“He’ll be okay,” Dad said, trying to convince himself.
“Sure, he’s Ferguson,” I told Dad, trying to cheer him up, “as in ‘the devil,’ ‘Beelzebub,’ ‘force of evil.’ The inmates will probably elect him class president or something.”
“Hope so, Sport,” Dad whispered. “He’s still a redheaded little boy to me.” I could see he was tearing up. I also vividly remember the aforementioned Veracruz standing behind us, sobbing her head off, crying out that she’d wait for Ferguson forever. I found that touching, until the following week when she appeared on the cover of People magazine cuddling the lead singer of the latest boy band, Side Street Boyz, showing off her new six-carat engagement ring.
That was the last time I’d seen my little brother. Eighteen months ago.
As I burst through the main lobby of the Nuzegeek building into the warm afternoon air, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
CHAPTER 13
After a change of clothes and a pit stop at the Korean deli for some Reese’s peanut butter cups, I pick up the nearest Zipcar and head upstate. The only thing harder than getting out of the Coxsackie Correctional Facility is getting into it—for visitors, anyway.
At the gates, my chartreuse rental is thoroughly searched by uniformed guards. Once I’m through the front door, I hand over my clutch to a hefty woman who rifles through it as though it’s done something to offend her. When she’s finished manhandling my vintage Gucci wallet and my Apocalips lipstick (correction: Jody’s lipstick), she flings the purse back at me and points to the plastic grocery bag I’m holding.
“Whatcha got in there?”
A cake with a file in it. Duh. Fortunately, I don’t say that.
“Peanut butter cups. For my brother. They’re his favorite.”
With teeny-tiny files in them, I think, but I don’t say that either. I open the bag. She pokes her nose in, then nods and motions toward the metal detector. Thankfully my cloisonné bangles don’t set off any sirens. I silently vow that if anyone so much as utters the words cavity search, I’m leaving. There are some things I simply won’t do for my brother.
Before I know it, another stern-faced guard (male this time) is leading me to the visitation room. It’s a large open space, eerily reminiscent of a high school cafeteria, with tables and chairs set up at polite distances from each other. I sit at an empty table near the window (which is embedded with heavy-duty chicken wire) and wait.
This probably goes without saying, but I really don’t like prison.
It smells weird, for one thing. Nobody smiles, for another. The floors squeak under my shoes and there’s a nearly palpable sense that somewhere there’s a guillotine about to drop. And why the hell aren’t there any curtains? Curtains would totally soften this place up.
Okay, I’m rambling. But it’s just because I’m nervous and I’m pretty mad at Fergwad that I even have to be here. But mostly nervous, bordering on terrified because even if I’ve done nothing wrong, I always feel slightly guilty when I’m in places like police stations, customs lines, even the DMV, not to mention prison.
There’s no getting around the fact that there are people in this building who have committed unspeakable acts. Some judge in a black robe banged his or her gavel and declared them guilty. While I wait in this nerve-deadening place for my little brother, I wonder what he’ll be like now. Weepy? Broken? Humble? Can I really be angry with him when his situation is so dire?
I try to control my nerves by thinking how transgressions, legal and moral and even my anger at Ferguson, exist on a spectrum ranging from little guilty pleasures to broken commandments.
For some reason those hair color sample charts they show you down at Sally Hershberger’s salon come to mind and I calm myself by making a mental mash-up of guilt versus hair color choices.
I have the irresistible urge to cut my bangs while I’m waiting, but the sharpest thing in my pocketbook is an eyeliner brush. Then maybe I’m guilty of not taking this prison thing seriously enough.
That reminds me: My split ends could totally use a trim. I’m jonesing to dial up Bumble and Bumble, but my pocketbook won’t let me. Maybe someday after I pay the Con Ed bill. For now I’ll just pick at them, part of my unfortunate love affair with pulling apart my split ends when I’m stressed. Not a full-blown case of trich (short for trichotillomania) but enough for me to know I’ve got to stop. Piper and Jody do the same thing. Sometimes when we’re together we’ll all be chatting away; then we’ll stop talking and silently pick at our hair.
