by David Pierce
"Don't forget to tell John D. you're Ace and you're expecting some mail," he said.
"Already taken care of, pal," I said mendaciously. "What do you take me for, anyway?" P.S.—I phoned up John later. The next day a package arrived by courier service. I glanced through the contents, then burnt them.
Bits and pieces . . . all that remain are fluttering bits and wind-tossed pieces scattered through time and space. . . .
Bit one (one week A. G., i.e., After Goose): Postcard from Big Jeff. I'd left him my address so he could mail me anything there was in the local papers about our escapade to add to my meager collection of clippings, but I guess the authorities down there hushed everything up to save themselves considerable embarrassment. The card had an advertisement for his pizza joint on one side. The other read: "No press. Alfredo in hospital. Dan disappeared south after someone torched his boat. Selling pizzas like mad. Having wonderful thirst. Big Jeff. XXXXX to Sara."
Piece one (two weeks A. G.): Who should drop by my place of business but my old pal Mr. Lubinski, Family Jeweler. He'd had a minor heart tremor while I was away, and as a part of his recovery program, he was supposed to take a brisk walk an hour a day after his non-fat, non-alcoholic, non-tasting lunch, served up at his store by his vigilant wife. So what he would do was stride off purposefully, wave to the little woman, then pass the hour out of sight around the corner with pals like me and Andy the dentist and, if his wife wasn't watching like a hawk, Mrs. Martel across the street from him.
The first time he dropped in on me after lunch, I was computing away, and he was across from me puffing on a forbidden cigarette when he spied Shorty, which he picked up and hefted.
"What's this, Vic?"
"The only five grand paperweight in the universe," I said, trying to concentrate on which I was doing, which was to see exactly how much money I could save if I did work out of home, if Feeb would let me.
"What's it made of?"
"Money," I said. "Lead, granite. How would I know?"
"It feels like gold," he said.
"You, Mr. Lubinski," I said, "have my undivided attention. How can you tell?"
"It weighs like it," he said. "You could make sure by liquid displacement."
"Liquid? What liquid?" I said. "Name it. Have I got liquids."
"Jewelers' scales you won't have," he said. "You could also maybe find out like this."
He took out a tiny one-bladed silver penknife that was on his key ring and carefully scratched a small bit of the black paint off the base. He showed me the result, a glint of gold, or gold color anyway. I remembered Billy's words and felt like I'd discovered the Comstock Lode.
"Of course, unfortunately, all is not gold that is golden," he said. "Stick it in a mild paint solvent and see what happens." I dunked it in a jar of turps the painters had left behind a while back when my office was being redone after the fire. Then I rinsed Shorty off under the hot water tap in the bathroom, paying particular attention to behind his jugged ears. When I took it back to Mr. Lubinski, he screwed a loupe in one eye and gave Shorty the once-over. After a minute he winked at me with his non-louped eye and said, "This I can tell you: copper it isn't."
Bit two (five days A. G.): Postcard from Doris, sent from Isla Mujeres. On one side was a picture of a ruined garden in which there was a large tombstone. On the other: "Tomb of a pirate we saw who died here of love. Tombstone reads: 'What I am, you shall be. What you are, I was.' Neat, eh? XXX Dumb Doris. P.S.—Lost a fortune of your money gambling last night at the casino. Ha-ha!"
What a twerp. Even I knew there was no casino on Isla Mujeres. But wasn't there one in Cancún?
Bit three (two months A. G.): Postcard from John Brown, aka Gray Wolf, aka Billy Baker, aka slickest escapologist since Zsa Zsa Gabor. The card pictured "El Rey Motel, U.S. Highways 60 and 70, Globe, Arizona. 24 units, Air Conditioned, Fully Carpeted, Tubs, Garages, Room Phones & Patio."
"Had any good luck recently? See ya afore too many wanings of too many moons, Gray Wolf."
Piece two (ten days A. G.): Discovered on the floor of my office with the rest of the junk mail but delivered by hand:
Extract from a soon to be published diary
By
Sara Silvetti, Poetess Extraordinaire
. . . purple bougainvillea 'gainst a white-washed wall . . .
one-eyed chameleon frozen by cruel history's pace . . .
chameleon speak with forked tongue also, Running Deer.
I am aware
Of my body tonight as hummingbirds hover like minute helicopters
In the lukewarm air.
I have never really been anywhere
Till now. Studio City isn't anywhere.
Davis CA isn't anywhere. They are but wounded moles,
They pain but do not soar.
Nor, as yet, as yet, the painted whore in the graffitied door
Bald is beautiful. Hair is for the bears.
Let's go a-wanderin' agin sometime, Prof,
Let's take off
Let's shake off the sandaled shackles of afternoon duties,
Herbal teas and nonfat cheese,
Diet life and designer blah,
The freeway leads nowhere but to the grave
Of some unknown brave.
Well! Not too bad, the twerp was actually improving. Listen, I was glad. After considerable thought, I gave her a D minus. I wondered briefly what her next metamorphosis was going to be—Hare Krishna, maybe; she was already bald. And nothing could be worse than punk.
Piece three: If you would all please put your specs on—mine were already starting to scratch up, I noticed, because I refused to pay ten bucks extra when I bought them to have a non-scratch treatment—and then retrieve from the coffee table your Sotheby's (the auctioner's) winter catalogue for 1987. Turn to page nine, item 192. You will read the following: "Mayan statuette [aka my Shorty!] circa 1100. Gold. Height, 10 cms. 48 mm. Unique. Believed depiction of a worshipper of 'God Deer.' Estimate – $25,000 to $27,000."
Benny, who knows about such things, informed me that an auction house's estimates are generally well below the final selling price. I did not argue the point. I wondered how many more contraband Shorties Billy was sitting on patiently in Globe, Arizona, not that he would still be there. I hoped he had the sense not to flood the market. You know what that does to prices in the art world.
Bit four (twelve days A. G.): Postcard from Milwaukee, of the downtown area seen by night. The message read: "Hey, babe, whatever you did, it's still working. Your bread's in the mail. Cut by Lakers, but front seats here any time you pass thru. J. J." And which would arrive first, I wondered, my visiting Milwaukee, J. J.'s check, or the Second Coming?
Piece four (five days A. G.): I was at the bureau (as in office) doing this and that when Willing Boy and the twerp putted up on his bike. It was the first time I'd seen either of them since I got back. Sara looked . . . awful. Like an old maid, but older. No makeup. She wore a nothing scarf around her head, knotted under the chin, a long Mother Hubbard dress, and flat shoes. Willing Boy was not only out of his biker's leathers for once, but I'll be damned if he wasn't wearing a wooly brown robe, with a hood even, like a monk's.
Sara knocked politely on the door.
I shouted, "It's open, for Christ's sake."
They came in and stood, holding hands, in front of me. Sara said, with excruciating meekness, "Please do not blaspheme, Victor. Brother George and I have been born again, and we walk with Jesus now."
There was only one thing to do, and I did it, fast—
I swooned.
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