Scruples

by Judith Krantz

  But now, in early March of 1978, he woke up every morning feeling bad after a lifetime of waking up feeling good. Taking a shower, getting dressed, making breakfast, and driving to Scruples became the most stable part of his day, as hasty routine tasks absorbed his attention. Once at work, he found that the well of energy on which he had always drawn unthinkingly seemed to have a bottom.

  At least that was the cause he gave to what he called the “bubble,” a feeling that he was not connected, in the way he used to be, to the outside world. The bubble became in his mind an actual physical sphere, like those transparent balloons that have grains of something inside of them that bob around at random. It made voices seem muted, food taste bland, physical contacts less real, less actual. It took the edge off everything. Spider was able to get through his day at Scruples by consciously forcing himself to behave as he had behaved naturally in the past, but his heart wasn’t in it; so that although the customers didn’t see any difference in him, the fun was gone. Passing a mirror once he noted without surprise that his eyes were about as lively as the Dead Sea.

  Rosel Korman, the first saleswoman to be hired at Scruples, was one of the few people who noticed the change in Spider. She thought—to herself since she was infinitely discreet—that where once he had looked like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid put together, he now looked like a pallid remake of the same movie.

  Billy, one of the other people who was aware of Spider’s sudden lack of zest, thought it must be the need for a vacation. Since he had come to California in July of 1976, he hadn’t been away for more than a long weekend. There was fresh powder in Aspen that March and the ladies would just have to do without him for a while, she informed him.

  “You know, you’re a pushy dame,” he observed. “How do you even know I can ski?”

  “People who look like you always can. Now get out of here and don’t let me see that face for three weeks.”

  From a skier’s point of view, Aspen was a success. But the bubble was waiting for him when he arrived. One day he found himself alone on a mountainside and he came to a stop, leaning thoughtfully on his poles. He checked out the pure air and the undiluted sunlight and the crisp, creamy quiet; it was all there and accounted for. No one could possibly ask for more. On other days of skiing, before he had gone to New York, a moment to himself such as this would have been an affirmation of the goodness of life, a time to gather in the realizations of his luck. He had always looked for those rare opportunities to ski alone so that no other human being came between him and the full joy of being part of the mountain. Why now did he feel so abandoned? He dug his poles into the snow and pushed off, recklessly skiing the fall line as if he were running for his life.

  Back in Beverly Hills, he decided that he probably needed a change in his love life. He eased himself out of his current involvements, which he had never allowed to become so serious that they couldn’t be untangled without any loss of pride or self-esteem on the part of the women in question. They would miss Spider, but they would never doubt that he had deeply liked and enjoyed them—because he had. Spider had perfected a way of dropping a woman so that she felt more cherished than if he had continued the relationship.

  Within a week, he found a new girl; soon yet a different one. No question, thought Spider in despair, he was fucking more and enjoying it less. Suddenly it seemed so automated, so predestined, so ultimately unimportant. He could go through the motions, exactly the same motions that had given him such gorgeously simple pleasure in the past, and afterward—finally he knew what the fellow was talking about who had sagely said that after coitus all men felt sad. He didn’t know who the philosopher was, but all his life Spider had thought the guy must have been screwing the wrong girls. He had more respect for him now.

  Maybe it was his age. He had never paid attention to birthdays, but, after all, he was over thirty and it could be some physical thing. Spider had a complete checkup with Billy’s doctor, who told him to come back in twenty years and stop wasting his time.

  There was something else too, but he didn’t see what he could do about it. He was getting sentimental, or at least that was what he called it. If he picked up a newspaper or a magazine and read about some couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary, surrounded by their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he felt tears come into his eyes. He felt the same way for the guys who won the Super Bowl, television beauty-contest winners, teen-age kids who saved small children from burning houses, blind people who managed to graduate from college with honors, and people who sailed around the world by themselves in small boats. News of death, disaster, and other routine horrors affected him not at all, but good news turned him to mush.