A plaintive wail shatters my inner monologue. What the eff was that? I’m simply not prepared for this hard-knock prison life. Even as a visitor my nerves are totally on edge. Don’t ask why, but it reminds me of the time Jody pierced her own belly button at my house without warning me.
Across the room, I see this enormous guy with the words DEATH SQUAD tattooed across his knuckles weeping like a baby holding what I imagine are divorce papers. I assume that’s his wife, sitting on the other side of the table with her arms crossed, looking like she doesn’t care. I’m riveted by this drama until I hear a familiar voice.
“Yo, C.”
I turn to see my brother. At least, I think it’s my brother. He’s shackled at the wrists and ankles, being escorted by two guards, each of whom outweighs him by, like, a zillion pounds.
As much as I want to throttle him myself, I’m taken aback.
They know his crime was of the paper variety, don’t they? Do they honestly think my little brother is physically dangerous?
Whoa. Wait. Is that a do-rag he’s wearing?
He smiles at me and that’s when I see the gold cap on his front tooth.
They sit him down in the chair across from mine. Ferguson’s eyes dart sideways, determining whether the coast is clear, then he quickly slips something to one of the burly guards.
I recognize the item as one of Mom’s tofu cookies. Is that what actually passes for a bribe around here? That wouldn’t have even worked at home in high school. Man, this place is more depressing than I thought.
He leans across the table and smiles.
“Wuz up, my sis-tuh,” he croons pretty loud considering I’m sitting twelve inches in front of him. Then he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Yo, don’t mind the chains. They’re my fix so I don’t come across like Snow White, if you dig what I’m diggin’. Makes them homies think I’m a badass. They keeps their distance that way—well, most of the time anyway.”
I grin. That’s Ferg-face. Always thinking.
Now he sort of lounges back in his chair, hips forward, shoulders slanted, head tilted and bobbing as he purses and unpurses his lips.
“Ferguson, what’s with the new … uh … prison demeanor?”
“Just fittin’ in, aight?”
It’s jarring, to say the least. As a kid, the closest Ferg ever came to joining a gang was when he signed up for Beaver Patrol at summer camp.
Across the room, the soon-to-be ex-wife stands up, snaps her fingers, and tells the Death Squad guy that he better be able to pay his damn alimony. Then she flips him off and baby-steps a getaway across the linoleum on her six-inch stilettos.
Poor Death Squad is sobbing as the guards help him up from his chair. He’s shackled, too, but something tells me it’s not the result of a cookie barter. As he shuffles past, he stops crying long enough to check me out.
“Ferg, man. This fine piece o’ ass yo’ baby mama?”
Eww.
“Nah, bro. She be my sister.”
The big guy manages a nod and gives me a wink. “Yo. Nice.”
For the life of me I have no idea how to respond. The only thing that comes to mind is “Word to ya muthah,” but that summons up images of white rappers in parachute pants and I really don’t want to embarrass myself. Why I care about looking cool to a member of the Death Squad is beyond me, but there it is.
The guards drag him off. Ferguson and I are alone. Despite my rage, I can’t help feeling bad for the annoying ginger
.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I say.
“No worries.”
“Are you okay? I mean, is this really as depressing as it seems? And what happened to your tooth?”
“Nah, da tooth is fo show.” Ferguson pulls off the gold veneer to show it’s removable. “It is what it is, yo. Besides, I got me a good hustle.”
“I’m not exactly fluent in prison jive,” I remind him. “You’re going to have to translate.”
Ferguson leans in. “I’m makin’ bank in here, yo.” Ferguson scans the room then adds in a whisper, “I started up a niche dating service. I help the incarcerated lovelorn find eligible mates on the outside. You’d be surprised how many gay white dudes with an Evangelical twist have trouble hooking up. Totally underserved.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to be positive despite the fact that I am totally appalled. Ferguson sure is a go-getter, even here.
He nods and crosses his hand over his chest in a half-wave, half-pumping motion, rapper sign language for “Word,” I believe.
