if I were giving a second thought to anything other than the Kinder House Plan. If anything, the acceleration of the story just meant that I needed to get started on the plan ASAP, and the unexpected note from Bob Mota meant that I could. I hadn’t known the check would get cleared so quickly, so I was actually ahead of where I expected to be, not behind. The cops on the other side of the country weren’t something I was going to worry about, and Bing Buli was in needle-in-a-haystack territory, so I wasn’t sweating him, either. I was annoyed that Bollinger had called (leave it to the decrepit son of a bitch to give my number to the cops), but again, his days were numbered, and I was used to people out there talking about me over one thing or another, so why let that faze me? Once you got used to being regarded as a disappointment and a fuckup, your threshold for shame went up considerably. You could deal with things that would cripple your average person. It was one of the few advantages to having almost nothing left to lose.