  He was too young for male menopause, Spider thought, in deepening worry, and too old for adolescence, so what the fuck was this all about? He dragged himself into the kitchen of his wonderful bachelor house and opened a can of Campbell’s Cream of Tomato Soup. If that didn’t help, nothing would.

  It didn’t.

  As Dolly entered her last weeks of pregnancy, she found herself less enthusiastic than she had been about trying out new dishes from the Celebrity Kosher Cookbook or the precious, tattered copy of the Molly Goldberg Jewish Cookbook she had found in a secondhand bookstore. It wasn’t that she had lost her appetite, she told Mrs. Higgens, her loving landlady, the fire chiefs wife, but that it was kind of hard to get near enough to the stove. And she couldn’t go out to eat because the case of measles that Lester had fabricated for her to keep the press at bay had been followed by an announcement of a case of mumps, which wouldn’t be cured until tomorrow, the night of the Awards. Not that hordes of people were calling for interviews anyway, but three weeks ago Lester had decided that the duties of a public-relations man included moving into her apartment in case she needed him for anything in the middle of the night, like driving her to the hospital or something.

  “Lester Weinstock, that baby isn’t going to be born until a week after the Awards, and that’s eight whole days away. You’re just taking advantage of a poor knocked-up female who hasn’t the heart to say no.”

  “I am a devil with women,” he admitted, beaming, “Hey, you know how to play footsie?”

  “You can teach me, as long as that’s all you have in mind,” she said judiciously.

  “Dolly, I am pure of heart and besides, anything else wouldn’t be good for the baby.” Lester felt a strong bond with the force that gently pummeled and prodded him every night, as if trying to make friends in a necessarily difficult situation, like the Prisoner of Zenda tapping through the walls of his prison.

  “Let’s play footsie later,” Dolly said.

  Lester sighed and returned to his copy of the Herald-Examiner, Los Angeles’s afternoon newspaper. “Jesus! I just don’t believe it.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a fire at Price Waterhouse this morning. They put it out, thank God, and all the final Oscar results have been removed elsewhere for safekeeping—that’s what it says here. Can you imagine the freak-out there would have been if everything had gone up in smoke?”

  Dolly was unimpressed. Her mind was on food. “Come on, Lester, Mrs. Higgens invited us for dinner tonight. She’s worried that I’m not eating right.”

  “I brought in Chinese food every day this week, just the way you wanted,” Lester said, aggrieved.

  “That’s the point. She’s afraid it might not have the right things in it for the baby—all that MSG and stuff. So she’s made corned beef and cabbage.”

  Lester brightened. He hated Chinese food, although he’d never told Dolly. It might have upset her. “Wonderful—absolutely wonderful!”

  “If I’d known you were a corned-beef addict I would have made it while I still could,” Dolly pouted angelically.

  “Ifs not just that.”

  “Then what’s so wonderful?”

  “Everything.” He gave a great contented sigh and came to kneel By the side of Dolly’s chair, hi
s nose pressing her nose, peering at her through his glasses as if he were trying to merge their eyes. Giving up, he compromised and kissed her at length on the lips. Kissing was still allowed, as much as he liked.

  Dolly hummed pleasurably. Lester Weinstock was coming along very nicely indeed. And he was one terrific kisser.

  Dinner was delayed because Mr. Higgens, known as Chief, was late. Finally, they started without him. He arrived just as second helpings were being served.

  “Sorry folks, but we had a hell of a day, and I had to hang around until everything was settled.”

  “I know you put out fires, Chief,” Mrs. Higgens said with some exasperation, “but I didn’t think you had to ‘settle’ them.”

  “Some fires are more unusual than others,” he retorted, looking mysterious.

  “What was it, Chief? A fire in a house of ill repute, the house of a city councilman’s girl friend, Hugh Hefner’s mansion—sounds like monkey business to me.” Mrs. Higgens spoke with the air of worldly wisdom she put on to hide her pride at her husband’s position. “We’ll read about it in the paper anyway.”