“So whachoo doin’ here?” he asks, his voice loud again for show, I assume. “E’rething cool at home or what?”
“It’s been better,” I admit. “You know, Mom and Dad are still separated, and Dad still needs a job. I saw them last week. Dad’s loopy, totally depressed.”
“Tell Pops it’s all good,” says Ferguson. “Soon as I get sprung I gawn’ set him up in bid’niss.”
“Bid’niss?”
“You remembers Dad’s Fryfel Tower in the shape of a french fry container and all his whacked buildings?”
I shake my head, remembering the pickle-shaped pickle factory he built for Glosen’s Pickles and his final and most bizarre architectural offering: an enormous round, white building for the Peoria Ping-Pong Ball Factory, which he designed to be built entirely out of Ping-Pong balls.
Let’s face it, Dad’s genius was unrecognized. He was the Claes Oldenburg of architecture and maybe that was his downfall—he was in the wrong business. He was so idealistic about creating “architecture for the people,” instead of the people who paid him. How could he believe that companies would actually keep building those things? If he had become a conceptual artist like Jeff Koons, who knows where he’d be now. When we were growing up, Dad was the hottest industrial design architect in Ohio. That was before the Great Recession, before the entire economy went on a disastrous moneymoon and we all became financially and emotionally fragile.
The recession wiped out his client base. Commercial real estate developers could no longer afford whimsical and eccentric designs, so work became scarce, and that’s why he’s where he is today. Insult was added to injury when he learned that those miniature models for his crazy building designs had become collectors items and were sold in some ultra-chic design store in Soho for more than he was ever paid to make the actual buildings. Fryfel sold for one hundred grand and Dad didn’t see a penny of it.
“How could I forget, Ferg?”
“Well, when I get outta here, I’m gawn’ have cash to set him up. Then he can design all the crazy-ass models he want, and we gawn’ sell dem motherfuckers on Q to the V to the C, for realz. I’m gawn’ mass-market them online for kiddies. I’m already down with the Lego guys.” I couldn’t help wondering if he meant the actual little plastic figures.
As bid’ness aspirations went, this one sounded a little chancy to me. Not that I couldn’t picture a Lego pickle. But I guess anything that would get Dad back on his feet was worth trying. Then again, we had all been played by Ferguson’s schemes before, and that was what brought me here.
Ferguson’s shenanigans had clearly caused me a problem with my only potential job prospect at the moment. As much as I wanted to make him pay, I also figured he owed me something and could help me, considering I had so little experience in writing about the financial sector.
“Look, Ferg, I’m glad you still have your little scams and fantasies, but because of your crimes you’ve put our whole family into an upheaval and a job prospect of mine in jeopardy.”
Ferguson’s goofy prison demeanor vanishes straightaway, only to be replaced by the saddest expression I’ve ever seen on his annoying freckled face. He heaves a heavy sigh that yields to a despair that makes me worry about him. His head droops quietly for a few moments.
“I’m sorry, sis,” he finally says, looking up at me, and it’s probably one of the few times I’ve seen the two strangers—reality and Ferguson—meet.
“It’s okay. I need advice,” I say.
“Prishli mne kapustu,” he deadpans. I blink, not having a clue what he’s said. “It means, ‘Don’t let the Mafia get your cabbage’ in Russian. I did learn a few phrases. That’s the best advice I got.”
“Duly noted. But what I could really use is some financial background,” I say, taking out a small spiral pad from my clutch. “See, I’ve got this new job and there’s this total jerkwad Dartmoor Millburn … ever heard of him?”
“The name sounds familiar but it’s been a while since I’ve been on the street or even seen a WSJ,” Ferg says.
“Well, bottom line is I’m in a little over my head, and considering you’ve had some, uh, special experience…” I give him a sisterly grin. “And who better to get it from than the Wiz Kid of Coxsackie Prison?”
Ferguson sits up a little straighter. He tugs the do-rag off to reveal his completely bald head. I try not to stare but I totally do. I’m not sure whether he’s shaved it because of prison regulations, or if the stress of incarceration has led to premature hair loss, or if it’s simply a bad case of nits. In any case, it’s an oddly good look for him—tough and no-nonsense, kind of like a miniature Vin Diesel, if Vin had bright orange eyebrows and a face full of freckles.