  “Not more about this one, you won’t It’s being played down.”

  “Ah ha—funny money,” said Lester knowingly.

  “Oh no,” said Dolly, looking stricken. “I bet it was in an orphan asylum or a maternity hospital.”

  “Aw, hell,” the Chief grinned, “I shouldn’t have brought it up at all, but there’s no harm—just between us. Anyway, Dolly, you do something in pictures, don’t you? This should give you a kick. The fire was at a place called Price Waterhouse, an office downtown—you know, these fellers who give out the Oscars every year—”

  “My God,” Dolly interrupted, “did somebody get hurt? They didn’t put that in the papers.”

  “Nothing like that. Nobody injured. But it was damn funny. Some crazy stunt man set it—they found him there fanning the flames and laughing like mad. He said it was his revenge, he’d been waiting years for them to give an Oscar for stunt men and this was to call attention to the injustice of it. Had to take him away, crazy geezer. Burned out half the office, smoke damage something terrible, some of the floors are unsafe to walk on.”

  “But what happened to the ballots?” Lester asked impatiently.

  “Oh them, I think they keep them in a computer or something. No sweat. But all the final scores or whatever, they were kept in a special safe in the office that had the most damage, so we had to move them to another place.”

  “Say, that’s really interesting, Chief,” said Lester, eyes gleaming. “Maybe I could get you in the papers, ‘Noble Fire Chief Saves Oscar Envelopes,’ stuff like that.”

  “Les, the Inspector says we treat this very carefully, don’t want to give people ideas about arson, you understand.”

  “Yeah. OK. But it’s a shame. Tell me more about what you did—it’s really a great story.”

  The Chief was delighted to oblige. It was seldom that anyone showed a genuine interest in the details of his work. They tended, he felt, to take fire fighters all too much for granted until they needed them.

  An hour after dinner, Dolly and Lester were back upstairs in her apartment finishing a half bottle of framboise. Dolly had a theory that any drink made from fruit couldn’t possibly hurt the baby because it contained vitamins. Lester bought her peach brandy, plum brandy, Cherry Heering, triple sec, blackberry wine, but something about the bottle of framboise—raspberry liqueur—had caught his fancy. The price, perhaps, because it was very expensive and he yearned to give Dolly expensive things. He didn’t know that it was very old, very rare, and very lethal, and even a Frenchman wouldn’t dare to take more than two or three tiny glasses of the precious stuff. Raspberries sounded very healthy to both Dolly and Lester, and the drink, crystal clear with almost no taste but a delightful fragrance, went down easily and in quantity, almost evaporating on their tongues as they lapped it up.

  “I think we should do it,” he anounced after a long, pensive silence.

  “What?” Dolly was mildly curious.

  “Take the strain off you. It’s not good for the baby for you to be under all this strain.”

  “Lester, what strain?”

  “Of not knowing about the Awards. I’m aware—don’t think I’m not aware—that you’re under considerable, abnormal, not at all unsinister, strain,”

  “You’re so adorable when you’re drunk. Take your glasses off and kiss me a whole lot.”

  “Excessive, unrelieved, unrelenting, untidy, unnatural, unprovoked, incessant, constant, permanent, unendurable, intolerable strain!”

  “Silly boy—come here.”

  “Well, if you’re not, I am under considerable strain, and it’s not good for the baby either. He is under strain, so he wakes me up and then I start to worry. He wouldn’t want that to happen, but he can’t help it. Let’s do it.”

  “Sleep in different beds?”

  “Never! What a terrible thing to suggest. Dolly, apologize!”

  “I’m sorry, Lester. What were you talking about? Why did I apologize? I think I’m drunk, too. How could raspberries make you drunk?”

  “Let’s—let’s just take a lil’ drive down 606 South Olive Street where the Chief said the envelopes were kept and take a lil’ peek at ’em. Put you out of your strain, get a good night’s sleep for a change—be fresh for tomorrow night If you know you didn’t win, you’ll be relaxed tomorrow, not fair for a poor pregnant lil’ person to have to go through the strain of not knowin’—cruel and inhuman, I say.”