“Consider the class in session,” Ferguson says in a professional tone.
For the next two hours, I grill my notoriously brilliant brother on all things financial. Ferguson had to fork over another three tofu cookies to buy extra time, and I’m surprised at what a patient and thorough teacher he is. It’s amazing what you know when you’ve been on both sides of the law. And his analysis of Occupy Wall Street and Too Big to Fail would make Paul Krugman stand up and applaud. I guess you learn all the angles when you play the system.
When it’s time to leave, I reach into my plastic bag and remove the pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Ferguson’s face immediately brightens and, for a moment, I see a glimpse of the dorky adolescent underneath all his streetwise bravado.
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for them. “You know how much toilet paper a guy can buy with these babies?”
My heart sinks. That is so not why I brought them, but I guess Ferguson’s world is different now. He can see the look in my eye and he leans in to whisper to me.
“Don’t worry, I’m getting out of the joint soon,” he says, scanning the room. “My lawyer has an awesome plan to turn this frown upside down. Fo’shizzle.”
I give him a big awkward hug considering we can’t actually embrace with all those metal chains in the way.
“I hope so. Take care, Ferguson. I’ll see you soon, okay?” I whisper. “I’ll tell Mom and Dad you’re doing well.”
“Peace, yo. Luv to Moms and Pops,” he says with a rapper’s fist pound to his chest ending in a two-finger salute.
As I make my way back to the Zipcar, I note the violent loops of barbed wire that top the fence and decide I’m going to write this article and secretly dedicate it to Fergface. It’s going to be the best example of investigative financial journalism Nuzegeek has ever seen.
And Dartmoor Millburn, that mofo punk-ass cracker, ain’t gawn’ know what hit him, yo.
CHAPTER 14
After a week of blurry-eyed research for my Nuzegeek pitch utilizing Fergwad’s impromptu “Finance for Dummies” seminar, I had vastly increased my financial awareness. Still, I knew I had to find a story that was good enough to convince MT and hold up to Dartmoor’s grilling. Only something stellar a
nd totally Nuzegeekian would suffice, and it would have to firmly identify the website with MT’s hoped-for demographic. Sitting at my computer I fly through some less-than-stellar “people with no money” ideas like:
I actually researched that last one. There’s this guy who raises grass-fed rabbits for meat because bunnies are cheap and nutritious. It’s just that bunny burgers are kind of a downer for your preschooler when it comes to their Happy Meal.
In other words, my results at the moment: nada, zip, zero. At least nothing that I can truly stand behind as I endure Dartmoor’s withering criticisms. Where am I going to find a lead?
I think of Hugh Hamilton, my late mentor, and try to channel some of Hugh’s gruff advice, specifically on what to do when you get stuck for a story.
Hugh hovers over me like the Ghost of Journalism Past. “New York City is your story,” he growls. “Get out on the streets. There’s a story in every gutter, every bodega, and every body bag. If you’re stuck, take a walk and buy a hot dog. Preferably one with lots of mustard, onions, and double kraut.” Phew! These occasional visions of Hugh are scary, but they do the trick.
A change of scenery will probably do me good, and who am I to disregard the advice of a dead legend? So I stop pounding my poor, overworked laptop and head out.
Slipping on my 1977 Pappagallo flats, I stroll uptown. It’s nice to be moving at a leisurely pace, because that’s something that happens so rarely in New York. I meander past the St. John’s campus, and make my way toward the West Village, home to the High Line and Magnolia bakery, where I treat myself to a lemon cupcake, knowing full well my mother would consider this a nutritional rebellion of the highest degree.
Wandering on, letting ideas for potential articles ferment in my brain, I pass a prosecco bar. I look up at the banner for Ciao Ragazza, a new restaurant that proudly hails itself as “the perfect place for DIY brunch.” That’s basically what we used to call a buffet, right?
Things I can’t Explain Page 9