  “That would be cheating, I think, or something else bad.”

  “I don’t care. Goin’ to do it anyway. Now, just sit there and I’ll come and help you up, poor, helpless girl.”

  “I’m perfectly able to get up myself,” Dolly said, heaving herself out of her chair and swaying slightly.

  “Problem is, getting downstairs holding you up,” Lester muttered. Dolly was already halfway down the stairs and came back when she heard him talking to an empty room.

  “Lester! Over here, the door, see it, now just walk in this direction, that’s right Are you sure this is a good idea, Lester?”

  “Stroke of genius. Simply brilliant. Shoulda thought of it myself.”

  “You did.”

  “Oh? Good show, good show. Wait a minute, Dolly, I’ll help you with your seat belt—buggers didn’t consider poor pregnant people when they designed it.”

  By the time Dolly and Lester reached South Olive Street, they were considerably less drunk yet far, very far, from sober. They had reached that particular plateau of drink in which an idea conceived earlier now seems to have been chiseled on stone tablets by Moses himself. It was a self-evident duty to put Dolly out of her strain, something no right-minded citizen would question. They were gifted with raspberry-inspired cunning and determination.

  There was a guard sitting at a table in the lobby of the office building. Half-asleep and totally bored, he was mesmerized by Dolly’s stately progress toward him. Lester waved a case full of plastic cards under his nose and said authoritatively, “I’m from Price Waterhouse. Come to check on things.”

  “Identification, please,” the guard said. Lester presented him with his Visa and Diners Club cards.

  “No, Price Waterhouse identification.”

  “Damn, got so many of these things kicking around, where did it go to? Wait a minute, it’s probably in my wallet—”

  Dolly clutched her belly and gave a sudden grunting howl. The guard and Lester stopped dead and looked at her helplessly. “My God, sweetheart, I’ve simply got to pee—at least I hope that’s what it is.”

  “Jesus! This is an emergency, fella,” said Lester. “I’ve got to get her up to my office—there’s a ladies’ room there. Damn fucking office dragging me out with her in this condition! But I couldn’t leave her at home alone, could I?”

  “No sir!” said the guard, pointing to an open elevator. “Need some help?”

  “Nah, I can handle her. Doll
y, talk to me, Dolly. Can you just hold it in, hon?”

  “Oh, Lester, hurry.”

  As the elevator doors closed behind them, Lester turned anxiously to Dolly. “Are you all right?”

  “Had you convinced, didn’t I?” she smiled with mischief. “Was that method acting?”

  “I’m not sure, but I doubt it—you’re not allowed props.”

  On the third floor the offices were just as the Chief had described them. Lester bypassed the charred double wooden doors with the name of the company emblazoned on them and went directly to the fourth door on the left, the one the Chief had told him about. He took out his Swiss Army knife and worked intently on the lock for a minute.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” asked Dolly.

  “Please, a lil’ respect, you’re talking to the champ. Lock picking is my middle name.”

  “You rich kids have all the advantages.”

  “Jus’ how many hours a day can you play tennis in tennis camp?” Lester continued to work the lock. Three long minutes passed. “Damn jerk, that Benny Fishman, he must have left something out when he taught me. Don’t worry, Dolly, I’ll get it open if I have to kick the door in.”

  “Lester, we don’t have to—”

  Abruptly Dolly shut up and Lester put away his knife as a cleaning woman appeared from around the corner. “Good evening,” Lester said, sounding businesslike.

  “Evening. Some mess, huh? And nobody even told me till just now. Nice thing to find when you get to work, soot all over, cinders, everything soaking. Wattsa matter. Key won’t work? Big deal—leave the place in a mess and don’t even tell you which key.” She opened the door with one of the many keys she carried. “Don’t try and go into the other rooms—they’re not safe.”